Then the whore, in a black fury, her tits hanging halfway out, got up and started shouting at them.
“Shut up,” Riccetto cried sardonically, cupping his hands, “you’re shitting like a duck, you dirty whore!” But the Negro at that moment stood up like a beast, and, holding his pants in one hand and a knife in the other, began running after them. Riccetto and Marcello cleared off, shouting for help, through the brush, toward the riverbank and up the slope: reaching the top, they managed to look back for a moment and at the bottom they saw the Negro waving the knife in the air and yelling. Riccetto and Marcello ran down, and, when they looked at each other they couldn’t stop laughing. Riccetto began rolling on the ground, in the dirt; with a sneer he looked at Marcello and cried: “Jeez, Marcè, are you paralyzed?”
They had come out on the bank of the Tiber facing the façade of San Paolo, which was still shining weakly in the sun. They headed toward the Parco Paolino, which at the far end, among the slender trees, was crowded with workers and with soldiers who had come down on a pass from Cecchignola. They skirted the basilica, along an empty, poorly lit stretch of road. A blind man, his back against the wall and his legs sprawled on the sidewalk, was begging.
Riccetto and Marcello sat on the edge of the sidewalk, to catch their breath, and the old man, hearing people nearby, began his whine. Between his outspread legs was the hat with the money. Riccetto gave Marcello a dig with his elbow, indicating the hat. “Go easy,” Marcello muttered. When Riccetto had caught his breath a little, he elbowed him again, with an expression of annoyance, gesturing with his hand as if to say: “So, what do we do?” Marcello shrugged, to say that it was up to him, and Riccetto gave him a pitying look, flushing with anger. Then he said softly: “Wait for me over there.” Marcello got up, and went over to the bushes on the other side of the street. Once he had moved away, Riccetto waited for a moment when no one was passing, grabbed a handful of money from the hat, and took off. As soon as they were safe, they counted the money under a street lamp: there was almost five hundred lire.
The next morning, the convent and the other buildings along Via Garibaldi had no water.
Riccetto and Marcello had found Agnolo on Donna Olimpia kicking a ball around in front of the Giorgio Franceschi elementary schools with some other boys, illuminated only by the light of the moon. They told him to go get the tire lever, and they didn’t have to ask twice. Then, by way of San Pancrazio, the three of them went down the hill to Trastevere, in search of a quiet place: they found one in Via Manara, which at that hour was completely deserted, and they could set to work on a manhole cover with no worries that someone would come and bust them. They didn’t even startle when, up above, a balcony window suddenly opened and an old woman, half dozing and heavily made up, began shouting: “What’re you doing down there?” Riccetto raised his head for a moment, and said: “Oh signora, it’s nothing, just the mystery of the backed up sewer!” As soon as they finished, they took hold of the top and bottom of the manhole cover, Agnolo and Riccetto carried it, and they headed slowly toward a crumbling structure at the foot of the Gianicolo hill, an old gym that had fallen into ruin. It was dark, but Agnolo, who knew the place, found the sledgehammer in a corner of the big room, and with that they pounded the manhole cover to pieces.
Now they had to find a buyer; but Agnolo took care of that, too. They went along Vicolo dei Cinque, which, apart from a few drunks, was empty. Under the junkman’s windows, Agnolo cupped his hands around his mouth and started calling: “Hey Antò!” The junkman looked out, then came down and let them into the shop, where he weighed the iron and gave them twenty-seven hundred lire for seventy kilos. Now that they were there they wanted to finish up. Agnolo ran to the gym to get the axe, and they went to the steps that led up to the Gianicolo. There they took the grating off a drain and lowered themselves down. Using the handle of the axe they smashed the pipes to stop the water, then hacked off five or six meters. In the gym they hammered the pipes, breaking them into small pieces, put the pieces in a sack, and brought them to the junkman, who paid a hundred and fifty lire a kilo. With pockets full of money, they went, all of them satisfied, around midnight, to the Grattacieli. There Alvaro, Rocco, and the other older boys were playing cards at the bottom of the stairwell, squatting or sprawled in silence on the landing outside Rocco’s house, which was on the ground floor and opened onto one of the many internal courtyards. Agnolo had to pass through there to get home, and Riccetto and Marcello went with him. So they stopped to play cards with the older boys. In barely half an hour they’d lost all their money. Luckily, they still had the five hundred lire stolen from the blind man, which Riccetto had hidden in his shoes, so they could go out in the boat from Ciriola.
* * *
“The kids are here!” a guy on the barge said, seeing them approach along the burning sidewalk. Riccetto couldn’t resist the temptation to jump on the swing for a moment. But he got off immediately to join the others, who had already crossed the short gangplank and were giving Orazio’s wife the fifty lire, in the bath-house floating on the Tiber. Giggetto was unwelcoming. “Put your stuff here,” he said, and pointed to a single locker for the three of them. They hesitated. “So what are you waiting for?” Giggetto burst out, extending one arm toward them, palm open, as if to indicate how contemptible their behavior was. “What? I’m supposed to undress you?”
“Damn you,” Agnolo muttered between his teeth: he pulled his shirt inside out over his head and took it off without waiting any longer. Meanwhile Giggetto continued: “These damn brats . . . you can go to hell, you and all the rest . . . ” Discouraged, the three damn brats undressed and stood naked, holding their clothes. “Well?” shouted the attendant, coming from behind the counter. “Now?” They didn’t know what to do. Giggetto tore the clothes out of their hands, threw them in the locker, and locked it. His small son looked at the three newcomers with a sneer. The other boys who were standing around, some naked, some in baggy trunks, some combing their hair in front of the small mirror, some singing, looked at them out of the corners of their eyes as if to say: “Man, get a load of them!” As soon as they had knotted the waistbands of the trunks, which were too big, around their hips, they shot out of the dressing room, and stood beside the iron railing of the barge. They were immediately chased away from there, too. Orazio in person, with his paralyzed leg and his blotchy red face, had come out of the central section, where the bar was. “Damn it,” he shouted, “how many times do I have to tell you you’ll break the railing if you stand there?” They moved away, passing the shower mat, followed by the cries of Orazio, who, sitting in his wicker chair, went on yelling for ten minutes. Inside some kids were playing cards, others were sitting and smoking with their legs up on the wobbly tables. At the top of the short gangplank that connected the float to the shore, Agnolo’s puppy waited cheerfully, his tongue hanging out. That comforted the three rascals, who started running beside the wall, followed by the dog. They stopped for a moment near the diving platform, then kept running toward Ponte Sisto.
It was still early: not even one-thirty, and in Rome there was nothing but the sun.
From the dome of San Pietro, behind Ponte Sisto, to the Tiber Island behind Ponte Garibaldi, the air was taut as the skin of a drum. In that silence, between the big walls that in the heat of the sun stank like urinals, the Tiber ran yellow, as if pushed by the debris that was choking it. The first to arrive, around two, after the six or seven employees who had stayed on the barge had left, were the curly-haired kids from Piazza Giudia. Then came the Trasteverini, down from Ponte Sisto, in long lines, half naked, shouting and laughing, always looking for a fight. Ciriola filled up: outside, on the dirty little beach, and, inside, in the dressing rooms, in the bar, on the barge. It was teeming. Two dozen boys were gathered around the diving platform. They began diving, the pencil dives, the somersaults. The diving platform was barely more than a meter and a half high, a little lower and even a six-year-old would have be
en able to dive off it. Some passersby on Ponte Sisto stopped to watch. Also watching, straddling the parapets overhung by plane trees at the top of the wall above the Tiber, were a few boys without the money to go down. But most were stretched out on the sand or on the patch of rusty grass that hung on at the foot of the wall.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” a small dark hairy boy stood up and cried to the others who were lounging around. But only Nicchiola paid any attention, and, taking off with his back bent and twisted, legs and arms spread, jumped into the yellow water, landing on his buttocks. The others, clicking their tongues in an expression of contempt, said to the dark-haired boy: “Get outta here!” Then, after a while, lolling lazily, they got up and, like a flock of sheep, moved over toward the patch of sand under the swing, in front of the barge, to watch Monnezza, who, with his feet on the burning sand, was lifting a fifty-kilo barbell in the midst of a regiment of boys, his face flushed with effort beneath the two spheres of the weight. Only Riccetto, Marcello, Agnolo, and a few others had stayed at the diving platform, with the dog, who was everyone’s pet. “Well?” Agnolo said to the other two, with a threatening look. “Damn you,” said Riccetto, “what’s the big hurry?” “Damn you, too,” said Agnolo, “what are we here for?” “Let’s go swimming,” said Riccetto, and he walked to the end of the diving platform to look at the water.
The dog followed. Riccetto turned: “You coming, too?” he said, affectionate and gay. “You coming, too?” The dog, looking at him, wagged his tail.
“You wanna dive, huh?” said Riccetto. He grabbed him by the scruff and pushed him to the edge: but the dog drew back. “You’re scared,” said Riccetto, “Okay, I won’t make you, go on!” The dog kept looking at him, trembling. “What do you want from me?” Riccetto went on, leaning over protectively. “You ugly little good-for-nothing pup!” He patted him, scratched his neck, stuck his hand in his mouth, and pulled him. “Hey ugly, ugly!” he cried tenderly. The dog, however, feeling him pull, got a little scared and jumped back.
“Uh-uh,” Riccetto said then, “I won’t throw you in the river!” “Are you gonna make that dive, Riccè?” Agnolo shouted sarcastically. “First I gotta pee,” Riccetto answered, and he ran over to pee against the wall: the dog followed, watching him with bright eyes and restless tail.
So Agnolo took a running leap and dove in. “Damn!” cried Marcello, seeing him land at an angle on his stomach. “Oh boy,” cried Agnolo as his head emerged in the middle of the river, “what a belly flop!” “Now I’ll show you how to dive!” cried Riccetto, and he plunged in. “How’d I do?” he asked Marcello as he emerged. “Your legs were wide,” said Marcello. “I’ll try again,” said Riccetto and he climbed up on the shore.
Just then the boys crowding noisily around Monnezza, the weight lifter, moved all together toward the diving platform: they came down with a confident, mocking sneer, spitting, while the younger ones skipped around or tumbled with each other on the sidewalk. There were more than fifty, and they overran the small patch of dirty grass around the diving platform: first was Monnezza, as fair as straw and covered with red freckles, who did a perfect pike dive; he was followed by Remo, Shameless, Blackie, Fatty, Pallante, and also the smaller ones, who weren’t bad at all, and in fact Ercoletto, from Vicolo dei Cinque, was maybe the best: he ran along the diving platform on tiptoe and, arms spread, light, as if he were dancing, dove in. Riccetto and the others retreated sullenly to the burned grass, and sat watching in silence. They were like crusts of bread in the middle of an anthill, out of sorts at having been left on the sidelines of the action. All the boys were standing, their legs caked with mud, their trunks sticking to their skin, and their faces sarcastic, watching and cursing. Fatty, with his mean face, as round as an egg, took off. He slipped on the edge of the board and, as he fell into the water, cried, “Damn!” with a fierce laugh, while Remo, on the shore, shaking his head, muttered cheerfully: “Damn, fantastic!” Shorty, nearby on the sidewalk, was also sneering, when a lump of mud hit him on his curly head. “Damn you!” he shouted furiously, turning around. But he couldn’t see who it was, because they were all laughing, gazing at the river. After a while another lump spattered on his head. “Damn you,” he shouted. He went over to confront Remo. “What do you want?” Remo said, offended. “Screw you, and your old man, too!” But soon lumps of mud, hurled at full strength, were flying through the air: someone, standing knee-deep in the mud, was flinging entire handfuls up against the wall from below, making a rain of mud splatter down all around. Other boys, sitting a little apart, indifferently, attacked furtively, making the lumps of mud whistle like whips. “Screw you all!” Remo yelled, in the midst of the fight, pressing his hand to his eye in a rage, and he jumped in the water to wash off the mud that was stuck between his eyelids: seeing him go, Monnezza followed, and this time he was shouting, “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” and he jumped in, curling into a ball, hurtling through the air, and falling on the surface of the current with a loud crack of back, knees, and elbows. “God damn!” Shameless laughed, wrinkling his forehead. He took off and did the same thing. “Pallante!” he cried. “Who’s gonna make me do that,” said Pallante. “Wimp!” Shameless and Monnezza shouted from the water.
“Damn them,” muttered Riccetto meanwhile, off by himself. “Well, what’re we gonna do?” said Agnolo, harshly. The only one who knew how to row was Marcello: he had to start things off. They sat down on a pile of old broken-down sculls. “Marcè,” said Agnolo, “we’re waiting for you, come on.” Marcello got up and went to loiter near Guaione, who was at the far end of the barge, half drunk, doing some work with a pocketknife. “How much does a boat cost?” he asked suddenly. “A hundred and fifty,” Guaione answered, without looking up. “You’ll let us take it?” said Marcello. “When it comes back. It’s out.” “Will it be long, Guaiò?” Marcello asked, after a while. “God damn,” said Guaione, raising his drunk’s white eyes, “how the fuck do I know! When it comes back.” Then he glanced at the river in the direction of Ponte Sisto. “There it is,” he said. “Pay now or after?” “Now’s better.” “I’ll go get the money,” shouted Marcello. But he hadn’t counted on Giggetto, who was a good attendant with the older boys, but, as far as the younger ones went, if they had all drowned he would have been more than happy. Marcello stood there for a while trying to get his attention, but the other ignored him. He returned in dismay to the pile of sculls. “How the fuck are we gonna get the money,” he said. “Go to the attendant, shit!” “I did,” Marcello explained, “but he didn’t even look at me!” “You stupid shit,” Agnolo burst out angrily. “See this,” Marcello answered, quivering, extending his open hand toward him, as Giggetto had done to them earlier, “why don’t you go?” “Now you’ll start punching each other,” Riccetto said philosophically. “I’d sure punch him one, that shit over there!” said Agnolo. “I already told you, why don’t you try, son of a bitch!” Agnolo went off to confront Giggetto and right away, in fact, he returned with the hundred and fifty and a lit cigarette between his lips. They waited for the boat near the railing, and as soon as it docked and the other boys had gotten out, the three embarked. It was the first time Riccetto and Agnolo had been in a boat.
At first the boat wouldn’t move. The harder Marcello rowed the more firmly stuck it seemed. Then, slowly, it began to pull away from the barge, swaying back and forth as if it were drunk. “You jerk,” Agnoletto shouted as loud as he could, “do you really know how to row?” The boat seemed to be going crazy, moving haphazardly upstream and down, now toward Ponte Sisto, now toward Ponte Garibaldi. But the current dragged it to the left toward Ponte Garibaldi, even though the prow happened to be facing in the other direction, and Guaione, appearing at the railing of the barge, began to shout, the veins on his neck popping. “You shit,” Agnolo kept shouting at Marcello, “they’re gonna have to get us at Fiumicino!” “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” said Marcello, straining at the oars, which either hit the water flat or sank in
up to the handle, “you just try it, go on!” “I’m not the one from Ostia!” Agnolo shouted. Meanwhile Ciriola was far away, rising and falling behind the stern of the boat: under the green of the plane trees the whole length of the embankment began to appear, all the way from Ponte Sisto to Ponte Garibaldi, and the boys scattered along the shore—at the swing, at the diving platform, on the raft—became smaller and smaller and their voices could no longer be distinguished.
The Tiber drew the boat toward Ponte Garibaldi like one of the wooden crates or boxes bobbing along the surface of the current; and under the bridge you could see the water foaming and swirling amid the shallows and rocks of the Tiber Island. Guaione was aware of it, and kept yelling from the barge with his rusty voice: the boat was now even with the “chicken coop,” where, inside the slatted fence, the boys who didn’t know how to swim splashed. Roused by Guaione’s shouts, Orazio and some other idlers emerged from the central section of the barge to see what was happening. Orazio, too, began to gesticulate; the boys laughed. Riccetto was looking at Marcello with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed. “Now you’re gonna make us look bad?” he said. But Marcello was recovering. The boat was heading smoothly enough toward the other bank, and the oars gained some purchase against the current. “Let’s go over there,” Agnoletto said then. “What do you think I’m doing?” Marcello answered in a tone of disgust, spewing sweat like a fountain.
As the Ciriola side was struck by the sun, so this side was veiled by a weak gray shadow: above the black rocks, covered by a two-inch layer of grease, grew weeds and small green brambles, and here and there the water was stagnant, clogged by debris. Finally they reached the shore, grazing the rocks, and since there was almost no current, Marcello managed to get the boat moving toward Ponte Sisto. But this way, the left-hand oar banged into the rocks, and Marcello had to focus on maneuvering so that it wouldn’t break or slip away on the water. “Let’s get to the middle, come on, let’s go,” repeated Riccetto, ignoring Marcello’s efforts. He liked being in the middle of the river, feeling that he was surrounded by water, offshore, and it made him angry to look up and see that Ponte Sisto was right there, gray against the shimmering mirror of the water, and the Gianicolo, and the dome of San Pietro, large and white as a cloud. Slowly they reached Ponte Sisto: there, under the right piling, the river widened and pooled, deep, green, and dirty. Since at that point there was no danger of being carried away by the current, Agnolo wanted to try rowing; but damned if he could do it: the oars beat the air or struck the water, sending up spray that filled the boat. “Fuck off,” cried Riccetto, indignant, while Marcello, dead-tired, was sprawled in the inch of tepid water in the bottom of the boat. Seeing Agnolo laboring to no purpose, two boys who had come down the stairs on the Fontanone side to fish with a rod began to tease him, laughing. Agnolo, out of breath, shouted at them: “Whad’ya want from me!” They were quiet for a while, then:
The Street Kids Page 2