At Remo the junkman’s, it was a disaster. He had already taken the three-wheeler home, to Pigneto, to a courtyard so full of people that it was teeming like an anthill, and gone to the tavern. He was at a small worm-eaten table, red as a lobster under two inches of black and white beard, and bloated as if he had gas instead of blood under his skin. He was talking to an old man as skinny as a stick, who still had his country accent after living in Rome for a hundred years: and, between the two of them, a third, whose face couldn’t be seen because he had fallen asleep on the table and been reduced to a heap of rags. Lenzetta appeared at the door, and gave the place a professional once over. He immediately spied Remo and, with a confidential air: “Remo,” he said slyly, “a word?” Remo interrupted the intellectual discussion he was having with the old man. “Excuse me, Sor Maè, he said, “let me hear what this little shit wants.” The other had the face of one who is suddenly abandoned, and, working his throat, he swallowed a sip of wine. Outside the door, on the crumbling sidewalk next to the tram tracks, the other two were waiting. “Let me introduce these friends of mine,” said Lenzetta, his face reddening as his cunning increased. “Pleasure,” said the three, shaking hands. “Rè,” said Lenzetta hypocritically, immediately coming to the point, “would you do us a favor.” “Why not,” said the other, sarcastic yet polite. “Would you lend us the three-wheeler, if possible, eh!” Remo didn’t say yes or no: he had immediately figured it all out and, even more rapidly, had made his calculations: the compensation for the three-wheeler, lent as a favor, had to be that they would bring the stuff to him to sell, and he would take care of putting a price on it. With a friendly smile he took out a paper and, licking and spitting, began to roll a cigarette: slowly, careful not to get hit, because in Maranella, there at the intersection of Acqua Bullicante and Via Casilina, there was a greater thronging of cars and people than in Via Veneto . . .
It must have been eleven, eleven-thirty, when Riccetto and the others, taking turns pedaling the three-wheeler, with one lying inside belly up, legs dangling over the edge, and the other jogging behind with one hand on the seat, after having traversed all of Via Casilina again, arrived, dead tired.
Within a hairsbreadth of the walls and the small villas, decorated with fretwork, like family tombs or gazebos at a beach resort—villas built by the wealthy in the time of Mussolini, when Riccetto knew nothing about it, just as even now that he was in the world he knew nothing about it—a moon as big as an oil drum appeared, radiant with light. Alduccio stayed outside with the three-wheeler at the foot of the slope; Riccetto and Lenzetta slid into the courtyard on their bellies, through a hole in the fence near the workshop, between three or four stakes and some crushed, dry purslane. As soon as they’d crawled through the opening and raised themselves onto their chests, like squashed worms, and were inside and looking around, Lenzetta couldn’t resist a little rhetoric: “Here we are in the paradise of iron!” he said. Satisfaction and fear were painted on the faces of the two gangsters, although they wanted to express only a proper professional concern, especially Lenzetta, who felt he was the leader of the enterprise. “Come on,” he whispered, without wasting any more time. And since the other remained slightly indecisive, his ears pricked like a dog’s, to see if he heard any suspicious noise, he got mad: “You slug,” he said, “come on.” He approached the pile that seemed to him most fruitful, inspected it, grabbed something, threw it away after examining it in the moonlight, started wandering around the other piles, like a ghost. Riccetto followed noiselessly, also looking. Ignoring the heaps of tires, wheels, and other things that didn’t interest them, they found the good stuff in the middle of the courtyard. And they began the transfer: first, one piece at a time, they piled up everything near the hole, then Riccetto crawled out and Lenzetta, from the inside, passed it to him. When it was all outside, Lenzetta came out, too, and together, as fast as they could, they ran up and down the slope, to and from the three-wheeler, the sinews of their necks tense and their backs stiff from the effort, as red as peppers. Alduccio could hardly believe he was seeing, coming toward him, those loads of car batteries, bronze rims, iron pipes, axle shafts, and, at the end, some fifty kilos of lead: he helped load, arranging the items in the three-wheeler while the others went back and forth. “There’s still room for more,” he said when they returned from the last trip. “Put that in there! . . . ” said Lenzetta, acting important; but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he looked attentively toward Via dell’Amba Aradam. The others, fussing around the three-wheeler, were also silent. The person approaching was a guy in a white t-shirt. When he got close you could see that he was a chubby youth with a face as smooth as a piggybank and a dull expression; Lenzetta, realizing that he was a rich-kid student, regained his equilibrium and, staring him down with eyes that, because of the scare, had turned watery, said: “What are you looking at?” “Nothing,” said the other, going straight on his way, as if these remarks had been a pure and simple exchange of courtesies, the most natural in the world, at that hour and in that situation.
But Lenzetta, facing those small, round shoulders that were moving off, insisted: “Hey, fatty, if you’re not looking at anything, get out, or I’ll make you see stars.”
The boy was silent. But when he had gone far enough he turned halfway around and yelled: “Thieves!”
“Now he’ll go tell on us,” said Alduccio in a frightened voice, suddenly losing all his assurance. “Move, Ardù, and wait for us in front of the hospital,” said Lenzetta, who had also completely lost confidence, and started running after the fat boy, while Alduccio pedaled in the other direction. Riccetto didn’t know whom to follow. The fat kid, who certainly didn’t imagine that Lenzetta was running after him to apologize and beg his pardon, took off like a lunatic along the walls of Porta Metronia. So Lenzetta turned again, picked up Riccetto, who was waiting for him, and then, together, they followed Alduccio, who was laboring, all sweaty and pale from the effort. Taking turns, each doing a little, pedaling and running, they reached the Appia Nuova. “Oh my God,” said Lenzetta, falling down in the middle of the street, right on one of the tram tracks.
He lay there, face up, with his legs spread and his hands on his chest, like a corpse. “If I take five more steps it’s goodbye,” he cried.
The other two, laughing, left the three-wheeler and did as he had, rolling over the paving stones of the Appia, under the slender trees that stretched in two interminable rows down the center of the street as far as the eye could see.
“Did you shit yourself, Lenzé?” cried Riccetto with his head between the wheels of the trike. At that hour, almost no one was passing by on the street, except the youths on Lambrettas carrying their girls to Acqua Santa.
Seeing couples pass as they lay sprawled in the middle of the street, they shouted:
“Go away!” or:
“Don’t listen to him!”
A soldier going by with a filthy whore behind him, holding on to his pants, wanted to be a wise guy and shouted in a half Neapolitan accent:
“Knock it off!”
They started, as if their butts had been pricked with a pin, and rose halfway, planting their elbows on the dusty ground:
“Hey, hick, you getting civilized in Rome?” yelled Alduccio.
“See that?” Riccetto added, shouting didactically, his hands cupped around his mouth. “That’s the basilica of San Giovanni!”
“What, is the tom-tom still in style in your town?” Lenzetta shouted, piling it on, and getting up on his knees.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Alduccio, when they had calmed down a little, “what, are we gonna spend the night here?”
Lenzetta stood up and lighted a butt.
“Give me a drag,” said Alduccio, resuming the march. After a few puffs Lenzetta passed him the butt, sullenly, and Alduccio, smoking, had barely begun pedaling when crack, screech, scrac, one of the wheels got stuck in the tram track and came o
ut with more holes than a sieve.
But no, it was nothing! A small thing of no importance! After all, how far from there to Maranella? And then Riccetto and Lenzetta had gone nowhere that day! While Aldo, angry and bitter, stayed to guard the three-wheeler and the goods, which they had piled up on the sidewalk of a street that came out on the Appia a little farther down, Riccetto and Lenzetta, step by step, returned to Maranella and went to the cart rental. But the cart rental was closed. “Goddam imbecile!” said Lenzetta, grinding his teeth, referring to the cart maker, who had gone who knows where to do damage.
“Well, so? He’s closed at this hour?” said Riccetto, vengefully. “We’ll steal it, that way he’ll learn.” It was past midnight, to tell the truth, but to them it didn’t matter; they entered the cart maker’s yard and took the best cart.
“Won’t we bring it back tomorrow?” said Lenzetta, pleased, above all, with having even his conscience in place.
On the Appia where they had left Alduccio there wasn’t even a dog in sight. But just before they reached the corner of Via Camilla, a shadow approached that gradually, as it got closer, took the form of a gaunt old man wearing a shapeless, ragged hat: in his hand he was holding an axle shaft, which, when he saw the two boys, he tried to conceal.
Lenzetta reddened like a turkey, and without any preliminaries accosted him: “Sor Maè,” he said, “where’d you find that axle shaft?” Riccetto waited with his hands on the raised shafts of the cart.
The old man assumed a sly and confidential expression, which made his white face thinner under the floppy folds of the hat. “I’m going to hide it,” he said, winking, “because a night watchman wanted to arrest your companion. I’m helping him; could be that the watchman went to call someone.”
“Fuck,” Lenzetta thought to himself, but you never know, and, followed by Riccetto and, a little farther behind, the old man with the axle shaft, he hurried toward where they had left Alduccio.
But that blockhead Alduccio wasn’t there: they searched in the doorways, against the metal shutters. “Ardo, Ardo!” they called. Finally Alduccio came running out of a dark alley where he had gone to hide.
“Did a cop come by?” Riccetto asked.
“Huh, I don’t know,” said Alduccio. “I skipped out through the alley.” The three didn’t continue the investigation, pretending they had believed the old man. He stood beside them, his legs spread, his face insolent, his hand still clutching the axle shaft. He smiled, and his lips pulled back inside his jaws, between toothless gums.
“Let’s load, come on,” Riccetto said urgently. While Alduccio dragged the three-wheeler into the alley, to a safe spot, Riccetto and Lenzetta, helped by the old man, began to load the goods into the cart. When they had loaded it, Riccetto winked at Lenzetta, and Lenzetta said to Aldo with a thoughtful air: “Ardo, go ahead with the cart by yourself, cause if they see us together they’ll figure it out.” Unwillingly, and protesting some, Aldo obeyed, and, sullen and cautious, began to push the cart, leading the way.
The others followed at a distance, ready, in case of an alarm, to take off through the narrow streets and abandon him. Lenzetta, flushed, looked at Riccetto with satisfaction and said, with a derisive laugh and a nod toward Alduccio: “Onward, slave.” Riccetto, too, sniggered at that remark and, feeling he was a real bastard by association, brightened. The old man walked beside them with long strides, dragging his cloth shoes along the sidewalk. Under his left arm, squeezed tight in his armpit, he carried a rolled-up sack, which gave him an almost carefree and sporting look. “Where you going with that sack?” Lenzetta asked, just to engage him, while the other, behind him, laughed lightly. “I’m going to steal cauliflowers to feed five mouths,” the old man answered. “Five sons?” Lenzetta asked. “No, five daughters,” the old man answered. Lenzetta and Riccetto pricked up their ears. “How old?” Riccetto asked, indifferently, to test the waters. Meanwhile Lenzetta had started walking with greater purpose, like a donkey that catches a whiff of the stable. “One is twenty, one’s eighteen, one’s sixteen, and there are two more that are still girls,” said the old man, with a falsely foolish expression.
Lenzetta and Riccetto exchanged a glance. They walked a little farther, then Lenzetta, gently elbowing Riccetto, stopped to pee.
Riccetto stopped, too, and stood beside Lenzetta, while the old man, carried forward by his pace, kept going for a few meters, before slowing down.
“Let’s get rid of Arduccio,” Lenzetta whispered quickly.
“How?” said Riccetto, distressed.
“Whatever, make up an excuse, come on,” Lenzetta said impatiently.
Riccetto was silent for a moment; then, as if he’d had an idea, he said, “I’ll take care of it,” and, quickly buttoning up his pants, was about to run toward Aldo, who could be seen ahead, distant, like a shadow. But Lenzetta detained him: “Get the money,” he whispered.
“Okay, I’ll take care of it,” Riccetto repeated, hurrying off.
Lenzetta, adjusting his fly with a worldly expression, rejoined the old man, and out of the corner of his eye watched the other two, up ahead, under a big scaffolding, in front of the first fields of Acqua Santa.
He could see that Riccetto was saying yes, and Alduccio was saying no, Riccetto was saying yes, and Alduccio was saying no. After a while, though, Riccetto ran back, and he saw Alduccio start pushing again, bent between the shafts.
“We made him go ahead to Maranella by himself,” Riccetto felt bound to explain to the old man, “because if they see us all three together they might start asking questions.”
“Well done,” said the old man.
They were now almost at Acqua Santa; on the right were the deserted fields and small streams, on the left was the start of Via dell’Arco di Travertino, which went straight toward Porta Furba, and from there to Mandrione and Maranella.
At the end of Via dell’Arco di Travertino, two large masses of shacks rose on either side, and if you were walking along the street you had a splendid view. There was a heap of pink or white hovels, mixed in with sheds, huts, gypsy caravans without wheels, warehouses, all jumbled together, some scattered over the fields, some piled up against the walls of the Aqueduct, in the most picturesque confusion.
Among these structures there was one, below the level of the street, a little better than the others, with a tree branch and a sign out in front, on which was written in red, in childish letters: “Wine.” Through a crack in the door a faint light was still shining. “It’s open,” said Lenzetta, glancing rapidly at Riccetto, to be sure. Riccetto gave him a quick wink, patting the bottom of his pocket with one hand, almost on his dick. “Are you in a hurry to go get those cauliflowers, Sor Maè?” asked Lenzetta.
“No, I’m in no hurry,” said the old man, all accommodating.
“And then, maybe, we’ll come and give you a hand, if you don’t mind, eh!” said Lenzetta.
“Not at all,” said the old man. “I’d like that.”
“I bet,” thought Lenzetta to himself. And aloud: “Won’t you have a drop of wine first, Sor Maè? That way you get a little oiled up, what with all that dampness in the fields!”
He couldn’t have asked for anything better, and his eye sparkled slyly, because, although he was playing the role of the fool, he wanted to let it be understood that they had understood each other. In any case, before accepting, out of politeness, he made a show of reluctance: “But why would you take the trouble,” he said, moving the sack from one armpit to the other.
“What trouble,” said the two, running down the slope of the bank, and since the old man was making his way slowly, Lenzetta said to the wall of the tavern: “Life is tough if you’ve got tender feet.”
Within five minutes the two thugs were already drunk. They began talking about God and religion. The old man bore witness. It was Riccetto, who, blushing with pleasure at his originality, posed a question to Lenzetta
, while Lenzetta listened attentively, so as to make a good impression. “So,” he said, “tell me, you believe in Mary, the one they call the Madonna?”
“Huh, what do I know about it,” Lenzetta answered quickly, “I’ve never seen her!” And he looked contentedly at the old man.
“Well, there are facts,” the old man said, “proving that the Madonna exists.”
But a particular detail was important to Riccetto: he opened his hand like a fan in front of his mouth. “You know,” he confided to Lenzetta, “that she was a virgin and had a child.”
“Damn,” said Lenzetta, turning even redder, with both hands stretched out toward Riccetto, “what, you think I don’t know that?”
“You believe it, Sor Maè?” Riccetto asked the old man again. The old man lengthened his face, drawing it down between his shoulders: “And you believe it, this fact, kid?” he asked, avoiding the question. Riccetto, with great satisfaction, took off. “You have to see,” he said, “according to the points of view . . . as a human woman she might well have existed, from the point of view of holiness and of virginity she might also not have. . . . Regarding holiness it might be true, but virginity! Now they’ve invented the fact of artificial babies in test tubes, but even if a woman makes babies in test tubes, she’s not a virgin anymore. . . . Then we have faith in Christ, in God, in all those. . . . And if you follow the reasoning of faith then you believe in it, in the virginity of the Madonna, but scientifically I myself believe you can’t prove it . . . ” He looked at the others contentedly, as always when he repeated this bit, which he had learned from a youth in Tiburtino, and he seemed ready to hit anyone who would contradict him: Lenzetta, instead, clung with both hands to the edge of the table, and began to go “pff pff pff,” which sounded like sputterings of steam coming out from under an ill-fitting lid.
“You seem like a director,” he said, barely containing a burst of laughter.
“You ignorant dickhead,” said Riccetto, feeling justly offended.
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