Meanwhile, a stain of dirty gray vapor, like watery ink, was spreading over the strips of sky that could be glimpsed above the apartment buildings, in the empty spaces of the square: and the jumble of little clouds faded and was absorbed by that grime. The beautiful big white cloud, with highlights of steel, was shabby and torn, and now it, too, disappeared like snow in the mud. Summer was about to end. For three hours, Riccetto, with that shark from Borgata Gordiani, unloaded garbage cans into the truck, onto a pile that kept growing higher, scraping his lungs harshly with a smell that seemed like that of a burning orange grove. Already the first maids could be seen going out with empty shopping bags, and the niiiu, neeeu of the trams could be heard more and more frequently at the turns: and the truck left the neighborhood of respectable, wealthy people, took the Casilina, skirted, with its fresh stink, the poor apartment blocks, danced the samba on potholed streets whose sidewalks were like sewers, passing by big dilapidated overpasses, fences, scaffoldings, construction sites, neighborhoods of hovels, villages of shacks, encountered the trams of Centocelle carrying knots of workers on the running boards, and arrived, by way of the Strada Bianca, at the first habitations of Borgata Gordiani, which stood alone, beaten by the sun and the wind, like a concentration camp, in the middle of a small plateau between Via Casilina and Via Prenestina.
Where the truck stopped, a little before entering the neighborhood, there were on both sides of the street expanses of fields that must have been wheat but were dotted with thickets, hollows, and patches of reeds; up ahead was an orchard, with trees that were even older than the derelict cottage and hadn’t been pruned for at least twenty years. The ditch was full of black water, and some stray ducks were walking up and down on the grass and the earth, which was even blacker. A little past the cottage the wheat fields ended, getting lost one way and another in quarries that had been abandoned and then had become fields again, all scruffy, good for flocks from the Sabine region or the Abruzzi, just passing through, and broken up by hollows and slopes. The lane ended in sand there, and there the truck stopped. “Let’s go, hurry up,” said the driver, as he maneuvered the truck, turning its nose toward the Strada Bianca and its rear toward the edge of an almost vertical slope. The two workers opened the back of the truck and the pile of garbage tipped out onto the slope. When the landslide stopped rolling down naturally, the two, sweeping wearily, pushed out the remains, Prussian blue and tomato red, that were left stinking in the body of the truck. Then the driver started up the truck and left.
Riccetto and the other man were alone in the foul smell, with the bottom of the pit below and around them the jagged fields. They sat down one at the top and one below, and began to pick through the garbage.
The other was practical, bending over and attentive, with a serious face, as if he were doing precision work; and Riccetto did as he did, but since he found it disgusting to rake through with his hands, he tore off a branch of a fig tree on the other side of a fence that seemed to have been there since the time of Crispi, and, squatting, he used it to push around the filthy paper, the crockery, the medicine boxes, the remains of meals, and all the other stinking stuff. The hours passed slowly, and before becoming conclusively gray and hazy, the sky had time to clear up, above Borgata Gordiani, so that the burning nine-in-the-morning sun beat down on the backs of the two workers. Riccetto was a bath of sweat, and every so often his sight was obscured: in the darkness around him he saw green and red stripes; he was nearly faint with hunger. “Fuck, damn this . . . !” he said suddenly, slobbering with rage. He stood up and without even saying goodbye to the other, who in any case made no effort to turn, took off. Staggering with exhaustion, he made his way along the Strada Bianca, which in fact was white with dust and sun, under the sky that had dimmed again, and, his mind reeling, reached the Casilina. There he waited for the tram, jumped onto the bumpers, and after a journey of more than half an hour was again in Via Taranto. Like a wild dog he wandered amid the market stalls, sniffing the smells that arose, by the thousands, in the sultry heat of the sirocco, all of them appetizing, in that small space set among the apartment blocks.
He eyed the stalls of the fruit venders, and managed to steal some peaches and two or three apples; he ate them in an alley. With that bit of sweetness in his stomach, he returned even hungrier, attracted by the smell of cheese that came from the row of white stalls just opposite the alley, on the wet pavement behind the fountain. There was mozzarella, caciotta, and provolone hanging on strings, and on the stand were pieces of Emmenthal and parmigiano or pecorino already cut; there were also some smaller pieces of three or four hundred grams or even less, isolated and scattered among the whole cheeses. Riccetto, famished, focused on a piece of gruyere, pale yellow, and so odorous that it took his breath away. He approached, simpering, and, waiting for the owner to be absorbed in conversation with a female customer, who, fat as a bishop, had been standing there for quite a while examining the cheese with a venomous expression, grabbed the piece of gruyere with a lightning move, zac, and slapped it in his pocket. The owner saw him. He planted the knife in a cheese and said, “Just a minute, ma’am,” came out from behind the stall, grabbed Riccetto by the shirt collar as he was sneaking off playing dumb, and with a nasty expression, feeling he was fully within his rights, punched him twice, knocking him around. Riccetto, furious, as if he had revived from a stupor, without thinking flung himself at the owner, head lowered, throwing hooks desperately at his sides: the other tottered for a moment, but then, since he was twice as big as Riccetto, began to thrash him, so that if the other venders hadn’t rushed to separate them he would have sent him straight to the hospital. But, muscular and smart as he felt, he could afford to calm down immediately. He said to those who were holding him: “Let me go, guys, I won’t hurt him. Why would I do that to a kid?” Riccetto, on the other hand, beaten up, and with blood trickling from his mouth, went on kicking against the grip of those who were restraining him. “Give me my cheese and go,” said the cheese seller, almost conciliatory. “Give him that cheese,” said a fishmonger nearby. Riccetto weakly took the piece of gruyere out of his pocket and handed it to him, his face wan, brooding vague thoughts of revenge and swallowing his bitterness with the blood from his gums. Then, while the knot of onlookers scattered, since the event had been negligible, he joined the crowd, amid the red, green, yellow stalls, amid mountains of tomatoes and eggplants, with the fruit venders shouting so loudly that they had to double over their stomachs, all lively and contented. He went down Via Taranto, and slowly climbed the four hundred steps that led to the landing where he slept. He was so tired he could hardly stand; he saw, yes, that the door of the empty apartment, usually closed, was open, and from time to time a gust of air made it bang: but he paid no attention. Staggering, and with slow gestures like someone swimming underwater, he took a piece of string out of his pocket, passed it through two holes, and tied it, thus keeping the two sides of the door closed. Then he lay down on the floor, already asleep. No more than half an hour could have passed—just the time for the porter to make a phone call and the cops to arrive—when Riccetto felt himself kicked awake and saw two cops on him. In short, during the night the apartment next door had been robbed; that was why the door was swinging. Riccetto, awakened, poor devil, from who knows what dreams—maybe eating in a restaurant or sleeping in a bed—got up, rubbing his eyes, and without understanding a thing stumbled down the stairs after the cops. “Why might they have arrested me,” he wondered, still not completely awake. “Who knows!” He was taken to Porta Portese, and sentenced to almost three years—he had to stay inside until the spring of 1950!—to learn his lesson.
6.
A SWIM IN THE ANIENE
“Step forward, Alichino and Calcabrina,”
he began to say, “and thou, Cagnazzo;
And let Barbariccia guide the ten.
“Come forward, Libicocco and Draghignazzo,
And tusked Ciriatto and Graffiacane,
An
d Farfarello and mad Rubicante.”
—DANTE, Inferno (XXI, 118-123)
I’m so hungry I’m shitting myself,” cried Begalone. Standing on the dirty, trampled grass of the sloping bank of the Aniene, amid the sun-charred thickets, he took off his shirt, unbuttoned his pants, and began to pee right there. “You’re pissing here?” Caciotta, who was taking off his socks a little lower down, shouted to him. “Okay, now I’ll go piss in Via Arenula,” said Begalone, “you lunatic.”
“Let’s go swimming,” Caciotta, who in those three years had put on weight, said, with a look of satisfaction, “and then let’s go to the movies.” “And where are you keeping the money?” said Alduccio ironically. “That’s my business,” answered Caciotta. “He went looking for butts last night,” shouted Alduccio, already naked, with his feet in the water. “Fuck off” was all Caciotta said, tying up his clothes with his belt.
He put them with the others near a dusty bush, and went along the edge of the slope, through the field where the grain had just been cut and where two or three horses were grazing; up there the smallest boys, who had arrived before noon, were throwing lumps of dirt at each other. “You’re naked, you filthy kids,” shouted Caciotta. “Mind your own fucking business,” cried Sgarone. “Son of a bitch!” Caciotta yelled at the boy, making a move to grab him. But he ran away, down the steep slope behind the diving platform. Besides, Begalone, Tirillo, and the other youths were naked. Caciotta had said that because, that morning, he had stolen his nephew’s underpants and made himself a pair of trunks, doing the sewing himself. “Look how dressed up he is!” Begalone said, laughing. Someone could be heard shouting at the top of his lungs in the middle of the river, which flowed narrow and dark, under the sun, between banks covered with reeds and brush. The boys who had gone in at the dredge arrived shouting, hanging on to rafts of reeds. “Let’s cross the river,” cried Alduccio, from below, and he jumped into the water. Most of them followed; the boys stopped throwing dirt and came to the edge of the bank. “You’re not going in?” they asked Caciotta. “It’s not that I don’t have the courage,” he said, “but the fear gets me!”
The others crossed with strong strokes, passing by those who were arriving with the rafts, and reached the other shore, which was filthy and sloped straight up. Cutting it in half was a chalk-white rivulet that ran over the hardened mud and old thickets below the bleach factory, with its green tanks and tobacco-colored windowless walls. Begalone was swimming under the white bleach drainage.
“You need that!” shouted Caciotta. Begalone, cupping his hands and turning his head just a little, answered, shouting from the other bank:
“Come over and wash your sister!”
“Snot face!” said Caciotta.
“Faggot!” Begalone answered.
The boys who had come from the dredge on the rafts had stopped under the diving platform to roll in the black mud, below the steep bank, and the younger kids came down with them.
Three of the kids had stayed at the top of the bank; they were from Ponte Mammolo, and after stopping for a while on the bridge to watch, they had joined the others on the edge of the bank, at the bend in the river, trying to decide whether to take off their clothes or not. Attentively they watched the boys who were playing in the shallow water and the mud, and those who were splashing in the rivulet of bleach on the other side. The smaller two laughed, enjoying themselves; the older one watched in silence, then slowly began to undress. The other two did as he did, and they piled up their clothes all together: the smallest held them under his arm, while the others descended. But he sulked. “Genè,” he cried, “can’t I go swimming?” “Later,” Genesio answered, in a low voice. Groups of boys were also coming from around the bend, along the stubble that was burning slowly here and there on the slopes of Via Tiburtina, and on the riverbank, sputtering under the little tongues of fire. They arrived two or three at a time, squabbling noisily as they skipped along in the empty countryside, with the Silver Cine’s white walls and the hump of Monte del Pecoraro in the background.
They were almost naked, their shorts held up by a string, ragged shirts or undershirts hanging out. They took off the shorts as they walked, and by the time they got to the end of the field were carrying their clothes. “He swims better than you, I’m telling you!” Armandino, holding his German shepherd by the collar, shouted angrily, spitting, at a boy who was trotting behind him. “That asshole,” said the boy, busily rushing to tear off his grimy shirt; when they got to the swimming place, above the diving platform made of reeds and mud, Armandino threw a stick in the water, and the dog dashed down the dusty slope, sniffed the water, and jumped in, swimming. All the boys gathered to watch. He grabbed the stick and, holding it between his teeth, bared to the gums, happily clambered back up the bank, spraying mud. Armandino, satisfied, patted him, and threw the stick back in the water, farther out, making the dog go through all that fuss again. He came back, pleased with himself, dropped the stick, and began to jump on the boys. He attacked by placing his front paws on their chests, with his tail stuck between his hind legs, all wet and whimpering with pleasure. They leaped backward laughing. “You bastard,” they shouted at him amiably. The dog charged straight at Sgarone: he almost knocked him to the ground, squeezing him between his front paws as if to hug him, his mouth open.
“He wants to fuck you,” said Tirillo.
“Assholes,” Sgarone answered, pushing the dog away, not completely sure of his intentions.
“Let’s make the dog fuck Piattoletta,” cried Roscietto, laughing.
“Yeah, come on,” the others shouted.
“Piattolè,” they shouted down toward the bank, where Piattoletto was playing by himself in the mud and garbage by the river. “Come here, get down on all fours,” the boys shouted from above. He didn’t answer; he was stooped over, with shoulder blades sticking out, skinny arms, and a mouselike face, the chin pointed at his ribs. On his head he wore a cap pulled down to cover the scabs, and it made his pimply, hairless neck seemed even smaller. He had a yellow face, with deep eye sockets and lips that protruded like a monkey’s. Sgarone and Roscietto went down and started to drag him by the arms. He began to cry, softly, and the tears immediately bathed his whole face, down to his neck. “Come on, give the dog a wank, come on,” they shouted at him, “you’ll see what sort he is!” He clung to the bushes, to the mud, crying, not saying a word. But suddenly the dog, who was still jumping around from one to the other, moaning with pleasure, started grabbing in his teeth the clothes piled up here and there on the bare edge of the stubble, and carrying them around. “You big bastard!” they yelled, running after him, laughing, afraid he’d drop the clothes in the water. Sgarone and Roscietto, laughing, forgot about Piattoletta, who ran away into the thickets, and they climbed up to rescue their clothes, tied together with string.
Mariuccio hugged his and his brothers’ clothes to his chest, retreating uneasily when the dog approached; the dog paid no attention to him, though he bumped against his hips, almost knocking him over and soaking him with his wet fur. Then the dog noticed him, and joyfully jumped on him, trying to snatch the clothes from his hands. “Genè, Genè,” Mariuccio called, frightened. The dog had his brother’s pants in his teeth and was pulling on them. The other boys laughed. “You bum,” they shouted at the dog. Genesio came up the slope with the other brother, dripping wet, and shaking a stick chased the dog away. He took the clothes from Mariuccio and, still silent, rolled them up again.
It was a moment of calm, the only sound the voice of an old drunk who was sprawled in the dirt, singing under the arches of the bridge. But the boys who had gone to the other side of the river were coming back now, and, plowing together through the current, were shouting and singing. Caciotta, who still hadn’t gone in the water, cried:
“Bégalo, is it warm? Hey, Bégalo!”
“Yeah, it’s warm,” Begalone answered, beating his arms and legs in the water, which wa
s slick with oil. “Like pee!”
“Get in!” Sgarone shouted ironically at Caciotta.
“He can’t swim,” shouted another little boy.
“You shit, why don’t you teach me,” said Caciotta, his face dark.
“And cross the river,” said Armandino, who meanwhile had undressed but like Caciotta wore a pair of underpants that he had dug up somewhere or other.
“Lasseme puntare solo la puntaaa”
Let me tip in just the tiiip,
sang the old drunk under the bridge.
“Come on, Caciò, come on,”Alduccio and Begalone shouted from down below.
“Yeah, now he’s getting in!” said Armandino, mocking.
From the bottom of the slope Roscietto threw a ball of mud at Caciotta. Caciotta got mad. “Who was that?” he cried, advancing to the edge of the open space and looking down. The boys laughed.
“I’ll find who it was,” Caciotta warned. “I’ll give him a fat lip!”
“You know how to swim,” said Armandino, “but you won’t cross the river.”
“If I had to cross I’d cross,” Caciotta admitted, “but damn, it’s scary!”
Genesio had taken half a cigarette out of his pants pocket and was smoking it, watching the hubbub; he and his brothers were the only ones from Ponte Mammolo, and had come on their own. Right away a dozen boys surrounded them. “Give me a drag?” they said. “Let us have a smoke!” “You gonna smoke it all yourself?” They piled around Genesio like beggars, waiting for a drag, pushing and shoving. “Where do you live,” Sgarone asked, trying to get friendly. “In Ponte Mammolo,” said Genesio. “We’re building a house,” announced Mariuccio. After a few drags Genesio silently handed the cigarette to Sgarone, and the others gathered around Sgarone, waiting for a drag from him.
The Street Kids Page 15