But the bitch was a beast. Thin, black, with a sharp nose, a mangy tail, and slanted eyes, she waited for Lupo as still as a statue. He ran toward her, at full speed, and when he got close he stopped short, barking at her like a lunatic.
She stood still, listening to him, grimly, amid the shouts of the boys: then she turned her back and moved a few steps away, minding her own business, as if she were thinking: “Let me go, go on, otherwise this’ll be a tragedy!”
But every so often she turned back, with her pointed face and her thin back and her dark, lifeless eyes mottled with red.
“Come on, Lupo, come on, come on,” Armandino whispered, still leaning over the dog’s ear, while the boys, too, goaded him, shouting like monkeys and making a racket that could be heard all the way to Tiburtino. Lupo naïvely hurled himself at the bitch, who was still silent; he was barking at the top of his lungs, showing off a little.
“Now, though, it seems to me you’re getting a little too full of yourself,” the bitch seemed to think, pausing, “for my liking!” And after a moment: “Damn you,” she burst out, shouting, suddenly losing patience. It was a snarl so fierce that Lupo stopped, and it startled the boys, too. She, meanwhile, had turned around, pivoting on her back and looking fiercely at that idiot Lupo who was starting to run away.
“What did I tell you, Sgarò?” said Roscietto.
Armandino bent even closer: “Come on, come on, Lupo, come on,” he said, almost trembling himself. Lupo recovered his courage, immediately forgetting the scare he’d had, and started barking again, more threatening and agitated than before. “So he’s trying again,” the bitch seemed to think. “Hey filthy whore, you bitch, it’s no use you looking at me like that, you know!” Lupo shouted furiously. “You don’t scare me!” And the other was silent. “If you don’t say something,” Lupo threatened, “I’ll smack you one that’ll knock your head off!”
“Aaah, you’re cute!” said the male dog, breaking into the conversation.
“Well?” said Lupo, jumping in his direction, making him run off. “What’s this bum trying now?” The bitch let out a snarl. “Go on, fucking snarl,” shouted Lupo.
“That’s enough,” the bitch burst out. “I’m fed up, you know?” She turned to face him. “May I go blind,” she said then, screaming, full of rage, “but for the satisfaction I’d even do thirty years in Regina Coeli!”
“Now they’re gonna kill each other,” said Sgarone, but the words were scarcely spoken when the two dogs attacked, their hind legs planted on the ground and the front tangled on their chests, their mouths open and their teeth bared to the gums. Gasping for breath, they tried to bite each other behind the ears, and, between one bite and another, their barking was so loud it muffled the boys’ shrieks. Lupo rolled in the stubble, raising dust, and the bitch was on top of him, her teeth at his throat. But Lupo got up again and after retreating a little, he again leaped at her, standing almost upright and shaking his front paws like someone drowning. They roared, they struggled, choking with rage. But right in the middle Zinzello came up the slope angrily and whistled. Immediately the bitch, as if her rage had magically cooled, ran toward him, followed by the male, lightly leaping, wagging her tail, submissive and almost happy. Zinzello cursed the boys, and when he had let off enough steam, he went back down to resume soaping, taking his dogs with him. Lupo was disappointed. “Look at the bites!” said Tirillo, his voice rising in wonder, “the bites!” They all leaned over Lupo, who had bare patches on his neck, and here and there in the sticky black fur were swollen reddish wounds, with little black scabs forming. “Wow!” said Sgarone, his voice as charged with wonder as Tirillo’s. “Let’s throw him in the water,” said Roscietto, and they all went to the river, dragging the dog down the slope.
Meanwhile Caciotta came up from the shore, where the bigger boys had started playing cards, glancing up every so often to see if the factory custodian’s daughter would appear at the window lost in the factory walls, so that, naked as they were, they could tease her a little. He looked around and said, “Now, where could my clothes be.”
“Clothes, where are you?” he cried with his usual good humor.
“What, you’re going already?” said Alduccio.
“What am I gonna do here?” said Caciotta, looking for his clothes in the underbrush and the reeds.
“Let’s have another swim, come on,” cried Alduccio.
“No,” cried Caciotta.
“Forget it,” said Begalone to Alduccio, elbowing him. Caciotta had found his clothes, and he was turning them over in his hands, looking at them.
“Who could have touched them,” he said to himself, “who knows, I don’t know.”
“What, is there someone here who goes through pockets?” he asked aloud.
“No,” cried Sgarone, sarcastic.
“If I catch someone going through my pockets, I’ll put out his eyes,” said Caciotta cheerfully.
“You’re so great, go on,” Begalone shouted from below, hearing him. Caciotta began putting on his socks and shoes, and meanwhile he was singing:
“Zoccoletti, zoccoletti . . . ”
“Claudio Villa,” said Begalone, “is no one compared to you, Caciò.”
“I know,” said Caciotta, breaking off the song and resuming it right away.
“It’s comforting to sing,” said Alduccio.
“It’s a comfort to me, yes . . . ” said Caciotta.
“Zoccoletti, zoccoletti . . .
“Shouldn’t it comfort me? What, do I have to ask permission from someone to sing a song? . . .
“Zoccoletti, zoccoletti . . .
“No, we’ll get dressed, we’ll go for a walk, and then we’ll go and hang out at the movies . . . ” While he was singing and talking, he had put on his socks and shoes, and now was undoing the belt that was tied around his clothes.
“You go to the movies, but you don’t say anything about taking your friends, right?” said Begalone.
“Stupid,” Caciotta answered, “altogether I’ve got a hundred and fifty lire . . . ”
“Okay, okay, do what you like,” said Begalone.
Caciotta began singing again: “Zoccoletti, zoc . . . ” Suddenly he was silent. He stood speechless for a moment, then advanced, carrying his clothes, his face white as death.
“Who stole the money I had in my pocket?” he said.
“You so and so,” said Begalone, “are you looking at me?”
“Who was it?” Caciotta repeated, pale.
“Whoever it was will come and tell you,” Zinzello said, shaking his head as he went off with his dogs.
“Let me see your pockets!” said Caciotta. Begalone jumped up nervously. “Moron,” he said, “go ahead, look.” He picked up his clothes and threw them in Caciotta’s face; Caciotta looked carefully in all the pockets, silently. Then he also looked inside Begalone’s socks and shoes.
“Did you find something?” cried Bégalo.
“I didn’t find fuck all,” said Caciotta.
“I’ll give you a kick in the face,” said Begalone. Caciotta looked in Alduccio’s clothes, and then, one by one, those of all the boys, but without finding anything. He put them back in the dust, without looking anyone in the face: who knows how many weeks it had been since he’d seen a hundred lire and felt as pleased as he had that afternoon. He dressed in silence, deep in thought, and left. Already on Via Tiburtina more cars were passing, although the sun was still burning low over the black fumes massed above Rome; the shutters of the Silver Cine were raised, and here and there, amid the apartment blocks of the neighborhood, distant voices and sounds were more frequent. Alduccio and Begalone went for another swim and then they, too, left. The last to leave the river were the boys.
Some went straight home on Via Boccaleone, others stayed out; slowly they made their way along the stretch from the river to the first apartment blocks
of Tiburtino, and stopped awhile in front of the Silver Cine to look at the posters and tease one another. Then they kept going, amid the scraggly oleander bushes of Via Tiburtina, until they reached the bus stop, in the square in front of Monte del Pecoraro, which was where the swarms of boys, the gangs of youths, gathered.
There were some girls, too, in the flat yellow clearing between the four or five ridges of the hill and Via Tiburtina, which was crowded with workers going home on their bicycles, some continuing to Ponte Mammolo or Settecamini, some turning just in front of that clearing, toward the apartment blocks of Tiburtino III and Madonna del Soccorso. Some had already gone home and come out again, and were taking a walk with friends, to Pietralata or one of the two cinemas nearby, their shirts or undershirts hanging outside their pants.
The boys, coming half-naked from the Aniene, went up the dark brown path that divided the slope of the notched hill, first along the edge of a tuff quarry, and then making its way among the brambles of Monte del Pecoraro.
The girls followed, and joined them halfway up the hill, from which the street could no longer be seen, in an area of abandoned quarries, which sank in the middle like small ravines. Since a storm was rising from the direction of San Pietro, it seemed almost like night; the setting sun was covered by clouds, which here and there flashed lightning, even though the sky above was clear, almost red, because of the glare and the heat. And in place of the sun, the planes of Monte del Pecoraro were scraped by a kind of African wind, which carried with it the sounds of the entire periphery. Piattoletta, too, followed the pack of boys, laughing under his hat, staying back, so that he could be with them unnoticed. The others, however, had calmed down a little, because of the girls. They sat under the electrical pylon, and Sgarone and Tirillo began to play morra; joking at first, they warmed up and began to shout, one on his knees, the other squatting on the patch of grass that remained under the pylon.
Armandino, however, was lounging in the thread of shade that was barely perceptible, because the sun had disappeared behind the lightning flashes, though its glow remained, while the others, stubborn as a crowd of apes, had gone to take on the girls. Keeping their distance, however, because although they acted like toughs, they were a little timid, and they stayed clustered and close to one another, showing off, sarcastic and jaded. But the girls always had an answer ready, to shut them up.
“These girls,” said Armandino in a lewd voice, “force you to go and talk to yourself,” and he began to sing. But the others pretended not to notice, and went on joking with the girls. Roscietto, since he had nothing to say, hit one on the head, which almost knocked her over. Then the girls, offended and sulky, went to the other side of the pylon, from which you could see Pietralata, and the boys followed, as disorderly as the girls were reserved. Down below, on the other slope of Monte del Pecoraro, also amid old tuff quarries, was the Fiorentini factory, whose motors made the air vibrate. And from time to time white flashes from the autogenous welding machines shot through the glass doors or the clumsily repaired windows. Pietralata was farther away, with the row of the evacuees’ pink houses under a hardened, polluted crust of dust, and farther on the big yellow apartment complexes, lined up tall and straight, in a landscape so burned by the sun it was as bare as winter.
But the girls withdrew to the end of a small clearing between the lips of two large hollows, refusing to answer the boys, and barely exchanging a word with each other as they waited for the boys to leave. The boys had gathered like thugs a little farther up, on the ridge; but the girls’ behavior made them angry, though they didn’t want to show it: so they began to act even more contemptuous and crude. Since they couldn’t prove they were smarter than the girls with words, they threw sticks and rocks at their ragged sweaters, at their hair, which was dusty but styled like that of young ladies.
The girls merely moved again, farther down, but first they gave the boys what they deserved. “Damn you,” they said, “why don’t you go and bother your sister, imbeciles!” Their voices were quivering with anger, and became harsher and at the same time more drawn out. The boys, hearing them, began to sneer and to mimic them, as they’d heard their older brothers do when they talked about Via Veneto types; and the littlest shouted, “Wimps!” And, going up the slope, they took long slow steps, left hands on their hips and the right sometimes extended forward, sometimes caressing the hair on their necks.
Armandino, under the pylon, went on singing as loud as he could, passionately, while the other two played morra, standing up, with the fingers of their left hands straight, counting the points. “God damn!” shouted the boys coming up the hill. “What are we doing here?” They fell on the three under the pylon, enthusiastically; some fought, rolling around, while others lighted a cigarette butt, and the match, thrown on the ground, burned a patch of grass, which shriveled, black and angry, according to the whim of the wind gusting over the rises of the plateau.
The clouds thickened, and at intervals the lightning flashes stained them with red, while below, in the factory—which covered with the hum of its motors the voices of the wretched life of Pietralata and Tiburtino—the sparks from the welding were more rapid and frequent, partly because they were easier to see in the dark air.
Piattoletta was sitting on the ground, his legs crossed and his cap pulled as far as it could go over his ears, a smile on his long, pendulous lips.
“Piattolè,” shouted the others, rolling over on the cracked mud, “take this,” but they continued to fight with each other, paying no attention to him. Sgarone was lying on the ground belly up, and on top of him was Roscietto, belly to belly, holding him still, and with his hands he gripped his wrists, pinning them to the ground.
Sgarone tried to free himself. “Don’t move!” cried Roscietto, turning red with effort. But Sgarone, getting fed up, was wriggling like an eel. “Damn you,” he cried. “Stay there, Sgarò,” said Roscietto. “Get off my cock,” answered the other, who was really angry, his voice almost breaking. Roscietto began jumping on him, as if he were belly dancing. “Look out, Rosciè, there’s that rod, standing at attention!” said Sgarone, laughing. Roscietto, leaving him, all excited, leaped backward. “Let’s play Indians!” he shouted. “Get out,” the others said contemptuously. “Come on, we’ll have fun,” Roscietto insisted. “Huh, it’s stupid,” said Armandino, sneering. “Uh, woooo, woo,” shouted Roscietto, jumping around. “Come on, Piattolè!”
Piattoletta stood up and began to shout, too, jumping from one foot to the other. “Oh, ohahoh.” Roscietto stood next to him, so they could jump together: “Ooh, woooo, ooh,” they cried, laughing.
The others, too, began hopping, bending forward and back, and shouting: “Ooo, woo.” The girls came up to see what was happening and, finding all that uproar, stopped in a circle, saying: “They’re crazy!” But the boys, in front of them, began jumping and shouting even more, just to infuriate them.
“Let’s do a dance of death, a dance of death!” cried Roscietto: the others began to shriek even louder, “Oooh, ooh oh,” and when, jumping, they passed close by the girls they gave them a kick or a blow to the head. But the girls expected it, and nimbly dodged. “Ugh, what bores you are,” they said. “Stop it, you dummies,” but they didn’t leave and stood watching the dances; and the boys, although they couldn’t keep up the jumping and shouting, still wanted to show off more and more boldly.
“The torture stake,” shouted Roscietto.
“Oh sure, now the torture stake,” said the girls, flirting, “make us laugh,” and they gazed with an air of pity, bored.
Roscietto tackled Piattoletta, who was still going, in the midst of the others, barely moving his feet, because he was dead tired, and shouting “Ooh, oooh.” “To the death stake,” cried Roscietto, grabbing him.
The others, shouting, helped, and dragged Piattoletto to the electrical pylon.
“Let’s tie him up,” shouted Sgarone. Piattoletta struggled, dropp
ing to the ground like a dead weight. “Damn you,” shouted Roscietto, who was holding him under the arms, “stand up, you dirty brat.”
But Piattoletta didn’t want to, and fell on the ground, kicking: the others kept yelling. “I’ve had enough,” said Roscietto, giving him a kick in the stomach.
Piattoletta began to cry so hard that he drowned out the boys’ yells. “Now he’s crying, that shit,” said Armandino. “If you won’t get up . . . ” shouted Roscietto. But Piattoletta really wouldn’t hear about it and went on writhing in the dirt, crying as loud as he could.
“Even ten of you can’t manage with that twisted kid there,” said the girls. But Roscietto had pulled him up, hauling him by the collar, and when Piattoletta cried: “Let me go, bastard,” he said “Stay,” and spit in his eye; then he squeezed him violently and, with Sgarone and Tirillo, pushed him against the pylon and with a piece of string tied his wrists to an iron hook sticking out of the concrete.
But even hanging like that Piattoletta continued to kick and writhe and yell. The others resumed the dances around him, shouting even louder: “Oooh, oh, wooo,” keeping a certain distance, however, in order not to be hit by Piattoletta, who was kicking in the air. “Ooffa,” cried Roscietto, “doesn’t anyone have another piece of string?”
“Who has one,” said Tirillo.
“Piattoletta, Piattoletta,” cried Sgarone. “It’s holding up his pants.”
They fell on Piattoletto, who moaned and pleaded, and while the girls laughed, shouting, “Look at that!” they took the string that was holding up his pants and tied it around his ankles.
“Now let’s set the death stake on fire,” shouted Armandino, lighting a match.
But the wind blew it out. “Whoo, whoo, whoo,” they all shouted at the top of their lungs.
“Your lighter!” Sgarone cried to Tirillo.
The Street Kids Page 17