“He’s practicing to cross the river,” Mariuccio communicated, full of innocent enthusiasm, to the grown men, looking at them as if he were looking at a mountaintop. But they by now were talking about their own shit, and didn’t even hear him. Genesio reached the middle, where the current made small waves, flowing stronger and collecting at that point all the scum in the river, black oil slicks and a kind of yellow foam that seemed to be made of gobs of spit; then he turned and stopped moving, let himself be carried downstream a little, until he was closer to the diving platform, then he started swimming again toward the near bank. Farther down, toward the bridge, he grabbed onto some branches that hung out over the water from the almost sheer slope.
Borgo Antico and Mariuccio ran after him, paying no attention to where they put their feet, sliding, falling, standing again in the mud, up and down over the slippery mound of the diving platform, followed by the dog, who had started barking without knowing if he should be alarmed or happy.
“Genesio, Genesio!” the two brothers cried, as if he were ten kilometers away.
“You didn’t make it?” Mariuccio asked, fearfully.
“I’m sick of you” was Genesio’s only response. He glanced around resentfully, with a rapid and morose gaze, not looking them in the face. Then he added: “I was doing a trial, I told you!”
Now that he had tested it, he observed the river again, silently calculating the distances. Past the current it was still another ten meters before you’d get to the other side, where the white strip left by the bleach factory’s discharge as it drained into the river descended. Fido began to observe as well, settling down; he was panting with his mouth open, and he closed it every so often to swallow or lick himself. He respected the silence of his masters, with a somewhat dejected expression; he looked as if some lout had given him a kick in one eye, causing it to swell, because he was all white, except around the left eye, where there was a bluish patch: and the ear on that side hung down, limply, while the other stood straight up, tense, so as not to miss the slightest sound.
In the meantime the youths who were lounging like pigs in the mud gave signs of awakening. Tirillo went and stood like a statue at the end of the diving platform, wearily, stretching; he stayed there, fairly still, head lowered, clicking his pasty tongue against the roof of his mouth with a grimace of disgust. “And when is he going in,” said Caciotta, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, in order not to make the effort of turning. “Don’t you know I was born tired?” said Tirillo, resigned, his eyes occluded by sleep. Begalone had started coughing, as if at any moment he might spit out a piece of his lungs. “You made it, go!” said Tirillo, then, in a sudden burst of energy, he shouted: “Who’s gonna dive with me?” “Go on and fucking dive,” said Begalone, with a sneer, between the bouts of coughing that scraped his lungs. Tirillo raised his arms with a great show and did a dive, spreading his legs like a duck. “You’re fucking disgusting,” said Caciotta, while the other was still under water.
But just then there was a huge rumble and roar, which cut off every comment. It was as if an earthquake were advancing. It spread from the direction of Tiburtino and proceeded parallel to Via Tiburtina and the shore of the Aniene. From Via Tiburtina came a din that seemed as if it would split the roots of the earth, a regular, unchanging din, in which from time to time rasping and ripping sounds, as if of rage, could be distinguished, to then suddenly disappear. It moved like an immense steamroller, grinding the whole stretch of the horizon between the apartment blocks of Tiburtino and Monte del Pecoraro, crunching and crushing everything it encountered, like a carpet-bombing. In the other direction, on the shore of the Aniene, it was as if a herd of monkeys and parrots had been stirred up, and, driven out of the forest by a fire, were shrieking at the tops of their lungs—it wasn’t clear whether they were afraid or were transported by excitement. It was an army of boys, produced by half of Tiburtino, who were running like lunatics, in their good shorts, and waving shirts or undershirts they’d taken off as they ran. You couldn’t hear what they were shouting, from one group to the other, because as they ran they spread out and scattered all along the shore: but they moved together with the roar, and gradually, as the sound could be perceived more clearly, their shrieks, too, became clearer. “The Army, the Army!” they cried, while already the first were sliding down at the bend where the diving platform was, and it was obvious that they didn’t give a damn about the Army, but it was a good opportunity to make some noise. In the lead, and running like horses with their hair in the wind, were Sgarone, Roscietto, Armandino, their faces happy and laughing in contrast with the heat of their run and their savage cries. It was a show improvised by the boys, who, since they were so many, felt strong confronting the adults, and acted like smartasses. The avalanche passed at full speed, raising the heavy red dust along the bare embankment, and following the bend of the river; shouting as loud as they could, but with the greatest indifference, “The Army,” they turned up toward Via Tiburtina. The armored column was already there, with the troops on motorcycles and the armored cars alternating with trucks carrying soldiers in camouflage, machine guns between their knees, and the tanks with tracks that punctured the asphalt as if it were butter. The first boys had already begun to climb up the slope to the street, near the bridge, while the last, a bunch of bastards, who, though they were still tykes of five or six, had lined up and, singing in sarcastic tones the soldiers’ march—papparappa pappa para, papparappa pappa para—advanced in step. Gripped by enthusiasm, Caciotta, too, began running after them, as did Tirillo, who had emerged amid the streaks of oil and spit. Borgo Antico and Mariuccio shouted, the muscles of their necks straining, to Genesio: “Are you coming, Genè? It’s the tanks!” But Genesio shrugged his shoulders and as if he hadn’t even heard them sat down pensively where he was, in the bushes. “Are you coming, Genè?” the other two continued to shout, anxiously. Then, seeing that Genesio had no intention of coming, for once they went off by themselves, jogging behind the two big boys, toward the slope of Via Tiburtina, followed by poor Fido, who no longer understood anything.
The only ones left were Alfio Lucchetti, at the diving platform, solitary and threatening, because the other man, Zinzello, had left, and Alduccio, with his face still hidden between his arms on the dust that was starting to burn, and Genesio, all alone like a hermit on the other side of the diving platform, and Begalone. Begalone couldn’t stop coughing, with rasping and spitting sounds like a ladle banging inside an empty pot. His yellow skin was covered by a coat of red that hid the freckles; it was as if boiled flesh, rather than normal skin, were attached to his ribs, which were like those of a man crucified. He took a red-spattered handkerchief out of his pants pocket and, coughing, pressed it to his mouth. No one paid attention to him. And he coughed, on his own, cursing and swearing. Finally it passed, and slowly he put the handkerchief back in his pocket, throwing his clothes back under the bushes as if they were rags. Since the coughing had left him dizzy and also with a kind of nausea, and certainly also because he was so weak, for he had scarcely slept the night before, he thought that maybe a swim would do him good. He dragged his carcass up off the ground and tied the piece of string that, winding around his head like a frayed ribbon, held in place the layer of dull yellow hair that hung down, hoodlum style, to the first little bones of his spine. Then, slowly, because no one was watching him, he moved to the grimy river’s edge, to have an ordinary bath, like old men when they go to wash their feet, or like Alfio, nearby, who had now laid aside the ambitions of youth, and was using the river as a bathtub. He stuck his feet in the water, and, gnashing his teeth, pulled them out one at a time, with a jerk, like a hen, because of the sudden cold: “God damn it.” Then he got used to it, and nervously, gradually, he walked into the river, until the water reached his nipples, which stood out as red as bits of sealing wax on his rib cage. Finally he plunged in, and swam for a while with half strokes in the middle of the river, but he felt even wo
rse: his head was spinning like a top on a string, and he seemed to feel something like a dead cat in his stomach. He was near fainting. Frightened, he swam, gasping, toward the shore; when he got out, dripping wet, he couldn’t stand up; he knelt in the mud and vomited. That morning, because he had eaten nothing the day before, he had had, poor boy, half a bowl of bread and pork rind: it must have given him indigestion, and now he was throwing up his soul, too.
The youths who had run up to the street to watch the tanks passing, until the last one turned toward Ponte Mammolo, found him like that. “Begalone’s sick!” cried Caciotta, the first to see him, lying on the ground with his mouth in the mud. They all rushed over, but, with his eyes half open, staring into emptiness, he didn’t seem to notice them. Caciotta and Tirillo shook him by the shoulders: “Bégalo, Bégalo, do you hear?” they asked, and he was silent, his face so dirty it turned your stomach. Around him were at least thirty boys, all ragged and sweaty, pushing and shoving and squabbling to see him. Alduccio, too, came over, his face flushed by sleep, and began to shout: “Make room, get away, idiots, don’t you see you’re taking away the air?” He, too, shook Bégalo by the shoulders, in the middle of the circle that had closed around him again. Bégalo was saying something to himself, with a grimace of nausea. “What’s he saying?” asked Caciotta. “Who knows,” said Tirillo, with some feeling. “Let’s wash him,” Alduccio decided, instead, getting busy. Making a cup with his hands, he scooped some water from the river and threw it on Begalone’s face; Begalone shook himself for a moment like a drunk, and immediately fell back into his torpor. “Come on,” said Alduccio. The other two helped him, and with three or four well-placed splashes of water they washed the filth off Bégalo’s face and chest. “Now we’re screwed,” muttered Caciotta, “we have to carry him home.” Tirillo agreed, gesturing as if he’d been hit in the head, with an expression that meant: “Shit, Caciò.” But they had to resign themselves. They hauled Begalone a little farther up on the shore, and left him lying there while they got dressed. Then, before the audience of boys who were watching in excitement, they also dressed Begalone, who let them, every so often making a new effort to throw up. To carry him, Caciotta lifted him under the armpits and Tirillo by the feet, and so they began a march toward Tiburtino, stopping every five or six meters to rest, followed by the train of boys crowding around, scuffling to get closer. Alduccio went with them along the path for a short stretch, occasionally relieving them. Then, as he was about to turn back, he made out Riccetto in the distance coming toward them, evidently in good humor, all dressed up and walking with care so as not to get his white spectators dusty; he was carrying new swimming trunks, carefully folded, and his blue shirt waved over his buttocks.
Alduccio then ran ahead, regaining the ground he had lost to the procession of boys, just in time to hear Riccetto, with a severe expression, get the news. Begalone, whom Caciotta and Tirillo, resting, had set down, like a Christ taken off the cross, just then began to move, and slowly, held under the armpits by his companions, stood up. Riccetto looked at him with a pessimistic expression: but when he saw Alduccio he forgot Bégalo, and turned to him with a sneer. “Hey, cuz,” he said, “well? He worked hard last night!” Alduccio got angry, gripped by a fit of nerves. “You idiot,” he said to Riccetto, “you think I want to joke? Go and wash somewhere else!” His face distorted by rage—though it was clear that he had a lump in his throat and was about to burst out crying—he turned, and started to walk back toward the diving platform. “You’re offended, cuz?” Riccetto said, following him at an easy pace, joking and sarcastic. Alduccio turned like a snake: “Fuck off,” he shouted. “Okay, okay,” Riccetto said, shaking his head. “But you’ll end up like Lenzetta! Really, end up like Lenzetta!” he repeated. For Lenzetta, in fact, it was all over: he was doing a year of solitary confinement, in some prison outside Rome, in Volterra or on Ischia, because he had been sentenced to no less than thirty years. . . . One day, he must have been drunk or who knows what was going through his mind, he hired a taxi, was driven to a deserted place in the area of the Grotta Rossa, and there with the revolver stolen from Cappellone had murdered the taxi driver, to get the five or six thousand lire he had in his pocket . . .
Riccetto was silent for a while, looking at his cousin, who was walking in front of him with his head down, and then, deciding he’d had enough fun, said, “Come on, let’s go, it’s nothing. Cheer up, cuz, and go home, I think it’s time . . . ” Alduccio looked at him, suspicious, but with an ill-concealed thread of hope in his gaze. “How can you say it’s nothing,” he asked. “It’s nothing, really, come on,” said Riccetto. “I’m joking on purpose. Your mother didn’t report you! She made an excuse, that she hurt herself by herself, what do I know!” Alduccio was silent as he walked toward the swimming place, lost in thought. But then he turned, and, without saying anything to Riccetto, took the road to Tiburtino, almost running to reach the group with Begalo, who was now walking by himself, with his arms around the necks of Caciotta and Tirillo.
“Bye, cuz,” said Riccetto, sagely, waving his hand without turning around.
He went on by himself, in no hurry, toward the bend below the bleach factory. He started a song and when he finished he was at the top of the slope above the diving platform, on one side of which were the three boys from Ponte Mammolo, who couldn’t be seen, and on the other Alfio Lucchetti, who, as if nothing had happened, had finished his bath and now was putting on his old striped trousers.
“Who’s that?” Riccetto wondered, stopping on the edge of the slope. “Oh well!” He looked a while longer, as the other, impenetrable, with his protruding shoulder blades and his curly-haired chest, was dressing. “Aahaaa!” said Riccetto to himself, recalling when he had seen him, at Amerigo’s funeral, and had been so troubled by him. “Yes, now I remember!” And calmly he began to undress, paying no more attention, giving Alfio a last glance when he left, thinking, “He’s a loser.”
While he took off his pants, lifting up his legs so as not to let the pants drag in the dust, he whistled in satisfaction and talked to himself, complaining in a low voice about the holes in his socks, or complimenting himself on the nice shirt he had. “It’s fantastic,” he said, with conviction, looking at it as he folded it.
“Now I’ll go to that ugly lug of a boss,” he said to himself when he was in his underpants. “I’ll get some money, I’ll eat, and after lunch nothing but life! That suits Riccè!”
Making this happy plan he reached the end of the diving platform, his hands at his sides, and from there finally he noticed down to the left among the bushes the boss’s three sons. Fido ran to greet him, all excited, jumping almost to his chest and climbing up with his front paws. But Riccetto, distractedly, barely reached out a hand to him: he was too pleased to have seen the boys down there. His good mood intensified: he really didn’t feel like swimming by himself, in the silence and the solitude that gradually increased as midday approached. But the reason for the happiness that had brightened the already happy face under his clipped curls was different. He looked at them. They had also seen him, but were silent. Riccetto continued to look at them. And they said nothing. He stared at them and, turning their backs, every so often they gave him a sideways glance. Then, when all three were turned to look at him, Riccetto broke the silence, raising one hand and moving it up and down, with the fingers balled into a fist, like someone who is threatening to let loose a volley of blows. The three little boys looked at him angrily, shrugging their shoulders.
“Yes, yes,” said Riccetto, “go on like that, boys!”
“What do you want?” Genesio let escape, immediately closing himself up again in silence, like a hedgehog.
Riccetto was thoroughly amused, and instead of answering right away he stared at them again, nodding yes with his head and pressing his lips together.
“Nice things you do,” he exclaimed after a while, as loud as he could.
“What’d we do?” sa
id Mariuccio, for all of them; since he was the youngest, he felt least responsible.
“What did you do?” cried Riccetto, widening his eyes. “Wow, you got nerve, oooh!”
“Yeah, what did we do,” the little one repeated candidly.
“Damn it!” Riccetto exclaimed, severely, laying into them with an adult voice as if to give them a scolding. “You’ve got the nerve to deny it?”
Even Genesio began to be curious: and scratching one foot with a stick, bent over, he asked: “Deny what?”
“Wha-at?” said Riccetto: and in spite of the almost tragic thing he was thinking a wave of laughter came over him, which made him bubble like a pot.
“You make roast Piattolas,” he shouted, bursting with laughter because of the expression he had invented on the spot, “and then you say what did we do!” He went on laughing, even rolling on the ground, because the roast Piattola joke was so good: even if Piattoletta hadn’t been roasted, exactly, only browned. The three brothers didn’t understand shit.
“What do you mean?” said Genesio in a hoarse voice.
“You know, wise guy,” Riccetto said, getting up and holding back his laughter.
“If we go home, then what?” Genesio admitted without blinking. Riccetto looked at him: that he didn’t know.
“Ah,” he said, “then you left home! See, you knew it, yeah, that the cops were looking for you!”
Genesio was disturbed by that news, but, all bent over, with his chest against his knees, he kept his surprise to himself, and quickly began to think about it. But not Borgo Antico and Mariuccio; Mariuccio chirped: “It’s not true, the cops aren’t looking for us!”
The Street Kids Page 23