Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch

by Stefano Pastor

  Original Title: Lizzi Bizzi e la Strega Rossa

  Translated by Gaston Como

  © 2017 Illusion

  © 2014 Stefano Pastor

  Graphics: Angela M.

  All rights reserved

  1

  «It’s the first time, right? It shows».

  It was not to her. It could be noticed from the foulard wrapped around her head. Mr. Orazio could not tell how old she was, but he did not know about this subjects. To be honest, there was nothing he excelled at.

  Perhaps that woman was about forty, maybe she was ten years younger, at least before being stricken by the disease.

  «I was about to retire», he said, as if this was a response. «I’m sixty-five».

  She understood, instead. He just did not want that illness, that disease, so close to retirement. It was too early. She, who was much younger, was equally pitiful of that short and fragile man, with a full-mooned face, like that of a child.

  «Did you come on your own?».

  «I’m alone», Mr. Orazio confirmed. «I’ve never married».

  «It’s not so easy to deal with this alone», said the woman.

  «I don’t leave anyone behind. No one will weep for me».

  Mr. Orazio did not look sad. Scared, but not sad, as if the fact that no one would weep for him would somehow comfort him.

  The woman put a hand over his and shook it. «We’ll make it, you’ll see, we’ll win».

  «Is it painful?», the little man asked shyly.

  The woman shook her head. «Not now».

  Mr. Orazio understood her words just a few hours later, while he was going back home on the bus. He felt his throat dry, cold in his lungs and his stomach upset, as if he had eaten a stone. He felt the need of throwing up, more overwhelming than ever. Even if that day, on doctor’s order, he had not eaten anything.

  It is the chemo, he told himself, and was perfectly right.

  There was no hope, he already knew that. The doctor was more optimistic; he said hope was scarce, but that he had to try all the same. And he was trying.

  He was not really scared; he was not terrified of the idea of total annihilation, but was rather worried about the path that would take him there. He was scared of pain, in short.

  He felt he deserved it, because his life was empty. He had not done anything, in all his life that could be passed on. His memories were an immense sequel of preordered actions: getting up, having a shower, eating breakfast, going to work, having lunch, working some more, then having dinner and watching some TV, before going to sleep. There had never been anything that had interrupted that routine, nothing that could pull him away from that row of accounting books that was his whole life.

  At least until now.

  He wished he managed to get home, that he did not feel bad there, among all those strangers. In the end he was scared of it, he had never managed to interact with anyone.

  He was a solitary man.

  He succeeded partially.

  He threw up in the entrance of his building, he tried to do it inside a jar were an old skimpy ficus had been planted, which tried to beautify that desolation; but he missed and flooded the floor instead. Then he managed to drag himself to the elevator, thanking the heavens that the building had one.

  He had to clean but he was not feeling well to do it, no one would know it had been him.

  He had made a mistake; he should have gone home quickly, after the chemo, instead of going to work. Now he was paying the price of that recklessness; he felt his strength wane and his head spinning.

  He limped until he reached his apartment and he struggled a lot to open the door. His hand was shaking too much to manage to insert the key.

  He managed to get inside before his strength completely abandoned him, and he plummeted.

  It was not easy being alone, he now realized that.

  Spread on the ground, without enough strength to get up, lost.

  He could have died there. It would happen sooner or later, he understood that. Without anyone to notice him, to miss him; it was horrible.

  He looked for a foothold to manage to rise, but there was no furniture nearby. Crawling like a worm was the only choice. What was happening to him? The chemo could not have caused such a strong reaction, or maybe it had? He had been warned that a shock therapy had been used, with massive dosage. His stomach was on fire and he continued to shiver.

  «Come on, get up. I’ll give you a hand»

  There was precisely a hand stretched at him, a very small hand; the hand of a little girl.

  He lay agape, looking at her.

  It was the most absurd thing he had ever seen. Her hair was the color of wheat, split by a line in the middle and tied up in two braids that reached her waist. Her lips were red and her eyes were an incredible blue; she seemed eight or nine years old. Even the dress she was wearing was absurd, with puffs on her shoulders and a balloon skirt. Long socks in fantasy color covered her legs, and to complete her eccentric outfit there was a pair of red shoes with a golden buckle.

  He had no idea who she was, he had never seen her before. She did not live in the building, he was sure of it.

  Maybe he should have asked her what she was doing there, in his apartment, but it was not the right time. He needed her help very much. «You can’t help me», he told her. «You’re too small».

  She snorted noisily, as if she was a raspberry. «Could you give me your hand or do I have to do everything?».

  She was not addressing him. Mr. Orazio tried to look around and discovered a second little girl.

  This one was taller and was wearing a cape that resembled that of Little Red Riding Hood. Her look was just as strange as that of her friend.

  She was perched over the armchair arm, as if she was a hawk; her fiery red hair went in every direction and seemed as if it had never met a comb. Her face was covered in freckles and even her eyes seemed to have a reddish shade.

  «She doesn’t speak», the first girl explained to him, and rose her voice so that her friend would hear her. «But she can hear you fine!».

  She tells him a secret, giggling. «She makes everyone uncomfortable; they say she’s a witch»

  Mr. Orazio was more confused than ever. At that time he did not care who those girls were, he thanked the heavens they were there. «Help me; I don’t feel well».

  The red witch jumped down from the armchair and went towards them with a lolling pace. She was not wearing socks and had gnarled legs, like those of a tomboy. She wore a pair of open sandals.

  He was sure that they would not succeed in helping him, but he was quickly proven wrong. Not only did they rise him, but also managed to support him. Mr. Orazio had never felt so weak.

  «You must go to bed», the blonde girl with the braids told him.

  Even talking was an incredible effort, he only managed to nod.

  2

  How he managed to get to his bed still remains a mystery to Mr. Orazio. When he opened his eyes again a lot of hours had passed, and the darkness had flooded the room.

  «I’ve prepared you a light soup, you shouldn’t eat anything else».

  The blonde girl was there, almost as if she was watiting for him to wake up. She climbed to his bed and kneeled beside him, holding the steaming dish. Before he could say anything she started feeding him with the spoon, as if he was a child.

  It was all very embarrassing to Mr. Orazio, but as soon as the hot liquid came into contact with his parched throat he felt resurrected. He allowed the girl to continue, in utter astonishment.

  The dish was almost empty when he managed to say the first word. They were so obvious that they made him feel even more stupid. «Who are you?».

/>   The girl’s gaze was penetrating, like an adult’s. «Can’t you really remember me?».

  He searched through his memory; he strived in every way, but it was useless. «What’s your name?».

  It looked like it was costly for her to tell him. She seemed truly disappointed in not being recognized.

  «Lizzi».

  «Lizzi», Mr. Orazio repeated. It had to be a diminutive for a full name; Letizia, probably. He had never met any Letizia.

  This time, the red witch was perched on her favorite armchair, by the end of the bed. «And she?».

  Lizzi snorted exaggeratedly again. «She doesn’t speak, I told you. And if she doesn’t speak how can she tell you her name?», she shrugged. «Call her witch, like we all do». And she added, with a strange smile: «You used to do it too».

  He had never met her, he was certain of it, they were not the type that could be forgotten.

  «Do you live near here?».

  Lizzi jumped down from the bed and went towards her friend. Maybe they traded glances, but Orazio could not tell.

  «You’re dying», Lizzi said, without turning.

  No one knew of his disease, there was no one to tell it to. They certainly could not know about it.

  «I think Mr. Agenore knows what to do».

  He was not sure he had understood. «What?».

  Lizzi rolled over, shaking her head with a sad expression. «If you refuse to remember we cannot help you».

  The confusion was absolute; Mr. Orazio did not know what to say.

  Lizzi seemed determined. «If we are here it means that you don’t want to die. Make an effort!».

  Mr. Orazio would have wanted to, but he did not have the strength.

  The red witch made a strange look, taking her finger in front of her lips.

  «Yes», Lizzi said. «You’re very tired, you must rest. We’ll talk some more later».

  The last part of his strength seemed to have abandoned him; Mr. Orazio could not manage to keep his eyes open.

  He closed them.

  The next morning, when he woke up, Mr. Orazio discovered he was well. The illusion lasted until he sat down to have breakfast; then he remembered that he would have to go get the chemo in a few hours.

  Lizzi and the red witch’s appearance had remained in a small corner of his brain up until that moment. He had not considered them real for one second either, just hallucinations due to the confusion from the previous afternoon. They did not exist, that was obvious; he had created them in his mind.

  Why like this? Why them? They had to be somehow related to an episode in his past. Considering how bizarre they were, it was certain that they were characters from a book, or maybe a film. Anything dating back to his childhood, which his conscious mind had forgotten.

  It was all so simple and obvious, he was not afraid of it.

  After all, it was over by then.

  That night was a nightmare.

  After the chemo he went immediately back home this time. His body seemed to have received it better. He had felt like throwing up, but the impulses had waned quickly. The fatigue had not paralyzed him; he managed to prepare a very light dinner and went to bed early.

  He could not sleep.

  Things were far far worse. When the pendulum clock had sounded one at night, Mr. Orazio felt as if a two hundred kilos pachyderm was sitting on his chest.

  He could not breathe; he could not move. The end had arrived, he was dying that was for sure. He screamed in his mind, even if his lips remained silent. The horror upset him, a blind and irrational horror.

  «You cannot stay like this, something must be fone».

  Lizzi was on his bedside, shaking her head.

  «Help me up, we have to lift him, I can’t do it on my own».

  The red witch was there too, on the other side of the bed.

  It was horrible; Mr. Orazio threw up even his soul last night. Lizzi kept going back and forth with the bowls full of his vomit while the red witch held him straight. Mr. Orazio could not speak; every time he tried to, the impulses of vomiting returned.

  «You’re destroying yourself!», Lizzi accused him. «That treatment is ruining you, you have to stop it!».

  Mr. Orazio only shook his head, he could not speak. They could not possibly understand what his situation was.

  «Haven’t you had enough? Haven’t you paid enough already?».

  Those girls were too strange, almost terrifying; but he was all but ungrateful of their presence, of not being left alone.

  A long time later, they made him lie down again.

  «Who are you?», Mr. Orazio murmured. «Tell me about you, about your friend. Help me remember».

  Lizzi pondered if it was the time to do it yet again, and sat on the side of the bed. «She has moved here recently. We play together. I don’t know much more about her, she never speaks. I don’t even know if she is able to».

  «Why do you call her witch?».

  «I didn’t give her that name. It was the other children who called her that. Because of her hair, I believe. She always fights them».

  «She looks like Little Red Riding Hood».

  The look he received from Lizzi immediately made him uncomfortable. «Have I said anything wrong?».

  «You’ve never liked that story, you hated it».

  Mr. Orazio was beginning to understand. «You belong to my past, right? To the time when I was a child».

  «You must go back home, it’s essential that you do so. If you don’t want to die you must go back home».

  He barely arched an eyebrow. His past, his home. «What does it mean?».

  Lizzi seemed very depressed. «We can’t do anything else; it’s up to you to decide».

  «It’s not enough! You must tell me more!».

  She glided away from the bed, leaving. «We’ve already told you all there is to know! We’ve told you who we are, isn’t that enough?».

  «And who are you?».

  With a cheeky smile: «But you know! Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch!».

  3

  «I have a strange request for you. I know it won’t be easy. I’m looking for a particular book».

  He had chosen that woman because she seemed the most suitable choice. Around sixty years old, a motherly look, always smiling. The other librarian had made him uneasy; she was dry and stiff as tree trunk.

  «Please tell me, we’ll try to help you».

  «I’m looking for a book that I read a lot of years ago, when I was just a boy probably. I can’t remember the title, but its protagonists were two girls: Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch».

  The woman started a search on her computer and shook her head. «I’m sorry, but we don’t have any book with that title».

  «I don’t think it was the title, those were its protagonists».

  «Does it remind you of something?», the woman asked her colleague.

  She was more expeditious: «Look it up on the Internet».

  «Can you do that?», Mr. Orazio asked, and they looked at him as if he was a Martian.

  The final result left him perplexed.

  «It doesn’t exist».

  «Maybe I made a mistake then, maybe it wasn’t a book. Perhaps…».

  «No, you’re not understanding me. It doesn’t exist. Those names don’t exist, whatever they were. Maybe you can’t remember them clearly».

  Mr. Orazio grew more and more perplexed. «Is there everything there?».

  The librarian smiled comprehensively. «Maybe not everything, but almost; everything that has been talked about, that has been known. Yes, you could say everything’s there, but not those names».

  «Maybe it’s a film», Mr. Orazio murmured.

  «It doesn’t matter whether it’s a film or a book. It’s not here, it doesn’t exist, nor have they ever.

  He was losing his patience, but Mr. Orazio would not give up. «There was another character, Agenore. Could you search about him too?».

  The motherly look disappeared from the
woman’s face. «What part of they don’t exist can’t you understand?».

  He did the chemo, even if they had told him not to and it meant feeling badly later, so badly; but Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch did not show up.

  He did not dare lie down in bed and sat on the armchair, covering himself with a blanket. The phone was next to him, in case of an emergency. He prepared for another sleepless night.

  They did not exist, they were not real, what could their names matter or what was the source of his hallucinations?

  And yet someone had lifted him from the ground, had fed him, had cleaned his vomit; was it possible that all that had been dreamt as well?

  Stopping the chemo? The cancer had spread through the body, now it was everywhere. It was attacking his liver, there was no hope left. Stopping it meant giving up

  They did not think of it that way, though.

  But they did not exist! They were part of his fantasy!

  Mr. Orazio kept getting worse and did not know what to do.

  «Do you still remember your house?».

  She had reappeared, who knows how long she had been there for. In his drowsiness, Mr. Orazio had not noticed anything.

  The red witch was there too, far from them, on the couch.

  «And what about your house? Where do you live? Where do you come from?».

  Lizzi shrugged. «I live with Mommy and Daddy, what else? Dad is a doctor, and Mom is always busy, with her club friends. She cooks for parochial festivals. I drive her crazy; we have a lot of fun teasing them, and she always gets angry».

  «You and your friend?».

  She nodded

  «And what do you do?».

  She started giggling, like a real girl. «Hm, there was this time we put a dead mouse inside a cake Mom had prepared for the priest. Or maybe that time we painted the fence in yellow and blue stripes. Or when we pasted all the teacher’s book pages. And…».

  Mr. Orazio interrupted her. «Did we know each other? Were we friends?».

  Lizzi remained silent for quite some time. «I wouldn’t say friends. No, definitely not».

  Her words were often in contrast with the age she appeared to be; though sometimes she looked like a little girl. The mystery was more and more complex. «Is Lizzi Bizzi your real name?».