The Sun and Other Stars

by Brigid Pasulka

  “That is only what Yuri says to the interviewers. Tatiana makes him because she does not want him to be from the village.”

  “What’s there?”

  “In Strilky?”

  Strilky. I try to practice it in my head.

  “Five streets,” she says, “four hundred people, two hundred cows, a hundred orphans . . .”

  “You and Yuri grew up in an orphanage?”

  “No, but there was a big orphanage at the end of the village. With a field. It was a terrible field, like when we saw this field the first day. But this is where Yuri learned how to play calcio with the older boys. Every day after dinner, we would play calcio at the orphanage.”

  “Tell him about the radio,” Yuri says from the doorway. He is back from the hinterlands of the villa.

  “Ah, yes, the radio. When he was about twelve . . .” Here she stops to consult with Yuri. “Yes, twelve, my father somehow was able to buy us a transistor radio, which was just incredible for a child at this time. We had fights about who could hold it. We would walk through the main street of the village, and . . . oh, we thought we were so cool.” She laughs. “On Sundays, we put the radio next to the field, so everyone could listen to the real matches while we played. We used so many batteries. This was all we asked for on our birthdays and for New Year. Batteries and football stickers.” She laughs. Yuri translates this back to Mykola and Ihor, who have no doubt heard the story a hundred times before. They both smile.

  “By the time Yuri was a teenager, the whole village would come, mostly to see him play.”

  Yuri laughs. “No, no. They come to see my sister play. They never see a girl play so good in all their lives.”

  Zhuki says something to him in Ukrainian and turns back to me. I get the feeling that she’s telling these stories in order to cheer me up, and maybe it’s working. Not the stories themselves, but the fact that she even cares.

  “Anyway, it was quite beautiful. The whole village came to the field to make picnics, and for four or five hours every Sunday, the people from the village and the children from the orphanage were together, like the orphans had parents and aunties and uncles again. When it was dark, the children had to go back to the orphanage, and everyone else went home. Only Yuri and I stayed. This is why he likes to play in the dark.”

  “The ball,” Yuri says, in the shorthand of siblings Luca and I used to have before he left for the academy.

  “Yes, I was going to tell about this. We had a special ball with stars on it, you know, these stickers for putting on the ceiling, to learn the names of all the patterns . . . how do you call them?”

  “Constellations?”

  “Constellations. We put them around the ball so we could see it, because there were no lights on the field. And then we would pretend Yuri was Oleh Blokhin and I was Lev Yashin.”

  “Who’s that?”

  She laughs. “Who’s that? Two of the greatest Soviet players of all time. You do not know Oleh Blokhin and Lev Yashin?” There’s a small conference in Ukrainian, and they all stare at me in disbelief.

  “Anyway,” Zhuki continues, “the ball. It was like kicking the ball through the whole galaxy. Like we were not in Strilky anymore.”

  Yuri says something to his sister, and she gets up and goes into the other room. Mykola starts telling a story in equal parts Ukrainian, broken Italian, English, and mime, which seems to be the play-by-play of a pickup game from when they were in England or Scotland. From what I can understand, the grass was wet and Ihor made a spectacular fall, which is endlessly replayed by Mykola and Yuri, the gales of laughter and snorting growing louder each time they do it.

  “Shhh . . .” Ihor holds a finger to his lips and points to the ceiling. “Tatiana sleep.” And everyone bursts out laughing again.

  Zhuki comes back from the kitchen with a stack of bowls, a handful of spoons, and a carton of ice cream. She serves the ice cream, Mykola batting away Yuri’s hand when he reaches for it, both of them bantering back and forth each time he takes a bite.

  “They are making an agreement, how many minutes Yuri must stay on the treadmill tomorrow,” Zhuki explains, smiling.

  The ice cream carton scoots back and forth across the table, leaving streaks of condensation as they retell their stories and private jokes. The empty bowls get plunked on the table, and Zhuki picks up the carton and scrapes the corners with her spoon. I would give anything for this night to stretch on, but I can feel the time bearing down on us. The conversation is sinking, and I try to bat it aloft.

  “So, when was the last time you were in Ukraine?”

  Zhuki licks the spoon and flinches like it’s medicine going down. She glances at Yuri.

  “Long story,” she says, shaking her head. “My mother’s boyfriend . . . long story.”

  “We Italians like long stories.”

  They laugh.

  “You see?” Yuri says. “You make a joke. You are feeling better.” He stands up and stretches, and Ihor and Mykola do the same. Yuri’s not much taller than Luca, only Luca had that classic striker shape—the small upper body and huge thighs, every muscle on him distinct enough to do a pencil rubbing. Instead, Yuri has the build of a goalkeeper or the statue of David—all heavy marble, his hands and feet disproportionately large.

  Yuri sighs. “I am sorry, but we must sleep. Tomorrow morning we go to Genoa. I must go to sporting judges and answer questions.” There’s a heaviness in the room. Yuri looks at me, and then at his sister. “But we will return to San Benedetto. Soon. And we will finish your calcio diploma.”

  He says something in Ukrainian, and Zhuki stands up.

  “My sister, she will show you door. And do not worry about your father. We will fix.”

  I pull the iPod out of my pocket. “Here.”

  “No, no,” he says. “You keep. Your brain, I think, need vacation. Every time, not only on calcio field.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. No worry.”

  Ihor says something, and everyone laughs.

  “What did he say?”

  “He say you be careful. My sister, she have very fast left hook for Italian men.”

  I can feel my face flush as Zhuki and I walk down the long hallway in silence. I don’t want to leave. Not only because of Zhuki, but all of them. The whole night has softened me, dulled my anger. I take my time changing from the Adidas slides to Luca’s cleats.

  “Are you thinking about your father?” Zhuki asks.

  “What? No.” I stand up and look back down the long hallway. “I was actually thinking about how if there’s another ice age and the Libyans cut off our oil supply, you could probably survive for a year in here by burning the picture frames and the chairs.”

  She laughs. “You’re a strange one, Etto.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you be all right going down the hill? Maybe you would like a flashlight?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I hope everything will be all right with your father.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  She smiles. “Give me your number. I will SMS you when we return from Genoa.” I watch her punch the numbers into her phone. As simple as that.

  “Buona notte.”

  “Buona notte.” And she shuts the heavy door behind me.

  I don’t go home. I think about Papà and the look on his face as he stood between the cypresses, and I imagine what he’ll say about me if I’m not in the shop tomorrow. I know I’ll never hear the end of it. Martina, Silvio, Franco, Mimmo, everybody will come by and try to intervene. They’ll tell me how much he’s already suffered, and that he didn’t mean it anyway. How we only have each other left, and we should not waste a day because you never know. Ah . . . sì, sì . . . you never know.

  I sit down on the fifth-year bench and look out over the terraces of warped olive trees, twisted grapevines, and knotted pines. The waves are foaming around the molo and bubbling up in my head. I think about how I’ll feel if I don’t go down
to the shop tomorrow, how the lump of pride I will have to swallow will grow a little every day until I’ll vomit just thinking of it.

  I lie down and close my eyes. I take out a cigarette and roll it between my fingers, then put it back in the pack and lob the whole thing over the edge of the terrace.

  Pow!

  It explodes like a grenade in my mind, lighting up the whole landscape.

  I sleep in the aula, and it’s still early when I get to the shop. Not even Franco and Mimmo are out yet, only Pete the Comb Man standing next to the beach cleaner, doing his tai chi. When he’s finished, he’ll start up the engine and ride up and down the beaches like a Riviera farmer, plowing wide, clean furrows in the sand, perfect for sowing the next generation of German and Milanesi pedants, irrigated by their own sweat. I know he sees me, but I try not to meet his eye. They say he prays for everyone who meets his eye.

  I start setting up the case with the lights off, and I’m about halfway done when I hear the clank of the back door lock and see his stocky silhouette against the light of the alley, his hair sticking out like a porcupine, its defenses always up. He props the door open to let the air in.

  “Ciao, Papà,” I say. As if nothing ever happened.

  He flips the fluorescents on and comes up front. “Etto?” He looks surprised. He doesn’t kill the fatted calf for me, but he doesn’t tell me to get out, either.

  “Ciao,” he says, and that simple word stamps and seals the truce.

  He puts on his jacket and washes his hands like any other day. He sharpens his scimitar, pulls the hacksaw off the wall, and goes into the walk-in to start a rough carve of the vitello. He’s done it so many times, he can do it while it’s still hanging. I finish setting up the case and start scrubbing down everything in the shop, polishing the glass until it’s invisible, and oiling the stainless steel until it’s shiny enough to deflect a laser. We work in silence, the only sounds from the spray of the disinfectant and the muffled rasping of Papà’s scimitar against cold flesh. This is my apology, my reassurance to him that maybe we are not going to win any father-son awards, but at least I won’t come down one morning and announce that I’m going to play video games on the other side of the world.

  It’s already quarter to eight when I look up and see Little Yuri and Yuri in matching sunglasses and baseball caps, waiting patiently outside the door. I turn the lock and open it a crack.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

  “I told you, I come fix everything with your papà.”

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea anymore. Things seem okay now.”

  He tips his sunglasses, and his pupils pierce right through me. “Trust me. You will see.”

  It sounds like such a simple thing, doesn’t it? Trust me. Fidati di me. Three words as wide as the ocean, and the title of a not-bad song by Laura Pausini. And what Yuri Fil’s eyes are urging me to do right now. Trust me.

  “Papà? Could you come here a minute?”

  He says something, but the walls of the walk-in muffle his voice.

  “Papà?”

  He taps at the door with his foot, and it eases open a crack. “Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something here.”

  I look at Yuri, and he raises his eyebrows at me, amused.

  “I really think you need to come out here, Papà.”

  He comes out of the walk-in, wiping his hands on his smock. The bristle of his hair is glistening with sweat. I think he’s the only man alive who can sweat in a refrigerator. He takes his handkerchief from his pocket and mops his forehead.

  “Can I help you?” he says.

  “Excuse. I don’t want to bother you,” Yuri says. He takes off the baseball cap and the sunglasses, and Papà’s eyes widen, like the eyes of a little boy looking into the sky.

  “Signor Fil?”

  “Yuri.” He stretches a hand out, and Papà looks down at his own hands, which are speckled with blood and grist. He shakes his head violently, as if he’s directed this moment before in the film of his mind and this is not it.

  “One moment.” He holds up his finger. “Moment, moment.” He pushes through the bead curtain to the sink in the back room, and I hear the water run.

  Yuri looks at me and I shrug. We wait for Papà to come back, wiping his hands on a towel.

  “Sorry, sorry. It is an honor to meet you, Signor Fil. Truly an honor.” He grasps Yuri’s hand in both of his and kisses it like the ring of the pope. I can feel my face getting hot, but Yuri and Little Yuri don’t even flinch, as if this happens to them every day.

  “I come to explain you,” Yuri begins. “Yesterday. Your son, he come and find me. For you. He tell me you are number one fan of Yuri Fil in the world. He ask me to meet you.”

  Papà looks at me, then back at Yuri.

  “It is true, it is true,” Yuri says. I can tell right away he’s not a skilled liar. “Your son, he was up on the field. He cut the grass.”

  “I thought you said that he found you.”

  “Yes, exactly, he found us.” I can see Yuri’s face flush. “And he tell me right away you are my number one fan, and he ask me to meet you. He say he want me to do this as present to you. And I tell him, if you want that I meet your father, you must do something for me. You must show me ten minutes of your best calcio. And he say, no, no, I do not play calcio good.”

  “That’s true,” Papà says.

  “And I say, well, that is payment I want. If you do not play with us, I do not meet your father. So he do it. For you. He is good son,” Yuri says, and he claps his hand on my shoulder.

  My father is speechless.

  “Yes, good son,” Yuri continues. “And big honor that your son follow you, that he choose your profession. For the father, it is greatest honor in the world. Come here, Little Yuri.” Little Yuri hustles from the front of the case, where he’s been staring at the calf’s head. “This is Little Yuri. Captain of 2024 Ukrainian national team.”

  Little Yuri salutes, and there’s an awkward silence between these two men, these men who have absolutely nothing in common besides one’s obsession with the other.

  “I want to show you something,” Papà finally says.

  He leads him through the beaded curtain to the grinding counter and nods with his chin at the row of photos. Yuri’s eyes dart back and forth in silence. He stretches out one cautious finger and touches the frames, first his own photo and then the others.

  “But . . . I do not . . . I am not so good like the others.”

  “But of course you are!” Papà laughs.

  “Hagi should be here. Ronaldinho. Baggio. Kaká.” He shakes his head and looks at the floor. “I thank you. I thank you. But I do not deserve this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Papà says, putting a hand on his shoulder in the same way Yuri put his hand on mine. “Your name will be cleared from this scandal. They will ask their questions and realize you had nothing to do with it. Don’t worry.”

  Yuri raises his head, and maybe if I hadn’t looked at that face every night for the past two weeks, I wouldn’t have noticed the doubt worming through the surface of it.

  “Ach,” Yuri says, clapping his hands together, his face brightening. “I forgot. I bring present for you.”

  Yuri reaches into Little Yuri’s backpack, pulls out a dark bundle, and shakes it out in front of Papà. It’s a Genoa home jersey, split down the middle into dark red and blue, the griffin seal over the heart, the block letters spelling out “Fil” on the back.

  “Oh, it is too much, too much,” Papà says. “You will sign it for me?”

  “Of course.” We both stare at Yuri while he signs the shirt with one of the pens we use to mark the orders.

  “I have a present for you, too,” Papà says, beaming, and motions Yuri over to the counter. He sweeps his arms in front of the case. “Anything, anything at all. Gratis. Free.”

  “No, no. Grazie, grazie. No, no.”

  “But you must. I insist.” And Papà begins choosing thin
gs on his own, scooping them out of the case and wrapping them up. “Here, this is a nice roast.”

  “No, no. It is not necessary.” But as Yuri keeps up his protest, Papà weighs him down with more packages—all the shish kebab we have made for the day, the roast, a rope of sausage long enough to save someone from drowning.

  “Real kielbasa,” Papà says proudly. “A Polish butcher taught me. It will remind you of the old country.”

  “Thank you,” Yuri says quietly. “Very generous. Thank you. Thank you, but we must go now. We go to Genoa today.”

  “Before you leave,” Papà says, holding one finger up. He takes a deep breath. I know what’s coming. “Shche ne vmerla Ukrayina, ni slava, ni volya . . .”

  At first, I want to crawl under the grinding counter and liquefy in embarrassment, but then I see Yuri’s eyes welling up. I wonder how much the tabloids would pay for the photo of a Serie A calcio player brought to tears in a butcher shop from a caterwauled version of his national anthem.

  “It is great honor you do for me,” Yuri says when Papà is finished. He puts his baseball cap on and takes the hand of Little Yuri. “We go to Genoa for few days now, but when I come back, we play calcio together. You, me, your son, and my son.”

  “It would be my honor,” Papà says.

  “No, it is my honor, my honor,” Yuri says, and they both start to sound like the fottuto mafia.

  “My honor.”

  “My honor,” Yuri repeats.

  I wish you could see Papà’s expression as he stands in the afterglow of Yuri Fil, watching him disappear down the passeggiata with his armful of meat. As long as I live, I will never forget it. After all, how many times do you get to witness the best moment of a man’s life? Surely not as many times as you witness the worst.

  For the rest of the day, Papà shuttles between Martina’s and the shop, bringing everyone by who wants to see the jersey, which now hangs at the end of the line of portraits, the shoulders squared on a hanger.

  “To Carlo and Etto,” Yuri signed the jersey. “My favorite father-son team.”

  Of course, when Papà tells the story, he forgets to mention anything about me, or even that I was in the room. You’d think there were no witnesses with the way he embellishes.