The Ragazzi

by Pier Paolo Pasolini

  ______

  * Traditionally, light infantry, trained to maneuver and parade at a run.—Trans.

  ______

  Running like horses with their hair tossing in the wind, Sgarone, Roscietto, and Armandino led all the rest, their faces gay and mocking in contrast to their headlong stampede and their wild outcries. It was a show gotten up by the little boys, who felt that they could face up to the older ones because there were so many of them, and they were having a good time cutting up. The human avalanche tore by, raising heavy red dust all along the bare river bank; following the curve of the river and yelling mockingly but with all the steam they had, “The bersaglieri!” they turned up toward the Via Tiburtina. The motorized column was already coming up, with dispatch-riders on motorcycles, and armored cars, alternating with trucks full of rows of bersaglieri wearing camouflage, their automatic rifles between their legs, and with tanks whose treads kneaded the asphalt pavement as if it were butter. The boys in the lead were already starting to scramble up the bank alongside the road over by the bridge, while the stragglers, a bunch of little pains-in-the-ass including some brats of five or six, had formed ranks and were now marching in step, sarcastically trumpeting the bersaglieri march—“Pappappara pappa para, papparappa pappa paara.” Swept up by the General enthusiasm, Caciotta too started to run after them, and even Tirillo, who had just emerged from among the oil-streaks and gobs of spit in the river. Borgo Antico and Mariuccio yelled to Genesio, the cords in their necks standing out sharply, “You coming, Genè? There go the tanks!” Genesio shrugged, and as if he hadn’t heard them, he sat down abstractedly among the bushes, right where he happened to be at the moment. “You coming, Genè?” the other two went on calling anxiously. Then, seeing that Genesio didn’t have the slightest intention of coming, they suddenly started off themselves, trotting after the two big boys toward the bank above the Via Tiburtina, followed by poor Fido, thoroughly confused by now.

  The only ones left at the swimming-place were Alfio Lucchetti, off by himself, and looking sullen now that Zinzello had gone; Alduccio, still burying his head in his arms in the dusty earth that was beginning to scorch in earnest; Genesio, lonely as a hermit at the far end of the swimming-place; and Begalone. Begalone was still coughing, letting out scraping and spitting noises that sounded as if they had been made by a ladle knocking about inside a steel drum. His yellow skin was covered with a red flush that hid his freckles; his chest, which looked like the ribs of the crucified Christ, appeared to have boiled meat on its bones instead of ordinary skin. He went to his trousers to pull a handkerchief that was covered with red stains out of a pocket, and, coughing, he pressed it to his mouth. Nobody paid any attention to him. So he went on coughing, cursing and blaspheming. At last the fit passed, and he got up slowly and put the handkerchief back into his pocket, afterward tossing the bundle of clothes away under a bush like so many scraps of rag. Since the coughing spell had made him dizzy and even nauseated—most likely from weakness, since he had scarcely slept the night before—he got the notion that a bath might do him good. He pulled his carcass along the ground, first carefully tying up the bit of string that went around his head like a threadbare ribbon, keeping in place the faded yellow hair that fell down in a long hoodlum cut as far as the first joint in his spine; he moved very slowly because no one was watching him, going up to the foam-covered edge of the water, meaning to slip in and just soak, sort of, like old men when they wash their feet, or Alfio, not far off, who had given up his youthful ambitions and now just used the river as a bathtub. Sticking his feet in the water, he pulled them out again, first one and then the other, with a jerky motion like a chicken, because it felt unexpectedly cold, and he ground his teeth, “Jesus fucking Christ.” Then he began to get used to it, and he moved angrily out into the stream, going in slowly until the water was up to his nipples, sticking out of his chest as red as two bits of sealing wax. At last he began to swim, and he pad-died around a bit out in the middle of the river. But then he began to feel even worse. His head spun like a stammering woodpecker’s, and inside his stomach it felt like dead cats. He thought he was going to faint. He got scared, and began to swim frantically toward the bank. When he set foot on land again, dripping water, he couldn’t straighten up. He kneeled down in the mud and began to vomit. Since he had had nothing to eat the day before, the poor bastard had wolfed half a basketful of bread and some spicy sausage this morning. He must have been having trouble digesting it, and now he was heaving his guts out.

  That’s how the boys who had dashed over to the road to watch the tanks go by, until the very last one had turned up toward Ponte Mammolo, found him. “Begalone’s sick!” Caciotta proclaimed loudly when he saw him stretched out on the ground, face-down in the mud. They all ran up then, but he didn’t seem to take any notice, lying there with half-shut eyes staring at nothing. Caciotta and Tirillo began to shake him by the shoulders. “Hey, Beglaò, hey, Beglaò, how’re you feeling?” He made no answer; his face, covered with filth, was enough to turn your stomach. All around him at least thirty disheveled and sweaty kids pushed and shoved in order to get a better look at him. But Alduccio came up, his face swollen with sleep, and he started to yell, “Give him some room, beat it, you bastards, can’t you see he needs air?” He too shook Begalone by the shoulder, and the circle of boys closed again. Begalone said something to himself with a nauseated expression on his face. “What’s he saying?” Caciotta asked. “Christ!” said Tirillo, impressed. “Let’s wash him,” Alduccio decided, and he set about it. Cupping his hands, he got water from the river and dashed it in Begalone’s face. Begalone shook his head for a moment like a drunk, and then fell back into his stupor. “Come on!” said Alduccio. The other two helped him, and with a few well-aimed splashes they washed the filth away from Begalone’s face and chest. “Now it’s up to us,” Caciotta mumbled. “We’ve got to carry him home.” Tirillo nodded, with the look of one who’s just caught a boot in the head, and a grimace that meant, “Christ, Caciò.” They had to make the best of it one way or another. They dragged Begalone bodily a little farther up the bank and left him stretched out while they put their clothes on. Then, surrounded by the audience of excited kids, they dressed him too; he lay limp, and every now and then had a spasm of vomiting. Caciotta grabbed him under the arms, Tirillo took his feet, and that way they began the haul to Tiburtino, stopping every ten yards or so to rest, followed by the train of kids who shoved and jostled to keep as close to the action as they could. Alduccio went with them only a short way along the path, spelling the other two now and then. Just as he was about to turn back, he saw Riccetto coming toward them, obviously in high spirits, all dressed up and walking carefully to keep from getting dust on his perforated white shoes. In his hand he was carrying a new pair of trunks, neatly folded, and his blue shirt flapped over his buttocks.

  Then Alduccio ran ahead a little, making up the ground he had lost compared to the procession of kids; he was just in time to hear the first explanations that Riccetto had been sternly demanding. Caciotta and Tirillo were resting and had set Begalone down like Christ brought down from the cross; he began to stir just then, and slowly, assisted by his friends, he stood up. Riccetto looked at him with a pessimistic expression, but when he saw Alduccio, he forgot about Begalone and turned to his cousin with a grin. “Hey, buddy, what’s up? Did you fuck up last night?” Alduccio got mad. “Idiot,” he said nervously to Riccetto, “you think I’m in the mood for joking? Go make jokes someplace else.” His face disfigured with rage, but obviously with a lump in his throat and ready to burst out crying any minute, he turned away and started to walk back toward the swimming-place. “Pissed off, huh?” said Riccetto, following him languidly, full of sarcasm and high spirits. Alduccio turned like a snake. ‘‘Go fuck yourself! ” he yelled. “Sure, sure,” said Riccetto, nodding, “but you know damn well you’re going to end up like Lenzetta.”

  “Just like Lenzetta,” he insisted. Lenzetta was in the shit, all right. At the momen
t he was doing a year in solitary in some prison outside of Rome; he had pulled a thirty-year stretch, no less. One day—maybe he was drunk, or Christ knows what the hell was going on in his head—he had hailed a taxi, driven to a deserted place around the Grotta Rossa, and then, with the pistol he had lifted off Cappellone, he had shot the taxi-driver in order to get the five or six thousand lire the man had in his pocket.

  Riccetto fell silent, looking at his cousin, who was walking ahead of him, head down, and then he decided that he’d had his fun, and said, “Come on, it ain’t nothing. Buck up, buddy, go on home. It’s time, ain’t it?” Alduccio looked at him suspiciously, but with an ill-concealed gleam of hope in his eyes. “What do you mean, it ain’t nothing?” “It ain’t nothing, I tell you,” said Riccetto. “I was just kidding. Your mother didn’t turn you in. She made up a story about how she hurt herself somehow, some crap like that.” Alduccio was silent for a while, still walking toward the swimming-place, thinking. But then he turned, and without saying anything to Riccetto, he went back toward Tiburtino, almost running in order to catch up with the group around Begalone, who was walking by himself now, holding onto Caciotta and Tirillo.

  “So long, cousin,” said Riccetto tolerantly, waving a hand without turning around.

  He went on alone, not hurrying, toward the bend in the river below the processing plant. He started a song, and by the time he had gone through it, there he was on the bank by the swimming-place, where on one side there were the three boys from Ponte Mammolo, out of sight now, and on the other Alfio Lucchetti, who had finished his bath just as if nothing had happened, and was pulling on his old pin-striped trousers.

  “Who’s that?” Riccetto asked himself, stopping at the edge of the bank. “Hm.” He watched him for a bit, and Alfio, his shoulder blades sticking out and his chest bristling with hair, went on dressing, looking mysterious. “Aaaah!” Riccetto said to himself then, remembering that he had seen him at Amerigo’s funeral, and he’d been so bothered about him. “Right, I remember now!” And he began calmly to undress, paying no more attention to the man, just throwing a last glance his way when he went off, and thinking, “One of those born losers.”

  As he was slipping off his trousers, holding the legs high so as to keep them out of the dust, he whistled contentedly and talked to himself, complaining in a low voice about the holes in his socks, or congratulating himself on the fine knit shirt he’d gotten himself. “Just great,” he said with conviction, looking at it as he folded it up.

  “I’ll go to that asshole of a boss,” he said when he was in his shorts, “get my money off him, eat, and after that, life with a capital L. Things are looking up, Riccè.”

  As he drew up that pleasant program, he walked, hands on his hips, to a spot just above the swimming-place, and from there he caught sight of the boss’s three sons, over to the left among the bushes. Fido ran over to greet him, mad with affection, jumping up as high as Riccetto’s chest and flourishing his forepaws. But Riccetto petted him absently; he was only too pleased to have caught sight of the three boys down there. His good spirits rose even higher. He didn’t care all that much for swimming by himself in that quiet and lonely place that was getting even more so as noon came on. But there was another reason for the gaiety that lit up his already good-humored face under the clipped curls. He looked at them. They had noticed him, too, but they said nothing. Riccetto went on watching them. They gave no sign. He stared at them; facing away from him, every now and then they stole a look at him out of the corners of their eyes. Then, when all three had their eyes on him, Riccetto broke the silence, and raised one hand and moved it up and down balled into a fist, as if to threaten them with a beating. The three kids looked at him in a rage, shrugging their shoulders.

  “That’s right, keep it up,” said Riccetto.

  “What do you want, anyway?” Genesio burst out, and then withdrew into silence again, like a porcupine curling up.

  Riccetto was having the time of his life, and instead of answering right away, he went on staring at them, nodding and twisting his mouth.

  At last he exclaimed loudly, “A fine business.”

  “What business?” Mariuccio asked, speaking for all of them, for since he was the youngest, he felt he was least responsible.

  “What business?” Riccetto shouted, his eyes widening. “Jesus, you guys sure got nerve, I’ll say that!”

  “Yeah, what business?” the boy repeated innocently.

  “Why, you little bastard!” Riccetto said harshly, using his most adult tones to suggest paternal reproach. “You mean you’ve got the nerve to deny it?”

  Genesio began to be curious too. Scratching at his foot with a stick, all hunched over, he said, “To deny what?”

  “Wha-at?” said Riccetto, and in spite of the well-nigh tragic character of what he was thinking about, a wave of laughter struck him, so that he bubbled like a stewpot.

  “You roast people’s feet on them, that’s what,” he yelled, bursting into laughter at the expression he’d just invented on the spot, “and then you say what did we do?” He went on laughing uproariously, almost rolling on the ground over the roasted feet business—even though Piattoletta hadn’t been really roasted but just browned a little. The three brothers didn’t understand a fucking thing of what he was saying.

  “What are you trying to say?” Genesio asked in a hoarse voice.

  “You know damn well, you little hood,” said Riccetto, calming down a bit.

  “We left home, so what?” Genesio admitted without flinching. Riccetto looked at him. He hadn’t known about that.

  “Oh,” he said, “so you left home, did you? That shows you knew that the cops were looking for you all right!”

  Genesio was surprised by that bit of news, but, hunched over with his chest against his knees, he kept his surprise to himself, and began at once to think things over. But not Borgo Antico and Mariuccio. The smallest one chirped, “It isn’t true, the carabinieri aren’t looking for us!”

  “Say it isn’t true all you like,” said Riccetto teasingly “but you’ll see whether it’s true or not when they come grab you!”

  “Ah, dry up,” said Mariuccio.

  “And why are the carabinieri looking for us?” Genesio asked casually.

  “Why?” Riccetto asked sternly. “You got the gall to ask why? What did you do yesterday over by Pecoraro? Hey? Tell me, why don’t you?”

  “Well, what did we do?” Genesio asked, looking him in the eye almost as if he were daring him.

  Riccetto frowned as if he were hurt by all that obstinacy. “Who was it burned Piattoletta at the stake over by Pecoraro?”

  At that sally, Genesio was dumbfounded. But then he shrugged, as if putting an end to the discussion, and said in a low voice, “How should I know?”

  “You, that’s who it was!” said Riccetto, treacherous and triumphant.

  “Ah!” said Genesio, shrugging and looking away, his eyes burning under his black forelock.

  “No, it wasn’t us,” said Mariuccio.

  “It’s no use denying it, you know,” said Riccetto, getting a bigger kick out of it every minute. “They got witnesses, if you please.”

  “What witnesses?” asked Genesio.

  “What?” said Riccetto. “Sixty guys seen you yesterday evening, Roscietto, Sgarone, Armandino, all the boys from block 2—what are you trying to pull on me?”

  “It wasn’t us,” said Mariuccio, now almost beside himself.

  “We’ll see when they put you in jail whether or not you have the nerve to deny it,” Riccetto yelled. Mariuccio, outraged, choking with emotion, felt his chin begin to shake, and he repeated, “It wasn’t us,” already crying.

  Seeing that he was crying, Riccetto dropped the game, and still standing above the swimming-place, he began to sing, crushing the three boys down there with his high spirits.

  “Go ahead, cry,” he said to Mariuccio every once in a while, interrupting his song for a moment. But he began to feel a littl
e uncomfortable about it. He remembered how it used to be when he was like them, how it was when the big boys from the housing projects used to gang up on him, and he used to go around with Marcello and Agnoletto, and everybody ignored him or scorned him. He remembered the time they stole the money off the blind man and went off to go swimming at Ciriola’s, and they’d hired the boat, and he’d saved that swallow that was drowning under the Ponte Sisto.

  The noon whistles sounded in the distance.

  “Let’s take our swim,” Riccetto told himself out loud. “Or else the boss, and I hope he croaks, will be all tanked up, and I can go whistle for my money. That’s all I need, to have to spend the day without a single lira!”

  And so saying, he took a header into the river, without paying any attention to Mariuccio, who had already brightened up again, and yelled after him, “Hey, you know Genesio’s going to cross the river too?”

  Genesio said, “Shut up,” and instead of going in himself, he began to think about important things. But then he got interested in what Riccetto was doing out in the river, and he began to watch him intently, as Borgo Antico and Mariuccio were. He went to the water’s edge, and half turning toward his brothers, who were absorbed by Riccetto’s exhibition, he said quietly, “We’ll go home afterward. It’s better that way. Otherwise, Mama’s going to cry.” That decision hurriedly announced, he could watch Riccetto in peace. He was really kicking up a fuss in the water. He worked his arms like flails, beating at the water and raising columns of foam; he put his head under water and raised up his rear end and his legs like a feeding duck; he did the dead man’s float on his back, singing at the top of his lungs. Then, turning around suddenly, he swam back to the shore, clambered up it dripping, and putting on a show for the kids, who were watching him open-mouthed, he did a swan-dive into the water.