The Breaking of a Wave

by Fabio Genovesi

  The whole thing seems so unfair to me. How could the son of a baroness wind up in an orphanage? “But can’t he at least find her?” I asked Mom and Ferro while Zot was in the bathroom. “Is that so hard? How many baronesses could there be in Chernobyl?”

  “None, Luna,” said Mom. “None.”

  “What do you mean ‘none’? Then who did the violin player make Zot with?”

  Mom didn’t answer. Neither did Ferro. Sometimes when you want someone to really understand something the best thing to do is not answer. That way the person sits there in silence thinking about her question and slowly arrives at the answer on her own. I was beginning to get it, in fact. But I didn’t want to. I want the baroness to spend every night thinking about her child off somewhere God only knows. I want there to be an extra bit of sadness in his dad’s violin playing for the son he doesn’t know he has.

  But what I want counts for nothing, so I stay in bed and force myself to listen to Zot sing from start to finish, even when Mom rips the pillow off her head and huffs off to the bathroom, and he stops playing a minute to let her pass the narrow labyrinth of boxes our room is buried in.

  We brought them from home. Practically everything in them belongs to Luca. We packed up everything in his room and left the rest behind. We pretended as though we were putting it in the attic, that our stuff was back there waiting for us, when really the van would be coming by to cart everything off to the dump.

  On our first night I walked out of the bathroom and found Mom gazing at the boxes. She was sitting on the bed, staring at them in the dark. When she noticed me, she said, “Maybe being away from home is a good thing, you know?”

  “You really think so, Mom?” And she said, “Yes, I do,” all shaking, then she started to cry. I know why she was crying. Because she was surrounded by Luca’s things but not by the walls of his room, not the kitchen where we used to eat together, not the yard where he kept his surfboard. After Luca all we had left were bits and pieces, and of those bits and pieces we could only fit smaller bits and pieces into boxes. If things continued this way, pretty soon we’d have nothing. As I see it, that’s what Mom was thinking about that night. Or at least I was.

  When I think back on it, I feel the urge to cry a little too. But whenever that happens, I know what I have to do: I turn to the big box beside the bed, now a nightstand, reach out, and rub my whalebone. That way I remember this one crazy fact: I may be losing many of my brother’s things, but a new and wonderful one made its way to me.

  I had asked for it so much that, even if he himself never returned from Biarritz, he still managed to bring this back. I had passed out in the sea and he’d hidden it in my hair. So today, a Saturday, maybe I’ll stop by the beach before catechism and take a walk and feel the sand under my feet, in part because I have this ridiculous and top-secret idea in my head that maybe my brother has another present for me.

  Tu sei la musica

  che ispira l’anima

  sei tu il mio angelo di Paradiso,

  per meee.

  Ed io che accanto a te

  sono ritornato a vivere

  a te racconterò, affideròòò

  i sogni miei.

  Perché romanticaaa

  tu sss—

  Zot’s song is cut short, as is his voice, when Mr. Ferro charges in, grabs the accordion, and hurls it out the window. Then he spots it there in the grass, picks up his rifle, and shoots.

  Mom comes out of the bathroom but realizes it’s just the usual round of accordion fire practice and disappears again. This is the daily routine. The room immediately fills with the smell of smoke and Ferro sets down his rifle and says, “Next time it won’t be the accordion.” Then he walks off.

  But it isn’t true. He said the same thing yesterday. And the day before that. Zot goes to retrieve it, covers the holes with insulating tape, and everything is back to the way it was. Worse, actually, because the accordion sounds more and more dreadful and warped yet Zot doesn’t quit.

  Not even now, with the last bit of song stuck in his throat. He takes a breath, extends his arms, and draws the curtain on his performance:

  “Perché romanticaaa, tu seeeiii . . . ”

  I stay where I am, my head against the pillow, and watch him. But there’s not much light and the only thing I can make out is Zot’s wide smile, so broad it covers up everything else, like a gigantic billboard commanding you to be happy. Only the billboard is planted in a nuclear wasteland strewn with broken things—rubble, ashes, bare trees—a place happiness is unheard of. And yet the colorful billboard stands its ground, there in front of you, so that it really does bring you a bit of joy.

  “Did you like today’s song, Luna?”

  I don’t answer right away. I try to come up with something to say that’s kind of true but won’t hurt Zot’s feelings. I come up with nothing, so I keep quiet. I just nod my head.

  “All right! I couldn’t decide between that and ‘Sapore di sale.’ But ‘Sapore di sale’ is a sea shanty. It would be more appropriate if I sang it to you at the beach this afternoon.”

  “But today’s Saturday. We have catechism.”

  “Yes, of course. But first we’re going to the beach. To see if your brother has brought you another present.”

  THE MEANING OF A PAN

  Is it really a sail?” asks Zot. Yes, I tell him. A transparent sail on their back. That’s why they’re called by-the-wind sailors.

  “They’re like itty-bitty jellyfish, flat and blue. They look like contact lenses. They ride the skin of the water and this delicate part on top acts like a sail. The breeze blows them all over the place. Eventually the waves strand them on the beach. And on those days the whole shore turns blue, a long blue road paved with by-the-wind sailors,” I say, and I point it out, even though Zot and I are the only ones here.

  “Where do these prodigious creatures come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But how do they all arrive in the same place at the same time if they’ve been sailing around at random?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that they have this sail and they go with the wind. My brother told me so.”

  Suddenly Zot shouts, “Red alert!” and tries to pull me away from the shore at the sight of a bigger wave. It’s the third time he’s shouted, “Red alert!” when the water is already nipping at our ankles.

  Not that the water bothers me. Actually I like it. I’ve taken off my shoes and go barefoot. But he insists on wearing his leather boots, which are sopping wet, and every step he takes sounds like a duck being crushed to death at the bottom of a well.

  On our way to the beach Zot had ridden in front of me and wouldn’t stop crying, “Bump alert!” “Dangerous curve alert!” “Extremely grainy asphalt alert!”

  It’s my fault. I’d told him about the time that I’d seen a lamppost and wanted to tie my bike to it. I’d been riding fast and it had looked far away but turned out to be real close. I slammed into it and fell over. Ever since then Zot rides ahead of me and makes a running commentary of our route. I tell him to be quiet and he promises to, even raises his hand and apologizes, but a minute later he’s back at it again.

  Like now with the big waves on the shore.

  “Watch out! You’ll get wet, Luna!”

  “But I’m barefoot. It’s no big deal. I like it.”

  “Cold water at this time of year is not salubrious. Your joints are going to be in serious pain after.”

  “Pain, shmain.”

  “Look here, kid, laugh all you want at your age. The day you get arthritis you’ll lift your eyes to heaven and say, ‘Ah, how right my poor Zot was, may his soul rest in peace.’”

  “How do you know you’ll die before me?”

  “It’s natural. One generation makes way for the next.”

  “We’re the same age, Zot. I might even
die before you.”

  “Oh no, Luna, don’t even joke about that. Aside from the fact that they explained to me several times at the orphanage that because I was born in a nuclear fallout zone I won’t live very long, if you die, I’ll die of heartache right after. At most it’ll be a draw.”

  I keep my mouth shut because this nuclear fallout business makes me sad. Even though I’d like to tell Zot that you can’t die from heartache. That much I know. Otherwise I’d already be dead, and Mom would be super dead. You can’t die from heartache. Period.

  Zot stops because he can’t walk straight, and I take the chance to adjust my sunglasses and hoodie even though there isn’t much you can do to stop a little light getting through. Meanwhile he removes one of his boots and turns it upside down. Water and seaweed fall out onto the shore. He slips it back on, but his wet sock is caked in sand and slippery. He loses his footing. I try to catch his arm but miss and grab a handful of air, while Zot falls face-first. He finishes putting on his boot like that, tugging and sort of shouting. Then he stands up again, adjusts his dead-mouse-colored raincoat, and we continue walking along the water’s edge with our eyes on the ground.

  We take a few steps before he stops again. “Impossible!” He picks up this round silver object from the sand. “It’s another pan, Luna! I can’t believe it!”

  We must have walked ten minutes on the water’s edge hoping to see if the waves had brought anything interesting, and this is the fifth pan we’ve found. Zot turns it over. The metal is still sort of shiny, despite being corroded by salt and covered with dandelions.

  “What do you think?” he asks, and I press my face to it. I inhale the bittersweet smell of algae. “Any interest?”

  I try to look at it but the sun hits the water and shatters into a thousand tiny darting pieces surrounding me on all sides. I can’t keep my eyes open, can’t even see the pan. All I see are flashes from my headache.

  “No, it’s trash.”

  “Sure? Get a good look. Touch it.”

  “What’s the point? It’s a pan. Do you think Luca would send me a pan? What would I do with one?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ve found five pans and three lids already . . . Maybe he’s sending you a full set.”

  “Right, that must be it. My brother is sending me a set of pans from the afterlife. What could that possibly mean?”

  Zot doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at the sand. “I don’t know. Maybe he wants you to learn how to cook. It’s an important skill for housewives,” he says. Thank God another gust from the libeccio arrives and blows his stupid words away. It blows hard and gets under my windbreaker. The jacket balloons and almost lifts me off the ground. It used to belong to Luca and is huge on me.

  I had rummaged through the boxes looking for my own jacket this morning. I was running late for catechism and Mom told me, “Take this.” She threw it on me and zipped it up in front and the draft of air smelled like my brother. Then and there I thought that maybe it was all in my head, that it couldn’t be true. But Mom just stood there, like me not moving, zipper in hand. We hugged, squeezed each other hard. I felt my eyes sting, but Mom said, “No crying, Luna, deal? Let’s not cry, okay? It’s a beautiful jacket and it looks good on you and we’re not going to cry.”

  But now I can’t smell Luca anymore. Instead I suddenly catch a whiff of this bitter smell, like rotten wood. I turn around and find Zot waving this dark thing in my face. Turns out it’s rotten wood.

  “What about this, Luna? Look at it. This might be interesting, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a piece of wood. Lose it.”

  “Give it a good look. See how weird it’s shaped?”

  “It’s just a piece of wood. Lose it.”

  “Give it a good look. Don’t you see—”

  “No, I can’t see it, Zot! I can’t see anything with the sun today! You’ve been asking me to look at stuff for three hours now but you’re the only one who can see them. I can’t see anything!”

  For a moment all we can hear are the waves spreading out along the sand, nibbling our feet. I feel bad for shouting. But it’s true, I can hardly see anything, and sometimes it really makes me mad.

  “Sorry, Luna, I didn’t want you to. I mean I don’t want you to look at it. I want you to feel it.”

  “All I can smell is the stink of rotten wood.”

  “Don’t smell it. I said feel it, feel it with your powers.”

  “Powers?”

  Zot takes another step forward, crushing another duck to death. Then we stop. “Yes,” he says. “You have powers, Luna. It’s clear. Like your friend Tages.”

  That’s what he says. I lift my head up and look at him. I can’t see anything—what with the sun and the sea behind him—but somehow I still manage to hold his gaze.

  “Did he appear in your dreams again?”

  I stand there and don’t say anything, not yes and not no.

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  “Twice.”

  “All right. And what happened?”

  “I can’t remember one of the times. But last night we were at the beach together.”

  “Ah!” says Zot, his eyes so big I can see them, two white circles pointing straight at me like ping-pong balls, bouncing around at random. “That’s how you tell me?”

  “How should I tell you?”

  “It’s incredible! The beach of all places! Can’t you see I’m right?”

  “Right about what?” I ask. Even if I think I know the answer. I know everything. “You think Tages is trying to tell me something, right?”

  “No, Luna. I think you’re Tages.”

  Me, Tages? What a dumb idea. Total garbage. Only Zot could think up something like that. Only Zot. And me. It had crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to wind up in the insane asylum so I never told anyone. Actually, I never even admitted it to myself. But now, hearing it from someone else’s lips, it doesn’t sound so crazy.

  “Think about it, Luna. You have white hair just like him. You’re two kids with white hair.”

  “I’m not a kid. I’m a young lady.”

  “Of course, a beautiful young lady, the most beautiful. But more importantly you have white hair and you were born here, which means you have Etruscan blood in your veins.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It matters because they used to communicate with lightning, with the flight of birds, that kind of stuff, right? And you, well, you communicate with the things in the sea.”

  “You’re loony,” I say. But the problem is we’re both loony, since I would like him to quit saying such ridiculous stuff and at the same time I’m counting on him to continue saying what I already know myself.

  “Think about it. Why did you collect all this stuff from the beach? Because it was pretty?”

  “Yes, exactly, it was pretty.”

  “I hate to contradict you, but come on, sticks? Empty cans? Broken toys? That’s your definition of pretty?”

  “They’re particular.”

  “Exactly. To you they’re particular! To me they all look like the same stuff scattered on the beach, but you feel certain things are special, am I right or wrong?”

  Wrong. I want to say wrong. But he’s right. So I stand here and say nothing. Zot speaks for both of us anyways.

  “What about the whalebone—don’t you think that’s a sign?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. But I had nothing to do with that. I had it on me when I woke up. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Everything! Weren’t you the one who came to the beach that day, after all those months away?”

  I nod.

  “It was cold and windy yet you still dove in. Right?”

  I nod again.

  “How come?”

  I think about it and shake my head. I don’t know
. I mean, I kind of thought I did, but it turns out I don’t.

  “Of course you don’t know. Because you didn’t want to. You only did it because you felt you had to. And if you hadn’t come to the beach, if you hadn’t dived in, you would never have found your brother’s bone. But you had to find it. So you dove in. And in my opinion you’re supposed to find something else today.”

  “You’re saying I have to dive in again?”

  “No. Let’s look for it on the beach. And don’t worry if you don’t see it, I’ll be your eyes, I’ll see for you. You just need to concentrate and feel. Unless you feel like you have to dive in the water. In that case, dive immediately!”

  I shake my head and look at the water, the little bits of light dancing on the surface. I look at the sand and want to say that it’s all nonsense, that none of it’s true, that I don’t believe such things or even think about them, since I’m a normal person who only believes in normal stuff.

  Except, see, nothing’s been normal around here. Not for a long time. And that’s exactly what normal things should be: stuff that happens all the time. Instead here everything’s crazy. So I look out at the beach, at the sticks and pans that the sea has left there. I look at Zot covered in sand and I look at myself. What could you possibly call normal around here?

  For sure not us.

  THE SMELL OF HOME

  You walk slowly, glancing about. You reach the intersection and think briefly before taking a left onto Via Donati. You’re just lucky no one’s around: the houses empty and shuttered, the lawns hushed, nothing on the streets but leaves noiselessly falling. Lucky because otherwise you might ask someone, “Excuse me, can you tell me where I am? I’m lost.” And anyone in this neighborhood in which you’ve spent your entire life would think you were winding them up.