The Breaking of a Wave

by Fabio Genovesi

  “We’re not Russians,” Sandro manages.

  “Ah, mercenaries on the Russian payroll, eh? Even worse.”

  “No, frankly we’re—”

  “Doesn’t matter, you can’t come in. The yard’s mined.”

  Luna freezes, her blue bag half inside the jeep. “What do you mean the yard is mined?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” says Zot. “Just a little bit, in a part we never go.”

  “Clamp it, spy! The whole yard’s mined. One step and the crows will be picking up the pieces,” he shouts, and the more he shouts, the more agitated he becomes and the more the mouth of his rifle wavers up and down—and, up or down, it’s still pointing at Sandro, who keeps his hands raised, waiting for the shot to drill a hole in his stomach, his chest, his neck, down between his legs, back up to his stomach.

  Following the up-down of the gun sends Sandro into a trance, paralyzed as he is by fear and the dark narrow metal barrel’s dance that could, at any moment, definitively cut his path short, just when it appeared he’d finally found one.

  But he doesn’t really believe he’s going to die. Look, the old man may be berserk but not to the point of shooting somebody, and the kids continue to smile happily beside the jeep, and even Rambo has risen to his feet and is coming out from behind the car. Because we’re all calm, sane people. Moreover, we’re all Italian. Maybe in America things would end badly; the Americans like going out with a bang or two hundred. Or maybe in Germany. When the Germans get started on something they plow ahead with their heads down, neither speeding up nor slowing down, they just get to the bottom of the thing. But not in our house, nope, not here. Here they eyeball the pavement job. Here only half the houses are put up with a permit. Here you might cry, you might even fall on the ground, but when you get up you check to see if you got your shirt dirty, and afterward you go to the beach or out for a glass of wine and everything morphs into a pretty story for the bar scene, long and teeming with details but with no real ending, with no—

  And then, out of nowhere, the gun goes off for real.

  The deafening shot ricochets off the tops of the trees and even causes a few leaves to fall, leaves that fall slowly in the air and by the time they touch the ground Sandro is lying on the pavement.

  “What the fuck are you doing, kid!” shouts the old man.

  Sandro’s ears are ringing but he can hear the man’s gravelly voice answered by another, softer voice: “Your hands were shaking so much they scared me, Ferro.”

  If he can hear these words, that means he’s not dead. He opens his eyes and sees the old man up there on his feet, and next to him the rifle aimed at the sky, in the firm grasp of Serena, beautiful and savage. And to see her this way, from the ground, without a laurel hedge between them, he feels the urge to jump up and squeeze her and kiss her and carry her into the house and make love to her until their bodies are worn through from rubbing against one another and all that’s left of them are two puddles of sweat and pleasure and the smell of happiness.

  But for now Sandro should settle for getting back up; that alone proves difficult given how much his legs are shaking.

  The old man takes back his rifle, holds it against his side, and continues to glare at him. “Okay, but tell me what the hell is going on already.”

  “Of course, Grandfather!” says Zot, running to his side, Serena goes to Luna, and Rambo starts loading the bags into the jeep. All of a sudden nobody cares about Sandro anymore and he almost wishes they could go back to a minute before, when he might have been staring down the barrel of a gun but at least he’d had people’s attention.

  “I’ll explain everything, Grandfather! Luna and I are going on a great adventure! Great mysteries await us, secrets buried for thousands of years, ancient legends in places where magic reigns, where maybe we’ll find an answer to all—”

  “Would somebody give me the abridged version?”

  “We’re going to Pontremoli, Ferro,” says Serena.

  “Pontremoli? What the hell are you going to Pontremoli for?”

  “The kids are dead set on going and I’m taking them.” Next to her, Luna smiles so widely her sunglasses pop off her cheeks and almost slide down her nose. She holds them as she turns to Sandro, and now her beautiful smile falls on him. She has her mother’s smile, and Sandro stands there staring at it.

  “Thanks for the spiritual guidance, Mr. Sandro, I’m glad you found the time to come with us.”

  He smiles, and he would like to say something beautiful and intelligent in response but he hasn’t pulled himself together yet.

  Plus the old man is fleeter of foot. “Got it, but what the hell are you going to do in Pontremoli?”

  “We’re taking an excursion.” says Serena. The kids want to go. They found a piece of wood at the sea and they got it into their heads that, well, it’s a long story. But they keep insisting and it’s best I take them so that at least they can put it to rest.”

  Ferro nods. Rather than open his mouth he just nods all serious. Then he turns to the jeep, bangs on the side, kicks the tires a couple of times, looks in the window, smirks, and nods again, as if giving the car his blessing. He walks back to Serena, looks at her, looks up at the treetops, and continues nodding. It takes a while until he finally speaks, and when he does he barely mutters two words, like someone responding curtly to a question no one asked. “Okay, off we go,” he says.

  After that, silence. Maybe they didn’t understand him. Maybe they don’t want to understand. The silence lasts a moment, then Zot starts jumping around again and loses his hat and cheers, “Granddaddy! Is my beloved grandfather coming too?” His eyes get so wide his eyebrows touch his hair. “Would you do us this great honor?”

  “Of course. I’ve got custody of you. You hurt yourself or you get lost, I’m the one they come harrass. No way I’m leaving you in the care of this fag.” He points to Sandro.

  Who tries to respond: “Ah, look, seeing as I was called for this express purpose, I’m honestly not sure it’s necessary that you come along,” he says. He had already pictured himself alone with Serena, the two of them, two adults taking a trip with two kids, practically man and wife. Now this old lunatic was threatening to ruin everything. “There are already four of us plus luggage. There’s no room.”

  “What are you, an idiot? At least six people could fit in there. There’s plenty of room.”

  “Okay, but, aside from how much room there is, we’re going up into the mountains. There’ll be steep ascents, rocks, rough terrain. With all due respect, it seems a little risky for someone your age.”

  “Risky, my ass! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, kid? Me, in those mountains, I used to massacre so many boars I’d be giving meat away on the road back.” Ferro shakes his head and looks at Serena. “I’m coming, end of story. And if I don’t go, neither does the boy. I’ve got custody.” He drops a hand on Zot’s shoulder so hard he almost drives him into the ground. “Besides, I can’t take being stuck here anymore. I want to see a bit of the world again. Even a tiny dump will do.”

  “Hurray! Hurray!” shouts Zot, hugging his grandfather and racing to join Luna in the jeep. They stick their faces out the window and watch as the adults waste time below.

  “Only problem is the house,” says Ferro. “It’s not like I can leave it unprotected. That’s all they’re waiting for. The Russian flag will be flying from my roof in five minutes flat.”

  “Good point,” Sandro chimes in, “that’s a good point. I think you’re running that risk too. Maybe you ought to stay back and stand guard.”

  “Are you still talking? Look here, if I don’t go that boy doesn’t go either, got it? So we have to find a solution that makes everybody happy. I just need a friend I can trust to look after it for a bit. But they’re all dead, the bastards. It would have to be a real man, one with balls, a warrior who—”

 
“Roger that, Mr. Ferro, I’ll stay.” The voice is firm, commanding, so deep and hardscrabble Sandro doesn’t recognize it at first. It comes from the back of the jeep, where a minute later an army jacket comes into view. Rambo.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” asks Ferro, but in a different tone of voice, one that bears no trace of the tone he levels at Sandro.

  “People call me Rambo.”

  “Perfect, that’s all we needed,” says Serena. She turns toward the gate and disappears into the woods again, leaving the men to sniff each other over.

  “Rambo, eh?” says Ferro. “Nice name, long dong. Tell me Rambo, what’s in it for you?”

  “I’m in a bind at the moment, sir. A friend of mine, a reliable guy, gets out of the hospital today, and it’s best we hole up in your house till dark, so no one can find him.”

  “There someone bothering you?”

  “Everybody, sir, since the day I was born. But they don’t know who they’re messing with, because I’m the kind of guy who answers fire with fire. Scratch that. With a flamethrower.”

  Rambo speaks in all seriousness and Ferro nods, his jaw jutting forward. “You know how to defend a house?”

  “Yessir. And I’m still carrying around the anger inside me from when they robbed me of mine.” Rambo looks up at the plane trees and starts talking, his mouth twisted in agony. “I was born in Forte dei Marmi same as you, sir, but my folks sold their house. ‘We could use the money, we’re getting a good price for it.’ That was that, sayonara to the house I was born in. I watched them tear it down with my own eyes. Now there’s this butt-ugly villa with columns and mosaics. And there was nothing I could do about it, sir, I was too young at the time. I—”

  “At the time you were thirty-five,” says Sandro. But despite the fact that he’s standing right beside them, they take no notice.

  “It was my house, sir, my land. And do you know what we did with that money? We bought a house in Massarosa. Do you know where Massarosa is, sir?”

  “Yes, son, I do,” says Ferro, clearly aggrieved.

  “Right, well, the sun never shines on that backwater, not ever. I was born by the sea. Jesus Christ himself wanted it that way. But for a couple bucks I now have to live in that black hole. And the people are different. And the customs are different. And the climate, and the language—”

  “Massarosa is fifteen minutes from here,” says Sandro, who keeps talking even though it’s as if he had ceased to exist.

  “I’m an outsider, sir, a stranger in a strange land, always searching for home. Which is ridiculous cause, shit, I know where home is. Home is right here, in this town where I was born and where I can’t live. So if you ask me if I’m ready to defend your house, Mr. Ferro, I’m telling you I’m ready to give my life for your house! I’d set fire to it and burn to death inside before I handed it over to the enemy!”

  Ferro listens to him with bated breath. He nods so briskly his beret flies off. Then he holds out his arm and grabs Rambo’s hand and shakes it with such passion that the only reason they don’t embrace is because they’re real men, and men don’t hug. But the energy, the look, the gooseflesh they share is the equivalent of a long and intense hug, and maybe a little tongue action too, dripping as they are with admiration for one another and hatred for everything else.

  Serena returns carrying two bottles of water, just in time to witness the end of this amorous handshake.

  “Come on, Rambo,” says Ferro. “Courage, man. This is the perimeter you have to defend.”

  Rambo takes a look and signals he understand before walking behind the jeep to retrieve his bike. Then he hears someone banging on the window. He looks up to find the little bright white girl staring at him from behind the glass and gesturing for him to come closer.

  “Mr. Rambo? Um, look, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s totally fine. But Ferro is very old and there are certain things he can’t understand, so I think you’re better off not telling him that you like men.”

  Rambo stiffens. He stands there holding his bike in the air, at a loss for words. Well, except one word, a short one, which he keeps repeating, “But, but . . . ”

  “I know it’s a totally normal thing but he’s old, that’s just the way he is. We’d be happy to have you stay with us, and that’s totally cool if your boyfriend comes here from the hospital. Just don’t tell Ferro, otherwise he might get mad and not leave you with the house and not let Zot come.”

  “But I—but look that’s not true, I—who told you that, huh? Did Sandro tell you that? What the hell do you talk about in catechism?”

  “No, no one told me, Mr. Rambo. I figured it out myself.”

  “Like hell you figured it out. It’s totally untrue. Do I look to you like somebody who likes men? Look me in the eye and say so. Do I look like I’m into men?”

  “I, um, I think so.”

  “What? What do you mean you think so?”

  “Don’t get mad, Mr. Rambo,” says Zot beside her, smiling calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with liking men. I think I might like them too. What’s the big fuss?”

  Luna whips around. “I thought you were in love with me, Zot.”

  “Yes, of course I am. You’re the most beautiful of them all, Luna. But I don’t typically like women. I only like you because you’re an extraordinary creature. But who can say what happens when you grow up? Who can say whether I’ll like men or women or both?”

  For a moment Luna frowns as she considers what Zot just said. Then she smiles and the two of them go back to staring at Rambo. He takes a step backward, his eyes wide, holding his bike in front of him like a shield and shaking his head. “You kids are mistaken, you know that? Real mistaken. Super mistaken. What do you know? You’re just kids. You don’t know anything. You’re totally off the mark. You don’t—you—”

  Ferro hollers from the gate. “Rambo! Rambo! Come here, I want to show you the arsenal!”

  Rambo twists around. “On my way,” he shouts, with more grit than is natural. He looks back at those two goddamn kids then carries his bike off. But Zot climbs down and runs to embrace Ferro with all his strength.

  “What the hell are you doing? Are you dumb?”

  “Grandfather—Granddaddy—let me hug you!”

  “What the hell do you want? Hands off, tick!”

  “Let me hug you a little, Grandfather. I’m going to miss you so much, you know.”

  “You haven’t understood a thing, have you? I’m coming with you.”

  “I know, and it’s wonderful. It’s very touching and a great favor to us. But look, this is a real adventure, an important quest, and none of us is ignoring what happens when a group of people embarks upon a major quest. Like the explorers who climbed Everest or the guys who discovered the North Pole. We’re going on an adventure, and adventures come at a price, and that price is always the death of someone. Everyone else completes the quest, and they’re both happy and a little sad when they consider their companion who didn’t make it. And, well, given your age, Grandfather, unfortunately it’s clear that the companion who doesn’t make it back is you. So let me hug you, Granddaddy, before it’s too late.”

  “What the hell do you want, dickhead!” says Ferro, flinging the boy off and grabbing his balls with both hands. “Fuck off, you goddamn hex!”

  Ferro finally collects himself and hands Rambo the keys to the house, salutes him military style, then returns to the jeep, opens the passenger-side door, and gets in. Just like that, in nothing but pajama bottoms, a stained tee, and a beret.

  “Wait,” says Sandro. “Let Serena sit up front. She’ll be more comfortable.”

  He knows it’s pointless but says it all the same. Because, well, it’s not fair. He’d envisioned spending this trip with her beside him, the sun gleaming in her hair, every once in a while their eyes meeting by chance, their legs touching . .
. But those are dreams, they belong to dreamland, and if you try to smuggle your dreams across that hazardous bridge connecting paradise to reality, well, you can see for yourself what happens: they turn into an old man in PJs who hops into the front seat and says, “Get a move on, I sit too long and my hemorrhoids will burst.”

  PART 3

  And if you think that you can tell a bigger tale

  I swear to God you’d have to tell a lie

  —TOM WAITS

  CHIMNEY SWEEP

  Some guys get girls just by saying, “I’ll take you to Côte d’Azur, I know it well, it’s practically my second home.” And if it’s not Côte d’Azur then it’s the Costa Smeralda or Lake Como or Venice or one of those places where the name alone makes a guy sound like a pimp, and if he knows them well that means he leads la bella vita, and if you get your hooks into him maybe your life will become bella too: one day on the lake, one day on the Riviera, one day somewhere you can’t even imagine yet must be even dreamier than the others.

  As for Sandro, the only place he knows well is the highway.

  Which isn’t a place but a straight and tedious line that separates places. But that’s the way he is, ever since he was a little boy: the time that he went to Madonna di Campiglio with his mom and dad, to Piacenza to visit his aunt Gina in the hospital, to the zoo in Pistoia to see the polar bears stare desperately into your eyes while they melted. His adventure would begin when they hit the highway and end as soon as they arrived at their destination. The others would get out of the car and straighten their clothes, excited for the start of their trip, while for him the best part would already be over. The wheels ceased to spin, the houses and trees and people ceased to whizz by, and Sandro could see they weren’t as beautiful or interesting as they’d been before, when they’d flitted past the glass and lingered in his head like a long and colorful contrail.

  Then Sandro finally turned eighteen. He got his license and could hop on the highway whenever he felt like it. How beautiful it is to pull up to the tollbooth, take a ticket, and enter this remarkable world. Italians all bitch about how paying tolls is a scandal, how in more developed countries the highway’s free because it’s paid for with tax money. But he doesn’t feel that way. In Holland, in Sweden, in all those civilized and by-the-book places where the people’s money is used for construction projects for the people, the highway may be free but it doesn’t have the same magic. In our country there’s one booth when you enter and one when you exit, and the highway really is another world, an amazing show set far apart from everything else, and it’s only fair you buy a ticket for a show like that. You pay for movies, you pay for concerts—and Sandro can’t remember a film or a band that gave him more of a thrill than driving for hours, crossing plains and hummocks and the various wonky bends in this screwed-up nation.