The Breaking of a Wave

by Fabio Genovesi

  And now he’s pumping the gas, slamming it against the floor. The whole car is vibrating and hot air—not the cool he needs—is entering through the vents and making the old lady thaw more quickly. Maybe it’s just his impression but Rambo thinks he smells something rotting. He rolls down the window and spits and speeds along the narrow roads toward Ghost House, fleeing danger and death. Too bad both are along for the ride tonight—and have made themselves much more comfortable than Rambo.

  HOW COME THERE ARE STILL MONKEYS

  But here is all rock,” Ferro says to Sandro now that the jeep pulls off the road and slows in a clearing. The gravel makes a crunching sound under the wheels. “Hey genius, you plan on pitching tent on a pile of rocks?”

  “No, Ferro, no. We’re stopping to get something to eat. That’s all. It might be nice to eat something before going to sleep, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, that’s for sure. Were you planning on sending me to bed without supper, genius?”

  “I know where I’d send you,” says Sandro, his voice half suppressed by the engine, which he switches off in the middle of this stone white lot facing a church that’s also made of stones, only bigger ones set on top of one another and running all the way to the roof—it, too, made of stone—and the closer I get the older it appears, built by people who didn’t have time to waste on finishing touches. All they needed was a church to pray in and a square hole to enter through and above that another hole more or less in the shape of a cross to let the light in.

  Beside the church is a road, which if you ask me wasn’t there when they built it, and there definitely wasn’t that light at the end of the road that to me just looks like blurry streak in the dark. Yet the others read something into it, because Mr. Sandro crosses the road then stops in the middle and asks us how we take our sandwiches.

  I say cheese. Ditto Zot. Then he says, “Make that cheese and ham.” Ferro wants cheese and anchovies, heavy on the anchovies, so Zot says he’s changed his mind and would like ham and cheese and anchovies. Anything’s cool by Mom as long as the bread isn’t whole wheat. Sandro meanwhile is standing in the middle of the road in the dark and says that it’s late and they’ll have to settle for what’s left, so Mom goes, “Fine, get whatever you want, I already know you’ll screw the order up.” And Sandro, serious: “Good point, Serena, I’ll definitely screw it up seeing as I’ve already forgotten everybody’s order. Why don’t you come give me a hand?” She doesn’t answer right away. When she does she says in that case she can go alone, and he says no, they’re going together, and he heads in the direction of the one light in the dark.

  Mom doesn’t move and I tell her it would be nice if she went because she knows what kind of cheese I like, seeing as it’s not like I like every every kind. Plus while they’re at the store I’d like to go see inside the church.

  “Your choice, Mom. You can go get sandwiches or else come with me to see the church,” I say. “Maybe there are paintings inside, sacred images. We can study the columns and symbols—”

  And before I have the chance to finish, Mom takes off, crosses the road, and finally disappears behind Mr. Sandro.

  Zot and I enter the church. I take one step, two, and what happens next is what always happens when I enter a closed and dim place: in seconds I’m totally cool. There’s no light forcing me to shut my eyes, my skin doesn’t burn, I can see well, or at least better than usual. I enter this very old dark church with a couple of lit candles along the walls and a damp smell that slows your breathing, and I feel that this is the place for me. The whole business really ticks me off.

  Why should I be happy? I want to be in the sun and the light with the breeze whipping my clothes. I want the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves and seagulls flying by me making their weird caw. I want to go barefoot and have the water soak my feet and retreat, soak them and retreat. I want to feel as if the place for me is that place rather than this dark hole.

  In here I can relax and keep my eyes open, my head doesn’t hurt, I don’t burn up, the light doesn’t blind me—but whoever said feeling good means feeling nothing? It’s like saying that having fun is not being tired, that being happy is having nothing bad happen. And I know a lot of people think that way, but that just means those people are fools. The more at home I feel in here, the angrier I become. In fact I turn around immediately and head for the door. But as soon as I turn around I see this gray boxy shape in the back corner, and I forget everything. I go and stand in front of this gigantic, rude cut of stone. I look at her and she looks back at me with her round eyes, and I turn to stone just like her. Because the plaque next to her is written in tiny print I can’t read, but I don’t need to. No one needs to tell me I’m standing in front of a statue of the people of Luna.

  Right here, leaning against the wall of the church. I stick out my hand and touch it. It’s cold and real hard. I run my finger along it like the whalebone Luca gave me. It’s rough and smooth. I look into its eyes—two deep circles—and I swear that it looks back at me. In fact even if I feel foolish I open my mouth and under my breath say, “Hello.” That she doesn’t answer makes me upset.

  Then come Zot’s footsteps as he runs over and stops beside me.

  “Is that her?”

  I nod.

  “What’s it doing here?”

  I point to the plaque below, he bends over, studies it, and begins reading aloud that this statue is a very ancient warrior sculpted by the mysterious people of Luna three thousand years ago. It was discovered in this church; actually it was a piece of the church itself and had been used with the stones to erect the church walls.

  I look at it and picture this place three thousand years ago, the woods where these mysterious people lived who left nothing behind, not even the side of a house or a piece of writing, since they didn’t have time to learn how to write or give themselves a name. They would spend their days at work on these gigantic stones, flattening them, smoothing them down, carving them into shapes to resemble men and women like them, like us, and planting them upright in specific spots in the woods for reasons we don’t know but for sure involve magic. And I wonder how the people who built this church could ever have treated it like some rock or brick. It’s unbelievable. I can’t fathom it. You see this statue—you feel it—and immediately want to respect it, admire it with all your—

  “What is that shit?” says Ferro, coming closer.

  “It’s a stele statue,” I reply, curt as I can.

  “Hmph. Looks like a spaz to me.”

  “But Grandfather,” says Zot, “you’re standing in front of an ancient warrior of the extinct people of Luna, men of valor and strength and—”

  “Of course they went extinct—if they were protected by a spaz like that.”

  Zot tries to find another answer for him but I don’t. All I want is for Ferro to wander off elsewhere, someplace that interests him more. Instead he keeps poking fun of the statue, saying it’s identical to a kid from Florence who used to come to the beach when Ferro was a lifeguard, and the parents would insist he was normal when what he was was retarded, and every time he tried to take a swim Ferro had to dive in and save him because he’d immediately sink like this hunk of stone here. I tell him it’s not a hunk of stone, and he says of course it’s a hunk of stone, then starts banging it with his fist like he were trying to knock it over.

  So I’m relieved to see Mom and Sandro walk through the church door carrying a bag of sandwiches and another bag with what I guess is stuff to drink. And with them enters something else, something strange and incredible: Mom’s laughter. Strange because everything in the church echoes and also because I haven’t heard that sound in forever.

  “But there was no light in that store,” says Sandro, “it looked like Pecorino.”

  And she: “Keep telling yourself that!”

  “What? It was dark in that frigging store. You couldn’t see anythi
ng.”

  “Nice try. Anyone could tell that was a piece of lard. So now you get to eat a sandwich stuffed with it.”

  “But lard makes me sick!”

  Mom laughs louder. When they reach us they lower their voices and then go dead silent, the only sound the shuffling of plastic bags. I’m happy that Mom’s laughing and that Ferro has stopped saying nasty things about the statue. But it doesn’t last long, the time it takes them to adjust to the shade. “What’s the statue?” asks Sandro. “It looks just like Panizzi!”

  “Who’s Panizzi?” I ask. But I’m not sure I want to know.

  “He was the principal at the high school I went to. Guy from Carrara. He’d always come to school in a black leather jacket that dragged on the ground. Looked like Dracula.”

  Mom goes: “Yeah, I know him! Panizzi was my principal too!”

  “Um, obviously. We went to the same high school.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s right, Serena. Same year. I was in section B and you were in C.”

  “How did you know I was in C?”

  “Because I was there! We went to school together for five years. We even went on a field trip to Recanati together, to Leopardi’s house.”

  “I remember that,” says Mom, and she steps back for a second to scrutinize at Sandro as if she were looking at him for the first time. “But I don’t remember you at all.”

  “I realize that. How kind of you. That makes me so happy. Five years together. Five.”

  “That was a long time ago. Maybe you’ve changed and I don’t recognize you.”

  “No, no, no, no. I haven’t changed at all. It’s just that we were in two different worlds. You were way up top, the prettiest girl in school, while I, unfortunately, was on the minor slopes of dorkdom. But jeezus. You’d think looking at me, now that I’ve told you at least . . . jeezus.”

  “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Sandro, and don’t worry about it,” says Zot. “You’re among friends here; Luna and I are the dorks at school, too.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I say. “I’m not a dork. I’m a loner.”

  “Me too,” says Sandro, “that’s what I was: a rebel, different, zero interest in being lumped together with winners like your mom.”

  “Nah,” she says, “you wish. You were a total dork. Period.”

  “You don’t even remember me.”

  “Exactly. I would have noticed a rebel. Rebels are hot. You on the other hand were definitely nothing but a dork.”

  For a little while Mr. Sandro says nothing, just nods. Then he says, “You’re right, Serena, you’re right. Strange to think that you did this thing at school one day that I still remember as being one of the most beautiful things in my life. How about that,” he says, and that’s all. He goes to study the statue.

  “And what was it I did? When? What did I do?”

  “Nothing, nothing, I’m too much of a dork to talk to you. I might as well keep it to myself.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  Mr. Sandro shakes his head, sticks his hands in his pockets, and leans over to look at the stone, the pattern made from stone hammering stone, then the feet, the hands, the round eyes returning his stare.

  “This thing really does look like Panizzi.”

  “Would you tell me what I did? When was it? At school? On a field trip?”

  “It’s identical to Panizzi. I’m sorry I don’t have a photo to show you, kids, because that’s him all right.”

  And then Ferro, who in the meantime had found a seat on a bench and kept his mouth shut, chimes in too. “You ask me, he looks like a kid from Florence from back in my lifeguarding days. Very same scrawny legs.”

  “But think about it, Grandfather, this intrepid warrior is three thousand years old. Don’t you find that incredible?”

  “Sure do. In fact that thing they say about the giraffe is utter bullshit.”

  “What thing about the giraffe?”

  “That thing they say on television, that giraffes got those long necks because the ones with longer necks could hack it better, so afterward they were all born that way.”

  “Evolution, Grandfather. Evolution, theorized by Professor Charles Darwin.”

  “I don’t know his name. All I know is, it’s a crock. How could people believe that? Once upon a time people would believe anything you told them.”

  “But they still believe it, Grandfather! I mean it’s true, it’s one of the most important discoveries in the history of the universe.”

  “Cut the crap. Open your eyes and you see immediately it’s not true. Take that statue there. How old is it?”

  “Three thousand years old.”

  “Right, and it looks like a kid who used to come to my beach. And it looks like their principal. In three thousand years we haven’t changed a smidge. And why’s that?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Mr. Sandro.

  “I mean that at a certain point we descended from monkeys, right? That’s how the story goes: there were monkeys and then they began to lose their hair and straighten their backs and then came men, no? So how is it we stopped there? Christ, that guy looks exactly like us. We haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Fair enough, Ferro. But it takes time to change.”

  “Time? Didn’t you hear the kid? That thing is three thousand years old. And what about the giraffes? Why did the giraffe’s neck not keep getting longer? At what point did it decide to stop?”

  “Well,” says Sandro, “it’s not like it can go on for infinity—”

  “It’s a fairy tale, a stupid fairy tale people believe because they don’t want to dwell on it, so they say sure, who cares, must be true. And instead it’s a crock. Get off it. First there were fish, then fish suddenly come out of the water and crawl to the shore since their fins have turned into arms, and they stop breathing water and start breathing air instead; they grow legs and lollygag around . . . Get off it, people, does that really sound possible to you?”

  Sandro looks at Zot, Zot I guess looks at me, but Mom and me haven’t said anything from the start, so don’t count on us finding our voices now. Ferro alone is left to explain how life functions in the universe, and his voice keeps rising and echoing off the church walls. That must be the reason he seems so serious.

  “And how come if dinosaurs were so tough they aren’t around anymore, while fleas, cockroaches, ticks, and sewer rats still abound? And look at these two,” he says, waving his arms at Zot and me. I figured he would come around to us. I didn’t want to have any part in this story. All I wanted was to look at the statue of the people of Luna in peace. But no.

  “If that thing about selection were true, these two would have lasted five minutes. Six, tops. Instead here they are, wandering around, and tonight they’ll sleep in a tent and enjoy themselves too, and maybe someone might poke fun of them, sure, but you’ll see, they’ll shrug it off and stay their course. Because everything operates according to destiny. Evolution is a crock. Strong or weak, right or wrong, everything happens the way it happens because it has to happen that way.”

  “Okay,” I say, “does that make Zot and me fleas and ticks?”

  “Exactly,” says Ferro. “Hit the nail on the head. See? The girl gets it. Now that’s enough talking. My throat’s sore. Did you get me my wine?”

  Mr. Sandro looks at Mom, Mom I guess looks at him, and they take out two big bottles of water. Ferro raises his arms and you can see he’s about to offend some saint, then he remembers where he is and steps out of the church first.

  He hurries over to the door, then stops abruptly and turns around. And with the evening light behind him, he becomes a dark upright figure staring at us.

  “And another thing: if we come from monkeys, how come there are still monkeys?”

  THE PARTISANS DIED FOR US

  If there were a horror movie on
at night, Marino’s mom had to watch it, and because they only had one TV there were no other options. Well, except one: Marino could stay in his room, crank up Bon Jovi, and keep doing his homework. Sometimes, however, his mom wanted company, and she’d tell him, “Turn off those girly-haired queers.” Bon Jovi aren’t queer, he’d say. On the contrary, every time they left the house they had to run for it because thousands of women were waiting to throw themselves at them, and she’d say, “Of course they’d run, they’re queers. Quit dreaming, Marino. Come watch a little reality with me.” Marino would do as told and go sit beside her and they’d watch these tales of haunted castles and zombies and vampires and Egyptian mummies who’d come back to avenge themselves on random people. In the dark of the living room the cigarette smoke mounted like the ghostly clouds in those movies.

  Everything scared him, even when nothing was happening, even during the happy scenes. They were the worst, actually, since Marino knew that those happy people were headed for the gory bit, then the gory bit came and he would cover his eyes but it was no use because the freaky music would make him even more terrified.

  When the movies ended, Marino’s nightmares began. Lying in bed in the dark, he’d watch the objects around him suddenly turn sinister and frightening: a white shirt on his chair flickered like a ghost, the collection of Smurfs on his bookshelf transformed into small blue malevolent monsters, even Bon Jovi stared at him from the poster hanging in his closet, demons with teased hair.