Nest in the Bones

by Antonio Di Benedetto

  “Giuglielmino saw Fungo, and I know I can catch him this time. Have faith in me. I’ll come back with your money.”

  Before I can reach him, he backs away, hops on the bicycle, and departs.

  I let a bench bear the weight of my weariness.

  Then I see the boy. He has stayed there, as though left to watch over me. If that is true, he’s carrying out his duties in an unnerving way. He’s quiet and alone, and he looks straight at me, cold, unwavering.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Where did he go?”

  He doesn’t answer.”

  “Will he be back?”

  He nods up and down expressively, and I feel we’re starting to communicate.

  “Will he bring the money?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  This boy, is he mute? No. This morning, in my presence, he whispered in Turì’s ear. Does he have a voice defect? No. He spoke normally on the hill leading to the village.

  I want to pretend he’s relaxed among his people and timid in the presence of strangers. I want to trust that he’s on my side, or at least that he’s defending Turì and helping him to trap the real criminal, who is supposedly this Fungo.

  With these hopes, I keep interrogating him, deliberately, patiently.

  “Giuglielmino, tell me, what’s your part in all this? It’s not about the money, right…? Turì is your friend, that much is clear, maybe even your brother…”

  My words are muffled, to our surprise, by a deafening helicopter that rushes forth and hovers recklessly just over our heads. I can see it belongs to the navy.

  I sense a current of turbulence in all those around.

  Giuglielmino has disappeared.

  An alarm appears to have mobilized the residents, who pour out from every place in sight, along with tourists better informed than I and eye-catching women who close their boutiques to come look.

  I join them without knowing why, something about them draws me, and the call of the sea throbs inside me; I can’t tell what’s happening, because the trees on the avenue have covered my visual field.

  Again the helicopter swoops over, buzzing, and its hoarse whirl takes me back to the beach in Valencia where the three Nordic girls lay in death.

  Moments later, I emerge on the shore. Between myself and the sea stands the wall of the multitude, but I step in, as though consciously proceeding toward some determined place, while the row of heads blocks my view of it and whatever is occuring there.

  At the risk of stirring things up, perhaps even starting a fight, I struggle forward, impelled by growing preoccupation: I need to see if what I’ve foreseen has really come to pass. If the aircraft’s flight, with its somber sound, has brought about on this beach a repetition of what happened in Valencia. If already, on the sand, the waters now flirt with those bodies that inspired, this morning, when they were alive, such fascination in the four Sicilian boys.

  From tenderness toward them, those lovely girls from elsewhere; from romantic attachment to the magic scene proffered by the sun, which I sought out; perhaps from the day’s commotion, which has shattered my presence of mind, so that, though I struggle onward, with shoves and pushes, my sentiments are troubled. If it is visible, I am not ashamed.

  Then those who held me back, those who rejected me, withdraw and allow me to cross through, and I do so idly, attended by a vast silence that seems almost pious.

  At the end of the path they’ve opened for me lies the coast: on the edge, the clear outline of a woman’s body, very white.

  My stride is unsteady and rattled: from confusion and from the feeling of the burning sand on my scalded feet. Around me, people give voice to their pity:

  “He can’t even walk…”

  “Poor soul…!”

  “A star-crossed lover…!”

  Someone corrects them:

  “He’s not the lover, he’s the father.”

  And I proceed, my determination immovable.

  Some women are sobbing. One of them wraps her arms around my neck and tries to hold me back:

  “Don’t look at her, don’t torment yourself any more, it will only hurt you. Remember her as she was in life, the luckless creature.”

  I pull her off me and cry, “Miss, please…!”

  How does she know that when I found her, her immobility was different, that it quivered under the sun, stiff and wistful, held an interminable instant by the veneration of the boys…?

  Over the last stretch, some swimmers – women as well as men – give me their hand and utter words of condolence in various languages. I look at them with impatience.

  I arrive.

  For a long time, I ponder her where she lies.

  I hold back the impulse to bend my knees.

  She reminds me of a movie star, I don’t know which; but she’s not one of the girls I saw this morning.

  My grief evaporates, because I’d let my foreboding convince me. Naturally, I’m sad that such a pretty girl has drowned, but…

  I’ve fallen still, thinking about all this…Another hand comes forward, interrupting me, presumably to offer condolences, but I will reject it, now that I’ve emerged from my daze. It is the hand of a man in uniform, with epaulettes, an official from the police.

  Amiably, but without letting me go, he spouts a litany of phrases that he may think opportune or comforting:

  “Now, Sir, that the first shock is over, I hope you’ve managed to reconcile yourself at least slightly with the Lord’s unfathomable plan, and I ask you, if you feel capable of aiding in our grim but necessary mission, to proceed to the identification of the body. Would you care to tell us the first and last name of your unfortunate girlfriend?”

  I’ve borne his discourse, unwilling to interrupt him, but now that he’s finished and I find myself so tired, I simply shake my head and tell him, in a voice that sounds hoarse to me, though not at all sentimental:

  “Officer, I don’t know her.”

  I can see his disappointment, and also that he doesn’t believe me.

  Nor do the people close by who have heard me, for one woman, highly aggrieved, remarks:

  “The pain has broken him. He’s gone mad.”

  Another knows better:

  “It’s not madness, he’s had an attack of amnesia.”

  Another empathizes:

  “To not even be able to recognize your own daughter…”

  “Wife, I’d say.”

  “It’s not his wife, jeez. It’s his fiancée. Don’t you see how he’s babbling…? Nobody loses it like that when they’ve lost their wife.”

  I let them talk. It seems that the policeman, like me, has loosened up, though he may be waiting for a reaction that will reveal my true relationship with the girl. Since I should set him straight, I repeat:

  “We’re not related, she’s not my girlfriend. In fact, I don’t know her at all. I’m sorry for the upset…”

  (“See…?” someone says triumphantly, “he just said he’s upset.”)

  “…but I can assure you that I’ve never seen her before. I confused her with Valencia.”

  I understand that I’ve now encouraged misunderstandings and suspicions. I want to backtrack, but I can’t, because the helicopter blades are whipping above us and the air they displace practically sweeps us off our feet. I nearly stumble over the dead girl. I look at her with apprehension.

  The machine makes a wide arc and comes back around, now no longer surprising anyone. I analyze the reason for its extreme, even dangerous approach: undoubtedly there’s no radio communication between the police on the ground, in the thick of things, and the pilot, and so he’s trying to send them a message via signs that all of us attempt to decipher. He seems to be saying they’re bringing in another cadaver, but it doesn’t interest me, I’m exhausted.

  While the officer, who may have drawn the same conclusion after observing the pilot, hurries to give technical commands, I try to pull away without gi
ving rise to more misapprehensions.

  But the crowd doesn’t open for me as it did when I arrived. Now I have to walk among the faces and eyes, and I sense that they have formed two groups.

  One rebukes me: “joker,” “jackass,” “you don’t play with a dead woman’s feelings like that.” This last consideration may have inspired whoever then stuns me with the following phrase: “Mental degenerate.”

  From the other side, more timidly, comes a measure of mercy, an admission that the loss of my beloved has plainly deprived me of my wits as well.

  And so, amid the expectation provoked by the imminent arrival of the sea’s next victim, a certain uproar rises up about me.

  Worse yet: one group closes in. Someone rescues me: “Let him go! He’s not on trial. He’ll come to his senses once the shock of it is past, and if not, he’ll go through the world without knowing what has happened to him.”

  I return to the coolness of the tree-lined promenade.

  For a while, no one bothers about me, the center seems to have emptied out, everyone is clustered on the beach.

  The sea air comforts me, whistling its way through the leaves, leaving them trembling and stealing their scent, which it brings me.

  I lie down on the bench, facing heaven, which pleases me as though I were up there.

  I call myself a vagabond, and doing so tickles me because I know I have a hotel and in the hotel, a suitcase, and in the suitcase a billfold, and in the billfold a sum…which is missing something! Yes, the francs and the lire. It occurs to me I should at least recover what was left in my pants on the beach. But now, the masses are out on the beach, drawn there by the tragedy. I imagine the many children. I imagine them marauding through the rows of tents. I imagine the thieves delighting in their thievery.

  Forget it! I decide, and do the numbers to figure out how much is left in my billfold. Lazy or fatigued, I pass the time memorizing numbers, recollecting expenses, and computing the exchange rates before returning to the hotel. I even put off showering, and the snack I’ve been hankering for since my early breakfast. Face up, I contemplate, from a wooden bench on a public promenade, the harmonious motion of the sky, invaded by absurdity, above my head.

  A bicycle brakes. Easy to know, without even looking, which one it is and which person is riding it, looking, perhaps, to entrap me once more.

  I don’t move, I’m still on my back, and my eyes are closed, so Turì grabs my foot and shakes it cautiously. I stop myself from exploding, in indignation or laughter, I don’t know which will emerge.

  He whispers to me, as if ordered to wake me in bed without disturbing me:

  “Sir, Sir…”

  I let him, without reacting.

  He tries again. I pretend to snore.

  I don’t see him, but I imagine that he’s surprised and has taken a step back. Then, without touching me, perhaps believing he won’t be heard, he grumbles:

  “Get up, sleepyhead.”

  I sit up and examine him: his clothing is tangled and tattered, his hair unkempt with blades of grass poking through.

  Seeing me awake, he smiles meekly. He reaches in his back pocket and hands me several banknotes without uttering a word. I recognize the design and color of the French francs.

  We both pause serenely, each comfortable with the other, reconciled.

  I ask:

  “How’d you do it?”

  He explains discreetly:

  “He hid out in the forest. Guglielmino showed me where and told me he saw him hide the bundle of lire under a rock.”

  “So you went there, lifted up the stone, calmly took the money, and now you’re back here to give it to me.”

  “Exactly as you’ve said.”

  “You sneak! You lying dog! Don’t be modest, Turì. Your shirt’s torn, you’re battered and bruised, how are you going to stand here and tell me it was that easy. You’ve been in a fight. For me, right?”

  “No, Sir, not for you. For my honor and the honor of my family.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  I appreciate Turì’s gesture, and I feel I need to acknowledge it. A noble action, I tell myself, deserves more than just a tip. What would he do for me in this situation? I try to imagine, and see myself sitting around the table with the family, invited to share a savory meal cooked by his mother.

  I will share my table with him, though the time for lunch is past, and I will do it my way:

  “You want to have a drink?” I propose, without saying where. “This time, I’ll pay,” I declare, contented, with the sense that I’ve won his trust.

  “I appreciate it. But not wine, not at this hour…”

  “…and especially not on an empty stomach,” I add, showing that I’ve understood. “A whiskey or a beer, maybe? A couple of toasted sandwiches, or some thick-cut ham with white bread, what do you say?”

  “Beer sounds good, and ham, too. Really, I can’t wait,” he says, clearly satisfied.

  We set off through the streets, which remain unpeopled, and he comments:

  “There’s something strange here, it’s like everyone’s gone to sleep. This place isn’t normally like this. Did something happen while I was in the forest?”

  It’s evident he knows nothing of the tragedy in the sea and the grotesquery I took part in on the beach. I say: “Nothing, just the misfortunes of a delirious man.”

  Guileless, he inquires: “Delirious, in the middle of the day?”

  I don’t know how to explain it to him, so I distract him:

  “Let’s go for that beer.”

  And on we go, the three of us: me, him, and his vehicle.

  I ask him what he’ll do with the bicycle when we go inside to have our drink. He tells me: “We won’t go in anywhere. I don’t trust people. We can drink something out on the street.” I make a recommendation: “Let’s leave it in a garage.”

  “This bicycle, in a garage…? What garage?”

  “The one at the hotel.”

  “You’re taking me to your hotel?”

  “Why not?”

  I’ve hit the bullseye. It’s certainly not every day he gets treated to this kind of courtesy. He doesn’t hide his gratitude, which grows when he finds out which hotel it is – the best in the area.

  I notice, without taking it to heart, the porter’s confusion as he hears me order him to put my companion’s bicycle in the parking deck. Turì acts as though it’s natural, but I have no doubt that for him, it’s a kind of game, one not inconsonant with his brazen and haphazard way of life.

  In the swimmers’ elevator, I go up to my bedroom to put on a pair of shorts and a polo, and in minutes, I’m back with Turì.

  A man from reception calls me gingerly aside. I can imagine his misgivings, but I won’t succumb.

  He ought to warn me, he argues, since I apparently know nothing of this guest I’ve brought along with me. “He’s a grafter,” he whispers, “with a bad reputation and a nasty background, a swindler, a fighter, you name it.”

  I reply, simply and categorically, that he is here in my charge. And to Turì, I point out the bar.

  Turì responds sanely: “No, Sir…like this…?” and submits himself to a head-to-toe examination. He makes plain what I, in my affection and hospitality, had overlooked: he truly is shabby, a lowlife.

  I take him to my room. I invite him to cleanse himself at his leisure and he takes me at my word, singing as he showers. I offer him a brand-new shirt, with broad, colorful stripes. He resists accepting. Then he accepts.

  We go down to the bar.

  We enjoy two rounds of ice-cold beer, the second with succulent country ham. Turì refuses a third. He implies that he knows his limits.

  I study him and think: He’s a guttersnipe, but he was loyal with me, and I didn’t know how to appreciate it. I’m ignoring his contradictions and outbursts, trying to home in on what’s essential.

  I even believe he may be pondering the pleasures of honesty, in that instant, when a person – like me – has come a
long and finally recognized something noble in him. I’m no longer afraid that you’ll lie to me again, Turì, I think, without sharing my profession of faith with him.

  Suddenly, I have a vision: Giannina’s body against the white walls of the village on the hill. In my daydream, it is the signs, the rewards, of honesty that surround her.

  Then I reconsider, and see her cornered, like a martyr.

  I don’t ask Turì to confide in me. I assure him, manfully:

  “You were cruel with Giannina, a bit of a dog, wouldn’t you say?”

  I’ve surprised him, and he wavers. His face shows he’s bothered, defensive, but he admits:

  “I offended her, it’s true. But it was just words.”

  “Hurtful words, that much is clear.”

  He moves to leave, and I stop him:

  “…but the fact is, you love her, and you can’t run away from that feeling, can you, Turì?”

  He looks at me from the depths of his torment.

  I want to reproof him: What will you do with her? or else What will you do for her? but I decide not to intervene and propose: “Now it’s time for whiskey, no?”

  He says “Yes.” He understands I won’t meddle more in his personal affairs.

  “So a whiskey, then?”

  He clarifies jovially:

  “I’m not much for whiskey. Maybe another beer?” and soon, he’s back to his old self.

  We drink. He does so as zealously as before.

  I call over the waiter and ask for the bill, and mechanically reach into my pocket. I take out the bills; they’re the French ones, they may not accept them here, and it’s silly for me to pay in cash if all I need is to sign the check.

  I joke with Turì about the ruffled state this singular day has left me in.

  Then I remember how, when he described his caper, he said: Giuglielmino saw him hide the bundle of lire under a rock. I repeat the phrase to Turì in order to ask him: “Why did you say lire? These are the bills you handed me back. They’re French francs.”

  Fearless, he enlightens me:

  “You were robbed.”

  “You admit that’s what happened?”

  “Of course I admit it now. You lost your money…”