At least, he thought there had.
Lately he had noticed that he often remembered things that had never happened. Or he got things he had seen on TV jumbled up with his own memories.
Certainly something in the world must have changed if it no longer snowed as it used to.
On TV they had explained that the world was warming up like a meatball inside the oven and that it was all the fault of man and his gases.
Quattro Formaggi, lying in bed, had told himself that if he hurried up he could go round to Rino and Cristiano’s and when Cristiano came out to go to school he could pelt him with snowballs.
But as if the weather had been listening and decided to put a spanner in the works, the snowflakes had become increasingly heavier and more liquid till they had turned to rain, and the hills had first become pockmarked and then shrunk to patches of icy mush, revealing the mass of old junk heaped up in the little yard. Beds, furniture, tyres, rusty rubbish bins, the skeleton of an orange Ape 125 pickup, and the carcase of a sofa.
Quattro Formaggi gulped down his cup of milk, his pointed Adam’s apple rising and falling. He yawned, and stood up to his full height of one metre eighty-seven centimetres.
He was so tall and thin he looked like a basketball player who had been put on starvation rations. Gangly arms and legs, enormous hands and feet. There was a callused weal on the palm of his right hand and a hard brown scar on his right calf. His bony neck supported a head as small and round as that of a silvery gibbon. A greyish beard stained his sunken cheeks and his chin. His hair, unlike his beard, was black and shiny and hung in a fringe over his low forehead, in the style of an Amazonian Indian.
He put the cup in the sink, quivering with tremors and spasms as if he had hundreds of electrodes clamped to his body.
He continued to stare at the yard, cocking his head on one side and twisting his mouth, then he thumped himself twice on the thigh and slapped his forehead.
The children in the park, when they saw him go by, would stare at him in amazement and then run to their nannies and tug at their clothes, asking: ‘Why does that man walk in that funny way?’
And usually they would get the reply (if the nanny was a polite person) that it was rude to point and that the poor fellow was an unfortunate who suffered from some mental illness.
But then the same children, talking to the older ones at school, would learn that that strange man, who was always in the public gardens and who would steal your toys if you didn’t watch out, was called Electric Man, like some enemy of Spiderman or Superman.
That would indeed have been a more appropriate nickname for Quattro Formaggi. At the age of thirty Corrado Rumitz had had a nasty experience which had nearly cost him his life.
It had all begun with an air rifle which he had exchanged for a long fishing rod. It was a good bargain: the air rifle’s gaskets were worn out and it made a farting noise when you fired it. It barely even tickled the coypu in the river. The rod, by contrast, was practically new and extremely long, so if you cast it properly you could reach the middle of the river.
Feeling very pleased with himself, Quattro Formaggi had set off, rod in one hand and bucket in the other, to fish in the river. He had been told that there was one special point, just below the lock, where the fish gathered, carried down on the current.
After having a look around, Quattro Formaggi had climbed over the fence and stationed himself just above the lock, which that day was closed.
He had never been the brightest of people. When he was in the orphanage he had caught a particularly acute form of meningitis and consequently he ‘thought slowly’, as he put it.
That day he may have thought slowly but he had thought well. He had made a few casts and could feel that the fish were touching the bait. There must be hundreds of them, massed by the lock gates. But they were very crafty. They would eat the worm and leave him with nothing but a hook that needed re-baiting.
Maybe he should try further out.
He had made a long, vigorous cast, describing a perfect curve through the air. The hook had cleared the foliage of the trees but not the electric cables that ran right over his head.
If the rod had been made of plastic he wouldn’t have come to any harm, but unfortunately for him it was made of carbon, which on a scale of electrical conductivity is second only to silver.
The current had entered his hand and gone right through his body, leaving via his left leg.
The lock-keepers had found him lying on the ground, burnt almost to a frazzle.
For several years he hadn’t been able to speak and had moved jerkily, like a green lizard. Then gradually he had recovered, but he still had spasms in his neck and mouth and a crazy leg which he sometimes had to thump awake.
Quattro Formaggi took some minced meat out of the fridge and gave it to Uno and Due, the turtles who lived in five centimetres of water in a big washing-bowl on the table by the window.
Someone had thrown them into the fountain in Piazza Bologna and he had brought them home. When he had found them they had been the size of two-euro pieces; now, five years later, they were nearly as big as cottage loaves.
He looked at the clock shaped like a violin that hung on the wall. He couldn’t remember exactly at what time, but he was supposed to be meeting Danilo at the Bar Boomerang, after which they had arranged to go round together to wake Rino up.
There was just time to reposition the little wooden church by the lake.
He went through into the sitting room.
A room about twenty square metres in area, completely covered with mountains of coloured papier-mâché, with rivers of tin foil, with lakes made out of plates and bowls, with woods made of moss, with towns dotted with cardboard houses, deserts of sand and roads of cloth.
And the surface was populated by soldiers, plastic animals, dinosaurs, shepherds, little cars, tanks, robots and dolls.
His nativity scene. He had been working on it for years.
Thousands of toys retrieved from rubbish bins, found on the dump or left by children in the public gardens.
On the highest mountain of all stood a stable with Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the ox and the ass. They had been a gift from Sister Margherita when he was ten. Quattro Formaggi, moving with surprising agility, crossed the scene without knocking anything over and repositioned the bridge across which a troop of smurfs was walking, with a Pokémon at their head.
When he had finished the job he knelt down and prayed for the soul of Sister Margherita. Then he went into the tiny toilet, had a cursory wash and put on his winter gear: some long johns, a pair of cotton trousers, a flannel shirt with a blue-and-white checked pattern, a brown sweatshirt, an old quilted jacket, a Juventus scarf, a yellow cape, woollen gloves, a peaked cap and some heavy working shoes.
Ready.
12
The alarm clock went off at a quarter to seven and jolted Cristiano Zena out of a dreamless sleep.
It was a good ten minutes before an arm emerged like a hermit crab’s pincer from under the bedclothes and silenced the ringing.
He felt as if he had only just closed his eyes. But the most terrible thing was leaving the warm bed.
As every morning, he considered the idea of not going to school. Today it was particularly tempting, because his father had told him he was going to work. That didn’t happen often these days.
But it wasn’t possible. There was the history essay. And if he skipped it again …
Come on, up you get.
One corner of the room was beginning to brighten with the dull light emitted by the overcast, grey sky.
Cristiano stretched, and checked the scratch on his thigh. It was red, but it was already forming a scab.
He picked up his trousers, fleece and socks off the floor and pulled them under the bedclothes. Yawning, he sat up, slipped on his trainers and shuffled, zombie-like, towards the door.
Cristiano’s room was large, with still unplastered walls. In one corner two trestles support
ed a wooden plank on which exercise books and textbooks were piled. Above the bed, a poster of Valentino Rossi advertising beer. Sticking out from the wall by the door were the truncated copper pipes from a radiator that had never been fitted.
With another yawn, he crossed the hall floored with grey linoleum, passed the tatters of the bathroom door that still hung from its hinges and entered the room.
The bathroom was a little cubbyhole measuring about one metre by two, with blue, flowery tiles encircling the floor of the shower. Over the basin hung a long shard of the mirror. A bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling.
He stepped over the remains of his father’s vomit and looked out of the little window.
It was raining and the rain had eaten away all the snow. All that was left were a few useless white patches, melting on the gravel in front of the house.
School will be on.
The toilet had no seat and he rested his buttocks on the cold porcelain, gritting his teeth. A shiver ran up his spine. And in a state of semi-consciousness he crapped.
Then he cleaned his teeth. Cristiano didn’t have good teeth. The dentist wanted to give him a brace, but luckily they had no money and his father had said his teeth were fine the way they were.
He didn’t take a shower, but sprayed himself with deodorant. He dug his fingers into the gel and ran them through his hair to make it even more towselled, if that was possible, but taking care not to let his ears stick out.
He returned to his room, put his books in his rucksack and was about to go downstairs when he saw a dim glow under the door of his father’s bedroom.
He pushed down the handle.
His father was huddled up in a camouflage sleeping bag on a double mattress on the floor.
Cristiano drew nearer.
Only the oval of his shaven head protruded from the sleeping bag. The floor was strewn with empty beer cans, socks and his boots. On the bedside table, more cans and the pistol. There was a stench of rancid sweat and dirty clothes which mingled with the smell of an old, threadbare blue carpet. A lamp swathed in a red cloth threw a scarlet glow on the enormous flag with a black swastika in the middle that hung on the plasterless wall. The shutters were down, the curtains, patterned with brown-and-white lozenges, were held together with pegs.
His father only came here to sleep. Usually he collapsed on the sofa in front of the television, and only the cold, and in the summer the mosquitoes, gave him the strength to drag himself up to his bedroom.
If Cristiano ever saw him open the windows and make an attempt at tidying up the room he knew old baldy had arranged to fuck some woman and didn’t want to suffocate her with rotting socks and cigarette stubs.
Cristiano kicked the mattress. ‘Papa! Papa, wake up! It’s late.’
No reaction.
He raised his voice. ‘Papa, you’ve got to go to work!’
He must have drunk a barrelful of beer.
Ah to hell with it! he said to himself and was about to leave when he heard a groan which might as easily have come from beyond the grave as out of that bundle. ‘No, today … today … I’m going … I have to … Danilo … Quattro …’
‘OK. See you later. I must be going or I’ll miss the bus.’ Cristiano moved towards the door.
‘Wait a minute …’
‘It’s late, pa …’ Cristiano bristled.
‘Give me my cigarettes.’
The boy snorted and searched round the room for the packet.
‘They’re in my trousers.’ His father’s face emerged from the sleeping bag, yawning. The mark of the zip on his cheek. ‘My God, that chicken we had last night was shit … I’ll cook something this evening … I’ll do some lasagne, what do you say to that?’
Cristiano threw the packet to his father, who caught it deftly. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry … I’ll miss the bus, I told you.’
‘Hold on a minute! What’s got into you today?’ Rino lit himself a cigarette. For an instant his face was enveloped in a white cloud. ‘Last night I dreamed we were eating lasagne. I can’t remember where, but it was delicious. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make some myself today.’
Why does he always talk such bullshit? Cristiano asked himself. It was as much as he could do to cook a couple of fried eggs, and he couldn’t even do that without breaking the yolk.
‘I’ll make it with loads of béchamel. And sausages. If you do the shopping, I’ll make you some lasagne so delicious you’ll be forced to bow down and admit that I’m your God.’
‘Yeah, like last time, when you made pasta with a sauce of clams and sand.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of sand in clams.’
Cristiano, as usual, fell into a reverie as he looked at him.
He thought that if his father had been born in America he would definitely have been an actor. Not a pansy actor like the guy who played James Bond. No, a hard man like Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson. Someone who went to Vietnam.
He had the face of a tough guy.
Cristiano liked the shape of his skull and his ears, which were small and round, not like his own. The square jaw and the little black dots of his beard, the small nose, the cold stare of his eyes and the little creases that appeared around them when he laughed.
And he liked the fact that he was not too tall, but well proportioned, like a boxer. With a lot of bulging muscles. And he liked the barbed-wire tattoo around his biceps. He wasn’t so keen on his beer-belly and that lion’s head on his shoulder which looked more like a monkey. But even the Celtic cross on his right pectoral wasn’t bad.
Why can’t I be like him?
They didn’t even look like father and son, except for the colour of their eyes.
‘Hey! Are you listening to me?’
Cristiano looked at his watch. It was very late. The first bus had already passed. ‘Look, I’ve got to go!’
‘Okay, but first you’ve got to give a kiss to the only man you’ve ever loved.’
Cristiano laughed and shook his head. ‘No! You’re disgusting, you stink to high heaven.’
‘Hark who’s talking! The last time you took a shower you were in primary school.’ Rino shoved the cigarette into an empty beer can, grinning. ‘Come over here at once and kiss your God. Remember that without me you wouldn’t have existed, and if I hadn’t been around your mother would have had an abortion, so kiss this Latin male.’
Cristiano puffed out his cheeks, muttered ‘Jesus Christ’ and brushed his father’s rough cheek with his lips. He was about to move away when Rino grabbed him by the wrist, used his free hand to wipe his cheek and gave a grimace of disgust. ‘Ugh! I’ve got a pansy son!’
‘Fuck off!’ Cristiano started laughing and hitting him with his rucksack.
‘Ooh yes … Again … Again … I like it …’ Rino sighed idiotically.
‘You bastard …’ And the blows rained down on his shaven pate.
Rino rubbed the back of his head and then suddenly turned menacing: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Not on the head! You little fool! You hurt me! You know I’ve got a headache!’
Cristiano was taken aback, and stammered, ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to …’
With a sudden movement Rino grabbed the gun from the bedside table, yanked Cristiano towards him, bringing him crashing down on the bed, and put the barrel to his forehead.
‘Fooled you again! Always keep your guard up. You’d be dead by now,’ he whispered in his ear conspiratorially.
Cristiano tried to get up, but his father held him down with his arm. ‘Let me go! Let me go! You bastard …’ he protested.
‘Only if you give me a kiss,’ said Rino, proffering his cheek.
Reluctantly Cristiano kissed him again, and Rino yelled out in disgust: ‘It’s true! I do have a pansy son!’ and he started tickling him.
Cristiano giggled and tried to break free, gasping: ‘Please … Please … Please … Stop it …’
At last he managed to escape. He retreated
from the bed, tucking his T-shirt into his trousers, and picked up his rucksack. As he went downstairs Rino shouted after him: ‘Hey, that was a good job you did last night.’
13
Forty-five-year-old Danilo Aprea was sitting at a table in the Bar Boomerang finishing his third grappa of the morning.
He too was tall, but unlike Quattro Formaggi he was large and had a stomach as swollen as that of a drowned cow. Not that he was exactly fat; his muscles were firm and his skin as white as marble. Every part of him was square: his fingers, his ankles, his feet, his neck. He had a cubic skull, a wall-like forehead and two deep-set hazel eyes on either side of a broad nose. A thin strip of beard framed his perfectly shaven cheeks. He wore gold-rimmed Ray-Ban glasses and his crew-cut hair was dyed mahogany red.
He too, like Quattro Formaggi, had a winter outfit, but unlike his friend’s, his was always immaculately washed and ironed. A checked flannel shirt. A hunter’s waistcoat with lots of pockets. Jeans with a pleated front. Trainers. And, attached to his belt, a pouch for a Swiss Army knife and his mobile phone.
He economised on everything else, but not on his appearance. He had his beard trimmed and his hair dyed once a fortnight by the barber.
He was waiting for Quattro Formaggi, who, just for a change, was late. Not that Danilo was particularly bothered. In the bar it was nice and warm and he was in a strategic position. The table, by the front window, overlooked the street. Danilo held the Gazzetta dello Sport up in front of him and now and then took a glance outside.
Directly opposite was the Credito Italiano dell’Agricoltura. He saw people going in and out through the metal detectors and the private guard outside the entrance talking into his mobile.
That guard really pissed him off. With his bullet-proof jacket, his emblazoned beret, his gleaming pistol, his sunglasses, his square jaw and his chewing-gum, who the fuck did he think he was? Tom Cruise?
But the thing that really interested Danilo Aprea was not the guard, but what was behind him: the ATM.