CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (34 page)

“At midfield, Matteo Zovigo, just turned
19,  5’10”, 155 pounds, plays in the Italian minor leagues.  Current position...,”
the coordinator looked down at his sheet, “... playmaker!  He’s ambidextrous
and has an innate sense for scoring.  He’s an excellent passer, can run, good
ball possession, dribbles well and has that soft touch.  He could be used on
the wings as a forward, but he doesn’t fall back like a pure midfielder would. 
His body hasn’t fully developed yet and he needs to put on weight and muscles.”

“Let me add one thing,” Braidi
interrupted, hearing a certain reserve in the trainer’s voice.  “I’ve seen him
play and I can guarantee that he has got natural talent.”  He was afraid that
Matteo was going to be excluded in favor of midfielders who were more dedicated
to sacrificing themselves for the team. 
“He’s
definitely young and totally inexperienced, but, to borrow the words of Michel
Platini, he’s a
‘nine and a half’
, which is what he used to call Roberto Baggio.”  He let a look of
disdain cross his face as he said the profane words
of
the famous Frenchman, because Carlo loved playmakers above all things, those
special players who absorbed all of his attention when he watched that green
rectangular pitch, the only ones who were able to make him fall in love with
the game over and over again every Sunday.  “You all know what I think.  You
have to be careful when you get a special kid with this kind of talent in your
hands, and it makes little difference whether he wears number 10 or number 9
1/2.  Good coaches know what to do with them on the field, because they are the
ones who can make the difference between winning and losing.”

“I’m really not sure.”  Coach Beretta
picked up from where Braidi left off when he heard his name alluded to.  “He’s
made a good impression on me too, but maybe
San Carlo
could make better
use of a midfielder who is more physical, one who goes in and steals balls,
someone who can pick off the opposition... perhaps someone who could eventually
be moved up to the Serie A team.”

“Absolutely.”  Braidi seconded his coach. 
“We certainly need a player like that.  But one thing doesn’t exclude the
other.”  He tried to identify the real holes in the team’s roster.  “We’re
still in need of someone who can be the glue between the backfield and the
forwards, someone who moves freely and not in synch with the other midfielders,
someone who invents things and directs the flow of play.”

“Sure, but we’ve just signed a striker who
is as talented as he is selfish, and we can’t afford to have another player who
doesn’t run back to defend,” Beretta warned, trying to score some points.

“All of which is absolutely true.”  Carlo
stole the ball and started a fast-break up the other way.  “But tell me how we’re
going to get the ball to our new center forward if he won’t come back to get it
himself and our other midfielders don’t have the feet to pass it through to
him.”

“Time out!”  The athletic director, who
was also the moderator of the meeting, ended their dispute.  “We’re going to
have lots of time to talk about this over the next two months, we don’t need to
resolve it right now.  And considering that we’ve brought it up, I propose
moving on to discuss the forwards we have recruited.”

A subject that Matteo would have been
particularly interested in hearing.

“Leandro Ribeiro Gama de Moraes, Brazil,
19 years old, 6’2”, 194 pounds, current striker of the
Salvação
, one of
the top Rio de Janeiro teams.”  Olderico cleared his throat in preparation for
lauding the virtues of this player.  “Powerful, imposing, good at protecting
the ball while the rest of the team moves upfield.  Excellent in fundamentals
and in dribbling, so much so as to sometimes unnecessarily show it off.  Great ball
control and a powerful, accurate shot.  Limited with his left foot.  Superb
with his head with an innate sense of the goalposts and totally unfazed by
emotions.  Good with free kicks.”

“We already negotiated with his club in
January, and they are ready to trade him to us for a rather large sum.” 
Massimiliano Sforza, a former professional and now the highly-regarded Athletic
Director of
San Carlo
, the face of the club, second only to Parini and
the honorary president, was the epitome of elegance and fanaticism for his
squad.  “We’re just waiting for the results of his medical tests and a final
contract with the player for the deal to go through.”

“It’s very important that we handle this
guy carefully,” Braidi said, recommending that everyone present take a good
look at his background biography so as not to make mistakes when evaluating him
and risk ruining their relationship with him before it even began.  “Meninho is
a good kid, but we all know about his wildness and the bad decisions he can
make off the field.  Let’s give him precise rules that he has to follow, but we
can’t try to build a wall between him and the outside world.  It would just be
counterproductive.”

“Good.  I’d say that’s everything for
now.  I officially adjourn the meeting.”  Sforza got up from his seat and
everyone else followed suit.  “Our next scheduled meeting is after the first
half of the try-out period, exactly one month from tomorrow.  I ask you all to
keep me informed on everything, and to feel free to pass on your impressions
and experiences with the players, and I’ll make sure this information gets to
the top.”  Before leaving the room, he turned and faced his staff, most of whom
were still in the act of gathering up their photocopies and notes.  “Let the
games begin, men!”

PARALLEL UNIVERSES

It was Monday
morning again after a Sunday spent decompressing in total solitude from the
wildness of the previous days: barely a word to her parents, especially her
mother, who still hadn’t totally recovered from the shock, no desire to see
Carlotta, and radio silence toward Federico, who she still hadn’t spoken with
since that accursed Friday evening.

And so, while Milan was opening the doors
of paradise to Matteo, Marika began her own descent into Dante’s hell.

“
Through me you pass into the city of
woe, through me you pass into eternal pain... Abandon all hope, ye who enter
here
.
”  For after the explosion of sexgate, twenty-eight
interminable days of damnation awaited her!

Even though her parents had spoken with
the principal and her teachers and had ensured that the incriminating graffiti
was removed from the walls, her schoolmates avoided her like the plague, as if
her chest were marked with the scarlet letter.  Innocent pictures of her were
making the rounds after being touched-up with Photoshop and bearing captions
like, “If you think this girl is a slut, tell all of your friends!”  She was
put to the technological flames in an attempt to destroy her without
considering the consequences.  “You want a picture of Marika naked?  All you
gotta do is pay!”  The internet quickly produced a price list.  “How much? 
Depends on the position.”  She had to put up with constant giggling in the
hallways and vulgar jokes at her expense.  Her virtual identity had been hacked
and her cell phone number made the rounds, followed immediately by embarrassing
texts, photos in bad taste, and requests for sexual favors, even at a price.

Life at high school was starting to become
her own Calvary, and it was no better at
The Rook
or at 23 Palladio
Road, where her mother carried on with her hysterical reaction.   The only safe
haven in the entire area was at her maternal grandparents’ house in Brendola. 
They had been kept out of the loop so as to avoid a heart attack, and so she
took up residence here as much as possible to avoid the Inquisition outside.

Even Orgiano was too small for her –
everyone
knows everything about everyone!
– and what had once been a source of
comfort for her was now becoming an unbearable weight on her chest.

The only person who knew nothing of the
gossip and who could help her without judging her was Federico.  And so, among
all of the incessant, unwelcome phone calls that arrived, she decided to break
the silence between herself and Federico after almost a week and answer his
call.

It was the Thursday following the
explosion of sexgate when she picked up and said in a monotone voice, “Hello.”

“Hello, Marika?”  Federico was startled
that she had answered and was unsure of what to say next, afraid that she might
hang up again.  “Finally!  I’ve been trying to get you for days!”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”  He was apprehensive and
nervous.  “I was worried.”  He was also breathing heavily.  “Anything wrong?”

“No, no.”  She didn’t know how to tell him
about what had happened without making herself sound guilty.  She was so
embarrassed, persecuted by those awful rumors.  “You want to get together?”

“Right now, if you want,” he said
instantly.

“Can I come over to your place, to
Marostica?”  She drew in her breath sharply, covering the microphone with her
hand.  “Tomorrow after school?” she continued, while he enthusiastically
agreed.  “Which bus do I have to take to get there?”  Making it all the way to
the walled city without a driver’s license felt like a gargantuan enterprise.

“Easy.”  All of a sudden, Marika was
offering to come to his place, and without Carlotta...
but how come?
  “I’ll
pick you up and then drive you back home later.  No buses!”  He decided not to
ask too many questions.  “I haven’t been in your neck of the woods all week, I’d
be happy to get you.”  Almost 200 hundred miles in one afternoon for two round trips,
but if that’s how he likes it...!

“Thanks,” she whispered, thinking about
whether or not he should come to get her at home.  “
No way, too
embarrassing!
”  She wanted to be the one to tell him all about the rumor
mill, and so she tried an alternative.  “Tomorrow, after school, I’m going to
be at my grandparents’ house in Brendola.”  Brendola was far enough from
Orgiano to make it a passable option.  “Do you mind coming there to get me?” 
Getting to Brendola itself would be easy for her, she could take advantage of
her father’s shuttle services as he drove from one winery to another meeting
with various members of the local grape growers’ association.  “You know where
it is?”

“Sure,” he answered back.  “My great aunt
and uncle live nearby in the Valley.”  He was excited to have something in
common with her.  “We’ve even been invited to do a concert in their piazza for
the next Summer Fest,” the popular annual event organized in Vò di Brendola
every mid-August.

“Really?”  Marika was surprised that he even
knew about the festival.  “I go every year, ever since I was little.”  Memories
burst forth in her mind, sweet and cruel memories that were all tied to Matteo,
with whom she had shared those warm festival nights: from the Greasy Pole
contest to the auctioning of farm animals, everything from piglets to rabbits,
ducks, and calves.  Those ancient customs were gone now.  But more present were
the memories of late-night dancing, her first leg wax, and a push-up bra she
had bought for one of those nights, her first taste of beer, and....”

“Hey, Marika, you still there?”  He
brought her back down to earth gently.  “Did you hang up?”

“I’m here.”  She swallowed.  “Sorry.”

“Brendola is even one of the most
important towns in the Berica region.” 
So it wasn’t so hard to have heard
of the place
.  “My history teacher in 9th grade once read us the story of
the parish priest of Brendola during the First World War.  He happened to be
from Marostica.”  Federico loved having any sort of link to Marika, and retold
the history lesson with great ease.

“You remember what you studied in 9th
grade?!” she said, astonished by how much he knew and how politely, how
genuinely he shared his knowledge.

“Yeah, well, I was interested in it at the
time,” he said sheepishly, almost justifying himself.  He had a good memory and
still perfectly recalled the legacy of the prelate and the research that had
been done on the towns in the entire area, which, finding themselves near the
front lines of the First World War, transformed themselves into military
barracks for the troops, but he was afraid of boring her and so he remained
silent.  He was more interested in the present than the past anyway.

“You talked about Brendola in class?” 
Marika was actually fascinated by his way of speaking and by the enthusiasm he
showed.

“Yeah, a bit,” he admitted, certain that
she couldn’t possibly be interested in the story of the Bishop’s Fortress.

And yet she
was
interested, very
much so.  But not because the fortress was the symbol of Brendola, the seat of
power for civil and religious governments throughout the centuries.  “So I’ll
meet you in the Market Square around four?” she suggested while her mind was
taking a walk down memory lane, a lane paved with cobblestones that led to the
top of the hill on which the ruins of the Bishop’s Fortress stood, and where,
years ago, she and Matteo had slipped through the chain link fence that kept
people away from the ancient castle.  She had cut her right thigh on an errant
piece of wire, and she could still feel the heat of his hands on her skin where
he had touched her leg, checking on the wound.  “Four then?” she repeated
passively.

“Even earlier, if you want,” Federico
said, impatient to see her.

“I’ve got to study Latin first.”  Sexgate
or no sexgate, the school continued to pile on homework.  “
De Rerum Natura
,” 
by Lucretius,
the fucking irony of it
!

“Ouch!  You have my full sympathy.”

“But I can stay out with you until eight
or eight-thirty.”  At that point, all she needed to do was to come up with a plausible
excuse to use on her family: maybe a group meeting of the dance class to work
on their recital costumes before yet another extra lesson called by Mr. Maller,
which she had instantly and obviously decided to ditch.  A little lie was
necessary to avoid unnecessary problems, scenes, third-degrees, and rapid-fire
questions by her mother.  “Unless you have something else to do.”

“Nope, I’m free,” he assured her.  “You
can stay as long as you want, even longer.”

“You’re so sweet, thanks.” 
Too sweet!
 
She didn’t deserve his adulation, nor his respect, because her mind, her heart,
her guts were indelibly branded with the image of another someone.

The following day, Marika got an early
ride to her grandparents’ house, even skipping lunch, so as to keep that
sadistic and diabolical enemy –
free
time
– away from her
ever-active mind.  She should have been studying, or at least trying to study,
but school had suddenly become an “outlandish city for weirdos and day-dreamers,”
best avoided so as not to get lost in it.

In Brendola, Marika’s maternal grandmother
was seated in front of the old farm shed out back with her lady friends, all
intent on their needlework.  “Hello everyone.  Hi Grandma!”  Marika hurriedly
greeted them and took a quick bite out of the cake that Miss Lucia offered
her.  “Mmm,” she murmured, “this is the king of cakes, my compliments to the
chef!”  A traditional recipe for poor folk, made out of whatever could be found
in the kitchen that day: polenta cooked in milk with raisins, dried figs, candied
citron, walnut pieces, and grappa, and which had been cooked in the hot embers
of a fire before the invention of the oven.  “I’m going out,” she said quietly,
snagging another piece as she turned.

“You just got here,” her grandmother said,
scooting over to make room for her.  “Come sit down with us old women.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.  Say hi to Grandpa
for me!”  She kissed her.  “Have a nice afternoon.  Thanks for the cake!”  She
flattered her grandmother’s friends.

“Be careful!”  She waved a knitting needle
at her.  “Don’t make me worry.”

“I won’t, don’t worry Grandma.”  With the
last bite still sticky between her fingers, Marika started walking uphill
toward the center of town, listening to the slow tapping of her footsteps and
the wide silence of the countryside, passing through the indestructible pages
of her own history between vineyards, fields, large meadows, patrician villas
of noble families from Vicenza and Venice, neighborhoods and courtyards, as far
as the unfinished church, and then back downhill into the Valley.  Walking this
path was much more than simply going through one of the most important access
points for the Berici Hills: it was a deliberate, hopeless, perverse way for
her to relive the past, to be closer to him... to try to find him,
paradoxically, where he could never be and despite everything he had done!  She
needed to feel like Matteo was still in her life, and that the nightmares that
tormented her were simply figments of her unspoken fears.  “
Standing on the
terrace of the Broletto Stadium, calling him, screaming his name, but her voice
made no sound, and he watched her indifferently, as if he couldn’t see her...
as if he didn’t recognize her.
”  She stiffened, reliving her breathless,
sweat-soaked awakening in bed, terrified that he might forget her.

“Hey!”

She hadn’t even noticed Federico arrive. 
But that sweet face, an elegant beauty so happy to see her, reached out a hand
and pulled her from her nightmare.

“You been waiting a long time?”  He kissed
her lovingly on the cheek, taking her hand and guiding her to his car parked
nearby.

“No, you’re right on time.”  Unlike
herself, who was still wallowing about in the past.

“Did you do your Latin translation?”  He
squeezed her tight to him, attentive and caring.

“Of course.” 
Right!
  “But don’t
talk about school.  Let me listen to some of your music instead.”  Getting into
the car with him was like finding herself in familiar settings, and being next
to him was a powerful pill that could reinvigorate her sallow soul.  “I saw
your website... very cool!”  Marika looked toward him, shining light in all
directions.  “The pictures are really good too.”

“Arghhh!”  Federico feigned
embarrassment.  “Not the pictures!”

“Why not?  They’re awesome, really.  You
all look great!”  She smiled for the first time in a week.  “You’ve got quite a
following.”

“It’s all thanks to Denis’ sister, she’s
our webmaster.  She’s just a kid, but she’s very cool and really smart.  She’s
also in love with the idea of being in love with one of us.”  He shrugged.  “But
it’s a lousy deal for her.  Aside from her brother and Eve, there’s only me and
Nick.”

“Exactly!”  Marika felt like being
complimentary.  “How can you say it’s a bad deal?”

“Because Niccolò has a girlfriend.”  He
took a deep breath.  “And I have eyes only for one girl.”  He looked at Marika,
who was forced to turn her face from his intense gaze.