On Earth as It Is in Heaven (30 page)

Franco walked beside me. Carlo, already in the corner, was folding and arranging the towels. Grandpa and Umbertino, sitting in the crowd, were silent. Gerruso, clapping and whistling, had launched into a running commentary, live and on the spot.

“Here's the Poet, ladies and gentlemen, he may not be tall but he throws a murderous punch, observe him, get to know him, learn to respect him.”

The buzz in the room died down, the crowd had started to listen to what he was saying.

“He's the Poet and no one stands a chance against him, hair slicked back and beautiful boxing gloves, glittering and black.”

Gaetano Licata,
'U Ziccùso
, the Tick-ridden One, came in.

“I already hate him for his nickname, he has black boxing gloves, too, but it's a different kind of black, dull and flat, a miserable shade of black, the Poet's boxing gloves are better than his, the Poet may be shorter, but he's better-looking.”

An old man with a white mustache and a red sweater, hair greased back, leaped to his feet.

“What the hell is this? A beauty contest? What's your friend anyway, a boxer or a woman?”

Everyone laughed. Spectators. Judges. Gaetano Licata. The referee. Gerruso. Not Umbertino. He was smoking and looking elsewhere.

“The Poet is already in the ring, now the Tick-ridden One from Villabate is climbing in, which means that a small-town bumpkin is going up against a fighter from Palermo, the capital of Sicily. No contest. The regional title has practically already been snatched away. Bow down, you hicks, I feel absolutely no pity for you, in fact, I feel nothing but boredom.”

Gaetano Licata's hair, dark brown like his eyes, was buzz-cut. His lips were moving over his mouthguard. His neck was undulating as he loosened his muscles. When the referee called him into the center of the ring, he looked at me with disgust.

“Well? You still haven't answered me: What the fuck are you?”

During the first round, my father kept a constant distance between himself and his opponent. Uncle Umbertino and Franco compared him to a wasp, almost impossible to catch and capable of delivering a tremendous sting. In the first two minutes, he staged a wild, exhausting dance routine, a continuous whirling activity that only amplified expectations. The Paladin didn't lunge into an attack, but he also prevented his opponent from landing any solid punches. In that spinning vortex of inexhaustible movement, his gaze was level and calm. A gardener faced with a tangled welter of overgrown plants. A boxer's temperament has nothing to do with the fury of his assault. It lies in the wisdom with which he waits, the way he sizes up his opponent, the distance created and eliminated by his own strong will. Chaos is a telltale sign of anxiety, nothing more. During the study phase, boxers aren't testing the other guy, they're testing themselves. Are my blows going to hit the mark? Am I capable of deflecting the counterattack? How much will this hurt? Imagining the possibility of a garden in which weeds and thorns flourish triumphant. Two minutes of merry-go-round. Then my father's hands plunged into the tumult.

“My God, ladies and gentlemen, an absurd one-two punch to the face, damn, that's got to hurt, that cracker hardly saw the wind-up, two total haymakers in the face, tremendous pain, the Poet takes a step back, the peasant seems to have recovered, they're still circling each other in the ring, the peasant lunges to the attack, the Poet takes one tremendous leap sideways, he's trying to pin him down, but how can he do it? The first round is over, ladies and gentlemen, go Poet! Bust that shitkicker's ass in two.”

One of Gaetano Licata's fans leaped to his feet.

“Little boy, why don't you call your sister a shitkicker?”

“Why, what'll you do if I don't? Flunk me in geography?”

Five people intervened and made them both sit down.

One of them commented: “These guys from Palermo are all the same, they get all worked up for no reason.”

Grandpa didn't move.

Neither did Umbertino.

“Second round, ladies, gentlemen, and ignorant shitkickers!
'U Ziccùso
, the Tick-ridden One, can't figure out what's going on here at all. There, now they're hugging, the referee breaks them up, but don't you find it disgusting to see a couple of boxers rubbing up on each other? Revolting, they're both streaming sweat, look out! Damn, a punch to the chin, the peasant took it straight, nice work, Poet, here's the counterattack, smooth, and smooth again, this is a one-sided match, you hicks, so shut up and suck on that.”

In the second round of the regional finals, my father hit his opponent once and once only, winning the round with that single point. He was stripping down the logic of boxing, reducing it to its essential elements. Attack only when you're certain you'll hit the bull's-eye. Elegance attained through subtraction. Umbertino and Franco watched the Paladin in action, then turned to look at each other. On each other's faces, they read astonishment even more clearly than satisfaction.

In our corner, Carlo was swabbing the sweat off my face with a towel. In the opposing corner, Gaetano Licata was pointing at me with his right glove. Before putting his mouthguard back in, he swore to me that the kidding around was over and that he was going to slaughter me in no time flat in this last round of the match. Out in the arena, Gerruso went on with his running patter of insults.

“I told you to shut up, worthless idiot,” one of Licata's fans retorted angrily. He crumpled a sheet of newspaper and threw it straight at Gerruso, who, slow as boredom, couldn't even dodge it. The peasant, pleased with his shot, warned Gerruso to shut up or he'd kick his tongue and teeth right down his throat.

“You're just a bunch of hicks, incapable of appreciating true poetry.”

'U Ziccùso
's fan was foaming with rage.

“Fuck, now I'm going to kill you.”

It took seven men to hold him back.

Gerruso wouldn't let up: “Do you really think I'm scared of some small-town redneck?”

By now, theirs were the only voices that could be heard. Everyone else was watching them, except for Umbertino, who was lost in contemplation of a past that he thought was gone forever. The redneck, unable to get through the wall of bodies, settled for wounding Gerruso indirectly. He started lobbing insults at me: “Poet: a mushroom-shaped dick of a poet! Why don't you scribble a little verse on my asshole! The poetry of your deflated balls!”

Gerruso leveled his stump-finger straight at him.

“Don't you dare! Leave him alone!”

Licata's man, as rabid as a stray dog, first cursed the Virgin Mary, then threw a punch at his seat, and finally went back to egging his boxer on.

“Come on, Gaetano, break this pussy ass in half.”

Then he pointed at me.

“You're going to spit blood, who the hell do you think you are?”

He flashed his middle finger at me.

Umbertino, in his seat, had lit yet another cigarette.

The third round began.

Rosario had gotten to his feet.

He'd sharpened his gaze and clenched his teeth.

The wasp buzzed here and there, the bull tried to gore it with its horns and failed. It seemed like the same old script. Instead, suddenly, a plot twist: feigning a lunging attack, the Paladin, no the Poet, advanced half a yard, arching his body forward.

The cigarette fell out of Umbertino's fingers.

The opponent was cornered.

And finally, the fury had been unleashed.

A hail of punches rained down, one two three four five six.

His opponent tried to escape that maelstrom, but when his elbows left his sides, a new series of punches tanned his hide, seven, eight, nine, ten times, faster and harder than before.

He tried to throw a right hook to put an end to the punishment he was taking.

Unsuccessfully.

He took an uppercut to the cheekbone and felt his legs give way under him.

He needed to prop his elbows up on the ropes to keep from falling.

Franco watched, open-mouthed.

Umbertino had lunged from his seat to ringside.

Identical in both timing and method, he was watching the same style of attack with which the Paladin, all those years ago, had triumphed at the regionals.

In that moment it suddenly became clear to them just how much they'd missed my father.

Gaetano Licata's knees folded and gave way.

He lifted his right hand from the ropes to create a little extra distance, but his arm failed to respond as quickly as he expected.

It was slow, heavy.

His fans had fallen silent.

Their boxer was a broken thing.

Do you want to know who I am?

Unlimbering my shoulder, I let fly with a left cross in midair.

I'm the Poet.

My fist smashed straight into his face.

The mouthguard flew out of his mouth.

How do you like my poetry now?

Gaetano Licata started to tip over to one side.

No, not like that.

The shark fish isn't done with you yet.

Another hook straight to the temple.

A punch so urgent that it never even took the form of thought.

He collapsed, the way a wall collapses.

Welcome back, ferocity.

I'd been missing you.

The only voices in the hall were the referee, counting to ten, and Gerruso's singsong: “Redneck cocksuckers, redneck cocksuckers!”

Melluso's scream cut through the muggy afternoon heat.

It came from the carpentry shop.

Rosario asked the soldiers standing guard permission to go to the latrine; when they consented, he left the kitchen. Once he was out of their sight, he set off at a run to see what had happened. He found Melluso laid out on the ground, both hands clutching his mouth. He was spitting blood. D'Arpa was fine. He had both fists still clenched.

“He was stealing a hammer, and he planned to hide it in one of our beds. He wanted to get us punished.”

Melluso wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I'll kill you,” he promised.

He spat blood and saliva and left the carpentry shop.

“Rosà,” said D'Arpa.

“I know,” was the reply.

Nicola had to be warned.

They'd have to watch their backs from now on.

What had happened to Iallorenzi intensified the fear and paranoia. The climate had become intolerable for everyone. The guards lost all sense of proportion. Searches of prisoners became much more frequent. In an atmosphere of continual tension, punishments increased in severity. Domenico Musso was thrown into solitary confinement because he tripped and dropped a pile of mess tins. Alessio Panechiaro lost three days of water rations: it was because his shoelaces were untied during a surprise inspection of the barracks. Ernesto Corabbio was killed while attempting to escape. He'd reached the end of his rope: he hadn't slept in two days and was in a state of delirium. Breaking ranks during morning assembly for roll call, he clambered over the metal gate and ran headlong into the desert wastes, followed by conflicting voices, some shouting to run faster, others imploring him to turn back immediately. A rifle shot finished him off.

Everyone's nerves were in tatters.

Every day, another collapse.

One night, a rifle shot rang out.

The soldier who shot Corabbio had killed himself.

Every night, in two-hour shifts, one of the three of them—D'Arpa, my grandfather, or Randazzo—stood watch over his friends.

Melluso walked into the kitchen.

His pupils were like needles.

“I want meat.”

Nicola spread both arms helplessly.

“Can't you see that, in here, we don't even have the idea of meat?”

“You've hidden it from me, you and that worthless thing.”

Rosario had already stopped peeling potatoes.

“I want meat. Where the hell is the meat?”

Melluso crushed mosquitoes on his forearms with violent slaps.

As soon as he killed one, he'd pick it up, holding it between his fingertips.

“Isn't this meat? Isn't it meat? Every fly liver is a piece of nourishing meat.”

He'd lick it away, swallowing without chewing.

“I want meat.”

His eyes roamed in search of signs, hints, colors of meat.

“He's not well,” Nicola told my grandfather.

Without warning, Melluso lunged at Randazzo, seizing him by the throat. Nicola fell to his knees. Melluso was throttling him with both hands.

“Meat, I want meat.”

Rosario tried to pry open the fingers clutching Nicola's throat, but Melluso refused to let go. My grandfather sank forefinger and middle finger into his left eye. With a scream, Melluso yielded. Rosario shoved him aside and bent over Nicola, who was coughing. The guards arrived. They asked what had happened.

“He must have fainted from the heat.”

Randazzo and Melluso both confirmed that version of the story.

Melluso went away, the soldiers left the kitchen, and Rosario looked at the blade of his knife, without resuming his potato-peeling.