Steal You Away (30 page)

The head was the good cop. Miss Gatta the bad cop.

Together they broke you down.

First the head had put him at his ease, then Miss Gatta had confronted him with the truth. ‘Moroni, Italo saw you in the school last night.’

Pietro had tried to deny it but his words didn’t sound convincing even to him, let alone to them. The deputy headmistress had asked him: ‘Where were you at nine o’clock yesterday evening?’ And Pietro had said at home, but then he had made a mistake and said at Gloria Celani’s house and Miss Gatta had smiled. ‘Right, we’ll just call Mrs Celani and ask her to confirm that.’ And she had picked up the desk diary with the phone numbers and Pietro didn’t want Gloria’s mother to talk to Miss Gatta because Miss Gatta would tell Gloria’s mother that he broke into schools and was a vandal and that would be terrible, so he had confessed.

‘Yes, it’s true, I broke into the school.’ Then he had started crying.

Miss Gatta was unmoved by his tears. ‘Was anyone else with you?’

(
If you split on us, if you mention any names, I’ll cut your
throat, I swear on my mother’s head
.)

Pietro had shaken his head.

‘You mean to say you chained up the gate and broke in and smashed the television and then wrote the graffiti and hit Italo all on your own? Moroni! You must tell the truth. If you don’t, you
can forget about passing the end-of-year assessment. Do you understand? Do you want to be expelled from all the schools in Italy? Do you want to go to jail? Who was with you? Italo says there were others. Tell us, or there’ll be serious trouble!’

That’s enough
.

The whole situation was becoming unbearable.

What was this, the Spanish Inquisition? Who did that harridan think she was, Torquemada?

First Italo. Now Moroni.

Flora was upset, she felt terribly sorry for that little boy.

The cunning Miss Gatta was terrorising him and Pietro by now was in floods of tears.

So far she had sat there in silence.

But enough is enough!

She stood up, sat down, stood up again. She went over to Miss Gatta, who was pacing from one side of the room to the other, puffing at a cigarette.

‘Can I speak to him?’ Flora asked in an undertone.

The deputy headmistress blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Why?’

‘Because I know him. And I’m sure that this isn’t the best way of asking him things.’

‘Oh, you know a better way, do you? Well, show me, then … Go ahead, let’s see you in action …’

‘Could I speak to him alone?’

‘Let Miss Palmieri try, Mariuccia. Let’s leave them alone. We’ll go to the bar …’ the head intervened in a conciliatory tone.

Miss Gatta irritably stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and went out with the headmaster, slamming the door.

At last they were alone.

Flora knelt down in front of Pietro, who was still crying and covering his face with his hands. For a few seconds she did nothing, then she stretched out her hand and stroked his head.
‘Pietro, please. Don’t cry. Nothing irreparable has happened. Don’t worry. Now listen, you must tell them who was with you. The deputy headmistress wants to know, she won’t let the matter rest. She’ll get it out of you.’ She sat down beside him. ‘I think I know why you won’t say. You don’t want to tell tales, do you?’

Pietro took his hands away from his face. He had stopped crying but his breath still came in gasps.

‘No. It was me …’ he stammered, drying away the snot with the cuff of his pullover.

Flora squeezed his hands. They were warm and sweaty. ‘It was Pierini, wasn’t it?’

‘I can’t, I can’t …’ He was begging her.

‘You must say. Then everything will be easier.’

‘He said he’d cut my throat if I sneaked.’ And he burst into tears again.

‘No, he’s just a loudmouth. He won’t hurt you.’

‘It wasn’t my fault … I didn’t want to break in …’

Flora hugged him. ‘There, there, stop crying now. Tell me what happened. You can trust me.’

‘I can’t …’ But then, with his face buried in his teacher’s cardigan, Pietro, in between sobs, told her about the chain and about how Pierini, Bacci and Ronca had forced him to go into the school and write that Italo had smelly feet and how he had hidden between the mattresses in the gym and how Italo had shot at him.

And as Pietro talked Flora thought about how unjust this world they lived in was.

Why do mafiosi who turn state evidence and talk get offered a new identity, a lot of guarantees and a reduced sentence, when a defenceless child gets nothing but terror and threats?

The situation Pietro found himself in was no better than that of the mafia informers and a threat from Pierini was no less dangerous than one from a Cosa Nostra boss.

When Pietro finished his tale, he raised his head and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘I didn’t want to break in. They made
me. Now I’ve told the truth. I don’t want to fail the year. If I do my father will never send me to high school.’

Flora felt a surge of affection for Pietro which took her breath away. She hugged him tightly.

She wished she could take him away with her, adopt him. She would have given anything for him to be her son, so that she could have looked after him and sent him to high school, somewhere miles away from that village of brutes and make him happy. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t fail. I swear to you. Nobody will hurt you. Look at me, Pietro.’

And Pietro directed those red-rimmed eyes at hers.

‘I’ll say it was me who put to you the names of Pierini and the other two. You just said yes. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do all that damage. Miss Gatta will give you a few days’ suspension, and so much the better. Pierini won’t think you sneaked on him. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re a clever boy, you’re doing well at school and you won’t fail the year. Do you understand? I promise.’

Pietro nodded.

‘Now go to the bathroom, wash your face and return to your class. I’ll sort it out.’

Five days’ suspension.

For Pierini. For Bacci. For Ronca. And for Moroni.

And the parents must accompany the children on their return to school and speak to the headmaster and the teachers.

So decreed Miss Gatta (and Mr Cosenza).

The technical education room was hastily repainted. The remains of the television and video recorder were thrown away. Permission was requested from the board of governors to use school funds to buy new video-didactic equipment.

Moroni had confessed. Bacci had confessed. Ronca had confessed. Pierini had confessed.

One after another they had been summoned to the headmaster’s office and had confessed.

A whole morning of confessions.

Miss Gatta had a right to feel pleased with herself.

Now there was another problem.

Telling Papa.

Gloria had given him some advice. ‘Tell your mother. Send her to talk to the teachers. And tell her not to mention it to your father. During these five days you can pretend to go to school, but in fact you’ll come over to my house. You can stay in my room and read comics. If you’re hungry you have a sandwich and if you feel like watching a film you put on a video. Easy.’

That was the great difference between the two of them.

For Gloria everything was easy.

For Pietro nothing was.

If something like this had happened to Gloria, she would have gone to her mother and her mother would have given her a cuddle and taken her shopping in Orbano to console her.

His mother wouldn’t do anything of the sort. She would burst into tears and keep asking him why.

Why did you do it? Why are you always getting into trouble?

And she wouldn’t listen to his answers. She wouldn’t be interested in whether or not it was Pietro’s fault. The only thing she would be worried about would be the fact that she had to go and talk to the teachers (it’s too much, you know I’m not well, you can’t ask that of me, Pietro) and that her son was suspended and everything else. The actual reasons would go in one ear and out the other. She wouldn’t take them in.

And finally she would whimper, ‘You know your father’s the one you must talk to about this sort of thing. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

His father’s tractor was outside the farmers’ club.

Pietro dismounted from his bike, took a deep breath and went in.

There was hardly anyone there.

Good
.

Only Gabriele, the barman, who with screwdriver and hammer in hand was taking the coffee machine apart.

His father was sitting at a table reading the paper. His black hair gleamed under the neon light. The brilliantine. Spectacles on the tip of his nose. A scowl on his face, he was following the lines of newsprint with his forefinger and muttering to himself. The news always got him riled.

He approached him in silence and when he was a metre away called out. ‘Papa …’

Mr Moroni turned. He saw him. He smiled. ‘Pietro! What are you doing here?’

‘I came …’

‘Sit down.’

Pietro obeyed.

‘Do you want an ice cream?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Crisps? What would you like?’

‘I won’t have anything, thanks.’

‘I’ve nearly finished. We’ll go home in a minute.’ He went on reading the paper.

He was in a good mood. That was promising.

Maybe
…

‘Papa, I’ve got something to tell you …’ He opened his backpack, took out a letter and handed it to him.

Mr Moroni read it. ‘What is it?’ His voice had dropped an octave.

‘I’ve been suspended … You’ve got to go and speak to the deputy head.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing much. There was a bit of trouble last night …’ And in thirty seconds he told him the story. He was fairly truthful. He
omitted the part about the graffiti, but told him about the TV and the video recorder and how the other three had forced him to go in.

When he had finished, he looked at his father.

He gave no sign of anger, but continued to stare at the letter as if it were an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

Pietro said nothing and nervously clasped his hands as he waited for an answer.

Then at last his father spoke. ‘And what do you want from me?’

‘You have to go to the school. It’s important. The deputy headmistress wants you to …’ Pietro tried to say this as if it were a formality, a matter that could be settled in a minute.

‘And what does she want from me?’

‘Nothing really … She’ll have to tell you … I don’t know. That what I did was wrong. That I did something I mustn’t do. Things like that.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

What do you mean, what’s it got to do with you?
‘Well … you are my father.’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t me who broke into the school. It wasn’t me who let a bunch of idiots push me around. What I did last night was do my work and go to bed.’ He went on reading.

The subject was closed.

Pietro tried again. ‘So you won’t go?’

Mr Moroni looked up from his paper. ‘No. I certainly will not. I’m not going to apologise for the stupid things you do. Sort it out for yourself. You’re old enough. You do stupid things and then you expect me to solve all your problems?’

‘But Papa, it’s not me who wants you to go and talk to her. It’s the deputy headmistress who wants to talk to you. If you don’t go, she’ll think …’

‘What will she think?’ snapped Mr Moroni.

The apparent calm was beginning to crumble.

That I’ve got a father who doesn’t care a shit about me, that’s
what she’ll think. That he’s crazy, someone who has problems with
the law, a drunk
. (That’s what that bitch Gianna Loria had said to him once, when they had quarrelled over a seat on the bus. Your father’s a stupid crazy drunk.)
That I’m not a normal child
like all the others who have parents who go and speak to the
teachers
.

‘I don’t know. But if you don’t go they’ll fail me. When you’re suspended your parents have to go to the school. It’s compulsory. That’s the way it works. You’ve got to go and tell them …’
That
I’m a good boy
.

‘I haven’t got to go anywhere. If they fail you, it’ll be no more than you deserve. You’ll repeat the year. Like that idiot brother of yours. And then we’ll have no more of this talk about studying and wanting to go to high school. Now be quiet. I’m tired of talking. Go away. I want to read the paper.’

‘You won’t go?’ Pietro asked again.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Leave me alone.’

But why did all the villagers say Mario Moroni was crazy, and what were these problems he’d had with the law?

It should be explained that when Mr Moroni was not working in the fields or going to the farmers’ club in Serra to rot his liver with Fernet Branca, he had a hobby.

Woodwork.

Usually he made cupboards, picture frames, little bookcases. Once he had built a small trailer incorporating the wheels of a Vespa, to hook onto the back of Mimmo’s motorbike. They used it for carrying hay to the sheep. In the storeroom he had a little workshop complete with circular saw, plane, chisels and all the other tools of the trade.

One evening Mr Moroni had seen a film about the ancient Romans on television. There was a big scene with thousands of extras. The legions were besieging a fortress with war machines.
Rams, testudos and catapults with which they hurled boulders and fireballs at the enemy ramparts.

This had made a deep impression on Mario Moroni.

Next day he had gone to the public library in Ischiano and, with the librarian’s help, found some pictures of catapults in the illustrated encyclopaedia
Knowledge
. He had had some photocopies made and taken them home. He had studied them carefully. Then he had called his sons and told them he intended to build a catapult.

Neither of them dared to ask why. Such questions were better not asked of Mr Moroni. You just did what he said and never mind the reasons.

A sound principle of the Moroni household.