On Earth as It Is in Heaven (7 page)
There was no point in answering him.
The Italian heavyweight title.
The goal had been established.
The first match in the legendary series of twenty-one consecutive knockouts by the boxer-trainer duo of Umbertino and
Il Negro
was in the summer of 1946. The last one came in December 1949. Between those two dates were a series of unofficial fights, all of which ended with the opponent flat on his back on the mat.
They lived together, in the Vuccirìa, in Piazza Garraffello. They illegally occupied the upper floor of the still-intact wing of a palazzo that had been hit by bombs. They had set up a dignified little apartment there: two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small terrace where they could bring women. With the prize money from the fights, they managed to get by.
They started talking about whether it would be a good idea to start a boxing gym together.
“There's not a fucking thing in Palermo, what do you say, Maestro?”
Il Negro
bought material to construct heavy bags, weightlifting equipment, jump ropes. Umbertino spent his money on women. They never had a disagreement about money. In the world of boxing, more and more, people were talking about them.
“Have you ever been anywhere outside of Palermo, Umberto?”
“Once I went to Cefalù, Maestro.”
“Get ready to travel, we're going to Bologna.”
“Where's that?”
“In Italy.”
“To do what?”
“To knock everyone we meet unconscious.”
Il Negro
had enrolled him in a tournament.
The climb to the title was under way.
Umbertino didn't keep his newspaper clippings, his plaques, the trophies that proclaimed him the king of Italian heavyweights. He threw everything away the day he bought his boxing gym.
“I never needed tokens of recognition from other people. All I've ever needed to do is lock eyes with anybody who was around back then.”
“What happens?”
“They still get out of my way.”
When Umbertino came home on one of the last days of December 1949 he found
Il Negro
stinking drunk. He always swore to me that he never knew why that age-old despair resurfaced in his maestro. He wondered about it in the years that followed, but he never could come up with a plausible explanation. On the far side of the kitchen, there was a sizable crack in the wall.
Il Negro
had simply unleashed his fists on the wall. The backs of his hands were covered with blood, all his fingers were torn and scraped. Umbertino crouched down next to him. The smell of alcohol was pungent. They were just two bouts short of the national heavyweight title.
“Maestro, what happened?”
Il Negro
held his face between his ravaged hands. He uttered only one short sentence to his pupil.
“Are you training to become a man?”
He didn't bother to wait for the answer.
He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a scrap of paper.
On it was written: “Have you become the man you dreamed of being? What gives you balance? Is it fame? Strength? Power? Sailing a boat? Drinking chilled wine when the sirocco is blowing? The smell of fried eggplant? Do you have what you want? Do you have a hand that will caress your back when you need it? Then why didn't you pursue this idea of peace? Why haven't you practiced to summon those long afternoons filled with the chirping of crickets and the voices of your children?”
Il Negro
vanished from Palermo on the last day of that year, 1949.
A dozen people swore that they saw him on the Santa Lucia wharf boarding a ship for Genoa. Umbertino tried for years to find out what had happened to him, without success.
Il Negro
managed to cover his tracks. As he appeared, so he vanished: a flutter of wings and he was gone.
“Your mother is right, and I don't want to hear another word about it.”
“But Uncle, you actually left him lying on the pavement.”
“The cops were coming, I gave him my handkerchief to stop the blood, and anyway he's your friend.”
“He's not my friend.”
“You're the one who knows him, now shut up because you're starting to annoy me.”
My uncle was driving with a new caution, the risk of more shootouts was ever present. With every car that went by, his eyes busily inspected the landscape. Surveying the field of battle.
“Uncle, I don't want to go to the hospital to see Gerruso.”
“What do you think, I'm overjoyed to have to drive you there? The truth is that women should stay at home instead of going to work, the way your mother does. Because she's never home, I have to bear the cross of going with you to the hospital.”
“But Uncle, Gerruso is such a loser, they didn't even take him to Mamma's hospital. I don't want to go visit someone who's missing a piece of his finger. That's time I'll lose and never get back.”
“What do you know about loss?”
“I'm nine years old, I know things, believe me.”
I knew that you lose the things you possess. You lose your string, your patience, your finger bone, the time you waste, the afternoons you spend sitting in traffic, the coins you drop into a pay phone, your pencil sharpener, the buttons off your shirt, the words on the tip of your tongue.
“Davidù, look at how handsome this hand is, look at how big and strong it is. You know what keeps it on the steering wheel? Patience. That's what. And if I lose my patience, you know where this hand will wind up? You understand, angel face? Wait a minute, let's stop here for a minute, this coffee shop makes great espresso.”
He double-parked the dark blue Fiat 126, walked into the café, and stepped up to the counter.
“Hey, I'd like a nice hot espresso the way you know how to make 'em, and a glass of sparkling water for my nephew.”
A trio of well-dressed gentlemen came into the bar. They were loudly discussing the killing that had taken place three hours earlier in the Sperone district: an ex-convict found dead with a third eye in his forehead. They talked about symbols: if the murdered man has his testicles in his mouth it means he started up some trouble with the wrong woman; feet encased in a block of cement and then a plunge into the sea is the fate reserved for those who pocket the mob's money; a dead man with a fish in his mouth is someone who talked too much. They were about to explore the significance of the corpse dissolved in acid, when the tallest of the three turned to the barman and, in a jocular tone, gave his order.
“
Buon giorno
, could you make us three manly espressos, black, no sugar?”
Umbertino immediately swiveled his head around, staring intently at the trio of new arrivals. Once the discomfort had ripened fully, he deigned to address them.
“You know, maybe I misunderstood, but did you just call me a woman?”
The three citizens were more surprised than baffled.
“Is something bothering you?”
“Ah, so now you decide to pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about?”
“What
are
you talking about?”
Everyone in the café stopped to watch the scene unfold. No one was good-hearted enough to meddle.
My uncle turned to confront the trio, turning his back to the barman. He spoke in a low voice, forcing everyone to turn their ears in his direction.
“So let me get this straight. I'm here in the café, minding my own business with my nephew, drinking an espresso in goddamned peace, when you three come in and accuse me in front of everyone of being a total woman.”
“What on earth?”
“Now you're taking back what you just said a minute ago?”
The barman, the cashier, the customers, me: we were all wondering just what Umbertino was driving at. My uncle sensed that the eyes of everyone in the café were on him. There's always a ring, there's always an audience.
The three men were uneasy. Their feet were shuffling and wouldn't stay still.
“Believe me, nobody here would have dared to say . . .”
Umbertino rose up on tiptoes. Maybe it was an involuntary reflex, or perhaps an intentional pose to heighten the drama.
“Oh, no? But when you walk into a café and order âthree manly espressos, black, no sugar,' what are you trying to say, eh?”
“But . . .”
Umbertino luxuriated in that growing doubt, the rising anxiety, the sense of danger that was ripening.
“Ah, now you're acting as if you don't know what I'm talking about. Then let me spell it out for you. For people like you, anyone who drinks their coffee with sugar is a total woman because you three, real macho men, you're citizens who take your coffee bitter, look how strong you are, the flavor nice and pure, and sugar is something strictly for women, so that means that I, who was sitting here drinking my nice hot espresso with sugar, you're telling me in front of my nephew that I'm just a woman.”
The customers murmured, considered, and after thinking it over, decided that he was right.
The three new arrivals, demonstrating an impeccable ability to assume a defensive crouch, immediately sensed the sudden change in the wind.
“Listen, I beg your pardon, I certainly meant no offense, I shouldn't have spoken, entirely my fault.”
Umbertino's face changed expression. One mask fell away, another fell into place.
“Then it was nothing at all! Everything's been cleared up! Let's all drink another cup of coffee together and we're friends like before! Oh, obviously, your treat.”
The trio accepted eagerly. They even thanked him.
We left the café without paying.
“Did you understand?”
“What, Uncle?”
“What do you mean, what? Shit, I taught you a lesson.”
“About what?”
“About losing. About how to lose all personal dignity in thirty seconds. It's a good thing that I'm here to explain life to you.”
“Uncle, can I ask you a question?”
“Be my guest.”
“Since when do you take your espresso with sugar?”
“Coffee with sugar, me? Have you lost your mind? Coffee with sugar is disgusting, you can't drink it, shit, that's a drink for women.”
“Then why?”
“I forgot my wallet at home, Davidù, would you believe such a thing? Absurd, isn't it? But listen, why don't you tell me what you think of your time at the gym.”
“Uncle, it's only been three days.”
“Well, tell me what you're thinking anyway.”
The ward where Gerruso had been admitted was disgusting, full of sick people.
“Five minutes, then we'll get out of here in a hurry, because I'm already fed up with this place,” said my uncle.
He told me he'd wait for me in the hallway, that just going in turned his stomach. And how could you disagree with him? Gerruso's hospital room, aside from Gerruso, was empty. Even the other patients were avoiding him. Even his relatives. Better that way. I didn't want anyone to know I'd come to visit him.
“Davidù! My friend.”
“We ain't friends.”
“You came to see me!”
“Don't get any funny ideas, my mother made me come. But listen, did they stitch the piece of finger back on?”
“No.”
“Then you're just a stump-finger! Serves you right, you idiot.”
“You're right.”
“I know I am. Well, I came to see you, I've done my bit, ciao.”
“Ciao.”
In the hallway, Umbertino was leaning on the wall. His elbow was held high, his feet were crossed, his eyes were staring into the eyes of a chesty nurse.
“Uncle, we can go.”
“Davidù, what's your hurry?”
He was telling her a heartbreaking story of friendship and severed fingers, of gunshots and a desire to come see the wounded boy, of a deeply moved uncle and a dark blue Fiat 126 hurtling at dangerous speed through dense traffic in order to bring a beloved nephew to the bedside of an unfortunate friend. Lowering his voice, his lips trembling, he confessed to herâ“Oh, by the way, what's your name? Ester? What a pretty name that is”âthat at the sight of all that friendship his sensitive heart had cracked down the middle: “Right here, go ahead, you can touch.” He took her hand in his and guided it to that triumph of sculpted musculature that was his torso. Nurse Ester inadvertently let an admiring “Oh” escape her lips.
Because of him, I was stuck in the hospital for another twenty minutes with Gerruso.
“You came back! My friend!”
“Gerruso, you say that again I'll club you to death. We ain't friends.”
“Still, you came back!”
“Blame that on my uncle.”
“Your uncle is nice to me.”
“Sure, he's so worried about you, no doubt.”
“Why are you shutting the door?”
“I don't want anyone to see me talking to you, stump-finger. Anyway, I'm not going to talk to you at all.”
“I heard that you decked Pullara.”
“Who told you that?”