Steal You Away (37 page)

Those two.

He, a great beanpole of a man, dressed in loden and Clarks, with a grey goatee beard and tufts of hair plastered down over his forehead and those thin lips that looked as if he had just smeared them with lip balm.

She, a dumpy little woman, with embroidered stockings and lace-up shoes and those inch-thick glasses and that gossamer-thin hair pulled back so hard from the temples that it seemed as if the skin of her forehead would sooner or later split like the covering of a worn-out armchair.

Those two who had appeared after the trouble with the catapult, Poppi, the Contarellos’ roof and the court.

Those smiling two who had called him into the staff room while his classmates were having their break and had sat him down on
a chair and offered him liquorice sweets which he loathed and some stupid Mickey Mouse comics.

Those two who asked a lot of questions.

Are you happy in your class? Do you like school? Do you enjoy yourself? Do you have any friends? What do you do after school? Do you play with your father? Do you play with your mother? Is your mother sad? How do you get on with your brother? Does your father get cross with you? Does he quarrel with your mother? Does he love her? Does he kiss you at night before you go to bed? Does he like drinking wine? Does he help you undress? Does he do anything strange? Does your brother sleep in the same room as you? Do you have fun together?

Those two.

Those two who wanted to take him away. To an institution.

Pietro knew. Mimmo had explained it to him. ‘
Watch out, or they’ll
take you away and put you in an institution with the spastics and
the junkies’ kids
.’ And Pietro had said that his was the best family in the world and that in the evenings they all played cards together and watched films on TV and on Sundays they went for walks in the woods and there was Zagor too and Mama was kind and Papa was kind and didn’t drink and his brother took him for rides on his motorbike and that he was old enough to dress and wash on his own (
why the hell do they want to know about those things?
).

It had been easy to answer. While he was talking he had thought about the little house on the prairie.

They had gone away.

Those two.

Gloria had called at eight o’clock in the morning and told Pietro that if he wasn’t going to school she wouldn’t either. Out of solidarity.

Gloria’s parents were away. They would spend the morning together and think up some way of persuading Mr Moroni to go to the school.

Pietro had got out his bike and set off for the Celanis’ villa. Zagor had escorted him for a kilometre and then gone back home.
Pietro had turned onto the Ischiano road and the sun was out and the air was warm and after all that rain it was a real pleasure to pedal slowly along with the rays warming your back.

But suddenly, without any warning, a red Ciao had materialised behind him.

And Pietro had started to pedal for all he was worth.

Sitting in the armchair in the living room, Flora watched Graziano as he slept.

His lips were apart. A dribble of saliva ran down from the corner of his mouth. He was snoring softly. The cushion had stamped red lines on his forehead.

How strange. In less than twenty-four hours her attitude towards Graziano had been turned on its head. The day before, when she had met him at the Station Bar and he had come over to speak to her, she had found him insignificant and vulgar. Now, the more she looked at him the handsomer he seemed, more attractive than any man she had ever met before.

Graziano opened his eyes and smiled.

Flora smiled back. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘All right, I think. I’m not quite sure.’ Graziano felt the back of his head. ‘I’ve got a nice big bump. What are you doing there in the dark?’

‘I made you some breakfast. But it’ll be cold by now.’

Graziano stretched out his hand towards her. ‘Come here.’

Flora laid the tray on the floor and approached him shyly.

‘Sit down.’ He made room for her on the sofa. Flora sat down primly. He took her hand. ‘Well?’

Flora smiled faintly. (
Tell him
.)

‘Well?’ Graziano repeated.

‘Well what?’ Flora murmured, squeezing his hand.

‘Are you happy?’

‘Yes …’ (
Tell him
.)

‘I like you with your hair down … It suits you much better. Why don’t you always wear it like that?’

Graziano, I’ve got to talk to you
… ‘I don’t know.’

‘What’s the matter? You seem strange …’

‘Nothing …’
Graziano, we can’t see each other any more. I’m
sorry
. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘A bit. We didn’t have much to eat last night in the end. I could do with something …’

Flora got up, took the tray and went towards the kitchen.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To warm your coffee.’

‘No. I’ll drink it as it is.’ Graziano pulled himself up into a sitting position and stretched.

Flora poured out the coffee and milk and watched him drink and dunk the biscuits and realised that she loved him.

That night, unknown to her, a dam inside her had burst. And the affection that been compressed for so long in some obscure part of her being had gushed out and flooded her heart, her mind, everything.

She felt breathless and a lump was rising slowly but surely up her throat.

He finished eating. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Oh God, I must be going. My mother will be worried sick,’ he said anxiously, and he hurriedly dressed and pulled on his boots.

Flora, on the sofa, watched him in silence.

Graziano checked his appearance in the mirror and shook his head disapprovingly. ‘I look a mess, I must have a shower straight away.’ He put on his coat.

He’s going
.

All the things Flora had thought in the car were true, then, and there was nothing more to say, nothing more to explain, because now he was leaving, and it was normal and right that he should, he had got what he had wanted and there was nothing to discuss, nothing to add and thank you and goodbye and it was terrible, no, it was better, much better this way.

Go. It’s better if you just go
.

He was flying along, was that Dickhead.

He had stamina, no doubt about it. But it was wasted effort. Sooner or later he would have to stop.

Where do you think you can run to?

Dickhead had sneaked and must be punished. Pierini had warned him, but he hadn’t listened, he’d gone ahead and squealed and now he must suffer the dire consequences.

Simple
.

Actually Pierini wasn’t so sure it had been Moroni who had sneaked. It might well have been that cow Palmieri. But it didn’t make any difference. Moroni needed to be helped to behave properly in future. It must be impressed upon him that Federico Pierini’s words were to be taken seriously, very seriously.

He would deal with Miss Palmieri later. At his leisure.

I’m afraid the future looks bleak for your nice shiny Y10, Miss
.

‘He’s slowing down … He can’t go on. He’s burnt out,’ shouted Flame excitedly.

‘Move alongside. I’ll give him a kick and bring him down.’

Flora was so cold. Like a different person. She must have swallowed a block of ice for breakfast. Graziano had the distinct impression that she didn’t want him around. That the affair was over.

I made too much of a mess of things last night
.

So he would have to leave.

But he continued to wander round the living room.

Hell, I’m going to ask her. The worst she can do is say no. I’ve
got nothing to lose
.

He sat down next to Flora, leaving a little space between them, looked at her and brushed her lips with a kiss. ‘Okay, I’m off, then.’

‘Okay.’

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye.’

But instead of going to the door and leaving, he nervously lit another cigarette and started pacing up and down like an expectant father. Suddenly he stopped, in the middle of the room, plucked up courage and said: ‘I don’t suppose I could see you this evening?’

I can’t go on
.

Pietro saw them coming out of the corner of his eye. They were ten metres away.

Now I’m going to stop, turn round and set off again
.

It was a daft idea. But he couldn’t think of a better one.

Shreds of heart kept contracting in his chest. The fire in his lungs had spread to his throat and was tearing at his pharynx.

I can’t go on, I can’t go on
.

‘Dickhead, pull over!’ Pierini shouted.

Here they come
.

On the left. Three metres behind.

What if I cut across the fields?

Wrong again.

There was a deep ditch on either side of the road and even if he’d had ET’s bike he couldn’t have jumped over them. He would have crashed down into the ditch.

Pietro saw Fausto Coppi pedalling along beside him and shaking his head disapprovingly.

What’s the matter?

(
You’re not thinking right. It works like this: you’re faster than
that clapped-out Ciao. They can only catch up with you if you
slow down. But if you accelerate, if you gain ten metres and
don’t slow down again, they’ll never catch you
.)

‘Dickhead, I only want to talk to you. I won’t hurt you, I swear to God I won’t. I want to explain something to you.’

(
But if you accelerate, if you gain ten metres and don’t slow
down again, they’ll never catch you
.)

He saw Flame’s face. A horrible sight. He was twisting his mouth into a smirk that was meant to be a smile.

I’m going to brake
.

(
If you brake, you’ve had it
.)

Flame stuck out a long leg which terminated in an army boot.

They want to knock me off my bike
.

Coppi continued to shake his head in exasperation. (
You’re
thinking like a loser. If I’d thought the way you do I’d never have
become the greatest and I’d probably have been killed. When I
was your age I was the butcher’s boy and all the villagers used
to make fun of me and call me a hunchback and say I looked
ridiculous on that bike which was so big my feet didn’t touch the
ground, but one day, it was wartime and I was taking some steaks
to the hungry partisans who were hiding in a farmhouse in the
country
…)

Pietro was knocked violently to the left by a kick from Flame. He threw all his weight to the right and managed to straighten up again. He started pedalling again as fast as he could.

(…
and two Nazis with their motorbike and sidecar, which is
much faster than a Ciao, came after me and I started pedalling as
hard as I could and the Germans behind were just about to catch
me but suddenly I started pedalling faster and faster and the
Germans were left behind and Fausto Coppi and Fausto Coppi
and Fausto Coppi
…)

Pierini was incredulous. ‘He’s pulling away … Look, he’s pulling away … Look at that! Shit! You and your crappy little Ciao.’

Dickhead had become as one with his bike and, as if a ghost had stuck a rocket up his arse, had begun to accelerate.

Pierini started thumping Flame in the ribs and shouting in his ear: ‘Stop! Stop, damn it! Let me get off.’

The scooter slowed down, swerving with a squeal of brakes and tyres. When it was stationary, Pierini dismounted. ‘Get off.’

Flame looked at him, puzzled.

‘Don’t you see? The two of us will never catch him. Get off, quick!’

‘But what …’ Flame tried to object, but then he saw his friend’s face distorted with rage and understood that it was better to obey.

Pierini jumped on the scooter, twisted the throttle and zoomed off with his head down, shouting: ‘Wait for me here. I’ll get him and then come back for you.’

The Aurelia was a continuous stream of cars and trucks streaking along in both directions. And it was two hundred metres away.

Pietro kept pedalling and looked back, gasping and inhaling the fiery air.

He had pulled away from them, but only a little. They must have stopped.

Here they come again
.

He was done for.

Do something then, think of something
…

But what? What the hell could he do?

Then he had an idea. An idea which was in some ways great and heroic. An idea which wasn’t exactly the most brilliant idea that anyone has ever had, and which Gloria and Mimmo and Fausto Coppi (by the way, where had Fausto Coppi got to? Didn’t he have any more advice to dispense?) and any other person with a modicum of sense would have strongly advised him against, but which at that moment seemed the only chance of salvation or maybe of …

Don’t think about it
.

This is what Pietro did.

Quite simply, he didn’t slow down, on the contrary, using what little strength he had left, he trod even harder on the pedals and
hurled himself like a blind fury towards the Aurelia, with the insane intention of crossing it.

Dickhead had flipped. He was going to kill himself.

Good thinking
. Federico Pierini had no objections.

Moroni must have come to the conclusion that for a pillock like him the only sensible course of action was to end it all.

Pierini pulled up and started applauding enthusiastically. ‘Great! Attaboy! Go for it!’

They’d scoop him off the asphalt with a coffee spoon.

One piece here, another piece there. What about the head? Where’s that head got to? Anyone seen the right foot?

‘Get yourself killed! That’s the way! Bravo!’ he shouted, continuing to clap his hands happily.

It’s always nice to watch a guy killing himself because he’s scared of you.

Pietro didn’t slow down. He just narrowed his eyes and bit his lip.

If he was killed it would mean his number was up, and if he was destined to live he would pass unscathed between the cars.