The Crossroads (48 page)

So why the hell did I get myself stuck in this lousy wasteland?
Helping people who don't want to be helped. If anyone needs help,
it's me. No one asks how this poor bugger is feeling! Not even my
cousin, not so much as a phone call
…

He glanced at the motionless queue. A dozen metres away was a people carrier. At the wheel a friar. In the back he could just make out two big St Bernards, who had misted up the windows with their breath.

Beppe gazed at the friar in astonishment.

I've got to talk to him. Right away
.

He went over to the car and knocked on the window. The man started in surprise.

‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you.'

The window rolled down.

The friar had a thin face and straight white hair. An olive complexion. A pair of narrow glasses were perched on his long nose. ‘Do you need help?'

‘Yes.'

‘Problems with your car?' The huge beasts' muzzles pushed forward to see who this person was and started dribbling happily over the driver's seat.

‘Isolde! Tristan! Down!' shouted the friar and then turned back to Trecca. ‘They've been shut up in here for hours …'

‘Can I get in? I want to confess …'

The friar frowned. ‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

‘I want you to hear my confession.'

‘Here? Now?'

‘Yes, now. I beg of you …' implored the social worker. And without waiting for an answer, he jumped into the Espace.

The milky glow from the streetlamps bathed the wide stairway of the Sacred Heart hospital. The Carrion Man parked his scooter. His wrapped-round scarf and his hat left only his eyes exposed. All hunched up and limping, he entered the half-deserted entrance hall of the hospital. He saw Cristiano standing in front of the lift.

He went over to him. ‘Here I am.'

At first the boy seemed not to recognise him. But then he grabbed him by the arm: ‘What on earth's happened to you?'

The Carrion Man was about to tell him the fatuous lie he had prepared (“
I fell off my scooter
”) when he had a sudden brainwave.

He lowered his gaze. ‘They beat me up.'

Cristiano stepped backwards and clenched his fists as if he was in a boxing ring. ‘Who was it?'

‘Some boys on motorbikes blocked my path and then started kicking and punching me.'

‘When did this happen?'

‘On Sunday evening. I was on my way to Danilo's …'

‘Who was it?' An expression of hatred distorted Cristiano's features. ‘Tell me the truth. Was it Tekken?'

He's fallen for it
.

At this point the Carrion Man, like a consummate actor, nodded.

‘Why didn't you phone me?'

‘I don't know … When they went away I picked up my scooter and went home. And then I couldn't get out of bed.'

‘Why didn't you tell me when we talked on the phone?'

Quattro Formaggi shrugged.

‘You should have told me, Quattro. Tekken beat you up because you're my friend. He's got it in for me so he picked on you. That bastard's going to pay for this. I swear to God he is.' Cristiano looked at the cheek covered with a big, purple bruise: ‘Have you seen a doctor?'

The Carrion Man tried to play it down. ‘It's nothing … I'm fine.'

Cristiano touched his forehead. ‘You're boiling. You must have a temperature. You can't even stand up straight … There's an accident and emergency ward here …'

‘No! I said no. They'd lock me up somewhere. They're just dying to …'

Cristiano breathed in through his nose. ‘You're right, Quattro Formaggi. They want to put me in a home, too. Listen, I've had an idea. A great one …'

The Carrion Man wasn't listening. He had turned white and was grinding his teeth as if he wanted to crush them, and puffing his cheeks in and out. It was the third time Cristiano had called him Quattro Formaggi and it wouldn't do. Nobody must ever call him that again.

He restrained himself from grabbing him and hurling him against a glass door in the foyer, shouting: ‘Nobody! Nobody must call me that. Do you understand? Nobody!'

Instead he gave himself a couple of slaps on the forehead and with an anguished sigh managed to mutter: ‘You mustn't call me that.'

‘Eh?' Cristiano had been talking and hadn't heard. ‘What did you say?'

‘You mustn't call me that any more.'

Cristiano raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you mean? Call you what?'

The Carrion Man thumped himself twice on the leg and lowered his eyes, like a child who has done something naughty. ‘What you called me just now. You mustn't call me that any more.'

‘You mean you don't want me to call you Quattro Formaggi any more?'

‘Yes. I don't like it. Please don't do it again.'

“
So you're Quattro Formaggi
.”

Cristiano Zena seemed to hear Tekken and the others as they kicked him.

“
What a nice tasty little pizza
.”

That was why he didn't want to be called that any more.

Tekken, you bastard, I'll get you for this
.

He moved closer to Quattro Formaggi and hugged him tightly, feeling, under his cape, that he had been reduced to a trembling skeleton. And that he smelled.

He had spent all those days on his own. Suffering like a dog. Without eating. And with no one to help him.

He imagined him lying on the bed in that dump where he lived. Cristiano's throat tightened as if he had swallowed a sea urchin.

In a broken voice he said: ‘I promise. I'll never call you that again. Don't worry.'

And he heard him murmur: ‘I'm the Carrion Man.'

Cristiano stepped back and looked into his eyes. ‘What?'

‘The Carrion Man. From today that's my new name.'

It's finally happened. He's flipped
.

Rino was in a coma. Danilo was dead. And Quattro Formaggi had gone completely round the bend.

Perhaps the beating they had given him had tipped him over the edge.

‘Listen to me …' Cristiano strove to speak clearly and slowly. ‘Listen to me carefully. The two of us have got to go away from here. If we don't run away there'll be trouble. I know there will.'

‘But where can we go?'

Cristiano put his arms round Quattro Formaggi again so that he could speak in his ear. In the bar behind the glass partition a group of doctors seated at a table were laughing with the barman, who was putting a coin on his elbow and then catching it as it fell.

‘To Milan. We'll go to Milan. Listen. I've heard that a lot of people live underground in Milan. People who don't want to live with the people on the surface. There's a king and a kind of army that lives in the tunnels of the metro and decides whether you can enter. I think they put you through some tests. But you and I can pass them. Then we'll find ourselves a secret hole where we can set up home. You know, a place with a hidden entrance that only you and I know about. And we'll put beds in it and a kitchen area. And at night we'll go out and while everyone sleeps we'll find everything we need. What do you say? Do you like my idea? It's good, isn't it?'

Cristiano closed his eyes, certain that Quattro Formaggi would never go with him. He would never leave the village and his flat.

But he heard him murmur: ‘All right. Let's go.'

The Carrion Man was crying, with his arms round Cristiano.

At last someone had told him what to do. Cristiano, his friend, was there with him, and would never leave him …

Yes, they must go to Milan and live underground. And never come back. And forget everything. Ramona. The rain. The woods.

The horror of what he had done made him giddy and he felt as if the ground was crumbling under his feet. He clung to Cristiano. He wiped away his tears and mumbled: ‘What about Rino? What shall we do with Rino? Shall we leave him here?'

‘Let's go and see him.' Cristiano held out his hand. ‘Come on, I'll help you.'

The Carrion Man grasped it.

‘… But in your opinion, father, if I sent her a text message would I be breaking my vow? I wouldn't actually be seeing her …'

Beppe Trecca and the friar were parked in the layby, while alongside them the queue of traffic had finally started to flow. The rain drummed on the bodywork of the people carrier.

He had told him everything. The night. Ida. Mario. The accident. The African. The vow. The miracle. It had been a liberation.

The friar had listened to him in silence.

He spread his arms. ‘My son, what can I say … A vow is a solemn commitment that is made before God. Breaking it is a very serious matter.' He looked him straight in the eye. ‘Very serious. Everything else must take second place, whatever the cost …'

Trecca, dismayed, pushed back a St Bernard which had mistaken him for a lollipop. ‘Not even a text message, then?'

The friar shook his head. ‘God has illuminated you. He has given you the chance not to take the wrong road. You would have wrecked a family and hurt your friend. The Lord has put you back on track. You have been very fortunate. Every time you feel the temptation to break your vow you must pray, and you will find the strength to resist.'

The social worker puffed out his cheeks. ‘I have. I have prayed. But I can't help myself. She's part of me. The only possible life I see is by her side.'

The friar grabbed hold of his wrist and squeezed it tightly. ‘Now stop it, young man! Listen to me. You have been chosen by the Eternal Father. Your prayer has been answered. You have been the witness of something immense. Do you think God performs miracles every day? Forget that woman. Now you have a mission. To tell your story to others as you have just told it to me.' And then, in the grip of a sudden excitement, he began shaking his arm. ‘Now you're coming with me.'

Beppe shrank back, wide-eyed, and asked: ‘Where to, father?'

‘To Switzerland. To Saint-Oyen, and the Hospice on the Great St Bernard Pass. I must introduce you to my superiors. Do you realise how useful your story could be to the young? In this society that
has lost its faith you are like a beacon that shines in the darkness. That is the purpose of miracles – to restore hope.'

Trecca freed himself from his grip. ‘An excellent idea. Just let me go and lock my car. I'll be right back.'

Cristiano Zena and the Carrion Man knelt down beside Rino's bed. The rain beat against the thermal window panes without making a sound. Now and then a nurse came in and flitted across the room in the half-light like a ghost.

Rino, lying in the same position in which Cristiano had left him, seemed to have got a little colour back in his face, and the two purple bruises around his eyes were turning scarlet.

Quattro Formaggi (Cristiano couldn't think of him by that other stupid name) was holding Rino's hand. ‘Do you think he can hear us?'

Cristiano shrugged: ‘I don't think so … I don't know … No …' He must tell Quattro Formaggi about the woods. About Rino and Fabiana. He was the only person he could tell, the only one who would understand. He summoned up his courage. ‘Listen … There's something I've got to tell you …' But he stopped. Quattro Formaggi was staring at Rino intensely, as if communicating with him, then, without turning, he said: ‘Your father's wonderful.'

‘Why?'

Quattro Formaggi screwed up his lips. ‘Because he saved me.'

‘When?'

He started scratching his cheek. ‘He always has. Even the very first time we met in the children's home. They'd put me in a barrel and were rolling me along. And he came along and saved me. He didn't even know me.'

Cristiano in fact knew very little about the years of the children's home, when those two had first met. Rino had told him that in those days Quattro Formaggi hadn't had his tics and his lame leg, he had just been a little odd.

‘He helped me later, too, when I was electrocuted down by the
river … When I came out of hospital I walked on crutches. And he used to drive me around. One day he took me to a bit of waste land, where the Opel accessories outlet now is, and he took away my crutches and said that if I wanted to get home I would have to walk there without any crutches. And that if I couldn't do that I would have to crawl on my hands and knees, that he was fed up with helping me, that I could walk perfectly well and that the problems were only in my rotten head.'

‘And then?'

‘Then he got in his car and drove off and left me there.'

‘And what happened?'

‘I lay there in the middle of the field for a long time. Some high tension wires passed over my head, very high up, and I could hear the sound of the electricity flowing fast. And those cables, when you looked at them from the ground, one beside the other, were like the strings of a guitar. Luckily I had a couple of Kinder Buenos with me. I ate them. Then, while I was there, on the ground, I saw a black figure, with a hunched back, standing among the ears of wheat. It was a monster. It stood quite still and looked at me. It wore a kind of long black suit and its face was like that of a rook. With a black beak, and wings here,' he pointed to his shoulders. ‘It didn't do anything to me. But it looked at me with those evil little eyes. And it had arms with very long sleeves that reached down to the ground. Then it came closer and there were the ends of crutches sticking out of its sleeves, with those plastic tips that stop you slipping.' He paused for breath. ‘It was death.'

Cristiano had kept silent throughout his tale, but couldn't help asking: ‘Was it papa playing a trick on you?'

‘No. It was death. It was waiting for me to die. But I closed my eyes and then when I opened them again it wasn't there any more. So I got to my feet and started walking. I said to my legs: “Walk! Walk!” and they walked. And there in front of me was your father smoking a cigarette on the bonnet of the Renault 5. And I turned round and death wasn't there any more.'