I'm Not Scared Page 2

  We gazed at it in silence.

  Now that was an adventure, damn Melichetti’s pigs.

  ‘And we’ll put our flag on the summit. So if anyone climbs up there, they’ll know we got there first,’ I said.

  ‘What flag? We haven’t got a flag,’ said Salvatore.

  ‘We’ll use the hen.’

  Skull grabbed the bag with the bird in it and whirled it round in the air. ‘Right! We’ll wring its neck, then we’ll put a stick up its arse and fix it in the ground. The skeleton will be left there. I’ll carry it up.’

  An impaled hen might be taken as a sign of witchcraft.

  But Skull pulled out his ace. ‘Straight up the hill. No curves. No following each other. No stopping. Last one there pays a forfeit.’

  We were speechless.

  A race! Why?

  It was obvious. To get his own back on Barbara. She would come last and would have to pay.

  I thought of my sister. I said she was too small to race and it wasn’t fair, she would lose.

  Barbara gestured no with her finger. She had twigged the little surprise Skull was planning for her.

  ‘So what? A race is a race. She came with us. Otherwise she has to wait for us down here.’

  That wasn’t on. I couldn’t leave Maria. The crocodile story kept going round and round in my head. Melichetti had been kind, but it didn’t do to be too trusting. If he killed her, what was I going to tell mama?

  ‘If my sister stays behind, I stay behind.’

  Maria piped up. ‘I’m not small! I want to race.’

  ‘You shut up!’

  Skull settled it. She could come, but she wouldn’t be in the race.

  We dumped our bikes behind the drinking trough and set off.

  That was why I was up on that hill.

  I put Maria’s trainer back on.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘No. It hurts too much.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I blew twice on her leg. Then I dug my hands in the hot earth. I picked up a small amount, spat on it and spread it on her ankle. ‘That’ll make it better.’ I knew it wouldn’t work. Earth was good for bee stings and nettles, not twisted ankles, but Maria might fall for it. ‘Is that better?’

  She wiped her nose with her arm. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I took her hand. ‘Let’s get going then. Come on, we’re last.’

  We set off towards the top. Every five minutes Maria had to sit down to rest her leg. Luckily a bit of wind had got up, which improved things. It rustled in the wheat, making a noise that sounded like breathing. Once I thought I saw an animal pass by us. Black, swift, silent. A wolf? There weren’t any wolves in our area. Maybe a fox or a dog.

  The climb was steep and never-ending. All I had in front of my eyes was wheat, but when I started to see a slice of sky I understood that it wasn’t far now, the top was there, and without even realizing it we were standing on the summit.

  There was absolutely nothing special about it. It was covered with wheat like all the rest. Under our feet was the same red, baked earth. Above our heads the same blazing sun.

  I looked at the horizon. A milky haze veiled things. You couldn’t see the sea. But you could see the other, lower hills, and Melichetti’s farm with its pigsties and the gravina, and you could see the white road cutting across the fields, that long road we had cycled down to get there. And, tiny in the distance, you could see the hamlet where we lived. Acqua Traverse. Four little houses and an old country villa lost in the wheat. Lucignano, the neighbouring village, was hidden by the mist.

  My sister said: ‘I want to look too. Let me look.’

  I lifted her on my shoulders, though I was so tired I could hardly stand. Who knows what she saw without her glasses.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  Where they had passed, the regularity of the ears of wheat had gone, many stalks were bent in half and some were broken. We followed the tracks that led towards the other side of the hill.

  Maria squeezed my hand and dug her nails into my skin.

  ‘Ugh! How horrible!’

  I turned.

  They had done it. They had impaled the hen. It was there on top of a stick. Legs dangling, wings outspread. As if, before yielding up its soul to the Creator, it had abandoned itself to its executioners. Its head hung on one side like a ghastly blood-soaked pendant. Heavy red drops dripped from the parted beak. And the end of the stick emerged from the breast. A swarm of metallized flies buzzed around it and clustered on the eyes, on the blood.

  A shiver ran up my back.

  We went on and after crossing the backbone of the hill we began to descend.

  Where on earth had the others got to? Why had they gone down that way?

  We walked another twenty metres and found out.

  The hill wasn’t round. Behind, it lost its faultless perfection. It lengthened out into a kind of hump that wound its way gently down till it joined the plain. In the middle there was a narrow, enclosed valley, invisible except from up there or from an aeroplane.

  It would be easy to make a clay model of that hill. Just form a ball. Cut it in half. Place one half on the table. Make the other into a sausage, a sort of fat worm, and stick it on behind, leaving a little hollow in the middle.

  The strange thing was that inside that concealed hollow some trees had grown. Sheltered from the wind and sun there was a little oak wood. And an abandoned house, with a ramshackle roof, brown tiles and dark beams, stood out among the green foliage.

  We went down the path and entered the valley.

  It was the last thing I would have expected. Trees. Shade. Cool.

  You couldn’t hear the crickets any more, only the twittering of birds. There were purple cyclamen. And carpets of green ivy. And a pleasant smell. It made you feel like finding yourself a cosy little spot by a tree trunk and having a nap.

  Salvatore appeared suddenly, like a ghost. ‘What do you think of this place then? Isn’t it great?’

  ‘Fantastic!’ I replied, looking around. Maybe there was a stream to drink from.

  ‘What took you so long? I thought you’d gone back down.’

  ‘No, my sister’s foot was hurting, so … I’m thirsty, I need a drink.’

  Salvatore took a bottle out of his rucksack. ‘There’s not much left.’

  Maria and I went halves. It was barely enough to wet our lips.

  ‘Who won the race?’ I was worried about the forfeit. I was worn out. I hoped Skull, for once, might let me off or postpone it to another day.

  ‘Skull.’

  ‘Where did you come?’

  ‘Second. Remo was third.’

  ‘What about Barbara?’

  ‘Last.’

  ‘Who’s got to do the forfeit?’

  ‘Skull says Barbara’s got to do it. But Barbara says you’ve got to do it because you came last.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know, I went off for a walk. I’m fed up with all these forfeits.’

  We started walking towards the farmhouse.

  It was a really tumbledown place. It stood in the middle of a clearing covered by the branches of the oaks. Deep cracks ran up from the foundations to the roof. All that was left of the window-panes was a few shards. A fig tree, all tangled, had overgrown the stairway that led up to the balcony. The roots had dismantled the stone steps and brought down the parapet. At the top there was still an old light-blue door, rotten to the core and peeled by the sun. In the middle of the building a big arch opened on to a room with a vaulted ceiling. A cowshed. Rusty props and wooden poles supported the upper floor, which in many places had fallen through. The ground was littered with dried-up dung, ash, and heaps of broken tiles and brick. The walls had lost most of their plaster and showed the dry stonework behind.

  Skull was sitting on a water tank. He was throwing stones at a rusty drum and watching us. ‘You made it.’ And he added pointedly: ‘This place is mine.’
r />   ‘What do you mean it’s yours?’

  ‘I saw it first. Finders keepers.’

  I was pushed forward and nearly fell flat on my face. I turned round.

  Barbara, with red face, dirty T-shirt and ruffled hair, came at me, spoiling for a punch-up. ‘You’ve got to do it. You came last. You lost!’

  I put up my fists. ‘I went back. Otherwise I’d have been third. You know that.’

  ‘So what? You lost!’

  ‘Who’s got to do the forfeit?’ I asked Skull. ‘Me or her?’

  He took his time before answering, then pointed at Barbara.

  ‘See? See?’ I loved Skull.

  Barbara started kicking at the dust. ‘It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Always me! Why’s it always me?’

  I didn’t know why. But even then I knew that someone always gets all the bad luck. During those days it was Barbara Mura, the fat girl, she was the lamb that took away the sins.

  I was sorry, but I was glad I wasn’t in her shoes.

  Barbara stomped round among us like a rhinoceros.

  ‘Let’s vote on it, then! He can’t decide everything.’

  Even after twenty-two years I still don’t understand how she put up with us. It must have been the fear of being left on her own.

  ‘All right. Let’s vote on it,’ Skull conceded. ‘I say it’s you.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said.

  ‘So do I,’ parroted Maria.

  We looked at Salvatore. No one could abstain when there was a vote. That was the rule.

  ‘So do I,’ said Salvatore, almost in a whisper.

  ‘See? Five-one. You’ve lost. You do it,’ Skull concluded.

  Barbara tightened her lips and her fists. I saw her swallow a lump the size of a tennis ball. She dropped her head, but she didn’t cry.

  I respected her.

  ‘What … do I have to do?’ she stammered.

  Skull rubbed his throat. His sadistic mind got to work.

  He wavered for a moment. ‘You’ve got to … show it to us … You’ve got to show it to all of us.’

  Barbara swayed. ‘What have I got to show to you?’

  ‘Last time you showed us your tits.’ And turning to us: ‘This time you’re going to show us your slit. Your hairy slit. You pull down your knickers and you show it to us.’ He burst into raucous laughter, expecting that we would do the same, but we didn’t. We froze, as if a wind from the north pole had suddenly blown into the valley.

  The forfeit was too harsh. None of us wanted to see Barbara’s slit. It was a punishment for us as well. My stomach tightened. I wished I was far away. There was something dirty, something … I don’t know. Something nasty, that’s all. And I didn’t like my sister being there.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Barbara shaking her head. ‘I don’t care if you hit me.’

  Skull got up and strolled towards her with his hands in his pockets. Between his teeth he had an ear of wheat.

  He stood in front of her. He craned his neck. He wasn’t all that much taller than Barbara. Or stronger. I wasn’t so sure he would beat her all that easily if they had a fight. If Barbara threw him on the ground and jumped on him she might even smother him.

  ‘You lost. Now pull down your trousers. That’ll teach you to fuck me around.’

  ‘No!’

  Skull slapped her across the face.

  Barbara opened her mouth like a trout and rubbed her cheek. She still wasn’t crying. She turned towards us.

  ‘Haven’t you lot got anything to say?’ she whimpered. ‘You’re just as bad as him!’

  We remained silent.

  ‘All right then. But you’ll never see me again. I swear it on my mother’s head.’

  ‘What’s the matter, are you crying?’ Skull was revelling in it.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she managed to say, suppressing her sobs.

  She was wearing green cotton trousers with brown patches on the knees, the sort you could buy at the flea market. They were too tight for her and her flab bulged out over the belt. She opened the buckle and started to undo her buttons.

  I caught a glimpse of white knickers with little yellow flowers. ‘Wait! I came last,’ I heard my voice saying.

  Everyone turned.

  ‘Yes,’ I gulped. ‘I want to do it.’

  ‘What?’ Remo asked me.

  ‘The forfeit.’

  ‘No. She’s got to,’ Skull snapped at me. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Shut up.’

  ‘Yes it is. I came last. I’ve got to do it.’

  ‘No. I decide.’ Skull came towards me.

  My legs were shaking, but I hoped nobody would notice. ‘Let’s have another vote.’

  Salvatore got between me and Skull. ‘Second votes are allowed.’

  We had certain rules and one of them was that second votes were allowed.

  I raised my hand. ‘I do the forfeit.’

  Salvatore put up his hand. ‘Michele does it.’

  Barbara fastened her belt and sobbed. ‘He does it. It’s only fair.’

  Skull was caught by surprise, he stared at Remo with his mad eyes. ‘What do you say?’

  Remo sighed: ‘Barbara does it.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ asked Maria.

  I nodded to her.

  ‘My brother does it.’

  And Salvatore said: ‘Four-two. Michele’s won. He does it.’

  Getting up to the first floor of the house wasn’t easy.

  The stairway no longer existed. The steps had been reduced to a heap of stone blocks. I was working my way up by holding onto the branches of the fig tree. The brambles scratched my arms and legs. One thorn had grazed my right cheek.

  Walking up the parapet was out of the question. If it had given way I would have fallen into a mass of nettles and briars.

  This was the forfeit I had landed myself with by playing the hero.

  ‘You’ve got to climb up to the first floor. Get in. Go right across the house, jump out of the end window onto the tree and climb down.’

  I had been afraid Skull would make me show my dick or poke a stick up my arse, but instead he had chosen to make me do something dangerous, where the worst that could happen was that I might get hurt.

  That was something, anyway.

  I gritted my teeth and went on without complaining. The others were sitting under an oak enjoying the spectacle of Michele Amitrano risking his neck.

  Every now and then a bit of advice arrived: ‘Go that way.’ ‘You’ve got to keep straight on, it’s full of brambles round there.’ ‘Eat a blackberry, it’ll do you good.’

  I took no notice.

  I was up on the balcony. There was a narrow space between the brambles and the wall. I squeezed through and got to the doorway. It was fastened with a chain but the padlock was eaten away by rust and had come open. I pushed one flap and with a metallic groan the doors gave way.

  A great fluttering of wings. Feathers. A flock of pigeons took off and flew out through a hole in the roof.

  ‘What’s it like? What’s it like inside?’ I heard Skull ask.

  I didn’t bother to reply. I went in, watching where I put my feet.

  I was in a big room. A lot of roof tiles had fallen off and a beam was hanging down in the middle. In one corner there was a fireplace with a pyramid-shaped hood that was blackened by smoke. In another corner some furniture was piled up. An overturned rusty cooker. Bottles. Bits of crockery. Roof tiles. A broken bedspring. Everything was covered in pigeon shit. And there was a strong smell, an acrid stench that got right into your nose and throat. A forest of wild plants and weeds had sprung up through the tiled floor. At the other end of the room was a closed red door which no doubt led to the other rooms of the house.

  That was the way I had to go.

  I put one foot down, under my soles the beams creaked and the floor lurched. At the time I weighed about thirty-five kilos. About as much as a tank of water. I wondered if a tank of water, placed in the middle of that room, would bring the f
loor down. I didn’t think I’d try it.

  To reach the next door it was more prudent to keep right against the walls. Holding my breath, on tiptoe like a ballerina, I followed the perimeter of the room. If the floor gave way I would fall into the cowshed, after a drop of at least four metres. I could easily break a few bones.

  But it didn’t happen.

  In the next room, which was about the same size as the kitchen, the floor had completely gone. At the sides it had collapsed and only a sort of bridge now connected my door to the one on the other side. Of the six beams that had supported the floor only the two middle ones were sound. The others were worm-eaten stumps.

  I couldn’t follow the walls. I would have to cross that bridge. The beams supporting it couldn’t be in a much better condition than the others.

  I was paralysed in the doorway. I couldn’t turn back. They would taunt me with it for ever more. What if I jumped down? Suddenly those four metres that separated me from the cowshed didn’t seem so far. I could tell the others it was impossible to reach the window.

  The brain plays nasty tricks sometimes.

  About ten years later I happened to go skiing on the Gran Sasso. It was the wrong day – it was snowing, bitterly cold, with an icy wind that froze your ears and a thick mist. I had only ever been skiing once before. I was really excited and I didn’t care if everybody said it was dangerous, I wanted to ski. I got on the ski lift, muffled up like an eskimo, and headed for the slopes.

  The wind was so strong that the lift motor switched off automatically, and only started again when the gusts died down. It would move ten metres, then stop for a quarter of an hour, then another forty metres and twenty minutes without moving. And so on, ad infinitum. Maddening. As far as I could make out the rest of the ski lift was empty. Gradually I started to lose all feeling in my toes, my ears, my fingers. I tried to brush the snow off me, but it was a wasted effort, it fell silently, lightly and incessantly. After a while I started to get drowsy and think more slowly. I pulled myself together and told myself that if I fell asleep I would die. I shouted for help. Only the wind replied. I looked down. I was directly over a ski run. Suspended about ten metres above the snow. I thought back to the story of that airman who during the war had jumped out of his burning aircraft and his parachute hadn’t opened but he hadn’t been killed, he had been saved by the soft snow. Ten metres weren’t all that far. If I jumped well, if I didn’t stiffen up, I wouldn’t get hurt, the parachutist hadn’t got hurt. Part of my brain repeated to me obsessively: ‘Jump! Jump! Jump!’ I lifted the safety bar. And I started to rock backwards and forwards. Luckily at that moment the ski lift moved and I regained my senses. I lowered the bar. It was incredibly high, at the very least I would have broken both my legs.