‘Why? I would like to know why, exactly, you find it stupid.’
‘Because Toma would never eat fluff instead of candy floss. Because Toma doesn’t even like candy floss! And because Toma,’ Sal added, almost shouting, ‘is not a moron!’
No sooner had he finished uttering his last word than he swung around and started walking back home – although actually he wasn’t walking toward home. It just so happened that Emi had given him a good idea as to whom he could confide in about the woman in the basement. Even if he decided not to tell him everything, then at least he could intimate, through a parable, that the woman existed and that he had discovered her on that torrid and rainy afternoon. He was ready to share his discovery with a trustworthy person, with someone who deserved it.
He could still feel Emi behind him, thrusting daggers straight into the back of his head, but now that he had escaped, he didn’t mind much. He could bleed at leisure, with the arrows still in his back, until he reached Toma and could forget about her in the rush of conversation. Toma was a true friend, the most honest of all; he was like a boy version of Emi, without her airs and her whims. Sal was relieved. Now that he knew which way to go, the day had recovered its meaning.
A soft breeze had started to move the hot air around a bit. He didn’t want to look back, because he feared he might change his mind and turn around. Yet as he advanced, the thought of Emi, stranded in the middle of the road with tear-filled eyes weakened his determination and slowed his steps. After a few seconds, Sal stopped and looked straight ahead at the street that joined the boulevard. He could hear the faint sound of the joggling trams, dragging in the heat. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like braving their thundering noise, or facing the dust and the squalor; he didn’t feel like waiting for almost three minutes for the traffic light to turn green; he didn’t feel like going to Toma’s anymore. He realised that Toma would insist to be shown the corpse, would want to see it. Toma wouldn’t be satisfied with his simple account of the story; he would go on his own exploratory survey, even if Sal refused to go with him. And maybe, in the end, Toma would discover something absolutely dreadful: that the woman wasn’t even dead, or that she didn’t even really exist because, apart from having seen her and touched her, what other evidence did he have – how could he prove to anyone that it wasn’t just another fancy of his?
Sal turned his head. The street was empty. A few fluff clouds still drifted to and fro.
‘Hey!’
He gave a start. From behind him, Harry had popped up out of nowhere, dressed in shorts and wearing a yellow T-shirt resembling that of the national football team. He had the number 10 printed on his back as a tribute to the great player and, as always when he was wearing this T-shirt, Harry had an overconfident attitude and strutted like a turkey cock.
‘What are you doing here, man?’
Sal looked him up and down.
‘Nothing. Where are you going?’
‘To the playing field, for the game.’
Sal brooded a bit. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Really? When?’
‘Half an hour ago, or so.’
Harry sniffed. ‘Impossible.’
‘How is that?’
‘If you had looked for me half an hour ago, you would have found me. I was at home all day.’
‘Hm. I lingered for a while in your building – it had started to rain. I thought you were at home.’
‘Well, I was, man, didn’t I just say so? But I’ll be damned if I heard you!’
Sal gazed at him. He could have sworn that Harry was telling a pack of lies just because of his uncharacteristically transfixed face and his thoughtful look.
‘Who else is going be there?’
‘What?’
‘For the game, man, who else is going be there for the game?’
‘Oh! Well, who do you think? Those two from 112, the Stoicovici brothers, Maxone, Toma…’
‘Is Toma coming, too?’
‘Yeah, he’s coming to gawk. Are you coming?’
Sal looked over Harry’s shoulder toward the boulevard. ‘That depends…’
‘Come on, are you coming or not?’
Sal nodded and set off beside Harry toward the school’s football ground. When they crossed Emi’s street, Sal looked along its distance, hoping to see her sulking on the street kerb waiting for him, but Emi was nowhere to be seen. He wished he had stayed with her; he really didn’t feel trashing it out on the field with the others. He was bored and tired. Shoving his hands in his pockets, his fingers sought the creases of fabric, trying to find their place, when something stopped him dead. In his trouser pocket he had encountered the regular shape of the metal box in which he had put the severed finger.
‘You know, man, I don’t know what to say, but I’d rather not go…’
Sal stopped and apprehensively dropped this line to Harry, hoping that he wouldn’t hear it and wouldn’t even notice his absence; that he would keep walking to the football field on his own. But Harry pulled a long face. ‘What’s with you, man, have you gone crazy? Why would you rather not come?’
Sal shrunk. ‘I don’t have my gear…’
Harry burst into laughter. ‘Big deal! Like it’s Champions League!’
He hurried off and Sal followed him. Harry had started talking again about the last game, the one Sal had missed, during which they – the guys from school 122 – had scored ten goals. As he struggled ahead with the hot air pressing upon his skin, he heard Harry’s words as from a dream.
The two crossed the road and turned left. At the end of the street, they could see the school, a white building with grates over the windows and casements painted bright blue. Harry continued to talk, kicking every now and then at any stone he would encounter on the road. Two silhouettes slowly started to move toward them, the only people they had met on the street in the last half hour.
Sal took the hand he had been keeping on the metal box out of his pocket. His palm was sweaty, so he wiped it against his T-shirt. The approaching figures could now be seen to be a man and a woman. The woman, wearing big sunglasses, was dressed in a sheer green skirt, through which one could discern the shape of her legs, and a white linen blouse. She was gesturing in an exaggerated manner and, from a distance, Sal thought she looked angry. The man was walking beside her, his hands behind his back and his head slightly lowered in a reverential attitude, paying close attention to her. After a few steps, Sal overheard pieces of what the woman was saying. Here and there, her voice acquired acute inflections and she would lose her temper. They were quite close to each other, and this slow approach made Sal feel drowsy. He turned to Harry, who kept talking: ‘Shut up a little!’
Harry cast him a puzzled glance. The man and the woman had stopped. She was still talking, but just as they passed by the man looked up from the ground and straight into her eyes, saying, ‘You know, for me nothing has changed; everything is just the same…’
Sal felt like turning around to look again at the dark-haired woman with shoulder-length curly hair and the tall, blue-eyed man with a youthful face. No sooner had they taken a few steps away than their voices faded away as if they had vanished into thin air; still he looked back spitefully. The two were moving slowly away, the man still holding his hands behind his back and the woman brooding beside him with her arms hanging limply alongside her body. Sal kept walking beside Harry, who was now engrossed in a stubborn silence.
They reached the lattice fence surrounding the school’s football field. A few boys were already on the field warming up, shaking their legs, running on the spot or doing squats. Seeing them, Harry started to shout at the top of his voice, followed by the other boys who shouted in return. He turned to Sal, reiterating, ‘Are you a fool,