Me and You. Niccolo Ammaniti
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do you have to act like a child?’
‘You’re the one who treats me like a . . . dickhead.’
She stared daggers at me. ‘Don’t swear. You know I can’t stand it. And there’s no need for you to make such a scene.’
I punched the dashboard. ‘Mum, I want to go there on my own, for Christ’s sake.’ The anger was pushing against my throat. ‘All right. I won’t go. Are you happy?’
‘Look, I am really getting cross, Lorenzo.’
I had one last card to play. ‘Everybody else said they were going there on their own. I’m the only one who always turns up with his mummy. That’s why I have these issues . . .’
‘Now don’t make me out to be the one who causes your problems.’
‘Dad said I have to be independent. That I have to have my own life. That I have to break away from you.’
My mother closed her eyes and pressed her thin lips together as if she were trying to stop herself from talking. She turned around and stared at the cars driving by.
‘This is the first time they’ve asked me along . . . what will they think of me?’ I added.
She looked around as if she was hoping someone would tell her what to do.
I squeezed her hand. ‘Mum, don’t worry . . .’
She shook her head. ‘No, I will worry.’
With my arm round the skis, the bag with the ski boots in my hand and the backpack on my shoulders I watched my mother do a U-turn. I waved and waited until the BMW had disappeared over the bridge.
I headed up Viale Mazzini. I went past the RAI building. About a metre before reaching via Col di Lana I slowed down. My heart beat faster. I had a bitter taste in my mouth like I’d been licking copper wire. All the stuff I was carrying made me clumsy. I felt like I was in a sauna inside my goose down jacket.
When I came to the intersection, I poked my head round the corner. At the end of the street, parked in front of a modern-style church, was a big Mercedes SUV. I could see Alessia Roncato, her mother, the Sumerian and Oscar Tommasi stuffing their luggage into the car boot. A Volvo with a pair of skis on the roof rack pulled up next to the SUV and Richard Dobosz got out and ran over to the others. Soon Dobosz’s father also got out.
I drew back behind the wall. I put the skis down, unzipped my jacket and took another look around the corner.
Now Alessia’s mother and Dobosz’s father were tying the skis to the roof rack. The Sumerian was hopping from side to side pretending to take a shot at Dobosz. Alessia and Oscar Tommasi were talking on their mobiles.
It took them ages to get ready. Alessia’s mother kept getting angry with her daughter for not lending a hand; the Sumerian climbed up onto the car roof to check the skis.
And eventually they left.
I felt like an idiot as I rode the tram, with my skis and ski boots, squashed in between office clerks in ties and suits, mums and kids heading off to school. If I closed my eyes it felt like I was on the cable car. With Alessia, Oscar Tommasi, Dobosz and the Sumerian. I could smell the lip balm, the suntan lotion. We would have got off the cable car, pushing each other and laughing, talking loudly regardless of the people around us, like all those people my mother and father call yobs. I would have said funny things and have made them all laugh while they put their skis on. I would have done impressions of people, cracked jokes. But I was never able to say funny things in public. You have to be very confident to make jokes in public.
‘Life is sad without a sense of humour,’ I said.
‘Amen,’ answered a lady standing next to me.
My father had said this thing about a sense of humour after my cousin Vittorio had thrown a cowpat at me during a walk in the country. I was so angry I grabbed a huge rock and threw it at a tree, while that retard rolled on the ground with laughter. Even my father and mother had laughed.
I loaded the skis on to my shoulders and got off the tram.
I looked at my watch. Seven fifty.
Too early to go back home. I was sure to run into Dad as he left for work.
I headed towards Villa Borghese, to the valley near the zoo where dogs are allowed to run off the lead. I sat down on a bench, pulled a bottle of Coke out of my backpack and took a sip.
My mobile began ringing in my pocket.
I waited a moment before answering.
‘Mum . . .’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you on your way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there much traffic?’
A Dalmatian careered past me. ‘A bit . . .’
‘Can you put Alessia’s mum on?’
I lowered my voice. ‘She can’t talk right now. She’s driving.’
‘Well, I’ll speak to her this evening then, so I can thank her.’
The Dalmatian had begun barking at its owner because it wanted her to throw it a stick.
I put my hand over the phone and ran towards the street.
‘All right.’
‘Bye.’
‘All right, Mum, bye . . . Hey, where are you? What are you doing?’
‘Nothing. I’m in bed. I wanted to sleep a little more.’
‘When are you going out?’
‘I’ll go and see your grandma later.’
‘And Dad?’
‘He’s just left.’
‘Ah . . . okay then.’
‘Bye.’
Perfect.
There he was, the Silver Monkey, sweeping up the leaves. That’s what I called Franchino, our building’s doorman. He looked exactly like a kind of monkey that lives in the Congo. He had a round head covered with a strip of silver hair. This band began at the nape of his neck and curled up over his ears and down his jawline until it joined up on his chin. A single dark eyebrow crossed his forehead. Even the way he walked was strange. He moved forward hunched over, with his long arms swaying, the palms of his hands facing forwards and his head bobbing.
He was from Soverato, in Calabria, where his family lived. But he had worked in our building since forever. I thought he was nice. My mother and my father said that he was over-familiar with them.
Now the problem was how to get into the building without him seeing me.
The Silver Monkey moved very slowly and it took him a lifetime to sweep the courtyard. Hiding behind a truck parked on the other side of the street I pulled out my mobile and dialled his home number. The phone in his basement flat began ringing. It took the Silver Monkey ages to hear it. At last he dumped the broom and loped towards the entrance. I watched him disappear down the stairs.
I grabbed the skis and boots and crossed the street. I just missed being hit by a Ka, which began honking at me. Behind it, other drivers had slammed on their brakes and were yelling insults.
Gritting my teeth, as the skis kept slipping and the backpack cut into my shoulders, I turned off my mobile and walked through the gates. I passed by the moss-covered fountain where the goldfish live and the English-style lawn with the marble benches you weren’t allowed to sit on. My mother’s car was parked next to the shelter near the main door, under the palm tree she had saved from the red palm weevil.
Praying that I wouldn’t run into anyone on their way out of the building I slipped into