Читать книгу Anna - Niccolo Ammaniti - Страница 12

3

The first few times Anna had left Astor alone at home, she’d gone no further than the Manninos’ farm – Mama’s supplies seemed inexhaustible. But after a year all that remained were a few tins of sweetcorn, which gave Astor indigestion.

The farm was at the edge of the wood. A long low building, with a red-tiled roof. Opposite, cattle sheds and paddocks with metal fences. To one side a barn, full of bales of hay.

The parents had been carried off by the Red Fever and their children, too small to fend for themselves, had died in their bunk beds. The Manninos were small-scale farmers, far-sighted people, and the big larder behind the kitchen was full of jars of marinated aubergines and artichokes, preserves, jam, bottles of wine, legs of ham. Anna went there regularly to stock up, but one day she found it stripped clean. Someone had come by and carried off everything they could. The rest was strewn across the floor.

She was forced to search further afield. In the first group of buildings she came across, among corpses, flies and mice, she raided the kitchen cabinets. At first she went through the apartments with her hands over her face, singing and peering between her fingers at the bodies, but before long she grew used to them and saw them as constant, intriguing presences. They were all different, each with its own pose and expression, and later, depending on the degree of humidity, exposure to light, ventilation, insects and other necrophagous creatures, they turned into fillets of baccalà or revolting masses of pulp.

To prevent Astor from following her or hurting himself, in these early days, before going out, she would lock him up with his soft toys and a bottle of water in the cupboard under the stairs. The first few times he cried, screamed and banged on the door, but after a while, being intelligent, he understood that this imprisonment had its advantages: every time his sister reopened the door she brought food and presents.

Astor said that while he sat there in the dark, little creatures that lived underground would pop out. ‘They’re like lizards, but they have blond hair and they talk to me.’

Anna was pleased with her solution. It left her free to move around, and her brother didn’t see the destruction and the dead bodies, didn’t smell that sickly sweet odour that stuck in your nose and you couldn’t get rid of even by inhaling perfume.

After a while, however, Astor started throwing tantrums again. First he wanted light, and Anna certainly couldn’t give him a candle in the cupboard. Then he started saying the long-haired lizards didn’t want him there any more and said nasty things to him.

Then the questions started. What’s out there, beyond the wood? Why can’t I come into the Outside with you? What kind of animals live there?

To persuade her brother to let her lock him up, every evening Anna would tell him stories about the Outside. He’d listen quietly until his breathing became regular and his thumb slipped out of his mouth.

The Outside, beyond the magic wood, was a waste land. No one had survived the wrath of the god Danone (Anna had called him that in honour of the chocolate puddings of which she had fond memories): no adults, no animals, no children. The two of them had the good fortune to live in that wood, which was so hidden away and dense that the god couldn’t see into it. The few animals that had survived had taken refuge there. Beyond the trees there were only craters and haunted ruins. Food and other things grew at the bottom of ditches. Sometimes tins of tuna sprouted there, sometimes cereal bars, sometimes toys and clothes. The smoke monsters, the god Danone’s servants, roamed that world. They were giants made of black gas who killed anyone who crossed their path. Some evenings, in Anna’s stories, the smoke monsters would turn into prehistoric monsters like those in the Big Book of Dinosaurs. If Astor took one step outside the farm, they’d eat him alive.

‘Couldn’t I escape? I’m a fast runner.’

Anna was categorical. ‘Impossible. And even if the smoke monsters weren’t around, the air’s poisonous and would kill you. If you went outside the fence, you’d be dead before you’d walked a few metres.’

Astor would chew his lips, unconvinced. ‘Why don’t you die, then?’

‘Because when you were small, Mama gave me a special medicine, and the monsters can’t hurt me. You were too small to be given it.’ But at other times she replied: ‘I’m magic. I was born like that. When I die the magic will pass onto you and you’ll be able to go out and find food yourself.’

‘Wow! I can’t wait for you to die. I want to see the smoke monsters.’

Anna had to explain to her brother what death was. They were surrounded by corpses, yet she was at a loss. So she’d catch rats and lizards and kill them in front of him.

‘You see? Now it’s dead. All that’s left is the body; there’s no life in it. You can do what you like, but it’ll never move again. It’s gone. If I hit you on the head with a hammer, it’ll happen to you too: you’ll go straight into the other world.’

‘Where is the other world?’

Anna would grow impatient. ‘I don’t know. Beyond the wood. But it’s always dark and cold, though the ground is fiery and burns your feet. And you’re alone. There’s nobody there.’

‘Not even Mama?’

‘No.’

But Astor still wasn’t satisfied. ‘And how long do people stay in the other world?’

‘For ever.’

These long tortuous ontological discussions wore her out. Sometimes Astor would accept her arguments; at other times, as if sensing that his sister wasn’t telling him the truth, he’d look for contradictions. ‘What about the birds that fly overhead, in the sky? How do they do that? I see them. Why don’t they die? They haven’t taken the medicine.’

Anna would improvise. ‘Birds can fly above the poisonous air, but they can’t stop.’

‘I could do that too. Never stopping. Jumping from tree to tree.’

‘No, you’d die.’

‘Can I try?’

‘No.’

Anna had an idea. Between the wood and the fields, about a hundred metres from the boundary of Mulberry Farm, were the Manninos’ cattlesheds. The cows had died of thirst and their carcasses were crawling with worms. When you went near them, the smell of decay was overpowering.

Anna took her brother to the fence. ‘Listen to me carefully. Since you’re so set on it, I’m going to take you outside. But remember, I’m magic and I don’t notice the smell of death. You’ll have to be more careful. If a foul, sickening smell reaches you, it means you’re about to die. Run back as fast as you can, don’t stop, climb over the fence and you’ll be safe.’

The little boy was no longer so keen on the idea. ‘I’d rather not.’

Smiling to herself, Anna grabbed his wrist. ‘You’re going. I’m fed up with your questions.’

Astor burst into tears, dug in his heels and clung onto a branch. Anna had to drag him along.

‘Come on!’

‘No, please . . . I don’t want to go into the burning land.’

She lifted him up and dumped him over the fence, then climbed over herself and, holding him by the neck, pushed him between the ivy-covered trunks and the holly. Astor, his eyes brimming with tears, held his hand over his mouth. But still the stench of rotting flesh penetrated into his nostrils. He eyed her in despair, gesturing that he could smell it.

‘Go! Run home!’

With a cat-like leap, the little boy re-entered the farm.

From that day on, there was no need to lock Astor under the stairs.

*

The air was cool: ideal walking weather.

Leaving the wood behind her, Anna walked round Torre Normanna and onto the provincial road.

Some crows perched on electricity cables croaked at her like pious churchgoers in mourning clothes.

She speeded up. There was still some way to go to the Michelini twins’ convenience store.

*

Paolo and Mario Michelini were identical twins. A year older than Anna, they’d been in the fourth year when she was in the third. Big, bulky, indistinguishable. Same expressionless little eyes, same carrot-coloured hair. Dotted with freckles, as if someone had left them next to a saucepan of boiling ragout at birth. They were no geniuses at school and never did their homework, but they frightened everyone, including the teachers, with their sheer size. If there was a football around, they’d take it, and if you wanted it back you had to pay.

Their mother dressed them alike: blue tracksuit, red T-shirt and trainers. Their father ran a Despar supermarket in Buseto Palizzolo.

Before the virus, Anna used to meet them on the school bus, but they ignored her. They’d sit at the back, playing Nintendo in silence; communication between them was almost telepathic. As far as they were concerned, the world was something to be looked at with four eyes, touched with twenty fingers, walked through with four feet and peed on with two dicks.

After the epidemic, Anna had gone past the Despar from time to time. The shutter was up and the chewing-gum and liquorice machines stood by the door, near a neat row of trolleys. Dirt and destruction surrounded the shop, but inside it everything was tidy. And at a particular time the shutter came down, as if the Red Fever had never existed. The only difference was that the shop sign didn’t light up.

Anna had wondered if the twins’ father had returned from the afterlife. Every time she felt an almost irresistible desire to discover the truth, but was scared. She hung around nearby, gazing at the door with its notice: a dog behind a cross, and the words ‘We stay outside’.

One day, after walking backwards and forwards, she’d pushed the glass door open. A bell had rung. Inside, it was just like when she used to shop there with her mother on the way back from the beach. The food on the shelves, the panettone on special offer, the display case with the radios and razors for card-holders. Only the cheese and cold meat counter was empty and there were no crates of vegetables.

Anna had wandered around the shop as if in a dream. If she’d reached out her hand, the jars, boxes of cereal and bottles of balsamic vinegar would surely have vanished.

‘Can we help you?’

The twins were standing side by side, in their tracksuits and white shoes. One was holding a shotgun.

‘Would you like a trolley?’

Anna gestured that she wouldn’t.

‘We’ve got everything, including Easter eggs with a surprise, and Nutella,’ the one with the shotgun had explained.

Nutella was very hard to find. It had been one of the first things to disappear after the epidemic.

Anna had looked around. ‘Ferrero Rocher, too?’

‘Certainly.’

‘How do I pay you? With money?’ But she knew the world was full of money and nobody cared about it.

‘We swap things. Have you got anything to swap?’

She’d searched in her trouser pockets. ‘I’ve got a Swiss knife.’

The two teddy bears had shaken their heads in unison. ‘We’re interested in batteries, but only if they have some charge left – we check them. We’re also interested in medicines and Massimo Ranieri CDs.’

Anna had raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s Massimo Ranieri?’

‘A famous singer. Our father used to like him,’ the one with the shotgun had replied. ‘In exchange for him we can give you three large jars of Nutella or six small Toblerones. Everything you see in here can be swapped. It’s a mini-market.’

Anna had never heard the twins utter so many words in succession.

Over the next few months, wherever she went, she looked for Massimo Ranieri CDs. There was plenty of Vasco Rossi and Lucio Battisti, but no Ranieri. Then one day, in an autostrada service area, she’d found, among mobile phone cases, deodorants and sodden books, a triple album titled Naples and My Songs.

That would buy her the antibiotics.

*

She’d gone the wrong way. There was a shorter route to the twins’ shop and yet, as if her feet had made their own decision, she’d found herself on the autostrada.

The car with the dog in it was there.

Anna stared at the open door, biting her thumbnail. She wanted to see him before the crows left nothing but bones.

She drew the knife from her rucksack, went up to the car and peered inside. A patch of dirty hair. She screamed; there was no reaction. Leaning further in, she saw the dog through the gap between the front seats. In the same position as when she’d left him. The blood had dried below the neck and the back seat was soaked in it. Big metallic grey flies settling. Tongue hanging out of the open mouth, over dark gums covered in drool. One visible eye, as big as a biscuit and as black as diesel, wide open, staring into the void. Breathing so faint it was barely audible. Tail limp between the back legs, twitching slightly.

Anna touched him on the side with the tip of the knife. No movement of the body, but the pupil shifted, focusing on her for a moment.

As if he was looking forward to death. It happened to all dying creatures, human beings and animals.

In the past four years Anna had seen many children become covered with blotches and fade away. Slumped in a dark recess under the stairs, in a car like this dog, under a tree or in a bed. They would put up a fight, but eventually they would all, without exception, realise it was over, as if death itself had whispered it in their ear. Some kept going for a little while longer with that awareness; others discovered it only a second before they died.

Anna’s hand, almost of its own accord, reached out and stroked the dog’s head.

Still motionless and indifferent, but for a moment the tail lifted and fell back down in what might almost have been a feeble wag.

Anna shook her head. ‘Aren’t you dead yet, you ugly brute?’

Among the rubbish in the gutter beside the guardrail she found a deflated plastic football. She cut it in two and got back into the car with one half. Taking the bottle out of her rucksack, she poured half its contents into the improvised dish. She held it near the dog’s mouth. At first he ignored it, then he lifted his muzzle slightly and, almost reluctantly, dipped his tongue in the water.

She pushed the dish closer. ‘Drink! Go on, drink.’

The animal gave a few more licks, then flopped down again.

Anna took a tin of peas, opened it and poured the contents out beside his mouth.

She’d done what she could.

*

Buseto Palizzolo, a small village of modern houses clustered under a hill, had also felt the effects of the fire. But the flames had only caressed the Michelinis’ Despar, blackening the walls of the building and melting the green plastic blinds on the upper floors.

Anna knocked on the shutter. ‘Open up, I want to do a swap.’ She waited a few moments. ‘Is anybody there? Can you hear me? It’s Anna Salemi, from 3C. I want to do a swap. Open up.’ Growing impatient, she walked round the building.

The tradesman’s entrance at the back was barred, and through the small grilled windows she couldn’t see a thing. Going back round to the front, she tried to lift the shutter, but it was locked. She kicked it. All those months spent searching for that stupid CD! She’d come all that way for nothing. Where was she going to find antibiotics now?

‘All right, then, I’m going. I had a Massimo Ranieri CD. It’s a really good one and I don’t think you’ve got it.’ She put her ear to the shutter.

Somebody moved inside.

‘I know you’re in there.’

‘Go away. We don’t swap things any more,’ replied a sleepy voice.

‘Not even Massimo Ranieri?’

The shutter clanked up. Out of the darkness of the shop emerged the silhouette of one of the twins. He was holding the shotgun.

Anna couldn’t tell whether he was Mario or Paolo, but one look was enough to tell her that he had Red Fever. His lips were covered with scabs and sores, his nostrils swollen and inflamed, his eyes ringed. A reddish blotch covered his neck. He might live a few more weeks. A couple of months if he was tough.

She took the CD out of her rucksack. ‘Well? Do you want it?’

The twin screwed up his eyes. ‘Let me see.’ He examined it and gave it back. ‘We’ve already got it. Anyway, I’m fed up with Massimo Ranieri. I prefer Domenico Modugno.’

Anna craned her neck to peer into the shop. ‘Are you on your own?’

The fat boy coughed, spattering a yellowish sludge on the floor. ‘My brother’s dead.’ He raised his eyes and counted silently. ‘It’s been five days now.’

Anna waited only a couple of seconds. ‘Listen, I need some medicine.’

‘I told you we don’t swap things any more.’ The twin turned round and shuffled back into the shop. She followed him.

It took her eyes a minute or two to get used to the gloom. Everything was on the floor – jars of honey and orange marmalade, dry dog food, tins of ragout, tubes of anchovy paste. A can of oil had been knocked over and shards of a broken bottle were immersed in a pool of wine.

It horrified her to see all that good food wasted. The day before she’d almost been torn apart for a few tins of beans. ‘What on earth happened?’

‘I stopped tidying up.’

‘Look, will you give me these medicines? It’s important, they’re for my brother. If you want, I’ve got some charged batteries too.’

The twin went behind the counter, rested the shotgun against the wall, flopped down on a small wicker chair, legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging by his sides, and started coughing again. The Red Fever hadn’t succeeded in slimming him down yet. Two sausage-like legs, white skin dotted with freckles and fair hairs, protruded from the tracksuit trousers. A spherical head sitting on rounded shoulders, without the interval of a neck.

‘I don’t need your batteries. I’ve got loads of them.’ He opened a drawer full of packets of cigarettes. ‘Would you like one?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘What brand do you like?’

‘Any one.’

He passed her a packet of Marlboro, together with a lighter. ‘How old’s your brother?’

Anna lit the cigarette. ‘Seven, maybe eight.’

‘It can’t be Red Fever, then.’

‘He must have eaten something rotten. He’s got a temperature and he keeps being sick. I need some antibiotics.’

The fat boy rubbed his neck. ‘Do you want to see him?’

Anna realised he meant his twin brother. ‘All right. But which one are you?’

‘Mario. Paolo was my brother.’ He led her into the area at the back of the shop, a storeroom full of cardboard boxes and crates, and a white van with the word ‘Despar’ on the side. ‘I put him here.’

Paolo lay in a big open freezer, the kind that used to be used for storing pizzas and bags of prawns. Heaped up around him were jars of tuna preserved in oil, of various makes. He was starting to swell up. The eyes had gone, sucked down inside two purple blobs. Hands like blown-up gloves. He smelled really bad.

Anna took a drag on her cigarette. ‘I bet tuna was his favourite food.’

‘And how old are you?’ Mario asked her.

‘I’ve lost count.’

He smiled, displaying small yellow teeth. ‘I remember you at school.’ He examined her. ‘Have you got the blotches?’

Anna shook her head.

‘Why do you think my brother died first? I can’t understand it – we’re twins. We were born together, we should have died together.’

‘The Red Fever comes to everyone differently. You can even catch it at fourteen.’

He nodded, pursing his lips. ‘How long do you reckon I’ve got?’

Anna stubbed the cigarette out under her sole and went up to him. She scrutinised his neck, made him lift up his T-shirt so she could see the other blotches on his back, and checked his hands. ‘I don’t know . . . Maybe a couple of months.’

‘That’s what I think.’ He rubbed his eye. ‘But have you heard the rumour? They say a Grown-up has survived.’

How many times had she heard such stories? Everyone she met said there were Grown-ups who’d survived somewhere or other. It was all bullshit. The virus had exterminated the Grown-ups, and as soon as children reached puberty, it killed them too. That was the truth of the matter. And after all these years she no longer believed the rumours about a vaccine. But she kept quiet, still hoping to get the antibiotics for Astor.

‘I know you don’t believe it. I didn’t either, at first. But it’s true.’ Mario put his hand on his heart.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘The guy who told me must have been at least sixteen. Had a beard, and not a blotch on him. Said a big woman had saved him. Not a normal Grown-up, bigger. They call her “the Little Lady”. She’s three metres tall. Caught the Red Fever, but recovered.’ Mario’s face, until then about as expressive as that of a grazing cow, came to life. ‘It cost me five bottles of wine to find out where she lives.’

‘And where does she live?’ asked Anna.

‘In a place in the mountains. The Spa Hotel, he said. Do you know it?’

Anna thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I do. It’s not far away.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘Not to the hotel itself, but very close. Anyway, it’s easy to find on a map.’

‘This Little Lady can cure you.’

Anna couldn’t suppress a sceptical smile. ‘How does she do that?’

‘You have to kiss her, on the mouth. Her saliva is magic.’

Anna burst out laughing. ‘Kiss her using your tongue, you mean?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What if she won’t let you? If she doesn’t like you?’

‘She will, she will. As long as you take her some presents.’ He started coughing again, nearly choking. Then he went on in a feeble voice: ‘Especially bars of chocolate.’

‘Chocolate’s no good nowadays. It’s all white and tasteless.’

Mario smiled like a grocer displaying his mortadella. ‘We have a special way of preserving it. We keep it cool, down in the cellar. Sealed up in plastic containers. Five bars get you a kiss, and six . . .’

Anna interrupted him. ‘Do you want me to take you there?’

‘Where?’

‘To the Little Lady. I’ll show you the way, if you like.’

The twin fell silent for a moment, scratching the scabs on his lips with his fingernail. He pointed to the storeroom door. ‘Let’s go back in there.’ They returned to the shop. ‘What am I going to do with Paolo?’

‘He’s dead. Leave him here.’

Mario picked up a cereal bar, took off the wrapper and scoffed it without offering her a bite. ‘The trouble is, I’ve never been anywhere without my brother. We used to like being in the shop. Swapping things with customers, collecting batteries, medicines . . . Since the fires, nobody’s come any more. Only gangs trying to raid the shop.’

‘We wouldn’t be gone long.’

‘How long?’

‘A couple of days.’

‘I don’t know . . . I suppose I could give you some chocolate so she’d let you kiss her too.’

Anna smiled. ‘Yes, but that’s not enough. If you want me to take you there, you’ll have to give me the medicines I need for my brother.’

He opened three drawers. ‘Take as many as you want.’

She immediately found two boxes of antibiotics and put them in the rucksack. ‘And you’ll have to give me all the food we can carry. I’ll choose it, though. And some live batteries.’

‘Okay.’

‘This is what I suggest: we drop by at my house to give my brother the medicines, then we leave tomorrow morning.’

Mario had perked up. ‘All right, I’m tired of being on my own. What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Astor.’

‘Funny name.’ Mario extended a plump hand. ‘It’s a deal.’ Anna’s plan was simple. At Torre Normanna she’d run off with the stuff, and to hell with Mario and the Little Lady.

*

They advanced along a country road which passed through a suburb consisting of a few houses, a small church and a roundabout, in the middle of which was a monument to servicemen killed in the First World War. Fire had consumed the public gardens around the local tourist office, and the trunks of the eucalyptuses looked like black pencils stuck in the earth. All that remained of the newsagent’s kiosk was its iron frame. The nose of a fire engine was rammed into the barber’s shop.

Anna was carrying a bag full of jars. Michelini, wearing a red cap with ‘Nutella’ on the peak, the shotgun slung over his shoulder, was pushing a wheelbarrow full of boxes. The load was covered by a piece of tarpaulin held down with bungee cords.

They were sweating and only found respite from the heat when the sun went behind the clouds.

Anna couldn’t make up her mind whether she liked Mario or not. He’d fallen silent soon after leaving the shop and started to slow down after a couple of kilometres. It might have been the effects of Red Fever, but she suspected he was just lazy. At this rate it’d be dark before they got home. ‘Do you want to switch jobs? Shall I push?’

Michelini shook his head.

‘Is the gun loaded?’

‘I’ve got four bullets.’ Bullets were hard to come by. He’d fired all the others in the early months of the epidemic, during the looting and riots.

They started down a narrow road flanked by dry stone walls.

The twin stopped for a breather. ‘It’s strange for me without Paolo.’ He looked at Anna. ‘Have you got any hairs yet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show me.’

Anna undid her shorts and pulled them down to her knees.

Without taking his hands off the wheelbarrow, Michelini bent down to look at the little strip of black hair.

‘What about breasts?’

Anna pulled up her T-shirt. On her chest were two hillocks surmounted by pink nipples.

They set off again, moving away from the village. Anna was seething with impatience, but was forced to fall in with the snail’s pace of Michelini. To take her mind off it, she suggested they play a game.

He was dripping with sweat. ‘What game?’

‘Think of an animal.’

‘All right. A walrus.’

‘You’re not meant to say it; you just think of it and I ask you questions till I find out what it is. Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, then. Does it fly, walk or swim?’

Michelini gave a crafty smile. ‘It flies, walks and swims.’

‘What animal could that be?’

‘A duck.’

‘You’re not meant to tell me straight out.’

‘You asked what kind of animal it was.’

‘I was thinking out loud. Think of another one.’

‘All right. A rabbit.’

‘Maybe we’d better just walk.’

They passed a billboard on which there was an advert showing a car with a man dressed in jacket and tie, saying: ‘Choose your future today.’

*

Nine wraith-like figures were coming across a field of burnt olive trees. The two oldest ones were out in front: a fat male and a skinny female, both painted white. The others were about Astor’s age, naked and painted blue, their hair falling on their shoulders in tangled masses. Some of them had sticks.

Anna and Michelini watched them from behind a wooden fence. The twin scratched his chin. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Speak quietly,’ whispered Anna. ‘If they spot us they’ll steal everything we’ve got.’

Not far away, on the other side of the road, was a small block of flats with an underground garage over which was the sign: ‘Pieri’s Car Repair Workshop’.

Anna grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and started moving forward, with her head down, hiding behind the fence. ‘Keep down and follow me without making a noise.’ But she’d only gone a few metres when a shot rang out behind her.

Michelini was standing in the middle of the road. A plume of white smoke was coming out of the barrel of the shotgun.

She gaped at him. ‘What have you done?’

‘That’ll scare them off.’

‘You fool.’ Anna started pushing again, but the wheelbarrow swerved to the right and left. She ditched it and ran towards the building, without looking back. Going down the concrete ramp, she was confronted with three lowered shutters. The one on the left was raised about twenty centimetres. Leaves and earth carried by rainwater had accumulated in the gutter. By scrabbling like a dog, she opened a gap, then she took off the rucksack, and squeezed underneath, holding her breath to make herself thinner. Her legs went through, and so did her thorax, but her head wouldn’t. Pressing her cheek on the floor she made it inside, her face grazed on both cheeks. She reached out to retrieve the rucksack.

The workshop was in darkness. She tried to lower the shutter, but it wouldn’t budge. Holding her hands out in front of her, she advanced towards the end of the room. Her knee banged against a car and her shin hit some shelves full of metal objects, which fell down onto the floor with a crash. She swallowed the pain and with her fingers followed the shelves, touched the rough wall, found a door and opened it. Beyond, the darkness was even blacker, if that were possible. She ventured forward on her hands and knees until she felt the edge of a step.

Outside, some shots rang out.

She sat down, nursing her knee, and prayed they hadn’t seen her.

*

The first shot had made the small group turn round.

A fat boy was standing in the middle of the road holding a shotgun, and a figure was bent over, running towards a small block of flats, pushing a wheelbarrow.

The older girl had blown a whistle, pointing them out to the blue children. They had picked up some stones and charged at him, screaming.

Michelini, holding the weapon at hip level, had fired his three remaining shots into the group. The last shot had hit one of them, who’d collapsed in a cloud of ash. ‘Yes!’ Throwing the gun aside, he’d started galloping towards the block of flats, but the fever and all the kilos he was carrying made breathing difficult. He turned round to check where his pursuers were and a stone hit him on the head. He let out a yell and, as he was putting his hand to his temple, tripped over. He took three disjointed steps, wheeling his arms in an attempt to regain his balance, but crashed like a bulldozer into the fence at the side of the road and fell on his face, with his arms outspread, in a field. He didn’t even try to get up again. He clutched the grass in his fists, pushed his face into the warm earth and thought of his brother.

*

The children’s shouts echoed in the garage.

Anna stumbled up the last flight of stairs and slammed into a closed door. Opening it, she found herself in the entrance hall of the block of flats. Daylight came in through the frosted glass of the big front doors. To one side were the mailboxes, covered with dust, next to them a yellowed notice announcing the date of a residents’ meeting and another one decreeing that bicycles and pushchairs must not be left unattended.

She tried to open the small wicket door, but it wouldn’t move. Not knowing what else to do, she ran up the stairs. On the first floor all the flats were locked. Same thing on the second. On the top floor, too, everything was bolted shut.

The children were in the entrance hall.

She opened the landing window. Down below was the concrete ramp of the workshop; fifty metres further off, Michelini’s body. To the left, a metre away, a balcony jutted out from the wall.