That was in June. A photograph of Andrea in a newspaper. Gathered around Andrea was the whole newsroom staff, including the graphic artist that Step had punched. That photo must have been taken a few days after his burglary. In fact, Alessandra was wearing a large pair of sunglasses.
Step picked the scrap of paper out of the metal grate over the burner. He wondered which panel it had been. It must have been the one with Zanardi’s face. It no longer really mattered. He’d taken them all and burned them that night, after the phone call.
He’d watched those colors burn, the faces of his heroes crumple up, embraced by the flames. The legendary words of unknown poets vanishing into slow fades of smoke.
Then his brother had walked in. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Look, you’re burning the kitchen hood, the fan…” Paolo had tried to put out the flames that were leaping too high but Step had stopped him.
“Step, what’s going on? I’m going to have to pay for this. Go do this bullshit outside.”
That was it. Step had seen red. He’d slammed his brother against the wall next to the window. He’d placed his hand around his brother’s throat, practically suffocating him. Paolo had lost his eyeglasses. They’d flown far away, landing on the floor and shattering.
Then Step had calmed down. He’d set his brother down and let him go. Paolo had collected his broken eyeglasses and left the room without a word. Step had only felt worse at that point. He’d heard the front door slam. While he’d stood there, staring at his drawings as they burned, ruining the hood over the stove, he’d suffered like he’d never suffered before. Was lonely like he’d never been lonely before.
He was reminded of a song by Lucio Battisti. To punch a man in the face just because he’s been a little rude, knowing that what burns most are never the insults. It was true, Lucio had been right. And it only burned harder. That man was his brother.
The coffee came up suddenly, burbling, as if it wanted to chime in with its own two cents. Step poured it into the cup and then threw it back in a gulp. It left a hot bitter taste in his mouth, the same taste as the memories abandoned in his heart.
August. Riding on a motorcycle to go see Babi when the air was still cool from the night wind. Stopping on the highway to call her. A cappuccino and then he was off, back on his motorcycle, accelerating, devouring the kilometers, starving for her kisses, for her embrace, still warm from sleep. Tapping at her window, hearing the sheets rustle, her bare feet on the floor, her light footsteps. Seeing her appear behind a wooden blind, just rolled up into the morning light. There Babi would be, in the dim light of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes, thinking that this, too, might still be a dream, only nicer, sweeter than her other dreams.
September. Babi’s parents had bought her a ticket for London. They’d made an arrangement with Pallina’s mother. They wanted to get their daughters away from these bad new friendships.
It hadn’t taken much to foil that project. A well-devised plan. A visit to a friend at police headquarters. A new set of passports. And on that charter for England, the two of them did board, but the tickets, changed just a few days earlier, now featured different names. The two of them who boarded were Pollo and Pallina.
It had been fifteen unforgettable days for everyone. For Babi’s parents, laboring under an illusion but happy there, with their minds finally at rest. For Pollo and Pallina, rocking around London, in pubs and discos, sending everyone postcards purchased back home in Rome at the Lyon Bookstore. English postcards, already signed by Babi.
And meanwhile, Step and Babi, far from them all, on the Greek island of Astypalaia. It had been an epic journey. By motorcycle to Brindisi and then the ferryboat, arms around each other under the stars, lying on the bridge in their colorful sleeping bags, singing English songs with foreigners from everywhere, working to improve their pronunciation, but definitely not in the setting her parents would approve.
Then white windmills, nanny goats, rocks, a little house overlooking the sea. Fishing at dawn, sleeping in the afternoon, out at night, strolling on the beach. Masters of their location, their time, all alone, counting the stars, forgetting what day it was.
Step sipped his coffee. It seemed even more bitter now. He started to laugh remembering that time that Babi had invited all his friends to dinner. An attempt to get to know them. They’d sat down at the table and behaved reasonably well, just as Step had asked and cajoled them. Then they hadn’t been able to resist any longer. One after another, they’d stood up, picking up their plates, draining their beers, heading into the living room. Never invite them over on a Wednesday. And never during championship season.
Naturally, it all ended tragically. A. S. Roma had lost, a few S. S. Lazio fans had started making mocking comments, and there had been the beginnings of a brawl. Step had been forced to kick them all out. Disagreements, differences, difficulties.
He’d tried to make it up to Babi. They went to a masquerade party. They’d dressed up as Tom and Jerry, and then it turned out that Pollo and the others showed up at the same party. A mere case of the mockery of fate? Or more simply a tip from Pallina? They’d all pretended not to recognize him. They’d said hello to Babi, that little blue-eyed Jerry, and they’d ignored Tom, laughing every time that big old cat with bulging muscles walked past.
The next day, in the piazza, Pollo, Schello, Hook, and a few others came over to him with somber expressions. “Step, there’s something we need to tell you. You know, last night, we were at a party, and Babi was there.”
Step had looked at them, acting nonchalant. “So what?”
“Well, here’s the thing. She was dressed as a mouse, and there was this big tomcat that was coming on to her…like a pig. The guy in the costume seemed pretty big, too, like he was a hitter. If you want a hand, we can help you take care of him. Just say the word. You know, it’s a real problem. There are big cats that have certain…”
Pollo didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence. Step jumped on him, getting his neck in a headlock, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hard knuckles. To the laughter of his friends, to Pollo’s laughter, to his own laughter. What friends he had!
Suddenly he felt sad. That night. Why had he gone to that party instead of going to the races? Babi had really insisted. All the things he’d done for her. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe.
The intercom started ringing crazily. The lady of the house went running through the living room to open the door. Pallina, her face white as a sheet, shaking, appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were sad, glistening with tears and suffering. As Step walked toward her, she looked at him, struggling to choke back that first sob.
“Pollo is dead.” Then she’d hugged him, seeking in him what she could no longer find anywhere else. His friend and her boyfriend, that laughter, so loud and robust.
They’d raced out to the Greenhouse with Babi in the Autobianchi Y10 that her parents had recently bought for her. All three of them together, with the new car smell now tinged with sorrow and silence.
Then he’d seen it. Blinking emergency lights around that one point. His friend’s motorcycle. Police uniforms and squad cars massed around Pollo, flat on the pavement, with no more strength, no more laughter, no more jokes, no more mockery, no more streams of mindless bullshit.