The young priest stood up on the pedals. The witch perched sideways in front of him on the bicycle’s top bar and her scarf fluttered out behind her. It flew off into his face: witches smell like fresh flowers. The bicycle creaked, chk-chk. He headed toward the music coming from the dance hall. She held tight to the handlebars. ‘What make is this bike?’
‘It’s a Bianchi.’ He accelerated again.
‘And does it have brakes?’
He didn’t touch them and the Bianchi flew past beach after beach, into a fog bank, chk-chk. They hurtled by and the witch counted the numbers of the beaches, number five, number four. He rang his bell loudly at a man cutting across his path and the man saw only fog pass. The young priest took a hand off the handlebars, rested it on her stomach, beach number one, then the open sand. He kept it there until they arrived at the inlet next to the jetty, where four strings of lights marked out a tiny plot of sand crowded with people spinning.
He slowed down.
The Bianchi had good brakes, which Pietro slammed on now. On the other side of the boulevard three cars queued at the petrol station. The first was being filled by the old man. Pietro stood on the pedals and continued past, turning into a cross-street and turning again, onto the street parallel to the boulevard. He left the bike against one of the sycamores and walked the path along the railway to the improvised gardens. The fence alongside the plot belonging to the old man from the petrol station was broken down at one point. Pietro hopped over it and his feet sank into the earth. The two pomegranate trees were leafless and without fruit. He went closer. To either side were rows of cabbage and lettuce. The whistle of a freight train approached. The smaller pomegranate tree was the same height as the concierge. Pietro went up to it and grasped the two branches that split from the trunk. He squeezed and felt that the wood was dust, crumbling in his hands. Squeezed again and raised his head toward the ugly building. There was a light in Andrea’s window.
The young priest braked to a stop thirty paces from the dance floor. Music blasted from a plywood shack. The witch jumped down, saying, ‘They’ll see us,’ and pressed herself against him. Crouched down and stroked his calves, took off first one of his shoes, then the other. Stood up and leaned the Bianchi against a tree, remaining to stare at the leaves.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked the young priest.
The witch brought her eyes closer to the tree. ‘Mama says that it’s the fruit of the Promised Land.’ She broke off an unripe pomegranate and slammed it against the handlebars, splitting the fruit open. ‘It has six hundred and thirteen seeds, as many as the rules of the Lord. Some represent sacrifice, some represent grace. Shall we try?’ She gave half of the pomegranate to the young priest and leaned against the tree. ‘If it’s sweet, it’s a grace. If it’s sour, it’s a sacrifice.’ She sucked on a seed and said, ‘Good.’ Another and said, ‘Good.’ Yet another and said, ‘Good. Three graces.’
The young priest put one in his mouth and it burned on his tongue. He spat it out.
The house of the pomegranate trees was mute. Pietro pressed the button next to the names Mario and Andrea Testi.
‘Who is it?’ The voice of Snow White crackled through the intercom.
‘It’s Pietro. Dr Martini’s father.’
‘Mr Mario isn’t here.’
‘I wanted to see Andrea.’
The intercom continued to crackle.
‘I wanted to see him.’
The door clicked open and Pietro went up. Snow White was waiting for him in front of the flat. ‘Andrea is happy to see the doctor’s father.’ The young woman had her hair loose and wore a close-fitting tracksuit. She invited him in.
The entry smelled of cleaning products. Pietro took off his jacket and folded it over his arm, asked if he could go in.
‘Andrea’s awake. He’s watching TV that makes him laugh.’ She led him to the room at the end of the hallway, asked him to wait outside. Entered alone and turned down the volume on the television.
Pietro could make out half a bed, an argyle blanket hiding the shrivelled legs.
Snow White came out and motioned the concierge forward, stopping him on the threshold. ‘He answers “yes” if his eyes go white once, “no” if twice. He never closes his eyes ever or almost.’
Pietro approached the bed. Andrea had something behind his neck that kept him facing the screen. A cartoon was playing.
‘Ciao, Andrea.’
His hair was combed, his face a mound of sagging flesh. His pupils went up once, looking at the Bristol set against the whiteboard on the wall, on it a sketch of two rows of seagulls and strip of sea.
Pietro pointed to the Bristol. ‘The drawing is very nice.’
The eyes went white twice.
‘But it is.’
There was an armchair beside the bed. Pietro removed a fashion magazine and sat down. ‘I come from the sea and I know seagulls well.’
Snow White caressed Andrea’s head. ‘I’m going into the kitchen. I’ll come back in a bit to see if everything is going OK.’
They heard her walk down the hallway. Pietro half-closed the door. Took hold of the hissing tube that terminated in the young man’s throat. It was plastic and vibrated with each breath.
‘I know you like football.’
The eyes went white and agonizingly wide.
Pietro looked out the window. A veil of fog had descended. He crossed the room. The whiteboard had a reading lamp below it. ‘I also know that you like motorcycles.’ Pietro stroked one of Andrea’s arms, a forgotten stick, from elbow to hand. ‘Your father told me everything. He very much likes to talk.’
The pupils rose.
Pietro smiled. Rubbed the arm again but the chill wouldn’t leave the skin, covered it with the sheet. Turned on the lamp and directed it toward the wardrobe and placed his hands in front. The shadows of the parrot and the dog came out less lopsided than usual and no longer shivered. He turned around. Andrea was staring at them.
‘A woman I know taught me how to make them.’ He lowered the left sidewall and sat down on the mattress, took the tube back in hand, flattened it and one of the machines began to whistle. The young man’s breath began to whistle as well. Pietro released the tube and there were no further sounds.
Snow White appeared in the doorway, stepped into the room. ‘You can’t be on the mattress, Mr Pietro.’
The concierge replaced the sidewall. Snow White nodded and returned whence she had come.
‘Sofia is pretty.’ He moved to the end of the bed, to the spot where Andrea’s eyes were looking.
Pietro looked at him as well. ‘Do you want to die, my son?’
The eyes were opened wide, and raised. Once.