Once, upon returning home from yet another one of her tiresome errands, my grandmother even saw it fit to say: the little signurina is right downstairs playing hopscotch. I didn’t even thank her, it was common courtesy, after all, and she never could’ve resisted telling me anyway. I quit whatever homework I was doing—where are you going? my mother yelled—and left the house without a jacket.
I took the stairs sciuliarèlla-style, sliding down the dark wooden banister. I practiced my version of it every day and had acquired a certain flair. I didn’t do it because I was in a hurry, but simply because I liked going fast, almost lying flat on the banister. Basically, it offered me an opportunity to fall down the stairwell and die, and while this possibility usually left me lukewarm at best, on this particular occasion, when I was so eager to see the girl up close, breaking all the bones in my body seemed like something she might appreciate.
I survived, ran across the courtyard, past the entrance to the underworld, and burst into the piazza, my eyes darting this way and that. But all I saw were the same old rowdy kids doing flips around the turnstile bars near the ticket booth, Lello zipping around on his new bike, and three or four girls waiting their turn at the fountain, either to drink water or rinse their hands. She wasn’t there. There was so much to see that I didn’t see her.
I stopped Lello immediately. “Where’s the girl from Milan?” I yelled menacingly.
“What are you, blind?” he replied.
I looked around—a tumultuous and chaotic landscape of walls, lampposts, shouting kids, colors both sharp and faded, blue skies, late afternoon light—but still didn’t see her. I’m afraid that the boy I was then and the elderly man I am today share several commonalities. When I’m looking for something now—my eyeglasses, for example—and I feel my anxiety grow as I continue not to find them, I hear myself say in a somewhat elevated tone of voice: I can’t find anything in this house! And then my wife, frazzled by the fate that has befallen her, comes in, points to them and says: And those? What are they?
“You’re the one who’s blind! I can see perfectly well,” I screamed at Lello.
“Oh yeah?”
Lello dropped his bike, grabbed my arm, and swearing and cussing, dragged me toward a girl playing hopscotch with other girls next to the front door of my building. I dug my heels in and resisted, but I also swept away the clouds of anxiety at not seeing her and not finding her and looked clearly. What a terrible sensation, I didn’t trust myself, all it took was one mistake and I was ready to tear the whole world to shreds.
“Who’s that?” Lello asked.
Even though I had never seen her up close, I was forced to admit that it was indeed the girl from Milan.
“It’s her.”
“What do you want with her anyway?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I wasn’t looking for her.”
“Liar! You came running outside screaming ‘Where is she?’”
“Me? When? I didn’t mean the girl; I meant the bike.”
“You said the girl from Milan.”
“No, I said your new bike.”
To prove it, I grabbed his bike, told him I had lots of homework and not much time, but that I wanted to take a ten-minute break and play courage.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
Lello didn’t seem entirely convinced. He had heard me perfectly well and wanted me to admit it.
“If you came to talk to the girl from Milan, you’re too late. Me and her already talked twice and pretty soon I’m going to proclaim my love for her.”
I felt a deep pain in my chest and reacted without thinking. “No, you’re not, you bastard. I saw her first and we’ve been waving at each other for a month.”
“We went further. We talk to each other.”
“You better not talk to her ever again.”
“What if I do?”
“If you do, I’ll go get my grandfather’s walking stick that has a sword inside, and I’ll kill you.”
I was enjoying the conversation; it was almost straight out of a book. But I underestimated the effect that the walking stick would have on Lello. He forgot the girl from Milan entirely and started asking me all about the walking stick, how it was made, what kind of handle it had, if the sword was long or short, if it was flame-bladed, and most of all if I would show it to him, even from a distance. I didn’t describe it in detail and didn’t promise anything because, of course, not only had I never laid eyes on it, but I’d also never even seen my grandfather. I only hinted that he had been a great swordsman, and that I was, too.
“Are you ready to play courage now?” I asked, cutting the conversation short.
“Yes.”
“I ride first.”
“No, I do.”
“I called it.”
We often challenged each other to this hair-brained test of courage. We took turns: one was the cyclist and the other the pedestrian. The cyclist had to pedal as fast as he could toward the pedestrian, who had to stand as still as he could for as long as possible, waiting for the speeding bike to come rushing towards him, and then elegantly leap out of the way at the last minute. If the pedestrian stepped back too soon, it meant he was a coward.
In the meantime, I had come up with a plan. Naturally, the girl would be curious and would stop her playing to watch the heroic challenge, which, I have to say, I excelled at, both as pedestrian—I always leapt out of the way at the very last minute, because Lello, who was basically a good kid, always hit the brakes if he got too close to running me over—and as cyclist—I sped toward Lello so fast but never actually killed him because he always got scared and preferred to be considered a coward than end up having to go to the hospital. Anyway, my plan was that the girl from Milan would see how strong I was and how weak Lello was, and then she’d choose me and love me forever. With this in mind, we began.
I hopped on the bike and did a loop to pick up speed. Lello assumed the stance and waited. I focused on running him over, announcing my approach by ringing the bell and yelling wildly, so I’d also attract the attention of the girl from Milan, who I imagined was watching me and thinking with admiration, oh, I know him, that’s the boy from the window, finally! As usual, Lello couldn’t hold his combative stance for long, and awkwardly but wisely leapt out of the path which I, a crazed warrior on horseback, was on. I zipped past him, hit the brakes, and yelled: cowardly rogue, one day you’ll pay dearly! and other such phrases. (You’ll get your comeuppance was another phrase I had recently read, but it didn’t sound quite right.) Unfortunately, I realized that the girl and her friends had kept on playing; even if they had glanced at me, it had had no effect whatsoever. I was filled with dismay.
I handed the bike over to Lello and got into position, my legs planted firmly and muscles tense, waiting for my buddy to come racing toward me. Lello looped around, picked up speed, and took his aim, while I yelled things like, the only way you’ll win, you bastard, is over my dead body! And then just as the bike came barreling down, bell ringing wildly, I realized—with amazement—that the girl was watching me, maybe she was trying to understand what kind of idiotic game we were playing, or maybe she was afraid for my life and was already contemplating traveling to the underworld in my place, oh, how electrifying it was to think that she was worried about my well-being the same way I worried night and day about hers.
It was so electrifying that I didn’t jump out of the way. Lello, shocked by the absurdity of my excessive audacity, jammed on the brakes only at the very last second, but not before running over my left foot with the front wheel and shredding my bare ankle with the mudguard and tire tread.