The student was seen rummaging through the supplies in the biology laboratory, where he had already taken possession of a liter of glycerine, a flask of concentrated nitric acid, and two flasks of sulfuric acid that are kept in a special locked cabinet, which the student broke into.
Beneath that text was the official, unappealable verdict: two days’ suspension from school.
I can’t say I’m surprised. Sooner or later, I was sure, Lorenzo would be suspended. In elementary school that’s a rare thing, but I knew he’d manage to pull it off. His teacher called me immediately on my cell phone and I rushed straight over to the school—one of the advantages of being a moriturus with nothing to do. I’m sitting across the desk from her in the classroom, while the defendant waits for us in the hallway.
“Your son has committed a very grave infraction, Signor Battistini. He stole a number of objects that belong to the school.”
“‘Very grave infraction’ seems to me to be overstating the case. Haven’t you ever stolen a book from a library or candy from the supermarket?”
“No,” she retorts sternly.
“From the list of stolen goods I’d have to guess that he had one of his usual experiments in mind.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of: his usual experiments. Last year the classrooms were overrun with insect larvae thanks to him.”
“He was just experimenting with reproduction in a damp environment, in this specific case with the pond in the school garden.”
“And that strikes you as normal? What did he want to do this time? Burn down the school?”
“Excuse me for a moment. I have to reply to a message from work.”
I pull out my iPhone. I lied. I Google: glycerine plus nitric acid plus sulfuric acid. Nitroglycerine. Those are the basic components of that dangerous compound. The little chemist I sired was trying to make nitroglycerine and I have no doubt that he would have succeeded. He wouldn’t have burned down the school. He would have blown it up.
I downplay the seriousness of the situation in my conversation with his teacher. Clearly, she didn’t do the same research I just did. I promise her I’ll punish my young heir with exemplary severity.
When I walk out into the hallway, I find him sitting on a bench, eyes downcast and ears drooping like a truant who knows he’s in big trouble. He silently trails after me to the car. While I drive, I try to discuss the topic.
“What were you trying to blow up?”
He’s astonished that I’ve ferreted out his true intentions. Clearly, he underestimates me.
“I didn’t want to destroy anything, I just wanted to make some fireworks for the end-of-year show.”
“Don’t you think these fireworks might have been a little too, shall we say, . . . powerful?”
“I wasn’t going to put in much nitroglycerine.”
I make him promise that he will never, ever try any further experiments with explosives, incendiary devices, or anything dangerous.
Then I consider the issue of the two-day suspension. The only thing that really scares him is his mother’s reaction. I decide to tell Paola myself.
Paola shouted so loud she could be heard all the way out to the Rome beltway.
“Nitroglycerine? Your son was making nitroglycerine at recess?”
When she says “your son,” that means she’s well and truly pissed off.
I explain to her that the compound is very difficult to make without the appropriate equipment, and I minimize the whole incident as nothing more than a childish prank that, happily, had no bad consequences. And as a result? The one who gets the dressing-down is me. I am described as, in order of denunciation, a bad example, an irresponsible father, an underminer of education and good manners, and someone trying to poison her own children against her. When people lose their tempers, they say things they don’t really mean. I hope. I try to be a cat and this time I get the result I hoped for: Paola tries to keep going but her rage sputters and dies out. A few minutes later we file away the day with a smile. We label it “the day our son tried to manufacture nitroglycerine.”
But I am aware of something a lot more sinister. I might have lost him, earlier than my hundred days allowed. The thought makes me want to howl.