City (27 page)

Queen.

Mathias aims at Bird and fires.

Two shots in the middle of the back.

Bird falls, but falling he fires again.

Fifth shot.

King.

The Old Man goes: CLACK.

From a window in the saloon, Julie Dolphin lines up eye, sight, man, says Farewell, brother, and pulls the trigger.

Mathias's head explodes in blood and brains.

The Indian, in the saloon, sings softly and opening one fist lets gold earth slide between his fingers.

The silver watch, on the table, begins to tick.

The hand of the Old Man trembles and then moves. 12:38.

Phil Wittacher is on his feet, spattered with blood. So tired, he thinks.

In the silence, the Old Man shakes and murmurs something with a voice that sounds like thunder shot from the center of the earth.

All Closingtown looks at him.

Go, Old Man, says Phil Wittacher.

Silence.

Then an explosion.

The Old Man is opening up.

A drop of water hits the sky.

It shines in the light of midday and keeps on going, a sparkling stream shot in the air.

Water and gold.

All Closingtown looks up.

Phil Wittacher has his eyes on the ground. He bends over, grabs a handful of dust. He stands up. Opens his fingers.

There's no wind here, he thinks.

Bird closes his eyes.

The last thing he says is:

“Merci.”

Bird was buried with his arms crossed on his chest: his hands were just touching the guns; they were there in the coffin, too, polished till they sparkled. Many people carried the coffin up to the top of the hill, because they thought it would be an honor, in later years, to say: I went with Bird, that day, to the other world. They had dug a big hole, deep and wide, and put up a dark stone, with his name on it. They lowered the coffin into the hole and then took off their hats and turned towards the minister. The minister said he had never buried a gunfighter, and wasn't sure he knew what to say. He asked if the man had ever done anything good, in his life. He asked if anyone knew anything about him. Then the judge, who had a bullet somewhere in his dorsal spine but couldn't care less about it, said that Bird had shot four queens and a king, at thirty paces, without wasting a bullet. He asked if that might be enough. The minister said he was afraid not. That started a debate, and they dug around in their memories trying to remember a good thing, just one, that Bird had done in his life. It was funny, but all they could think of was a lot of nasty stuff. What they finally came up with was how he had studied French. At least it seemed to be something
nice.
They asked the minister if that would be enough. The minister said it was like fishing for trout in a glass of whiskey. Then the judge pointed a gun at him and said:

“Fish.”

So the minister said a lot of interesting things on the possibilities of redeeming a life of sin by taking up the study of languages. He didn't do too badly. Amen, they all said at the end, quite convincingly. They filled the hole with earth, and went home.

With the money that was found on Bird they had a mariachi come to town. They led him up the hill and asked how many songs he could play for that sum. He made two calculations, then he said: one thousand three hundred and fifty. They gave him the money and told him to begin, and added that he could go at his own pace, since Bird wasn't in a hurry. He picked up the guitar and began. He sang songs in which everything went very badly, but the people, inexplicably, were quite happy. He went on for seven hours. Then came the first gunshots from the town. He got the message, climbed on his mule, and took off. But he was an honest mariachi, and didn't stop singing until he disappeared on the horizon, and he kept going for days and months and years.

That's why, around here, when people hear a mariachi singing, they raise a glass and say: Here's to you, Bird.

Not a breath of wind. Bright bursts of red sunset along the horizon of Closingtown. Phil Wittacher puts on his hat and mounts his horse. He looks ahead into the distance. Then he turns to the Dolphin sisters: standing motionless, white hair carefully combed, not a strand out of place.

Silence.

The horse lowers its head a couple of times, then raises its nose to sniff the air.

Julie Dolphin's eyes are shining with tears. She presses her lips together. She waves her hand, just lightly, but to Phil Wittacher it seems beautiful.

“Tight ass and loaded guns, kid,” says Melissa Dolphin. “The rest is useless poetry.”

Phil Wittacher smiles.

“Life isn't a gunfight,” he says.

Melissa Dolphin opens her eyes wide.

“Of course it is, you fool.”

Music.

Epilogue

“No, it's something completely different.”

“Do you think it's a question of experience, or . . . of wisdom, if we
can use that word?”

“Wisdom? . . . I don't know, I think, rather, it's . . . let's say the way in which you experience pain is different . . .”

“In what sense?”

“I mean . . . when you're young the pain hits you and it's like you've been shot . . . it's the end, it seems like the end . . . the pain is like a gunshot, it makes you jump, like an explosion . . . it's like there's no relief, no remedy, it's absolute . . . the point is
you don't
expect it,
that's the heart of the matter, when you're young you don't expect pain, and it surprises you, and it's the shock that gets you,
the shock.
Shock, you know?”

“Yes.”

“As an old person . . . that is, when you get older . . . the shock isn't there anymore, it can't take you by surprise . . . you
feel
it, of course, but it's like tiredness added to tiredness, there're no more explosions, you see?, a huge weight has been placed on your shoulders . . . or it's like you're walking and your shoes are getting soaked, more and more saturated, caked with mud, heavier and heavier. At some point you stop, and that's the end. But you don't jump in the air, the way you did when you were young, it's not that anymore. That's the reason you can box as long as you live, if you want. It doesn't hurt anymore, after a while, in my view, it doesn't hurt anymore. One day, you're just too tired and you leave, that's all.”

“You left because you were tired?”

“I thought I was tired. That's all.”

“Tired of fighting?”

“No . . . I still liked fighting, throwing punches, and taking them, I liked boxing . . . I didn't like losing, of course, but I could have gone on for a while and kept winning . . . I don't know . . . at some point I realized that
I just didn't feel like being up there anymore
. . . up where everyone's watching you, and there's no escape, all those eyes on you, if you shit in your pants they see you, whatever you do they're watching you, and I was tired, of that . . . I think that all of a sudden I had a tremendous desire to be in a place where no one could see me. So I left. That's all.”

“You went out in a spectacular way, though, right in the middle of a
challenge for the world championship . . .”

“Fourth round, with Butler, yes . . .”

“Well, it made quite an impression, the images have become famous,
you suddenly stop fighting, you turn . . .”

“I hate those pictures, I look stupid, or scared, whereas it was something completely different . . . you can't choose the moment when you're going to have an important realization, mine came there, right in the middle of the fight, suddenly everything seemed marvelously clear to me, and it was perfectly obvious that I had to get out of there, and find a place where people weren't watching me, it didn't matter that I was right in the middle of the fight, it was irrelevant . . .”

“. . . it was a challenge that had been talked about for months and
months . . .”

“. . . yes . . .”

“. . . it was a world championship . . .”

“Yes, well, but . . . OK, it was a world championship, what can I tell you, I knew what a world championship was, I wasn't stupid . . . I had the world championship stuck in my mind from the first day I went into the gym . . . It sounds ridiculous, but what was important to me wasn't boxing, what was important was to get to the top, to the peak, to be the champion of the world. Then things changed, but at the beginning . . . Christ, what ambition, when you're a kid you can dream about things . . . you really believe in it, maybe people hate you because you're arrogant, or you seem crazy, egotistical, and it's all true, but inside . . . Christ, what strength you have inside, a beautiful strength, life in its pure state, not like those people who are always calculating, hiding their hopes under the mattress, just in case someone notices later, the ones who camouflage themselves and then cheat you in the last round, maybe with a dirty hit . . . oh, I was unbearable, but . . . Mondini hated me for that, he always hated me . . . but . . . that was when I learned to be alive. Then it's a sickness that never goes away.”

“What about Mondini, what did he mean to you?”

“It's not a nice story.”

“Do you feel like talking about it, Larry?”

“I don't know. It turned out badly, and maybe there was no way to make it turn out right.”

“You and Mondini separated after the fight with Poreda.”

“You remember that fight, Dan?”

“Of course.”

“OK, let me tell you something. Before the fourth round, remember?”

“The last . . .”

“Yes, before the last round, in the corner, during the interval, well, Mondini wasn't there anymore, he had already gone . . .”

“He didn't go to the corner?”

“No, it's not that, he was there, in the corner, he did everything he was supposed to do, the water, the salts, all that crap . . . but he was no longer there, he was no longer Mondini, he was no longer my Maestro, he had abandoned me, am I clear?”

“Poreda often said that Mondini had paid him to win that fight.”

“Forget what Poreda says.”

“But he . . .”

“What Poreda says doesn't count for shit.”

“There was an investigation . . .”

“Bullshit. I got up from the stool and I was alone, that's all that counts.”

“It was one of the most violent rounds I've ever seen.”

“I don't know, I don't remember much about it, only it wasn't boxing anymore, at that point, it was hatred and violence, I wasn't myself, up there, it was something that was fighting in my place . . .”

“Mondini threw in the towel at twenty-two seconds from the end of
the round.”

“He didn't have to.”

“Afterwards he said he didn't like seeing his students smashed to
pieces.”

“Bullshit. Listen to me carefully, I could have gone on, I could have kept going like that for the whole week, I was young and Poreda was old, and listen to me carefully, maybe I don't remember everything about that round, but one thing I do remember, and that's Poreda's face, he was a man who was hurting up to his asshole, a guy at the end of his tether, he would have been dead before me, that's the truth, by God, and when I saw the referee interrupt and that towel fly onto the canvas, I thought they'd taken it from Poreda's corner, I swear, I thought they'd finally understood, and I think that I raised my arms, because I thought I had won. But the towel was mine. Absurd.”

“Poreda's punches were powerful, Mondini knew it.”

“Mondini shouldn't have thrown the towel.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Ask him, Dan.”

“He has always said it was to save you.”

“From what?”

“He said that . . .”

“Let's change the subject, all right?”

“. . .”

“Christ, so many years have passed and it still makes me jumpy, that business . . . I'm sorry, Dan, maybe we should cut this bit? Is that possible?”

“Don't worry, it's no problem . . . we can edit the interview however
we like . . .”

“. . . it's just that it's . . . I don't know, I've never understood it, that is, I understood it but then . . . well, it's all bullshit.”

“Afterwards you went to the Battista brothers.”

“I had to go somewhere, they had the resources to take me to the world championship . . .”

“There was a lot of talk about that family, some said that . . .”

“You know something about Mondini?, I want to tell you something about Mondini, I've never told anyone, but I want to tell you, here on the air . . . well, four years after that match . . . we hadn't seen or heard from each other or anything . . . I was with the Battistas, no, it was when I was getting ready to fight Miller, whoever won would challenge Butler for the world championship, it was during that period, well . . . one day they had me read a newspaper and in it there was an interview with Mondini. It wasn't the first time, every so often I happened to read something about him, and he almost always managed to get in something against me, a comment, even just a word or two, but it was like he intended every time to say something vicious. Well, so I started reading, and the interviewer asked Mondini if I had any chance, against Miller. And he said: now that he is with the Battistas, of course he has a chance. Then the interviewer made him repeat it, because he wanted to get it right. And in the interview he said: Lawyer is a fraud, he was good when he was young, but the money has ruined him, now he's a puppet in the hands of the Battistas, and they will take him where they want, maybe even the world championship. Then he also said some crap about my car and the women I went around with . . . fuck, he had been my Maestro, he
knew
I was great, he knew how I was made, he couldn't forget everything because of a picture in the paper, or some crap he'd read somewhere, he had seen my fights, he knew I could do without all the Battistas in the world, he understood boxing, he truly understood, it was only spite, and rancor. So I did something ridiculous, I went straight to his gym, and before anyone could stop me I got to him and I said Fuck you, Mondini, and I started hitting him, I know it's terrible, but after all he had been a fighter, he could defend himself, and he did, and I hit him, without gloves, I hit him until I saw him on the ground, and then I said Fuck you, again, and that's the last image I have of him, lying on the ground running a hand over his face and then looking at it, filthy, bloody, it's the last time I saw him. I never read an interview with him, I never wanted to know anything else about him. Pretty terrible, isn't it?”

“You never heard from him?”

“He was my Maestro, fuck. Have you ever had a Maestro, Dan?”

“I?”

“Yes, you.”

“Maybe . . . yes, maybe, someone . . .”

“It must be difficult to be a Maestro, no one really manages to do it well, you know?”

“Maybe.”

“It must be difficult.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Have you had others? . . . I mean another Maestro.”

“No. After Mondini, no. In the corner, with the Battistas, it was like having a plumber, or an insurance agent, it wouldn't have made any difference. I fought alone, all those years. Alone.”

“They didn't teach you anything?”

“Not to overcook the spaghetti. The only thing.”

“And the fight with Miller?”

“Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Miller was hungry. Mondini would have liked him. He came from the ghetto, I don't know where, but he was always bragging about how he was from the streets, and so nothing could frighten him. Bullshit. Everyone is scared.”

“Everyone?”

“Of course, everyone . . .”

“You were scared?”

“I . . . it's strange . . . at the beginning no, I wasn't scared, truly, then later it changed . . . you know something, something that might help you understand . . . before every fight . . . you go up there, right?, and in those few instants before you start you have your opponent in the other corner, you jump up and down, you throw a few punches in the air . . . right before the match, right? . . . well, a lot of trainers, if you notice, will stand in front of their fighter, they plant themselves right between him and his opponent, so he can't see the enemy, you understand?, they get in the middle, staring their boy straight in the eyes and shouting things in his face, and all this is so he doesn't see his opponent, so he doesn't look at him, doesn't have time to think, and to be afraid, you see? . . . Well, Mondini did the opposite. He'd stand beside you and look at the other guy as if he were looking at the view of the countryside from his balcony. Cool. He'd make observations, comments. Take Sobilo, for example . . . Sobilo had a shaved head, and a skull tattooed right on the top of his shaved head . . . I remember Mondini kept saying Tell me, Larry, did they shit on his head? And I said It's a tattoo, Maestro, and he no, really, you think? and he looked for his glasses so he could see, but he couldn't find them and . . . so like that it wasn't exactly easy to get scared. Later, things changed. The fighters were different, too . . . they really were frightening . . . Miller had already killed two people, for example, when I met him, of course it was bad luck, but still they had died . . . that was rough boxing, Mondini had always told me, the punches were different, there was this odd feature, that you could die . . . odd . . . die . . . you know what Pearson once told me? Pearson, you remember him, champion middle . . .”

“Bill Pearson?”

“That's him. He said something intelligent. He told me that you
had
to be afraid of your opponent: that way you didn't have time to be afraid of death. He said it just like that.”

“That's great.”

“Yes, great. And he was right. Somewhere I learned to be afraid of my opponents. It kept my mind occupied. It brought out the best in you. It was a good system.”

“Was Miller so terrifying?”

“Well, of course he . . . he was impressive . . . then he wasn't as bad as he seemed, but . . . I remember the strange sensation the two or three times I found myself trapped in the corner, he had surprised me, with him you shouldn't, ever, but I had fallen for it, and there I was, it must have happened two or three times, but I remember it very clearly, for a second you felt like . . . finished, done for, in some part of your brain you thought that if you didn't hurry up and find a way out you'd be dead, it wasn't just a question of losing or winning, you'd be dead . . . God, what a lot of ideas came to you on how to get out of there, I guarantee you, you became an eel, I swear . . .”