Steal You Away (43 page)

Gloria jumped to the ground. ‘She’s the nastiest bitch I’ve ever met. Nobody’s worse than her. It’s her fault you failed. It’s not right. She’s got to pay for it.’ She knelt down beside Pietro. ‘We must make her pay for it. We must make her pay dearly.’

Pietro didn’t reply and watched the cormorants slipping into the silver waters of the lagoon like black shuttles.

‘What do you say? Shall we pay her back?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t care any more…’ said Pietro, dejectedly, sniffing.

‘That’s typical of you… You mustn’t just accept everything. You must react. You must, Pietro.’ Gloria was furious now. She felt like telling him that that was why they had failed him, because he had no balls, if he’d had any balls he wouldn’t have gone into the school with that bunch of idiots, but she restrained herself.

Pietro looked at her. ‘How would you pay her back, then? What would you do to her?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gloria began to pace round the island racking her
brains. ‘We ought to frighten her, scare her out of her wits … What could we do?’ Suddenly she stopped and raised her eyes to the heavens as if she’d been possessed by the truth. ‘I’m a genius! I’m an absolute genius!’ She slipped two fingers into the net containing the grass snake and raised it in the air. ‘We’ll put this dear little creature in her bed. So when she goes to bye-byes she’ll have a heart attack. What do you say, aren’t I a genius?’

Pietro shook his head pityingly. ‘Poor thing.’

‘What do you mean, poor thing? She’s a shit. She failed you …’

‘No, I meant the snake. It’ll die.’

‘So what? Who cares? This swamp’s full of lousy snakes. If one of them dies it doesn’t matter a bit, do you know how many get killed on the road, run over by the cars? Anyway, it won’t necessarily die. Nothing will happen at all.’

And she kept on at him until he finally gave in.

The plan was simple. They’d worked it out carefully on the island. It came down to a few points.

That was it.

Miss Palmieri’s car was not there.

 The sun had begun its slow, inevitable descent. It had fired its best arrows, and now the heat, though still torrid, was less than a few
hours before. It was no longer that scorching heat that drives people mad and makes them capable of terrible deeds, filling the summer newspapers with gruesome murders.

The faintest breath of wind, a wish for wind, perhaps, gently stirred the scorching air. The coming night was going to be sleepless, muggy, starlit.

Our two young heroes, on their bikes, had hidden behind the laurel hedge that surrounded Miss Palmieri’s house.

‘Why don’t we just forget it?’ Pietro said for the umpteenth time.

Gloria tried to snatch away the plastic bag containing the snake, which was tied by a string to Pietro’s waist. ‘I see, you’re shitting yourself. I’ll go, you wait here…’

Why did everybody, good and bad, friend and foe, always end up accusing him of shitting himself? Why is it so important in life not to shit yourself? Why, in order to be considered a man, do you always have to do the last thing in the world you want to do? Why?

‘All right, let’s go then …’ Pietro squeezed through the hedge and Gloria followed him.

The building was at the side of a narrow secondary road that started from Ischiano, cut across the fields, passed over a level crossing and joined up with the coast road. It was little used. Five hundred metres away, in the direction of Ischiano, were a couple of greenhouses and a garage. The house was an ugly cube covered in grey plaster, with a flat roof, green plastic blinds and two balconies full of plants. The ground floor windows were shuttered. Miss Palmieri lived on the first floor.

To climb up they chose the side facing the fields. That way, if anyone came along the road, they wouldn’t see them. But who was likely to pass by? The level crossing was closed at this time of year.

The drainpipe was in the middle of the wall. It ran within a metre of the balcony. The balcony wasn’t very high up. The only difficulty would be reaching out to get hold of the railing.

‘Who’s going first?’ Gloria asked in a low voice. They were pressed flat against the wall like a pair of geckos.

Pietro shook the pipe, testing its strength. It seemed pretty solid. ‘I’ll go. It’ll be better like that. I’ll be able to help you up onto the balcony.’

He felt a sense of foreboding, but tried to suppress it.

‘Okay.’ Gloria stepped aside.

Pietro, with the snake wriggling in the plastic bag tied to his belt, gripped the pipe with both hands and put his feet against the wall. Plastic sandals weren’t ideal for this sort of thing, but he hoisted himself up nonetheless, trying to get them on the brackets that held the pipe to the wall.

Once again he was entering where he shouldn’t. But this time, according to Gloria, he had right on his side.

(
But what about you, what do you think?
)

I think I shouldn’t go in but I also think that Miss Palmieri’s a
bitch and deserves to have this trick played on her
.

The climb was proceeding without difficulty, the edge of the balcony was only a metre away, when the drainpipe, suddenly and silently, came away. Who knows, maybe the bracket had been badly cemented in or had rusted. The fact remains that it came away from the wall.

Pietro’s weight pulled it outwards and if he hadn’t made a sudden twist that would have done credit to a gibbon and let go just in time, he would have fallen on his back and… well, never mind.

He was left clinging on to the edge of the balcony.

‘Oh my God…’ he muttered frantically, and kicked out, trying to support himself with his feet on the drainpipe, but only succeeded in bending it further.

Keep calm. Don’t panic. How many times have you hung from
the branch of a tree? You can hang on for half and hour like
this
.

No, he couldn’t.

The marble edge of the balcony was sawing at his fingers. He could last five, ten minutes at most. He looked down. He could let himself drop. It wasn’t all that high. He shouldn’t do himself too much damage. The only problem was that he would fall right
on the tiled path. And tiles, as everybody knows, are renowned for their hardness.

But if I fall properly I won’t get hurt
.

(
Any sentence beginning with but is wrong from the outset
.) He could hear his father’s voice.

Gloria was standing below, watching him anxiously.

‘What shall I do?’ he called out in a whisper.

‘Jump down. I’ll catch you.’

Now that really was a stupid idea.

That way we’ll both get hurt
.

‘Get out of the way!’

He shut his eyes and was about to let go, when he saw himself lying on the ground with a broken leg and spending the summer in plaster. ‘Like hell I’m going to jump down!’ He made a big effort and with one hand grabbed hold of a bar of the railing. He strained to stretch out his leg and got his heel on the edge of the balcony, then got a grip with the other hand too, pulled himself to his feet and climbed over the railing.

What now?

The french windows were closed. He pushed at them. They were bolted.

This hadn’t been foreseen in the plan. But who would have thought that in this stifling heat anyone would keep the windows shut as if it were January?

He cupped his hands against the glass and looked in.

A sitting room. There was nobody there.

He could try to force the lock, or break the glass with a flower pot. Then find his way to the front door and get out that way. The plan would have failed (
But who cares about that?
), or he could hang down off the balcony again and drop down.

‘Go in!’ Gloria was calling to him and gesticulating.

‘It’s locked! The door’s locked.’

‘Hurry up, she might come back at any moment.’

It’s easy to talk down there
.

Just think what a fool I’d look! Miss Palmieri finding me trapped
on her balcony
.

He looked over to the other side. Less than a metre away there was a small window. It was open. The shutter was rolled down but not so far as to stop him getting in.

There was his escape route.

It was very warm.

But the water was beginning to get cold. She’d lost all feeling in her legs and bottom.

How long had she been in there? She couldn’t say for sure because she’d been asleep. Half an hour? An hour? Two?

What did it matter?

She would get out in a while. But not now. All in good time. Now she must listen to her song. Her favourite song.

REW
.
Srrrrrrrr
.
Stoc
.
PLAY
.
Ffffff
.

‘What a strange man I had, with eyes as soft as velvet, I would tell him over and over I still belong to you and I floated in the air when he slumbered in my arms … and I remembered the days when I was innocent, when the red light of coral lit my hair, when starry-eyed and vain I would gaze into the moon and force her to tell me, You’re beautiful… You’re beautiful! Ahhh! Ahhh!’

STOP
.

That song was the truth.

There was more truth in that song than in all the books and all the stupid poems about love. And to think she’d found the cassette in a newspaper. Italian pop classics. She didn’t even know the singer’s name. She was no expert.

But it expressed some great truths.

She should make her pupils learn that song.

‘By heart,’ murmured Flora Palmieri, sliding her hand across her face.

PLAY
.

‘You’re beautiful!… Ahhh!’ she began to sing along with the cassette, but it was like having flat batteries.

‘
You’re beautiful
.’

She opens her eyes. Lips kissing her
.

Little kisses on her neck. Little kisses on her ear. Little kisses
on her shoulders
.

She runs her fingers through his hair. Hair that he’d had cut
short to please her. (Well, do you like me better like this? Of course
I do.)

‘What did you say?’ she asks him, rubbing her eyes and stretching.
A ray of sun stains the dark carpet and makes the dust dance in
the air
.

‘
I said you’re beautiful
.’

Little kisses on her throat. Little kisses on her right breast
.

‘
Say it again
.’

Little kisses on her left breast
.

‘
You’re beautiful
.’

Little kisses on her right nipple
.

‘
Again. Say it again
.’

Little kisses on her left nipple
.

‘
You’re beautiful
.’

Little kisses on her stomach
.

‘
Swear that you mean it
.’

Little kisses on her navel
.

‘
I swear. You’re the most beautiful thing I know. And now, may
I proceed?
’

And the kisses resume
.

Pietro slipped through head first like a fish into a barrel.

He reached out his hands, put them flat on the tiles and moved forward, taking his weight on his wrists.

The floor was wet and his T-shirt got soaked.

He found himself lying next to the bidet.

In a bathroom
.

Music.

‘… but I went out searching for you, in the streets, among the people, and I turned as in a dream, and you were there again, and the words still linger with me: You’re beautiful!’

Loredana Berté.

He knew that song, Mimmo had the CD.

He got to his feet.

It was dark.

And very warm.

He began to drip with sweat.

And there was a smell… an unpleasant one.

For twenty seconds he was almost blind. He was in a bathroom, no doubt about it. There was a lamp but it was covered with a cloth and gave out no light. Everything else was in semidarkness. His pupils contracted and at last he could see.

Miss Palmieri was lying in the bath.

In her hands she was clutching an old cassette recorder, one of those with a black plastic case, which was blaring out: you’re beautiful. An electric wire ran right across the bathroom and ended in a socket by the door. The place was a mess. Clothes heaped on the floor. Wet linen in the washing machine. The mirror smeared with red marks.

Miss Palmieri switched off the cassette recorder and looked at him. She didn’t seem surprised. As if it were the most normal thing in the world that someone should climb into her house through the window.

But she didn’t look normal.

My God, she doesn’t
.

For one thing, her face was different, much thinner (those faces of the Jews in the concentration camps …), for another, floating in the water were bits of soggy bread, banana skins and a copy of
This Week on TV
.

She asked him, with the barest hint of surprise: ‘What are you doing here?’

Pietro lowered his eyes.

‘Don’t worry. I’m past being shy. You can look at me. What do you want?’

Pietro raised his eyes and lowered them again.

‘What’s the matter, do I disgust you?’

‘No, n …’ he stammered in embarrassment.

‘Then look at me.’

Pietro forced himself to look at her.

She was as white as a corpse. Or rather, as a wax statue. Yellowish. Her breasts were like two big scamorzas resting on the water. Her ribs stuck out. Her stomach was round and swollen. Her pubic hair red. Her arms long. And her legs long too.

She was scary.