Read Online I'm Not Scared by Niccolò Ammaniti - Free Book Online

back,’ I said, and climbed through the little window over the door.
    The drum was half full, but the water was clear and didn’t smell. It seemed all right.
    In a dark corner, on a wooden plank, there were some cans, some half-burned candles, a saucepan and some empty bottles. I took one bottle, walked two paces and stopped. I went back and picked up the saucepan.
    It was a shallow pan covered in white enamel, with a blue rim and handles, and red apples painted round the outside. It was just like the one we had at home. We had bought ours with mama at Lucignano market, Maria had chosen it from a pile of saucepans on a stall because she liked the apples.
    This one looked older. It hadn’t been properly washed, there was still some stuff stuck on the bottom. I ran my forefinger over it and brought it up to my nose.
    Tomato sauce.
    I put it back and filled the bottle with water, closing it with a cork stopper, took the basket and climbed out.
    I grabbed the rope, tied the basket to it and put the bottle inside.
    â€˜I’ll lower it down to you,’ I said. ‘Take it.’
    With the blanket round him, he groped for the bottle in the basket, uncorked it and poured the water into the saucepan without spilling a drop, then he put it back in the basket and gave a tug on the cord.
    As if it was something he always did, every day. Since I didn’t take it back he gave a second tug and grunted something angrily.
    As soon as I had pulled it up he lowered his head and without lifting the saucepan started to drink, on all fours, like a dog. When he had finished he crouched down on one side and didn’t move again.
    It was late.
    â€˜Well … goodbye.’ I covered up the hole and went away.
    While I was cycling towards Acqua Traverse, I thought about the saucepan I had found in the kitchen.
    I found it strange that it was the same as ours. I don’t know why, maybe because Maria had chosen it from so many. As if it was special, more beautiful, with those red apples.
    I arrived home just in time for lunch.
    â€˜Hurry up, go and wash your hands,’ said papa. He was sitting at the table next to my sister. They were waiting for mama to drain the pastasciutta.
    I dashed into the bathroom and rubbed my hands with the soap, parted my hair on the right and joined them while mama was filling the plates with pasta.
    She wasn’t using the saucepan with the apples on it. I looked at the dishes drying on the sink, but I couldn’t see it there either. It must be in the kitchen cabinet.
    â€˜In a couple of days somebody’s coming to stay with us,’ said papa with his mouth full. ‘You must both be good. No crying and shouting. Don’t show me up.’
    I asked: ‘Who is this somebody?’
    He poured himself a glass of wine. ‘A friend of mine.’
    â€˜What’s his name?’ my sister asked.
    â€˜Sergio.’
    â€˜Sergio,’ Maria repeated. ‘What a funny name.’
    It was the first time anyone had ever come to stay with us. At Christmas my uncles and aunts came but they hardly ever stayed the night. There wasn’t enough room. I asked: ‘And how long is he staying?’
    Papa filled his plate again. ‘For a while.’
    Mama put the little slice of meat in front of us.
    It was Wednesday. And Wednesday was meat day.
    The meat that’s good for you, the meat my sister and I couldn’t stand. I, with a great effort, could get that tough tasteless bit of shoe-leather down, but my sister couldn’t. She would chew it for hours till it became a stringy white ball that swelled up in her mouth. And when she really couldn’t stand it any more she would stick it on the underside of the table. There the meat fermented. Mama just couldn’t understand it. ‘Where’s that smell coming from? What onearth can it be?’ Till one day she took out the cutlery drawer and found all those ghastly pellets stuck to the boards like