Story
M y whole
body was shaking. I needed a drink, a pick-me-upâwhether it was a lukewarm beer
or vodka didnât matter. I was in a cold sweat under my heavy coat and the nausea
was taking an elevator ride up and down my throat. I hadnât washed in more than
a week, and even I could smell how I stank. The headache was pounding in my
temples, it drowned out my thoughts, and every time a car engine accelerated
nearby it was as if someone was pushing my skull into a pepper mill.
We were on the square at linen yellow Piazza di
Bormio. Commerce was in full swing, in the stands the sellers were shouting out
offers to outdo one another: bananas for a five-spot. Sunglasses for ten. Fried
pineapples for fifteen bucks. Every time someone shouted I felt my forehead.
Hurried stuffed animals passed us at a trot in all directions, and I wanted
nothing more than to go lie down. First a pick-me-up, then lie down.
There were four of us, and at this time we had been
together for several months. Days and nights followed each other, but our little
group remained intact. Our leader was named Riccardo Spider, and he was the one
who ordered us to the piazza. I didnât know then that Riccardo was working for
Octopus Callemaro; I didnât even know who Callemaro was.
âVole,â said Riccardo. âI need a smoke.â
I struggled to force back the vomit, and with the
back of my paw I tried to dry the sweat from my forehead but was shaking so
severely it must have looked like some kind of choreography.
âI donât have any,â I said.
âFind some,â said Riccardo.
With a gesture he indicated the asphalt on the
square.
I looked at him perplexed, and there was a smile on
his lips. He meant that I should crawl around on the square on all fours and
hunt for butts. I knew just what he was up to. To maintain his absolute power,
he was sometimes forced to degrade us so the hierarchy would not be disturbed.
As we stood there on Piazza di Bormio we had been going for over twenty-four
hours and had made two failed attempts to break into apartments; sold hash to
teenagers who would be disappointed when they found out it was only resin; and,
just that morning, had left a bar whose location I couldnât recall without
paying the billâbut I do remember we drank up a couple of bottles of vodka
before we split. I didnât have the energy to question Riccardo, and I didnât
have the strength to argue. I got down on my knees and crawled slowly off toward
a flower stand. After a minute or two I had forgotten why I was crawling around
on the filthy square. The effort meant I wasnât able to hold back any longer,
and I threw up behind a bucket of tulips. I got to my knees and wiped my mouth
off with the sleeve of the coat, and at that moment I met his gaze.
My dad, Harry S. Bulldog, was standing six feet
before me. Under his arm he held a package of gift-wrapped flowers that he must
have just bought, and he stared. We had not seen each other for almost a year. I
tried to say something, tried to explain why I was there on my knees, with vomit
on my coat and my body shaking, but I could not make a sound. And before I could
make another attempt, Dadâs gaze glided past me and he went on.
T hat
evening we fell asleep as we usually did in a garbage room somewhere in Sors. It
was always possible to find unlocked trash rooms, and as long as you didnât stay
two nights in a row there was seldom anyone who complained. You could sleep
outdoors, and sometimes we did, but there were lots of rabble prowling around
the streets at night, and you were always afraid of waking up without clothes
and possessions. The trash rooms were safer, and we could lock ourselves in.
When my friendsâeven if I hesitate to call them
âfriendsââfell asleep and were snoring in their respective corners in the
stinking, windowless room, I was lying there wide awake, staring into the
darkness. The
M y whole
body was shaking. I needed a drink, a pick-me-upâwhether it was a lukewarm beer
or vodka didnât matter. I was in a cold sweat under my heavy coat and the nausea
was taking an elevator ride up and down my throat. I hadnât washed in more than
a week, and even I could smell how I stank. The headache was pounding in my
temples, it drowned out my thoughts, and every time a car engine accelerated
nearby it was as if someone was pushing my skull into a pepper mill.
We were on the square at linen yellow Piazza di
Bormio. Commerce was in full swing, in the stands the sellers were shouting out
offers to outdo one another: bananas for a five-spot. Sunglasses for ten. Fried
pineapples for fifteen bucks. Every time someone shouted I felt my forehead.
Hurried stuffed animals passed us at a trot in all directions, and I wanted
nothing more than to go lie down. First a pick-me-up, then lie down.
There were four of us, and at this time we had been
together for several months. Days and nights followed each other, but our little
group remained intact. Our leader was named Riccardo Spider, and he was the one
who ordered us to the piazza. I didnât know then that Riccardo was working for
Octopus Callemaro; I didnât even know who Callemaro was.
âVole,â said Riccardo. âI need a smoke.â
I struggled to force back the vomit, and with the
back of my paw I tried to dry the sweat from my forehead but was shaking so
severely it must have looked like some kind of choreography.
âI donât have any,â I said.
âFind some,â said Riccardo.
With a gesture he indicated the asphalt on the
square.
I looked at him perplexed, and there was a smile on
his lips. He meant that I should crawl around on the square on all fours and
hunt for butts. I knew just what he was up to. To maintain his absolute power,
he was sometimes forced to degrade us so the hierarchy would not be disturbed.
As we stood there on Piazza di Bormio we had been going for over twenty-four
hours and had made two failed attempts to break into apartments; sold hash to
teenagers who would be disappointed when they found out it was only resin; and,
just that morning, had left a bar whose location I couldnât recall without
paying the billâbut I do remember we drank up a couple of bottles of vodka
before we split. I didnât have the energy to question Riccardo, and I didnât
have the strength to argue. I got down on my knees and crawled slowly off toward
a flower stand. After a minute or two I had forgotten why I was crawling around
on the filthy square. The effort meant I wasnât able to hold back any longer,
and I threw up behind a bucket of tulips. I got to my knees and wiped my mouth
off with the sleeve of the coat, and at that moment I met his gaze.
My dad, Harry S. Bulldog, was standing six feet
before me. Under his arm he held a package of gift-wrapped flowers that he must
have just bought, and he stared. We had not seen each other for almost a year. I
tried to say something, tried to explain why I was there on my knees, with vomit
on my coat and my body shaking, but I could not make a sound. And before I could
make another attempt, Dadâs gaze glided past me and he went on.
T hat
evening we fell asleep as we usually did in a garbage room somewhere in Sors. It
was always possible to find unlocked trash rooms, and as long as you didnât stay
two nights in a row there was seldom anyone who complained. You could sleep
outdoors, and sometimes we did, but there were lots of rabble prowling around
the streets at night, and you were always afraid of waking up without clothes
and possessions. The trash rooms were safer, and we could lock ourselves in.
When my friendsâeven if I hesitate to call them
âfriendsââfell asleep and were snoring in their respective corners in the
stinking, windowless room, I was lying there wide awake, staring into the
darkness. The
Similar Books
