White as Silence, Red as Song, Page 2

  Loser, loser, super-loser!

  Chapter 5

  He has dark hair. Dark eyes. A dark jacket. Basically he looks like the Death Star in Star Wars. All he’s missing is killer breath with which to put an end to students and colleagues. He doesn’t know what to do because he hasn’t been given instructions, and no one can reach Mrs. Argentieri on her cell phone. Mrs. Argentieri has a cell phone but doesn’t even know how to use it. Her children gave it to her. It even has a camera, but she doesn’t have a clue. She just uses it to call her husband. Because her husband is sick. He has cancer, poor guy! Tons of people get cancer. If it gets to your liver, that’s it. Really bad deal. Her husband has liver cancer.

  Mrs. Argentieri never spoke to us about it. We learned about it from our PE teacher, Mrs. Nicolosi. Her husband is a doctor, and Mrs. Argentieri’s husband takes chemo at the hospital where Mrs. Nicolosi’s husband works. Jeez, Mrs. Argentieri has been so unlucky! She’s tedious and fussy as hell, obsessed with that guy who said you can’t step twice into the same river—which seems pretty obvious to me. But I feel sorry for her when she checks her phone to see if her husband has called.

  Anyhow, the substitute teacher tries to teach us, but—like all substitute teachers—he has no shot because, quite rightly, no one pays any attention. In fact, it’s a great opportunity to mess around and have a laugh at the expense of a grown-up’s failure. At one point I raise my hand and ask him, in a serious voice, “Why did you choose this job?”

  And in a whisper I add, “As a loser?”

  Everyone laughs. He’s unfazed.

  “Because of my granddad.”

  This guy is nuts.

  “When I was ten years old, my grandfather told me the story of A Thousand and One Nights.”

  Silence.

  “But let’s talk about the Carolingian Renaissance now.”

  The entire class looks at me. I am the one who started it, and I have to continue. They’re right. I am their hero.

  “Excuse me, sir, but do you mean the story of A Thousand and . . . well, that one?”

  Somebody chuckles. Silence. A rolling tumbleweed, Wild West type of silence. His eyes meet my eyes.

  “I presumed you weren’t interested in how to become a loser.”

  Silence. He’s got the upper hand. I don’t know what to say.

  “No, in fact, we’re not interested.”

  But in reality I am interested. I want to know why someone dreams about becoming a loser, then works hard for that dream to come true. He even seems happy. The others glare at me. Not even Silvia approves.

  “Do tell us, sir. We’re interested,” she says.

  Abandoned even by Silvia, I turn to white as the teacher begins, with those devilish eyes of his.

  “Mohamed el-Magrebi lived in Cairo, in a little house with a garden, a fig tree, and a fountain. He was poor. He fell asleep and dreamed of a drenched man who removed a golden coin from his mouth and said to him, ‘Your fortune is in Persia. You will find a treasure in Isfahan . . . so you must go there!’ Mohamed awoke and set off immediately. After encountering a thousand dangers he reached Isfahan. Here, as he tried to find food, exhausted, he was mistaken for a thief. He was beaten almost to death with bamboo sticks. Later the chief of police asked him, ‘Who are you, where are you from, why are you here?’ The man told him the truth: ‘I dreamed of a drenched man who told me to come here because I would find a treasure. Yet all I’ve gotten is a beating!’ The chief of police chuckled and replied, ‘Idiot. You believe in dreams? Three times I dreamt about a humble house in Cairo with a garden, a fig tree, and a fountain, and beneath the fountain a huge treasure! But I never set off to find it! Away with you, you sucker!’ The man returned home, dug beneath the fountain in his garden, and found the treasure!”

  He tells the story with the right pauses, like an actor. My classmates are all wide-eyed and dumbstruck. This is a bad sign. All we needed was a storytelling substitute teacher. I greet the end of the story with a chuckle.

  “Is that it?”

  The substitute teacher stands up without saying a word. He sits on the desk.

  “That’s it. That day my granddad explained to me that we are different from animals. Animals can only follow their natural instincts. We, on the other hand, are free. It’s the greatest gift we’ve ever received. Thanks to our freedom, we can become something different from what we are. Freedom allows us to dream, and dreams are the blood of life, even if that occasionally means taking a long journey and getting a bit beaten up along the way. ‘Never give up on your dreams! Don’t be frightened of dreaming even if others laugh at you,’ my granddad told me. ‘You would be giving up on yourself.’ I still remember the shine in his eyes as he said those words.”

  Everyone is silent, in awe, and it annoys me that this guy is the center of attention when I’m supposed to be the center of attention whenever we have substitute teachers.

  “What does this have to do with history and philosophy, sir?”

  He stares at me.

  “History is a cauldron of projects undertaken by people who became great for having the courage to turn their dreams into reality, and philosophy is the silence from which these dreams are born. Even if at times, unfortunately, the dreams these men had were nightmares, especially to those who paid the price. When they’re not born out of silence, dreams become nightmares. History, together with philosophy, art, music, and literature, is the best way of discovering and understanding humanity. Alexander the Great, Caesar Augustus, Dante, Michelangelo . . . Men who challenged themselves and, by changing themselves, changed history. Perhaps the next Dante or Michelangelo is right here in this classroom. Perhaps it could be you!”

  The teacher’s eyes shine as he talks about the actions of ordinary people who became great thanks to their dreams, thanks to their freedom. I’m bowled over, but even more bowled over by the fact that I’m actually listening to this jerk.

  “Only when people have faith in what is beyond their reach—a dream—does humanity take steps forward that help it to believe in itself.” Not a bad point, though it does seem to be the obvious thing a young, idealistic teacher would say. I’d like to see where he and his dreams end up in a year’s time! That’s why I nickname him The Dreamer. Good for him that he has dreams and believes in them.

  “Sir, it seems to me like all talk.”

  I want to work out whether he is serious or has simply built himself a world with which to cover up his life as a loser. The Dreamer looks me in the eye and after a moment’s silence says:

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Then the bell saves my thoughts, suddenly turned white and silent.

  Chapter 6

  Me, I’m not scared of anything. I’m in the third year at a classics high school. It’s where my parents wanted me to go. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted. Mom studied classics. Dad studied classics. Nan is the embodiment of classics. Only our dog was spared.

  It opens your mind, expands your horizons, structures your brain, makes you flexible . . .

  And breaks your balls from dawn till dusk.

  That’s exactly how it is. There’s not a single valid reason to go to this kind of school. At least the teachers have never provided one. First day of the first year: presentations, tour of the building, introduction to the teachers. Like a field trip to the zoo where the teachers are a kind of endangered species that you hope will become permanently extinct.

  Next come a few entrance tests to determine the starting level of each student. And after this warm welcome, pure hell: We’re reduced to shadows and dust. Homework, explanations, and tests like I’d never seen before. In middle school I’d study half an hour at most. Then off to play soccer anywhere that could remotely pass as a field, from the corridor at home to the parking lot downstairs. Lacking that, soccer on the PlayStation.

  Things are different in high school. If you want to pass the year, you have to study. I still don’t study much, though, because you only do things i
f you believe in them. And no teacher ever managed to convince me it is worth it. And if they—who dedicate their life to study—cannot convince me, why should I do it?

  I read The Dreamer’s blog. Yes, the history and philosophy substitute teacher has a blog, and I was curious to see what he writes on it. Teachers don’t have lives outside school. They don’t exist outside school. So I wanted to see what somebody who has nothing to talk about actually talks about. He talked about a movie he’d seen for the millionth time: Dead Poets Society. He said he shared the same passion for teaching as the protagonist of the film. He said the film had shown him why he was on earth. He continued with a mysterious yet beautiful sentence: “To grasp beauty from anywhere and share it with those beside me. That’s why I’m here.”

  I must say, The Dreamer knows how to put things into words. Two sentences and you can tell he’s worked his life out. I mean, he is thirty already, so obviously he’s worked it out. But people don’t always manage to say things so clearly. He figured out his dream when he was my age. Then he set his goal and reached it.

  I’m sixteen and don’t have any special dreams, other than those I have when I’m sleeping and never remember in the morning. Erika-with-a-k believes that dreams depend on reincarnation, on what we were in our previous life. Like the soccer player who claims he was a duck in his previous life, which improved his soccer skills. Erika-with-a-k says she was a jasmine plant. That’s why she always smells nice. I like the smell of Erika-with-a-k.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been reincarnated. But if I could choose, I think I’d prefer an animal to a plant: a lion, a tiger, a scorpion. Sure, the whole reincarnation thing is a problematic idea, but it’s too complex to think about now, and anyhow I have no memory of being a lion, even if I’ve still got a mane and can feel the strength of a lion running through my veins. That’s why I must have been a lion, and that’s why I’m called Leo. Leo means “lion” in Latin. Leo rugens: “roaring lion.”

  Anyhow, I’m in the third year of a classics high school, and I got through the first and second years almost unscathed. First year I had to retake ancient Greek and math. Second year just Greek. Ancient Greek is a school equivalent of your daily greens: tasteless and only good for aiding digestion.

  Ms. Massaroni was to blame. She’s the fussiest and most ruthless teacher in school. She wears a dog fur coat, day in and day out, constantly. She has two outfits: a dog fur coat for winter, fall, and spring. And another dog fur coat for summer. What kind of life is that? Perhaps she was a dog in her previous life. I enjoy giving people a former life in my head. It helps explain their character.

  Beatrice, for instance, must have been a star in her previous life. Because stars have a blinding luminosity around them. You can spot them a million light-years away. They are clusters of bright, incandescent, red material. And that’s Beatrice. You can spot her from a hundred yards. She emanates red. I wonder if I’ll ever kiss her. By the way, it’s her birthday soon. She might invite me to her party. I’ll go to the school bus stop today to see her. Beatrice is red wine. She makes me drunk: I love her.

  Chapter 7

  When you have a tournament in the afternoon, there’s no time for anything else. You have to prepare yourself mentally and savor the excitement. Every gesture becomes important and must be perfect. My favorite moment is when you pull up your sports socks: like a piece of ancient armor or the greaves of a medieval knight, they slowly caress your shins.

  Our opponents today are from 4B. A school full of rich kids. We need to thrash them. Pirates against Smartarses. The outcome is certain, but not the number of victims. We’ll purge as many as possible. The third-generation synthetic soccer field tickles every inch of my body. Our red T-shirts, with the image of a skull above the word Pirates, stand out in this warm fall afternoon. We’re all here: Niko, Curly, Beanpole, and Sponge—who looks more like an armored door than a goalie. We’ve got the right attitude. That makes the difference. The others are full of pimples and look more like losers than smartarses.

  They barely have a chance to realize who they’re dealing with before we’ve already made two goals. Niko scores one and I score the other. True pirates of the penalty area. One always knows where the other is, even with our eyes closed, back-to-back, like brothers. As I celebrate my evil and well-placed shot, I notice Silvia watching the match with her girlfriends: Erika-with-a-k, Electra, Leggy, Eli, Fra, and Barbie. They are chatting among themselves. Like they always do. Girls don’t give a flip about the match. Only Silvia cheers for my goal. And I blow her a kiss, like great soccer players do to thank their fans. One day Beatrice will be there to blow me a kiss. I will dedicate my best goal to her, and I will run toward the crowd showing everyone my T-shirt with “I belong to Beatrice” written on it.

  Chapter 8

  Mrs. Argentieri’s husband has died. We won’t be seeing her again; she’s decided to retire early. She’s devastated. Sure, she has two children taking care of her, but her husband was her reason for living. Certainly not history and philosophy anymore. We get to keep The Dreamer. Substitute teachers definitely jinx things . . . Husbands have to die for them to get a job.

  Anyhow, we have to go to the husband’s funeral, and I really don’t know how to deal with these things. I don’t know what to wear. Silvia, the only woman I trust when it comes to style, tells me I have to wear dark clothes, like a blue sweater and shirt. Jeans are okay, given that I don’t have proper pants. There are tons of people from school in the church. I sit toward the back because I have no idea when I’m supposed to stand or sit. And what if I bump into Mrs. Argentieri? What are you supposed to say in these situations? The word condolences—is that how you pronounce it?—sounds vulgar to me. Better to be inconspicuous. I can blend in with the crowd, invisible and insignificant.

  The funeral is conducted by the priest, who is also my religious studies teacher: Gandalf, with his tiny, almost pocket-size body and millions of fine, lively wrinkles—because of which everyone at school calls him Gandalf, like the wizard in the Lord of the Rings.

  Mrs. Argentieri is sitting in the front row, black on the outside, white on the inside. She is drying her tears with a handkerchief, and her children are sitting next to her: a man around forty and a younger, reasonable-looking woman. Teachers’ children are always a mystery because you never know if they have ordinary kids. Teachers probably spend all day teaching them! It must be awful.

  But Mrs. Argentieri is crying and I’m sorry about it. At the end of the service our paths cross—accidentally—and she looks at me as if expecting something. I smile. It’s the only thing I can do. She looks down and walks out behind the wooden coffin. I’m such a pirate. The woman has just lost her husband and all I can do is smile. I feel bad. Perhaps I could have said something. But I just don’t know how to behave in certain situations. Am I to blame?

  Back home I don’t feel like doing anything. I’d like to be alone, but I can’t stand the white. I put on some music and get online. I chat to Niko about the funeral.

  Where is the husband now?

  Has he been reincarnated?

  Has he turned to ash?

  Is he suffering?

  I hope he’s not suffering anymore because he has already suffered a lot. Niko doesn’t know. He thinks there is something after life. But he definitely doesn’t want to be reincarnated as a fly. Why a fly? He says it’s because at home he’s constantly told he’s as annoying as a fly.

  Speaking of which—actually, it’s not really related—but I can’t forget Beatrice’s birthday. In fact, I’ll send her a text message now: “Hi, Beatrice, it’s Leo, the guy from third year with wild hair. It’s your birthday soon. Do you have any plans? Talk to you later, Leo §:-).” She doesn’t reply. I feel stupid. What must Beatrice think now? That I’m the usual loser who strikes out via text message? The silence fills my heart, like a painter preparing to whitewash a surface, erasing Beatrice’s name with a uniform layer of white. Pain, fear, and loneliness radiate from my si
lent phone and rip out my insides . . .

  First the funeral, then Beatrice not answering. Two white doors closing in front of me and, what’s more, bearing the phrase “Do not block.” The doors are not only shutting me out but also telling me to get out of the way. Don’t think about it. But how?

  I call Silvia. We spend two hours on the phone. She knows that I just need someone to talk to, and she says so. She gets me instantly, even when I talk about other things. Silvia must have been an angel in her previous life. She’s quick to grasp things, and apparently that’s what angels are like. It’s why they have wings. At least that’s what The Sister (Anna, our über-Catholic classmate) says: “Everyone has a guardian angel beside them. All you need to do is tell angels what is happening to you, and they will immediately understand.” I don’t believe it. But I do believe Silvia is my guardian angel. I feel relieved. She opened those doors again. We say good night and I fall asleep peacefully, because I can always talk to her. I hope Silvia will always be there, even when we are grown up. But I’m still in love with Beatrice.

  Just before falling asleep I check my phone. A message! It must be Beatrice’s reply. I’m saved. “If you can’t sleep, I’m here. S.” How I wish that the S were a B.

  Chapter 9

  Give me a motorbike, even just a Batscooter, and I will lift up the world. Yes, because there is nothing better than riding past school and seeing Beatrice there with her friends. I don’t have the nerve to stop, since she might tell me in front of everybody that she doesn’t want to get any more of my loser messages. So I just ride past with my hair flapping in the wind beneath my helmet and shoot her a Cupid’s arrow look. That’s enough to give me a boost. Yes, because without that boost I would feel depressed and have to call Silvia to talk about other things. Is there anyone you can talk to about the hard things?