Pietro Grossi - Fists

Gustavo looked down at the medal and turned it over in his hand.

“Yes, listen, did you have anyone in the junior welterweight …? Oh, you didn’t? But do you happen to know who won?”

Gustavo looked up and stared at me for a couple of seconds, nodding.

“Oh, right, in the second round. Great fight, eh? … That’s fine, thanks a lot, Paolino, see you soon … Sure, you too, thanks. Bye.”

Gustavo put down the telephone, tossed the medal on the desk, then looked at me.

“It’s the Goat’s, he won the Cotti. Knockout in the second round. Paolino says he got up in the ring and the other poor bastard didn’t even have time to draw breath. He says it was amazing he managed to stand until the second round. The Goat won by default.”

“So how come I have this medal?”

Gustavo suddenly seemed shorter than usual, or maybe I seemed taller. “I don’t know, son, I have no idea,” Gustavo said, shaking his head slightly, the sides of his mouth turned down pensively. Then for a few seconds he stared at the medal. To tell the truth, he did seem to have some idea, but pretended he didn’t.

It was a gift, I thought. It was a tribute or a symbol, I thought. I thought a whole load of things. But then I decided it didn’t matter; whatever the Goat meant by that gesture, there was no point spoiling it with words.

A few weeks later, though, I received another envelope with another medal in it. This one bore the words Italian Championships First Heats — First Prize Junior Welterweight .

The next day I went to Buio’s gym. When I walked in, everyone slowed down or stopped training, and some people leant towards their neighbours to say something. I felt like Rocky going back to the Apollo gym after years away. I asked a boy who was at the punchbag where Buio was, and he told me very politely that he was in his office.

“What about Mugnaini?”

“Who?”

“The Goat.”

“Sorry, no one’s seen him today. He may be in later.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Is the office that way?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure.”

I could already hear the rumours that would circulate about this visit. I saw them pass in front of my eyes like newspaper headlines: ‘THE BALLERINA ISSUES A NEW CHALLENGE’; ‘FIXED MATCH: UNFINISHED BUSINESS’; ‘TWO JUDGES INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD’; ‘THE BALLERINA DEMANDS JUSTICE’ .

Buio’s office was a small room at the back of the gym with a cracked frosted-glass door. I walked past the ring, where two boys with helmets on had stopped to watch me. It seemed like only yesterday that I had got up there with my face covered with Vaseline and that chilling feeling inside that I’d passed the point of no return. I felt like a soldier returning ten years later to a battlefield. Ten years. That much time had passed since that boy had got up in the ring, a boy who still believed in stories and was convinced he had superpowers, could see the world at a different speed and didn’t sweat, who thought that everything was easy and that there was a place free from the normal laws of the world and nature. That much time had passed since the death of that boy who hated the piano and everything around him and still believed that stories and reality could be made from the same material. There wasn’t much more hair on my face that day in the gym than there had been last time, when I had come in here to conquer the ring, and yet my steps had a quite different rhythm, they already had that heavier, shuffling rhythm of a half-man which would be with me for the rest of my life.

Suddenly, Buio threw open the door of his office and came out yelling, “WHY’S IT SO QUIET OUT HERE, YOU LOSERS? ARE WE TRAINING OR NOT? DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO BE HERE?”

Then he saw me and abruptly calmed down.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” I shook his hand. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Of course, my pleasure. Franco, go on, get out, we’ll talk later.”

A sweaty boy in grey trunks got up and went out, nodding slightly to me as he did so.

“CARRY ON TRAINING, YOU LOT!” Buio screamed, closing the door. Then he turned, squeezed my shoulder and smiled. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

“Not bad, thanks, not bad at all.”

“Still training?”

“Yes, still training.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. It’d be a pity if you weren’t. Can I offer you something?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

We were like two Thirties gangsters; all we needed were the raincoats and the felt hats.

“Listen,” I said, and I dug the Cotti medal out of my pocket and showed it to Buio. “This came for me a while ago.”

Buio took it from me, sat down, sighing, and leant forwards with his elbows on the desk.

“I think it’s the Goat’s,” I went on.

“I know, it was thanks to me he won it. He didn’t even want to go to that meeting, he said it would be a waste of time. He was probably right.”

“Well, anyway, I got another one yesterday from the first heats of the Italian championships.”

“That one, too?”

“That one, too.”

I tossed the second medal on the table.

Buio stared at me and sank back into his armchair.

I didn’t know what to make of that stare, but there seemed to be a lot of thoughts going through his mind.

We were both silent for a while. Buio kept staring at those medals and turning them over in his hands. From time to time he looked up and gave me a quick glance.

“Do you know where the Goat lives?” I asked at last.

Buio looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because these medals aren’t mine, they’re his, he won them. I don’t want them.”

Buio looked at me for a few seconds. “Son,” he said, “the Goat doesn’t want these medals back, so there’s no point embarrassing him. He knows as well as we all do that you won that fight. You’re the best, that’s what he’s trying to say to you, and there’s nothing you can do. You’re both good fighters, but you’re better than he is, and you demonstrated it up there in that ring, with your fists. So stop thinking and just enjoy it.”

When I left I decided to go home on foot. I was a little puzzled. I had the feeling this was man’s business, and I wasn’t used to it.

ONE DAY, their father tapped lightly on the doorpost and came in. They didn’t know what to think at first: their dad never came to their room unless there was something important he wanted to talk about — usually a problem.

Natan’s hand froze in mid-air as he polished his boots; Daniel jerked his head up and cursed to himself. It was sure to be bad news: most likely the old lady at the end of the road had been complaining to their father again, to say they had been stealing drinks from her cellar. The boys loved the old woman’s drinks, and not only because when they drank they felt as if everything was rolling downwards, but also and especially because they made them feel more adult. The fact that the drinks were stolen just added to the pleasure.

“Come outside,” their father said.

Natan and Daniel looked at each other, a look full of many unspoken feelings that darted in and out of their thoughts like carts going downhill. Natan was the best cart driver in the area. Daniel had only beaten him a couple of times over the years, and one of those was because a wheel had come off Natan’s cart.

The two boys were almost shaking as they left the room. It was like a slap in the face, reminding them they were only young. They filed like prisoners through the big kitchen and the living room to the front door. Their father calmly walked ahead of them, not saying a word, not turning round once. He was like a Greek statue in motion, with the same rigid, still perfection.