Janus' Limbo

Janus' Limbo

By Riccardo Maffey

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Smashwords Edition 2010

Copyright Riccardo Maffey 2009

License Notes:

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Cover by Joleene Naylor

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Prologue

Rome, Thursday, July 12, 1945

Gone, the last ten lire has gone. In half an hour he's thrown away all his pocket money. And it's so hot here. And dusty. He looks at his knees. Dirty. As dirty as his shoes are worn out. He's dirty and penniless. He'd better go home to have a wash.

The yobbos stand by the drinking fountain now. He tries to duck out of sight once more. They haven't come down to Piazzale Clodio from the shanties of Primavalle only for the funfair; they've come to provoke the local secondary school boys. He cannot fight all of them. Not even one by one. They'd never dream to fight clean and fair; they'd fight dirty, kicking and headbutting if they realized things are taking a turn for the worse. But they must be very stupid indeed if they've bargained on him going down to the fountain to drink.

He mops his brow. The two American soldiers have just finished their chairoplane ride with the two sluts. The sluts look sick and petrified; the soldiers laugh noisily. As they pass him, he follows them out. It doesn't matter that the sweat pouring off him has made him thirsty. He shouldn't drink anyway: could catch pneumonia if he did while perspiring freely. Yesterday Ma ordered twelve bottles of orange juice. He could have one at home after wiping himself dry.

He walks slowly down Viale Mazzini, tailing after the Americans and the sluts. One of the two soldiers turns round and throws him a tube of Charms, shouting, There you go; now just fuck off. Who have they taken him for? It's never occurred to him they could mistake him for a street urchin from Trastevere or the Quarticciolo begging for food and cigarettes to sell to the smugglers. He doesn't pick up the Charms, but enters the strip with benches, flowerbeds, and cypresses that divide the two lanes of the road, marching across the gravel path in the middle of the strip towards Piazza Mazzini... and now he hears it:

Regazzi e regazzine, non pisciate su li lampioni ma bensí suli cojoni de le guardie de città...

Oh God, what can he do? It's them, the bloody yobbos singing the gang's favourite refrain. So they've found him. In no time they'll surround him, call him signorino; some of them will slap him across the face while another grabs him from behind with a low bear hug, making it difficult for him to escape. He doesn't stand a chance of hitting back; he must flee from them now. But if he does, and they catch him, they'll beat his brains out. No, they aren't likely to catch him: he's a swift runner, isn't he? Buck up, for heaven's sake: it's do or die.

He sprints outside the strip, and runs as fast as he can on the pavement of the left lane towards the junction with Viale Angelico. As he reaches it, he stops abruptly, steps inside the big café on the corner, and makes steadily for the lavatory at the back of the tea room, forcing a smile and striving to look calm and dignified.

The window is open. God... it's also quite narrow and high up above the filthy pan. He climbs onto the edge, puts his right foot over the cistern and both hands over the window sill, and pulls himself up. Good, it looks onto Viale Angelico; the yobbos must be waiting for him by the Viale Mazzini entrance. He jumps quickly outside.

* * * *

It should be safer to get home this way. He can only guess, though, what his mates will say if they know he backed off from a fight. There is always an excuse for their failures, but they enjoy finding him at fault. If he scores a goal, he does it by sheer luck; if they mishit their shots, it may well be because of his inaccurate passes. It's their revenge: none of their fathers have ever seen any action as fighting soldiers, and so they cannot swallow the thought that he is the child of a naval commander decorated for bravery several times. But what's the good of musing over his flight and his mates' attitude towards him? Ma told him again and again: They're envious of Pa's war records.

True, but Ma is Irish; she doesn't understand the Italian mind. In Rome only sissies fail to respond to provocations, and quite soon the yobbos will spread the news that a local boy they met at the funfair hared off from them as soon as he scented a challenge. His mates know he planned to go there. They'll take the piss out of him for not taking on the gang leader in a street fight. They know nothing of sea warfare. It's never crossed their minds that the captain of a torpedo boat doesn't attack a squadron, that a captain of a submarine will do his best to shake off his pursuers if he fears that they're likely to sink his ship.

The sun is beating down brutally today, and as he turns to the right and passes by the empty stalls of the street market of Via Monte Santo, the stink of the rotten fruit left on the ground this morning goes to his head. Never mind. In a couple of minutes he'll be home. Luckily, he's made it: he's getting to the corner of Via Sabotino and Via Paulucci di Calboli and the newsagent already is smiling at him.

Where have you been?

Walking around.

But are you all right?

Oh yes, I'm fine, thanks.

Sure?

Sure.

I've got Il Vittorioso for you.

I'll have it on Sunday.

Come on, have it now.

I've just spent all my pocket money.

Don't worry. Have it on me.

Thank you very much, Sor Egidio. But I'll pay you on Sunday all the same. He sees the puppies. Where is their mother?

Don't know. She was here ten minutes ago. By the way, Ferdinando the ironmonger will take two puppies and Aurelio the coalman one. The newsagent pointed to one of the puppies. Would you like that one? It's a girl.

I would, but we have a tomcat: he's a bruiser.

It's all right, don't worry, Cristiano: I'll find a home for her.

Well, once again, thank you very much, Sor Egidio. He takes the comic, and strides off towards his home.

He's just gone in through the entrance of the block when a dog's bark makes him pause. Beside the pharmacy opposite, Sor Egidio's small bitch struggles to free herself from the grip of a lad whose name he can't remember.

* * * *

Ma opens the door. At last. But what has happened to her? She doesn't let him in. She's still in her dressing gown, her hair uncombed, her pupils dilated, a black smear of eyeliner below her lashes. She hands him five hundred lire.

There you are. Please, come back later.

Can't I have a quick wash?

Come back later. You'll have your bath before supper.

He descends the stairs. At the desk sits the concierge's eighteen-year-old daughter. He cannot stand her. A nasty, ugly girl who used to tease him. He doesn't look at her. She says have a nice walk, and bursts into laughter.

It's coming up to a quarter past five. He goes to Tiberti's and buys a chocolate ice cream cornet, but unexpectedly realizes he doesn't feel like anything just now. So he dumps it over the tram rail as he crosses Via Oslavia, wondering how he can kill time. What about going to the fields behind Via Timavo? His mates may be there, mayn't they? Perhaps they're playing five a side, or shooting penalties if they haven't found another team on the spot. But he doesn't fancy joining them. Well, why not hire a bike for one hour and ride up to Villa Madama? No, he doesn't fancy that either.

Why? What's wrong with him? But what's wrong with Ma. Does she cheat on Daddy? And if so, who with? The doctor, surely, the only man who comes to see her. How the hell is it possible, though. Ma liking the doctor better than Pa? Pa, a very good looking man; the doctor, an ugly fat-faced beefy chap. No, the doctor couldn't compete with Pa, doesn't stand comparison with him. The doctor, a man who never smiles, who talks very little. Unbelievable. Ma also described him as boring and uninteresting.

Ma loves Pa. She calls him a hero, and also looks forward to his coming back, Speaks always about when the war is over and she and Pa are reunited for good. But then why did the porter's daughter laugh? She must know something, mustn't she? Who was Ma with, and why did she send him away? Why did she look so upset?

* * * *

He's ended up at the damn fields all the same. Can see his mates about fifty yards away. Toto, Mario, and Nanni. And a fourth who is squatting down beside a pole. It's the lad who held the newsagent's bitch. Now he remembers who he is: Angelo, a friend of Nanni's, but older. Must be fifteen, and loos as big and strong as Mario.

He heads towards them. O God, the bitch... Angelo has brought the newsagent's bitch over here; they've tied her to the pole with a long but narrow red scarf. Oh God, oh my God... the bitch is yelping.

What're you doing to her? he says.

Hello, Cristiano, says Nanni. Have you been to the fair?

What're you doing?

Did you enjoy yourself? Did you have a chairoplane ride? says Toto.

What're you saying, says Mario. He doesn't take chairoplane rides. Too much afraid of kicking and being kicked... Aren't you, Cristiano?

What're you doing to the dog?

Don't ask silly questions. Can't you see it?

No, I can't. She's Sor Egidio's bitch, isn't she? What're you doing to her?

Killing her. She's a communist. Don't you see the red flag?

You must be joking. She's Sor Egidio's bitch.

Of course Mario is joking, says Toto.

No, Mario isn't joking, says Nanni.