Johnny il riccio, a story about men and hedgehogs

and?

Johnny

the hedgehog

A story about men and hedgehogs

C.FENNEC

Chapter I

LOVE

The moon lit up the road as if it were daytime.

It was one of those warm summer nights when you want to lose yourself and fall in love, one of those sweet and gentle nights when you want to abandon yourself to life with no fears, no worries, certain that nothing can hurt you and that for one infinite moment suspended in time you will feel at peace with the world.

Alain knew that feeling very well: Francesca was leaning her head on his shoulder, her long brown hair dancing softly in the breeze, her beautiful hazel eyes partially closed in an ecstasy of scents and happiness.

The world seemed wonderfully perfect. And undoubtedly it was.

They had met just a few months earlier, but to both of them it felt like a lifetime ago, with no beginning or end, like two rays of light that dance about in the air and finally come together, blending into a single indistinguishable glow: men call this magnificent light Love, but they don’t always find it in their lifetime and sometimes they aren’t even able to recognise it, or they’re ridiculously scared of it.

Alain adored Francesca: he adored her fresh scent, her silky smooth skin and her joyful smile, her cheerfulness and her curious, intelligent eyes.

He liked having her close by his side, feeling her soft body against his: Alain was madly in love with Francesca and deliriously happy.

They did everything together, roaming around every little corner of the island, just as his parents had done thirty years beforehand when they arrived with a sky-blue Méhari, fallen in love with that glistening desolate rock and decided it was there they would make their love nest.

They had built a little house in wood and stone, surrounded by juniper and rosemary and a huge bougainvillea that marked the passing of time with branches that thickened as they slowly crept up to the roof of their lovable den.

Francesca and Alain had met "by chance" one weekend at the end of April while they were disembarking the ferryboat: their suitcases were identical and in this comical, light-hearted mix-up they exchanged glances and smiles. It was nothing really, but that nothing nestled in their desires, and they unknowingly started to look out for each other.

And on that small patch of land it wasn’t hard for their paths to cross again...

Cala Luna was the only beach on the island you had to get to on foot, walking along a challenging footpath on the edge of a small cliff. But the arduous walk was generously repaid by the uncontaminated beauty of the tiny bay: twenty meters of white sandy beach enclosed in a small natural cove, artfully decorated by the sea with needle-thin red corals and myriads of pink shells adorned with infinite, glimmering white stripes.

When Alain got there and saw Francesca alone on the beach, lying blissfully in the sun completely naked, he felt a thrill of pleasure and teenage embarrassment that disappeared instantly from his thoughts and from his gestures when the girl looked up smiling and said hi!

They spent the entire day alone in that paradise, sharing every snippet of each other’s lives, playing with the sand and crystal clear water, laughing at their misunderstanding of words in each other’s respective language, exchanging glances and shyly flirting until the burning sun vanished in the sea on the horizon.

Yes, they were in love and they probably did not even realise how deeply, but they were certain they did not want to miss a single moment of that unexpected love spell.

They gallivanted around the island on his parents’ rickety old sky-blue Méhari. The first time Francesca saw Alain driving that 1970s notion of a car, she had referred to it as a plastic tub on wheels! Indeed, it didn’t get top marks for reliability – it often refused to start –, but it was precisely its worn and out-dated look that made it as fun and as carefree as their youth.

They roamed about on that rickety four-wheeled tub rediscovering unusual and picturesque spots as if it were always the first time, magical places like the Moal Lighthouse, located at the easternmost point of the island, a place that was more powerful and captivating than anything else in the world, a place that radiated energy and folklore and that soon became their favourite corner of that wonderful land surrounded by sea.

To reach Moal you had to cross the entire island, travelling along a road that suddenly climbed up a steep cliff, full of bends and precipices, and then unfolded along a final stretch that came to an end right in front of the lighthouse. Its majestic tower stood out, patrolling the night like a warrior from bygone days, its glowing eye beaming out from an ancient lamp, scrutinizing the daunting darkness of night across the sea.

And right there, where the road ended, is where dreams – their dreams – began. Up there on that interminable cliff edge, the multiple beams of light from Moal Lighthouse lit up the sea all the way to the edge of the horizon.

And that very same spot on the horizon is where the elegant Moon rose from.

During summer nights, when the cool Mistral blew and the air was crisp and clear, you could watch the Moon rising intense and clear over the dark sea; a majestic Moon that unintentionally played with colours, starting with a timid pale red, growing into a confident deep straw yellow and, eventually, crowning its ascent with a brilliant pearly white: a graceful and delicate performance that Alain and Francesca were unwilling to miss.

"Codice Luna" (moon code), was the simple two-word text message they would send each other that implied an unmissable rendezvous with life.

That night the full Moon lit up the road as if it were daytime.

It was one of those warm summer evenings when you want to lose yourself and fall in love, one of those sweet and gentle nights when you want to abandon yourself to life with no fears... "codice luna"... The Méhari travelled slowly and gently along the road: her head was on his shoulder, her long brown hair danced softly in the breeze...

They had turned the car lights out for the innocent pleasure of being guided through the night by the diffused white moonlight, rhythmically interrupted by the crisply sharp beam of the Warrior Lighthouse.

In the enveloping pale darkness of the road, sitting in their convertible vehicle, the world seemed suspended in eternity as if immersed in a meditative silence without boundaries or limitations, a sense of bliss that touched the infinity of existence, if it weren’t for the antiquated rumble of the engine that chugged behind them. When suddenly:

- Alain, watch out! – Francesca shouted.

- Ah! Bordel...!!– Alain swerved, the Méhari suddenly started zigzagging, swaying like a boat in the midst of a storm and putting strain on the suspensions now rusty with age and years of exposure to the salty sea air.

They bounced on their seats as if they had driven over a small rock and a few meters later the car ground to a halt. Alain switched off the engine and they sat there in silence, listening out for the tiniest sound, trying to catch the snort of a hedgehog or the moan of a wounded animal that could explain the sudden bump. But in the quiet of the night they couldn’t hear a thing.

- What was it? A cat? – she asked.

- Je ne sais pas. I don’t think so – Alain answered.

- I thought I saw something in the middle of the road... an animal, maybe...I’m not sure... if it wasn’t a cat, it might have been a hedgehog... Or maybe a rock...-

- Oui, I thought that too... quelque chose went under the wheel... mmm...

J’espère I didn’t kill anything! En tous les cas there’s nothing there, on the road... Perhaps it was une pierre...-

They sat in silence for a while, but not a single moan or howl rang out in the darkness of the night.

They waited a bit longer, but nothing.

Their heartbeats slowly returned to a serene pace as their frightened gazes searched for love in each other’s eyes, because one thing is certain: when you’re in Love, you don’t want to hurt anybody.

Alain started the engine again, switched on the car lights and they continued their short journey towards the lighthouse.

Chapter II

THE FAMILY

Gino was a good-hearted hedgehog, but he was also the laziest to have ever existed.

When winter ended and the first warmth of spring prompted Nature back into action, he was the last one to notice. Huddled away in his room made of straw, at the foot of the great Pine Tree, he carried on dozing while his fellow Erinaceidae had already been up and busy for days. The last thing he wanted to do was be active, and the idea of leaving his warm peaceful shelter didn’t even remotely go through his spines, indeed it was the last of his thoughts: getting up was a real tragedy in his view, a rash move that could wait a few more days.

Life is to be lived intensely, true, but not to the point of making the big mistake of chasing it, running the risk of overtaking it and, in so doing, missing the sweet taste of the passing of days ... (what a hero!)

He undoubtedly possessed an enviable and poetic seraphic aplomb.

Thinking this, and doing precisely this, he procrastinated as long as he could in his cosy straw nest, enjoying hibernation long past the last acceptable period of rest, even though he knew deep down he had to get up sooner or later and that, if he didn’t, an irrefutable and imperious voice would remind him to, interrupting his dawdling without allowing for any further objections.

Indeed (and unfortunately, in his view), one ever-so-slightly-milder morning that voice reached Gino’s ears, clearing the field of any further possibility of transgression in a tone that left no doubt of its intentions:

- Gino, get up! Hibernation ended two weeks ago and I can’t bear to watch you dilly-dallying in bed a moment longer! Come on, up you get! Move it! There are lots of things to do and I need a hand!

- Aren’t we nocturnal animals? – Gino grumbled quietly while he lazily stretched his limbs in his soft bed and, after months of complete inactivity, lifted his disproportionately huge rear end. Hibernation had shrunk him slightly, but he was still a hedgehog of considerable bulk. The dark brown fur on his belly was clumped together like cotton bolls. The quills on his back, greying with age, had lost their rigidity and their brilliance. Yes, he reluctantly admitted, his beautiful wife Honeycomb was right: it was time to swing into action.

Gino and Honeycomb had fallen in love the first time they’d met and got married just a few moons later: as you know, when love is Love, it cannot wait.

They’d met at one of the many summer festivals in Prickletown, where you drink and dance throughout the night and where young males often go looking for a fleeting, trouble-free adventure. That night Gino had asked the beautiful Honeycomb to dance and she had gracefully accepted, smiling and excited: they had crossed paths in Prickletown on other occasions – and sometimes even glanced at each other – but they had never been so close before. When they held each other closely for their dance Gino’s heart missed a beat, a kind of unexpected hiccup of pleasure that gripped his quills and clenched his stomach – we are talking about serious stuff!

They danced all night, clinging to each other in a whirl of