36
MARIA’S BEAUTIFUL with the blood she’s losing, the wine that’s replacing it, her black hair tickling my neck and her mouth that goes boom, boom, opening and closing with her kisses. To imitate the sound of my heart she blows kisses to the dark. We stay at the window; in the meantime the frenzy of fireworks rises, people in Montedidio are setting off firecrackers everywhere. The blasts even come from far away, from the marina. Rafaniello is in his storeroom, warming his wings. I tell Maria it’s time to go up. We pull away from the window, the boomerang shifts from my rib to my heart. Let’s go up, Marì. She slips under my arm, carelessly, lost in thought. The stairs echo with the ruckus, a gust of little drafts circles, celebrates, and tickles us, blowing their chilly New Year’s greetings into our ears. They’re fond of us, and I of them. Maybe even Mama made it in time to come, although spirits stay close to their bodies at first, keeping them company. Only later do they separate. The landlord’s door is open. Inside it’s dark. Maria holds me tighter.
ABOVE THE terrace colored lights spread across the sky. They’re shooting off rockets from rooftops and balconies, and it’s not even midnight. I try to warm up my arms for the throw, they’re ready, don’t need a warm-up, the boomerang’s force belongs to me. I want to put enough into it to break my arm off. Which one? Right or left? Left, the side of my good eye, which I’ll keep closed. I gaze up at the curtain of stars, looking for the one that I saw above the volcano. I spot it, it trembles more than the others. I point it out to Maria with the tip of the boomerang. It’s in the east. I’m going to throw in that direction. Maria goes to the bulwark, leans on it with her elbows to see far away, she hears and doesn’t hear. It must be the wine, the exhaustion, the blood. Rafaniello arrives, his wings are under a blanket, they don’t fit into his jacket anymore. Don Rafaniè, how are you? He doesn’t answer. He hugs me with the warmth of his feathers and tells me softly, “Blib ghezìnt, be good,” then slips his shoes off. Don Rafaniè, do you see that star, you and the boomerang will pass right under it, it’ll blaze the path for you between the fireworks. Maria stands still, looking out, she doesn’t turn around. All at once it is midnight, Naples is ablaze, shooting, breaking, throwing stuff into the street, you can’t hear a single voice, everything is a burst of energy that shoots into the air, above the earth, against the walls. I squeeze the wooden handle in my hand.
IT BURNS in my hand. It does it deliberately. Otherwise at the last second I won’t throw it. It scalds my fingers to make me throw it. I breathe on it. This only makes it worse. I tense up, my mouth snaps at the air, I take a deep breath, cock the boomerang back behind my shoulders, close my good eye, peer at the sky sparkling with light like an August sea shimmering with anchovies, the burning in my fingers forces the air out of my lungs, and with a crunching of bone the boomerang breaks away, its tail on fire, a thrust like never before, the wood burns, floats, flies, whips through the air, there’s nothing in my hands. Behind me bedsheets are flapping in the wind, but there are no sheets. I turn around, it’s Rafaniello, his wings spread wide, his naked feet rising above the ground, they fall back down, once, twice, the wind rises, beaten by his wings, the spirits do their part to get up under him and push, and on the third jump Rafaniello rises and follows the blazing trail of the boomerang and the din of firecrackers, whistles, sending breezes spinning across my face, a celebration, and I raise my arms for one final push farewell.
37
I TOUCH my hand. It’s stopped burning. It’s new again. On the ground are Rafaniello’s blanket, two feathers, and a pair of shoes. In the air are the fireworks, the rockets, echoing off the walls. Montedidio thunders, I open my good eye, Maria screams at a shadow, I run to the bulwark, grab the shadow by its shoulders, my arms burning with energy. I tear the shadow away from Maria and throw it away, throw it away so hard that it flies, flies from the terrace of Montedidio, flies through the deluge of old vases and plates thrown from the balconies, everything is flying from Montedidio, but not the two of us, the two of us hugging each other under Rafaniello’s blanket, Maria shaking, me coughing up a hot clot of air from my throat. It’s a voice, my voice, a donkey’s braying that rips from my lungs. I shout, and there isn’t enough room for my shout on my whole scroll of paper or even in the sky above Montedidio.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erri De Luca was born in Naples in 1950. He is a columnist for Il Manifesto and a novelist whose work has been translated into seven languages. He lives outside of Rome.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Michael Moore is a New York — based writer, translator, and teacher. His previous translations include The Silence of the Body by Guido Ceronetti.