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Andre dance. In a certain sense it’s like church; that is, it’s a community cut off from the world, with parents and grandparents—it goes without saying there’s a lot of applause. But even that dancing bears no relation to true beauty. Only, occasionally, there’s some girl who moves on the stage as if producing a force, as if detaching her body from the ground. We realize this, we who don’t understand anything about it. Sometimes it’s an ugly girl, with an ugly body—the beauty of the body doesn’t seem to be important. It’s how they do it that counts.
    Bobby thought of Andre because she dances like that.
    She dances, she doesn’t sing.
    Who knows, maybe she sings and we don’t know it.
    Maybe she sings really badly.
    Who cares, have you seen how she is up there?
    We circle around the point, but the truth is that she’s outside the boundary, she’s like no one else our age, and we know that if we have a music then we should look for it outside the boundary—and we’d like her to lead us there. We would never admit it, this is understood.
    So Bobby telephoned her—on the third try he got her. He introduced himself with his name and last name, and it meant nothing to her. So he added some detail that seemed useful, like where his father’s store was, and that he had red hair. She got it. We wanted to ask if you’d sing with us, we have a band. Andre said something, we knew by the fact that Bobby was silent. No, to tell the truth we only play in church, at the moment. Silence. During Mass, yes. Silence. No, you wouldn’t have to sing at Mass, the idea is to have a real band and play in local clubs. Silence. Not the songs for Mass, songs made by us. Silence.
    We three were standing around Bobby, and he kept gesturing to us to leave him alone, to let him go ahead. At one point he started laughing, but it was somewhat forced. He talked a little longer, then they said goodbye—Bobby hung up.
    She said no, he said. He didn’t explain.
    We were disappointed, of course, but we also felt a certain euphoria, like people who have achieved something. We were aware that we had talked to her. Now she knew that we existed.
    So we were in a good mood when we arrived at Luca’s house. It had been my idea. No one ever goes to his house,it doesn’t seem that his parents like to have visitors, his father hates disturbance—but maybe our going would mean something to Luca and to his mother. So in the end we were invited to dinner. Usually they eat in the kitchen, at a long narrow table that isn’t even a table but a counter: the three of them sit there, one beside the other, facing the wall. White. But for the occasion his mother had set the table in the sala , which in our houses is a room that isn’t used: it’s reserved for special occasions in life, not excluding wakes. Anyway it was there that we ate. Luca’s father welcomed us with true cheerfulness, and when he sat down at the head of the table, showing us our places, he had the air of a man without conditions, confident in his primacy as a father—as if he were the father of us all, that night.
    But when the soup was in the bowls, and he had the spoon in his hand, the Saint joined his hands in front of him and began to say words of thanks—his head bent. He said them aloud. They are beautiful words. Gracious Lord, bless the food that your goodness has given us and those who have prepared it. Let us receive it with joy and simplicity of heart, and help us to give to those who are in need. One by one we bowed our heads and repeated his words. Amen. The Saint has a lovely voice, and ancient features—a faint beard, the only one of us. On his thin, already ascetic face. As we know, he has a fierce, adult force when he prays. So to Luca’s father it must have seemed that someone had taken his place—as father. Or it appeared to him that he hadn’t