on his trainers and shuffled, zombie-like, towards the door.
Cristianoâs room was large, with still unplastered walls. In one corner two trestles supported a wooden plank on which exercise books and textbooks were piled. Above the bed, a poster of Valentino Rossi advertising beer. Sticking out from the wall by the door were the truncated copper pipes from a radiator that had never been fitted.
With another yawn, he crossed the hall floored with grey linoleum, passed the tatters of the bathroom door that still hung from its hinges and entered the room.
The bathroom was a little cubbyhole measuring about one metre by two, with blue, flowery tiles encircling the floor of the shower. Over the basin hung a long shard of the mirror. A bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling.
He stepped over the remains of his fatherâs vomit and looked out of the little window.
It was raining and the rain had eaten away all the snow. All thatwas left were a few useless white patches, melting on the gravel in front of the house.
School will be on .
The toilet had no seat and he rested his buttocks on the cold porcelain, gritting his teeth. A shiver ran up his spine. And in a state of semi-consciousness he crapped.
Then he cleaned his teeth. Cristiano didnât have good teeth. The dentist wanted to give him a brace, but luckily they had no money and his father had said his teeth were fine the way they were.
He didnât take a shower, but sprayed himself with deodorant. He dug his fingers into the gel and ran them through his hair to make it even more towselled, if that was possible, but taking care not to let his ears stick out.
He returned to his room, put his books in his rucksack and was about to go downstairs when he saw a dim glow under the door of his fatherâs bedroom.
He pushed down the handle.
His father was huddled up in a camouflage sleeping bag on a double mattress on the floor.
Cristiano drew nearer.
Only the oval of his shaven head protruded from the sleeping bag. The floor was strewn with empty beer cans, socks and his boots. On the bedside table, more cans and the pistol. There was a stench of rancid sweat and dirty clothes which mingled with the smell of an old, threadbare blue carpet. A lamp swathed in a red cloth threw a scarlet glow on the enormous flag with a black swastika in the middle that hung on the plasterless wall. The shutters were down, the curtains, patterned with brown-and-white lozenges, were held together with pegs.
His father only came here to sleep. Usually he collapsed on the sofa in front of the television, and only the cold, and in the summer the mosquitoes, gave him the strength to drag himself up to his bedroom.
If Cristiano ever saw him open the windows and make an attempt at tidying up the room he knew old baldy had arranged to fuck some woman and didnât want to suffocate her with rotting socks and cigarette stubs.
Cristiano kicked the mattress. âPapa! Papa, wake up! Itâs late.â
No reaction.
He raised his voice. âPapa, youâve got to go to work!â
He must have drunk a barrelful of beer.
Ah to hell with it! he said to himself and was about to leave when he heard a groan which might as easily have come from beyond the grave as out of that bundle. âNo, today ⦠today ⦠Iâm going ⦠I have to ⦠Danilo ⦠Quattro â¦â
âOK. See you later. I must be going or Iâll miss the bus.â Cristiano moved towards the door.
âWait a minute â¦â
âItâs late, pa â¦â Cristiano bristled.
âGive me my cigarettes.â
The boy snorted and searched round the room for the packet.
âTheyâre in my trousers.â His fatherâs face emerged from the sleeping bag, yawning. The mark of the zip on his cheek. âMy God, that chicken we had last night was shit ⦠Iâll cook something this evening ⦠Iâll do some lasagne, what do you say to
Cristianoâs room was large, with still unplastered walls. In one corner two trestles supported a wooden plank on which exercise books and textbooks were piled. Above the bed, a poster of Valentino Rossi advertising beer. Sticking out from the wall by the door were the truncated copper pipes from a radiator that had never been fitted.
With another yawn, he crossed the hall floored with grey linoleum, passed the tatters of the bathroom door that still hung from its hinges and entered the room.
The bathroom was a little cubbyhole measuring about one metre by two, with blue, flowery tiles encircling the floor of the shower. Over the basin hung a long shard of the mirror. A bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling.
He stepped over the remains of his fatherâs vomit and looked out of the little window.
It was raining and the rain had eaten away all the snow. All thatwas left were a few useless white patches, melting on the gravel in front of the house.
School will be on .
The toilet had no seat and he rested his buttocks on the cold porcelain, gritting his teeth. A shiver ran up his spine. And in a state of semi-consciousness he crapped.
Then he cleaned his teeth. Cristiano didnât have good teeth. The dentist wanted to give him a brace, but luckily they had no money and his father had said his teeth were fine the way they were.
He didnât take a shower, but sprayed himself with deodorant. He dug his fingers into the gel and ran them through his hair to make it even more towselled, if that was possible, but taking care not to let his ears stick out.
He returned to his room, put his books in his rucksack and was about to go downstairs when he saw a dim glow under the door of his fatherâs bedroom.
He pushed down the handle.
His father was huddled up in a camouflage sleeping bag on a double mattress on the floor.
Cristiano drew nearer.
Only the oval of his shaven head protruded from the sleeping bag. The floor was strewn with empty beer cans, socks and his boots. On the bedside table, more cans and the pistol. There was a stench of rancid sweat and dirty clothes which mingled with the smell of an old, threadbare blue carpet. A lamp swathed in a red cloth threw a scarlet glow on the enormous flag with a black swastika in the middle that hung on the plasterless wall. The shutters were down, the curtains, patterned with brown-and-white lozenges, were held together with pegs.
His father only came here to sleep. Usually he collapsed on the sofa in front of the television, and only the cold, and in the summer the mosquitoes, gave him the strength to drag himself up to his bedroom.
If Cristiano ever saw him open the windows and make an attempt at tidying up the room he knew old baldy had arranged to fuck some woman and didnât want to suffocate her with rotting socks and cigarette stubs.
Cristiano kicked the mattress. âPapa! Papa, wake up! Itâs late.â
No reaction.
He raised his voice. âPapa, youâve got to go to work!â
He must have drunk a barrelful of beer.
Ah to hell with it! he said to himself and was about to leave when he heard a groan which might as easily have come from beyond the grave as out of that bundle. âNo, today ⦠today ⦠Iâm going ⦠I have to ⦠Danilo ⦠Quattro â¦â
âOK. See you later. I must be going or Iâll miss the bus.â Cristiano moved towards the door.
âWait a minute â¦â
âItâs late, pa â¦â Cristiano bristled.
âGive me my cigarettes.â
The boy snorted and searched round the room for the packet.
âTheyâre in my trousers.â His fatherâs face emerged from the sleeping bag, yawning. The mark of the zip on his cheek. âMy God, that chicken we had last night was shit ⦠Iâll cook something this evening ⦠Iâll do some lasagne, what do you say to
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