On Earth as It Is in Heaven by Davide Enia Page A

Maestro?”
    Il Negro bought material to construct heavy bags, weightlifting equipment, jump ropes. Umbertino spent his money on women. They never had a disagreement about money. In the world of boxing, more and more, people were talking about them.
    â€œHave you ever been anywhere outside of Palermo, Umberto?”
    â€œOnce I went to Cefalù, Maestro.”
    â€œGet ready to travel, we’re going to Bologna.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    â€œIn Italy.”
    â€œTo do what?”
    â€œTo knock everyone we meet unconscious.”
    Il Negro had enrolled him in a tournament.
    The climb to the title was under way.
    Umbertino didn’t keep his newspaper clippings, his plaques, the trophies that proclaimed him the king of Italian heavyweights. He threw everything away the day he bought his boxing gym.
    â€œI never needed tokens of recognition from other people. All I’ve ever needed to do is lock eyes with anybody who was around back then.”
    â€œWhat happens?”
    â€œThey still get out of my way.”
    When Umbertino came home on one of the last days of December 1949 he found Il Negro stinking drunk. He always swore to me that he never knew why that age-old despair resurfaced in his maestro. He wondered about it in the years that followed, but he never could come up with a plausible explanation. On the far side of the kitchen, there was a sizable crack in the wall. Il Negro had simply unleashed his fists on the wall. The backs of his hands were covered with blood, all his fingers were torn and scraped. Umbertino crouched down next to him. The smell of alcohol was pungent. They were just two bouts short of the national heavyweight title.
    â€œMaestro, what happened?”
    Il Negro held his face between his ravaged hands. He uttered only one short sentence to his pupil.
    â€œAre you training to become a man?”
    He didn’t bother to wait for the answer.
    He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a scrap of paper.
    On it was written: “Have you become the man you dreamed of being? What gives you balance? Is it fame? Strength? Power? Sailing a boat? Drinking chilled wine when the sirocco is blowing? The smell of fried eggplant? Do you have what you want? Do you have a hand that will caress your back when you need it? Then why didn’t you pursue this idea of peace? Why haven’t you practiced to summon those long afternoons filled with the chirping of crickets and the voices of your children?”
    Il Negro vanished from Palermo on the last day of that year, 1949.
    A dozen people swore that they saw him on the Santa Lucia wharf boarding a ship for Genoa. Umbertino tried for years to find out what had happened to him, without success. Il Negro managed to cover his tracks. As he appeared, so he vanished: a flutter of wings and he was gone.

    â€œYour mother is right, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
    â€œBut Uncle, you actually left him lying on the pavement.”
    â€œThe cops were coming, I gave him my handkerchief to stop the blood, and anyway he’s your friend.”
    â€œHe’s not my friend.”
    â€œYou’re the one who knows him, now shut up because you’re starting to annoy me.”
    My uncle was driving with a new caution, the risk of more shootouts was ever present. With every car that went by, his eyes busily inspected the landscape. Surveying the field of battle.
    â€œUncle, I don’t want to go to the hospital to see Gerruso.”
    â€œWhat do you think, I’m overjoyed to have to drive you there? The truth is that women should stay at home instead of going to work, the way your mother does. Because she’s never home, I have to bear the cross of going with you to the hospital.”
    â€œBut Uncle, Gerruso is such a loser, they didn’t even take him to Mamma’s hospital. I don’t want to go visit someone who’s missing a piece of his finger. That’s time