It has been a long time now, since I’ve last thought about Dante. Of course his name occasionally entered my mind, though at most I would have spoken a minor prayer and let his thought escape my memory once more.
Twenty years ago, in the village of San Demetrio near Pescara, Dante jumped into the lake and let himself drown. The people in the village said that he fell in and – because he couldn’t swim – he sank and died, though I know that he didn’t fall, and I know that he could swim very well.
After his body was dragged out of the river, all pale and blank-eyed, after he was cleaned and put in new clothes, for people to bid him farewell at his wake, the village became silent. The other children no longer played outside until nine or ten in the evening and our parents forbade us from going near the lake.
I remember well how we once slipped out early in the morning and went to swim. I climbed out from my bedroom window, almost falling and breaking my legs, only being saved by a gutter I held onto that just about held my weight. I met Matteo and Lorenzo near the square and we snuck through the lesser known paths between houses and through empty cellars so no one could see us—that morning, coloured brown in my memory somehow, remained well ingrained in my thoughts for many years, and I could still blindly walk the path we took, hiding in the ferns from Carla D’Amico’s mother who had gone out to walk the family dog; half climbing a tree when we saw the priest walk by and greet her, following up with casual conversation about the morning’s sermon and finally being caught by my mother.
She had of course noticed how I hadn’t been in my bed in the morning and seeing us, walking towards the lake, towels around our shoulders and swim trunks peaking out above our trousers, she scoldingly drove us back to the square, where she hit each of us in the neck, and dragged us back to each of our homes.
Perhaps we hadn’t payed enough attention to what was being said of the lake, and maybe it was dangerous to swim in it, but there is just the slightest possibility that the adults should have considered what had happened to Dante, instead of what could have happened to us.
I first met Dante on our first school day in 1947. My mother had brought me all the way to the classroom and when I came in, I could not help but feel overwhelmed as I saw the countless staring faces. I had kept to myself in my early childhood and I would not exaggerate if I said that no one knew who I was.
As I came in, looking small and feeble, someone in the first row whispered something into his neighbour’s ear and laughed. The teacher, Mr. Falone, an old, though young-spirited man with an impressive moustache and round glasses, looked mutely at me and smiled neutrally. He gestured towards the class, urging me to pick my seat. Two chairs in the back were empty and it was a rather obvious choice to me to pick the empty table, instead of having to choose a neighbour. There were deep scratch marks on it and a hole, poked almost through the entire surface, though I didn’t really mind. The teacher handed a paper to me, urging me to write my name in the top. I did as he said, and didn’t think much of it.
The lesson went on for some time without any annoyance or anything at all interesting, until, like a lost child in the middle of a cornfield, a boy entered the room. He had long black hair, his eyebrows were thick and curved and he had a curious look on his face that seemed to intently scan the room. There was something about his face that seemed interested—not interested in anything the teacher would say, mind you. No. He was interested in what faces said.
Dante often told me how Faces said more than words, and I suppose he wasn’t lying. He would always know when one was lying to him or when one was avoiding something.
He sat down next to me, a choice that would come to flatter me. He didn’t talk all that much to me during the first few weeks of school, though it was apparent rather quickly that he would be sticking with me.
“You are not annoying. You don’t talk too much.”
He would say when I asked him about it. I didn’t mind his staying with me or accompanying me during lunch, when we went to the nearby cafeteria for poor children. And I didn’t mind his sporadic habits of speaking or remaining silent; the one thing that did bother me back then, was how he seemed to be despised by all of the other people in the town.
“Mancini?”
My mother asked when I came home on my first day.
“Yes. Dante Mancini.”
“Don’t get too near him, Pietro; his family is dirty. They are filthy humans.”
“Do you know them?”
“Well, my dear, Franca told me about them—The mother doesn’t care for her children and the father died in the war. They are very poor and don’t cut their hair, you see.”
“We are poor too, aren’t we mama?”
I asked, taking a sip of the lemonade she had prepared in the morning.
“We are different, Pietro. Your father works for the mayor. And we aren’t fascists.”
She would always talk about my father working for the mayor and her friends would be jealous; though of course she never told them he cut his hedges and cared for his roses. My father was a gardener—a great gardener if I might say, though still, we were poor.
“Why do you think they are fascists?”
“Why do you think they are so poor now, my dear?”
I didn’t know what to answer to this so I simply let it be. My mother would often call others fascists even though she probably didn’t know what the word even meant. I didn’t really care what she said regarding Dante and I made it my objective to ask him about his father sometime.
Those afternoons, when I came home, sweaty and tired, still having to do homework, I sometimes sat in the staircase and looked out of a window with a good view of the fields and the valley leading to Pescara, where we would occasionally go to buy shoes. The crops hadn’t blossomed yet that time of the year and the fields were only starting to green then; The window would often haze over in the morning and I would wipe it with my sweater—my mother didn’t like it when I did so, though I found it to be something of a ritual. Each morning, I would come down halfway from the first floor, where my room was, and I would sit in the stairway looking out, noting each day how far along the fields were.
Sometimes I would see fieldworkers walk between the crops and I would observe them like one peeks at ants making their way through the tiniest holes in the wall. I once asked Dante if he had ever seen the field, but instead of answering, he looked at me in a curious manner.
“The fields?”
“You know, the large fields just outside of the village.”
“You mean those plains? The ones that are sometimes yellow and sometimes green?”
“Yes, those. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
He looked down and let his fingers walk over rock we were sitting on.
“Papa tells me not to go there. He says the fieldworkers will be angry with me if I hinder their work.”
“Isn’t your father…”
He looked up at me, curious to what I was about to say.
“My mama says your father died in the war.”
“She is right.”
He got up from the rock then and walked back to class.
The other kids would often make fun of us – more precisely – of Dante. Some would attack his family, others more Dante himself; he didn’t seem to mind for the greater part, although sometimes I could see him try to hide a frown, or his firmly clutched hand when someone was talking about his father.
One time, during the early summer, the second year of our friendship, Lorenzo, who would later become my friend, came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Dante turned around, surprised to see Lorenzo smiling almost kindly at him. Dante’s hair had continued to thrive, and now that it was curling, it almost perfectly hid his eyes and one could scarcely see the look on his face now.
“Hey Dante.”
Lorenzo said.
“What?”
Some boys were getting curious and looked over at us while Lorenzo was stretching out his arms, making Dante wait for his next remark.
“Gather round everyone!”
Lorenzo shouted into the courtyard. Most of the boys slowly approached and curiously glanced over at what was happening. The midday sun had reached its zenith and the stream of light that flowed down onto the feeble earth seemed oddly centred on this exact place, this courtyard—the space between Lorenzo and Dante, where I was standing. I didn’t know what to do—there was nothing that I could have done, though I suppose I can admit now – as this will be my one chance of redemption – had I done something that day; had I stopped Lorenzo from saying what he did – then maybe Dante would not have drowned.
“I want everyone to know the truth about Dante’s father.”
Some gasped and others simply remained silent. Everyone knew that Dante’s father had been in the war, and everyone knew that he had been fighting for the fascists—though at this moment, it seemed as though something new, perhaps something unjust or dishonest would be brought to light.
“My mama told me!”
Lorenzo announced proudly.
“Dante’s father wasn’t killed in battle!”
He said.
“Dante’s father was executed for being a faggot!”
And it was exactly this moment that sealed Dante’s fate. With one hard swing of his fist, Dante hit Lorenzo in the jaw and caused him to topple over and scream. Mr. Falone came out of the office, ran towards Dante and dragged him away while all the others stared in disbelief. Lorenzo was shouting insults over and over and as the crowd dispersed, the nurse took away Lorenzo; I was left in the courtyard, all alone, staring at the ground—at the splatter of blood on the pavement. I did not know what I had done, and I would not know for years; I would not know even long after I had befriended Lorenzo and grown accustomed to his mannerisms—I only know today.
When I told my mother about what happened, she sighed and sat down on the chair opposite me and held her head at an angle.
“My dear!”
She said in a disappointed, yet somehow jocular manner.
“I told you to stay away from that kid… You should look for other friends. What about Lorenzo? I often meet his mother at the market. He is a good kid.”
“Mama! Didn’t you hear what happened? Lorenzo called Dante’s father a-“
“I don’t want to hear it, Pietro! And it wouldn’t surprise me that much anyway. The Mancinis are a bad family. There is always at least one in each village. San Demetrio is certainly not an exception. Now go do your homework, boy.”
I obliged her and walked up to my room; closing the door behind me and sinking deep into the mattress on my bed, I stared up at the beamed ceiling. Something wasn’t right—I knew it, though I didn’t know what yet.
A few months later, in young autumn, when the trees were just about to grow old and grey and the herons were migrating, something else happened. I had just left the house to look for Dante, when in the distance, I could see him, sitting by a pond, his legs dangling in the water. As I approached him and glanced at the hair that had finally been cut, I could not help but notice how something was different that day. He didn’t say much, perhaps he greeted me, though somehow I doubt it—the one thing he did do, was ask me a simple question.
“Is your mother nice to you?”
I thought about it for a while, coming up with no concise answer until he impatiently angled his head.
“She gives me food and she cares for me when I’m sick, but she can be strict and she doesn’t like your family—or you.”
“Not many people here like the Mancini name. I don’t know why but I suppose it is because we are poorer than anyone else—not that anyone in San Demetrio is rich.”
“I think the mayor is rich.”
I said, sitting down next to him.
“But why do you ask if my mother is-“
“Ah yes.”
He interrupted.
“I ask because my mother is the best mother anyone could ask for, and she works so hard and is always there for me, and still—no one likes her; no one wants to go to the market with her and when people see her, they turn away. And I don’t understand it, because your mother can be so strict and…”
“Mean?”
I added.
“Yes, your mother can be mean, but everyone likes her. Do you think people don’t like my mother because she is kind and… nice?”
“I don’t know.”
We remained silent for a while, gazing out at the nearby fields, at the workers shuffling along the crops, holding onto their sunhats as a breeze picked up in the valley—it seemed as though we were miles above them, gazing down as though from pillars onto the ground; it was a strange time; the world was being rebuilt one stone, one brick and one plank at a time, and we were unable to help—stuck in the mindless capacity of youth. Dante scratched his head. He seemed uncomfortable with his new haircut and I am sure he was debating whether he should let it grow again, though at this moment it seemed such a childish, such a useless question.
“I don’t mind that people don’t like me, Pietro.”
He said, looking away.
“But I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I.”
I said quietly.
“What happened after you hit Lorenzo?”
He looked surprised, though not at all perturbed by the question.
“I told Mr. Falone what happened, and…”
He thought for a moment.
“He told me that, because it was the first time, he would look the other way”
I don’t know whether I believed him, though I distinctly remember that something about his manner that day seemed absent. I didn’t talk to him for a while after that conversation. Of course we sat next to each other in school and occasionally ate together in the cafeteria, though soon I started befriending Lorenzo and with him Matteo and we often went to swim. The water would be very cold in winter, but we made it into somewhat of a challenge to dive in and try to swim to the other side. We rarely succeeded in crossing the lake, yet when we did, we celebrated by racing back to the village—the winner, having to buy lemonade for the other two.
The winter of that year was particularly warm, so we spent a lot of time by the lake and weren’t seen too much in the square. When my mother took me to the market to buy tomatoes and pasta, I would slip away and find either Matteo or Lorenzo—or rarely both, and we would run as fast as we could towards the river, jumping in still half dressed. The slowest one was often mocked and him always being Matteo made it easier to form a habit.
Eventually, our mothers caught onto our trick and no longer took us to the market, instead locking us in our rooms.
I wasn’t small enough anymore to climb out of my window so I would spend countless hours staring out at the view over the valley.
When the dew and the mist that reigned close to the ground cleared in the morning and the sun rose above the rooftops, I could see motorcars sluicing through the narrow roads—and I often thought about the people who were driving them. They must have been well of if they could afford cars back then. I sometimes thought how they could be police detectives, as those in books always drove cars, though I soon outgrew the thought as the years went by and I saw more and more cars.
When my mother came back from the market and started cooking, she would often tell me who she saw and who she talked to; I would sit at the dinner table, waiting for my father to come home from a long shift and she would talk endlessly about how Franca Di Nicola had grown out her hair and how peculiar it looked, until she eventually turned the conversation towards something else.
“I saw Elena Mancini at the fruit stand.”
She cut carrots in quarters and let them sizzle in olive oil for a while.
“Her hair is looking worse each day! It is as though a bird were sitting on her head; a large, ugly bird.”
She made a flapping gesture with her elbows and looked straight at me.
“And still you are talking to that filthy boy.”
She sighed, and turned away from me again. Sometimes another mother would come in through the front door and casually announce her presence to my mother. She would never reject a guest and invited every visitor for supper, and each time they would hold long and winding conversations about the most mundane of subjects, the most daily of pleasures and the most average of pains, until eventually they too turned the conversation towards the Mancini family.
“I don’t know what the issue with those people is!”
Maria D’Amico, a rarer houseguest of my mother’s said. My mother nodded and put down a steaming casserole on the table. My father was home earlier for once and remained silent, just as I did for all of those conversations. As the steam rose up further when she lifted the lid, one could finally see a favourite meal of mine, and after a short prayer, one could eat.
Our kitchen and sitting room were one, and not much light came through the ground floor windows in the evening. We relied mostly on candles at night as they were cheaper than electricity and as the suppers and occasional, more formal dinners went on an on, one would often feel as though one were a prisoner, caught in a net of darkness, fed the most elaborate and filling dishes, cared for wonderfully and looked after kindly, while still feeling neglected in a way—feeling as though an integral part of oneself were not accepted.
“I am sure the boy will not live much longer. And when he dies, the mother will follow.”
Maria D’Amico added in rather radical voice. My father didn’t seem to approve of the remark, yet as my mother nodded, a broad smile – almost as though it were all a cheap joke – on her face, he leaned back in his chair and basked in silence.
Some months went by in idle silence and unspoken contempt, though of course one would eventually return to a state of intrigue and care.
I found my way back to Dante sometimes by missing lunch with my friends and visiting him by the pond; and then we would spend hours simply talking, or most often—remaining in pure silence.
“Don’t you mind that Lorenzo is my friend now?”
I asked him once. He didn’t look particularly interested in the topic, though each time I asked him a question, he looked me in the eyes, scanned my face and answered.
“I don’t know—I don’t think I really care that much.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you remember when he called your fath-“
“I know what he said, Pietro. I just don’t care anymore. A lot of people here talk about my father, and they all come up with their own unique lies.”
We had begun talking in a certain way that seemed quite adult for our age; it seemed that somehow, in all our youth, in all our powerlessness, we had found something deeper and more intrinsic to the value of life.
“I don’t think he meant what he said back then, Dante.”
“He meant it. Everyone always somehow means what they say.”
“I think it was just a joke.”
“Jokes can hurt too.”
Now that I look back to our conversations and remember what I said, what he answered—I feel a deep regret welling up in me, though at times, one might say in sporadic distribution, I feel that I became more and more one of the reasons for his departure.
“What really happened to your father?”
I once asked him. It was the one time, that a question I asked seemed to upset, or confuse him. His eyebrows curved down if only slightly, he frowned visibly and for a moment, it appeared as though he were deep in thought, debating whether to answer or walk away.
“I-“
He said, his eyebrows loosening and his mouth curving upwards.
“I don’t know.”
We grew apart more and more as time went by and soon, as the year grew old and was just about to die and be born anew, I lost sight of him in the crowd of kids on their way to and from school each morning and afternoon. I no longer saw him and his mother in the back of the church, their faces buried in praying hands. I thought that I once saw him, or at least his face shine out close to the door, and it seemed, that in the shuffle of the moment, a beam of light, falling in from coloured windows painted his face auburn and warm, like a fox’s tail struck by morning light.
And as the crowd, streaming in like the dried up river which wells up once more after the flood, thickened near the back of the church, his face disappeared amidst and I wouldn’t see it again, until his wake let me glance at his face one last time, now cold and sad.
Dante disappeared not long after my tenth birthday. I had spent even more time with Lorenzo and Matteo, and as we grew closer together, becoming brothers, we forgot about him one at a time.
I was the last to forget him, though it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Restless, we ran around and swam rounds in the lake, not worried by its depth, not scared of what lay deep beneath it—restless, not worried.
Dante was pulled out of the river when his body, like the one of a fallen angel having descended from the heavens to sluice through the waves of our lake like a sharp knife through butter, drifted up to the surface.
His mother died not long after he was found, and as the Mancini name no longer held its place in San Demetrio, the people grew tired, their faces worn out, drenched in sweat and forced tears.
My mother sat down next to me when I came from school that day, and, her face puffy—her eyes shimmering blue, she put her hand on my shoulder.
“He always was such a good kid, I always said it! And now his mother too…”
I remained silent. I went to Lorenzo’s family’s house not long after and as his mother greeted me with a hug, tapping gently on my back, she whispered to me calmly.
“The Mancini family was so important to us… And the poor kid….”
And Lorenzo down from his room, looked at me earnestly and smiled—all the while, tears welled up in his eyes.
“I still can’t believe he drowned… He was such a good friend.”
And still years later, people talk about the Mancini family, weep about them, pity them.
And it doesn’t serve any purpose anymore. Dante is dead—Dante’s mother is dead.
Everyone would still hate them if they were alive.
Still I remain silent, knowing the truth.
Dante made his way through all stages of the inferno, and now he rests up there, in Paradiso.