lads waited with the confidence of a bull. The boys were from the Bidonvilles area. Most were extremely poor. They looked upon the students of the affluent schools with disdain, thinking them spoiled; when in Carlo’s case was far from the truth. Money does not spoil a person, entitlement and people do.
The student’s paths crossed earlier when the toughest of the ragtag group, the blonde boy with pasty skin decided he would insult the sullen youth named Carlo when he walked by the school gates.
“Is pity for a foreigner the reason you were accepted tar-head?”
“Meet me in the ghetto where you live and I will tell you!” Carlo had shouted just as the bell rattled the hour and he had to go inside.
This is the place the cocky boy shouted. Perhaps he thought Carlo would not show, but Carlo knew the streets quite well.
For a boy not yet fourteen, Carlo’s arms were the size of solid tree limbs. He was slightly shorter than the southern boy, but he did not see this as a disadvantage. He saw opportunity. There was more surface area on his opponent’s torso to damage.
Carlo sneered as he kicked a discarded bottle out of his path. “Jest now!”
“You came, Carlo, is it?” The boy taunted. “I did not think you would venture this far from the belly of luxury.”
Carlo hated the smug Parisian’s pronunciation of his new name made it sound worse.
“Of course I am here cazzo!”
There was laughter from the boy’s pack of hyenas. Cowards are always strong when supported by extended arms. Yet, the teen with Sicilian blood was not afraid.
“Foreigner. What is a cazzo , is it you?”
The evening had dimmed the sun, sounds of Parisian living was the background. The adults were unaware a group of ruffians had assembled to fight. Adults were always too busy, with this or that. Besides, what pastime did impoverished youth have after the wars?
The boy with the name Carlo Dichenzo was not destitute, his soul was. He could not forget the images of his mama, papa and sisters and soldati strewn about like discarded carcasses throughout their property. Anger set him on fire.
He charged the youth and the collective shout of boys was loud, but the cacophonous noise became camouflaged by old cars clanking and backfiring over the brick street.
He punched the smile from the Parisian. He knocked the arrogant youth to the ground, pummeling him with such force, bones broke like twigs. The shrieks were no longer loud. Fear of children when they realize a game is no longer merriment but has turned sour is a hush and gasps when blood appears from a nose and mouth.
The Parisian had nothing to say. Flat on his back, unable to dodge or deflect he cried like a bitch for mercy in French.
Carlo’s classmates, tugged at his strong arms. They managed to drag him back from the whimpering sap. There was fear on their faces when they looked upon their foreign classmate in a murderous rage.
They saved their French brethren. Their innocence was shattered and they came to not like the foreigner known as Carlo because he reminded children of war which they sought to forget.
CHAPTER TWO
“We cannot return home fratellino,” Luzo said for the umpteenth time to his surly brother. Several years in Paris without contact with their youngest sibling Giuseppe angered the wayward boy. He was troublesome, rebellious and not interested in studies, only fighting and guns.
“When will we return to avenge our famiglia?” he asked as they carried cumbersome bags of produce from the bustling market.
Foreigners had begun to stream to France and visit places such as the Louvre. The Eiffel Tower had become a commonplace attraction which elitist inhabitants preferred to avoid. Mingling with art aficionados was more desirable he supposed. Luzo missed home, also. He did not speak of Sicily to his brother except when referencing what papa had instructed him to do. This is the time he reminded Carlo of the danger of retuning too soon.
The student’s paths crossed earlier when the toughest of the ragtag group, the blonde boy with pasty skin decided he would insult the sullen youth named Carlo when he walked by the school gates.
“Is pity for a foreigner the reason you were accepted tar-head?”
“Meet me in the ghetto where you live and I will tell you!” Carlo had shouted just as the bell rattled the hour and he had to go inside.
This is the place the cocky boy shouted. Perhaps he thought Carlo would not show, but Carlo knew the streets quite well.
For a boy not yet fourteen, Carlo’s arms were the size of solid tree limbs. He was slightly shorter than the southern boy, but he did not see this as a disadvantage. He saw opportunity. There was more surface area on his opponent’s torso to damage.
Carlo sneered as he kicked a discarded bottle out of his path. “Jest now!”
“You came, Carlo, is it?” The boy taunted. “I did not think you would venture this far from the belly of luxury.”
Carlo hated the smug Parisian’s pronunciation of his new name made it sound worse.
“Of course I am here cazzo!”
There was laughter from the boy’s pack of hyenas. Cowards are always strong when supported by extended arms. Yet, the teen with Sicilian blood was not afraid.
“Foreigner. What is a cazzo , is it you?”
The evening had dimmed the sun, sounds of Parisian living was the background. The adults were unaware a group of ruffians had assembled to fight. Adults were always too busy, with this or that. Besides, what pastime did impoverished youth have after the wars?
The boy with the name Carlo Dichenzo was not destitute, his soul was. He could not forget the images of his mama, papa and sisters and soldati strewn about like discarded carcasses throughout their property. Anger set him on fire.
He charged the youth and the collective shout of boys was loud, but the cacophonous noise became camouflaged by old cars clanking and backfiring over the brick street.
He punched the smile from the Parisian. He knocked the arrogant youth to the ground, pummeling him with such force, bones broke like twigs. The shrieks were no longer loud. Fear of children when they realize a game is no longer merriment but has turned sour is a hush and gasps when blood appears from a nose and mouth.
The Parisian had nothing to say. Flat on his back, unable to dodge or deflect he cried like a bitch for mercy in French.
Carlo’s classmates, tugged at his strong arms. They managed to drag him back from the whimpering sap. There was fear on their faces when they looked upon their foreign classmate in a murderous rage.
They saved their French brethren. Their innocence was shattered and they came to not like the foreigner known as Carlo because he reminded children of war which they sought to forget.
CHAPTER TWO
“We cannot return home fratellino,” Luzo said for the umpteenth time to his surly brother. Several years in Paris without contact with their youngest sibling Giuseppe angered the wayward boy. He was troublesome, rebellious and not interested in studies, only fighting and guns.
“When will we return to avenge our famiglia?” he asked as they carried cumbersome bags of produce from the bustling market.
Foreigners had begun to stream to France and visit places such as the Louvre. The Eiffel Tower had become a commonplace attraction which elitist inhabitants preferred to avoid. Mingling with art aficionados was more desirable he supposed. Luzo missed home, also. He did not speak of Sicily to his brother except when referencing what papa had instructed him to do. This is the time he reminded Carlo of the danger of retuning too soon.
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