On Earth as It Is in Heaven Read Free

nothing more than a pretext to beat him up, started over to the wall without a word. He dragged his feet as he walked. An inexorable march. He knew he was headed toward certain pain, but he was so stubbornly determined to be part of our gang that his sense of personal dignity had long ago lost its battle against his resignation. Why didn’t Gerruso just look for other friends, friends who were as fat and worthless as he was? Why did he accept all this misery? I felt not a scrap of pity for him. He was a weakling. Weaklings deserve no respect.
    Gerruso reached the wall, covered his eyes with his right hand, wedged his left hand under his armpit, and held it open, flat. He was ready to play the game. But Pullara had decided to twist the rules. Even if Gerruso did guess who’d slapped him, we’d say he was wrong, he’d have to turn back around, and he’d get another smack on the back of his neck and then another and another, over and over again.
    The goal wasn’t to play.
    The goal was to slaughter him.
    The first slap was thrown by Danilo Dominici.
    Gerruso took it, suppressing a groan of pain, then turned and looked hard at us.
    â€œDanilo Dominici.”
    â€œNo.”
    Pullara had answered for the rest of us.
    Gerruso wasn’t cheating.
    Pullara was.
    Lele Tranchina took a running start and slapped with every muscle in his body. Gerruso throttled a cry of hurt deep in his throat. He turned around, without looking at anyone in particular.
    â€œTranchina.”
    â€œNo.”
    Gerruso turned back to the wall without a word. He was a weakling. He deserved all the pain in the world.
    I spat on the palm of one hand and rubbed it into the other, the way they did in the movies I’d watched at the theater with Umbertino, who would say after every killing: “Finally a movie the way they oughtta be made, not one of those French pieces of garbage for people who are sick of living. Look at that beautiful explosion! Now this is art.”
    The truth is, Gerruso, you were born for French movies.
    I hit him with such extreme violence that I even surprised myself. The slap didn’t erupt into the ringing sound of a smack; instead it was muffled at impact by his entire body into a single, cavernous moan.
    Gerruso looked at me instantly, ignoring everyone else.
    â€œPullara.”
    Why, Gerruso? Why? What possible reason could you have for being such a loser? You’d guessed who it was that time, too; you should have said my name; that’s not how the game is played.
    â€œWrong!”
    Drops of saliva sprayed out of Pullara’s mouth. His pupils gleamed with fire. He would be the next one to deliver a neck-slap—it was obvious.
    â€œTurn around, you dumb baby. Now I’ll bet we make you cry.”
    Pullara didn’t state the challenge with detachment; he was ferociously committed. He was hopping in the air, waving his hand to warm it up. Once again he broke the rules, bringing his clenched fist down straight onto Gerruso’s ear. Gerruso bent over like a snapped twig. Pullara burst into an animal howl, one finger pointing straight up at the sky. Gerruso stood back up, both arms dangling at his sides.
    â€œPullara,” he said.
    His eyes hadn’t wept a single tear.
    As I walked home, a powerful white Vespa roared past, cutting across my path. Two men, both wearing full-face helmets. I saw myself reflected in the visors. My expression was relaxed, even though both hands had leaped to cover my mouth. It was an instinctive movement. The body bent over in anticipation of danger, warning the senses to react. In Palermo, the defensive crouch is an art handed down from one generation to the next. It becomes more refined as you grow in the city’s womb. It was the helmets that made me crouch. No one wore helmets in the city, especially in that heat. Grandma said that heat waves made people lose their minds.
    â€œHave you ever wondered why people kill each other over