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Fiction

Tana

By Giulio Mozzi
Translated from Italian by Elizabeth Harris

The rain began that morning. Tana was coming home from school. Thursday afternoons they had sewing class, and now on the bus, she realized this was the first day she’d left school in the dark. It would go on like this for months. It was cold out, raining, and the bus, jammed with boys and girls, with students, was steaming hot. The windows were fogged up; someone had managed to pry one open, and Tana, already sweaty, was freezing. She thought: I might get sick, stay home a week. She didn’t try to get out of the draft; she didn’t protest. The rain hit her face, her eyes. It hadn’t rained in a while and the city and air were full of dust. She felt the rain burning against her face, her eyes. The bus was incredibly noisy, but so much noise filled Tana’s head that all the passengers seemed to be opening their mouths with no sound coming out; they were laughing silently.  She remembered reading in the encyclopedia about a South American Indian tribe that lived surrounded by ferocious enemies; as a result, the men and women hardly ever spoke and the rare times they did was just to whisper in each other’s ear; they bandaged the children’s mouths until they learned the rules; they cut the hunting dogs’ vocal chords with special, long, sharp knives. That way their enemies didn’t hear a sound. Everyone in the village moved with extreme caution, with silent steps. They didn’t build fires. Maybe, Tana thought, it wasn’t even a real village: each person had a cloak, and that cloak over his head was home. Shut up in his house, the person from a distance must have looked exactly like a bare shrub, or the torn-up roots of a rotten fallen tree, or some rejected animal carcass. Something no one was interested in. To avoid any cooking smells, the animals they killed they ate raw, and they ate every last bit, down to the last bone and shred of skin, down to the last feather, not leaving even a trace behind. Maybe the tribe never gathered together; each of them wandered alone in the dense, dripping forest, wives and husbands meeting only now and then, always in different places, always on days set according to different rules. Though often, just to be safe, they didn’t meet at all. Or more likely, a man wandered the forest, leaving it to luck or to the gods if he met a woman, and if he did, then she would be his wife, and if he met a man, then that man would be a friend or foe. It was her stop: Tana jumped up. At first the mass of students seemed to strain to hold her back, but then it pushed her out with more force than she expected. She stumbled onto the sidewalk, stunned. She opened her umbrella too late; rain ran down her hair and neck. There was an electric clock above the bus-stop sign: instead of the usual twenty minutes the trip had taken almost an hour .

Tana was shivering. Her backpack felt heavy; her arm holding the umbrella was already so tired, it ached. Her clothes were ice-cold. Let’s hope I get sick this time, she thought. Tonight I’ll have some broth from yesterday’s stewed meat, nice and hot, with bread. And I’ll have a little wine to bring on a fever. I’ll put on two pairs of pajamas and an extra blanket so I’ll sweat a lot. I want to stay in bed a week—I want to stay in bed so long I’ll think my bed’s disgusting from then on. Tana was walking slowly, almost blind, her umbrella over her face to protect her from the burning rain. She made no effort to avoid the puddles: good, she thought, I’ll get even sicker. And I can always have as many shoes as I want. The passing cars splattered her thighs. Her shoes had come untied; her flowered leggings were soaked; her heavy-cloth jacket stank like a wet dog. Tana took the side street; she could barely make out the traffic light at the end, only some fifty meters away. She saw the angel just as she crossed the street by the traffic light. What she really saw was a pile of feathers, a sort of ball pressed up against the lowered shutter to the grocery shop. The shop’s glass front came in slightly, by a half-meter, so those feathers were at least a little protected from the rain. You could tell they were white feathers, but they were filthy with rain and mud. The mud was blackish-red and made Tana think of blood. She approached carefully, holding her open umbrella in front of her, ready to defend herself. What Tana saw was like an enormous bird, but as she circled at a slight distance, there was a very pale, helpless foot poking out from under the cover of the wings. She came forward and saw that the pile of feathers was jerking slightly, an erratic, uncontrollable tremor. She came closer and tried to speak. She didn’t know what to say. She said, “What’s the matter?” in more of a whisper than she liked, and at once she thought “What’s the matter?” was a really stupid thing to say. But what should she say, then? She came even closer, shifted the umbrella to her left hand, stretched out her right, and touched the pile of feathers; she leaned over the top. The pile jolted, the wing moved slightly, and underneath Tana saw some blond hair smeared with rain and dust. She tried to pull the wing aside—it resisted a little—and there was a face with closed eyes. She touched the angel’s forehead, which was cold but not freezing-cold. That forehead didn’t move under her touch. Once again Tana said, “What’s the matter?” but there was no answer. Then she said: “Can you get up?” and the mass of feathers answered with an uncertain shudder. That must mean no, she decided, and she closed her umbrella, slipped it through the loop on her backpack, and she lifted the angel, reaching into the feathers, raising him by the armpits. It didn’t take much effort, even if her backpack threw her off balance. The angel was much bigger than she was but not that heavy. Tana tucked her shoulder under the angel’s left armpit, put her right arm around the angel’s waist, then his shoulders, and with her left hand gripped his left arm. From below, she looked up at the angel’s face, at his eyes, which seemed slightly open. She said, “Come on—you can do it,” and they started off.

The angel kept nearly falling, but then right when they were both ready to tumble onto the flooded sidewalk, he’d take a step. Tana’s condo was the fifth one on the left, just before the levee. The street was empty. The houses had their sliding shutters pulled down to keep out the rain. Tana announced at the intercom, “It’s me,” and she pushed the angel into the elevator. She leaned him up against the elevator mirror and let go. She dropped her backpack. At her floor, she helped the angel into the apartment, dragging her backpack behind her. She quickly got the angel to her room and shut the door. Her mother was shouting something from outside the door; Tana shouted back that she was soaked through, that she was changing and then she’d take a hot bath and go to bed, she didn’t feel well, didn’t want anything to eat, she just wanted to be left alone. When Tana shouted like that, her mother never insisted on coming in or saying what she had to say. Her mother was the only one home at this hour. Her father and Sergio nearly always came in together, at eight, and tonight they’d be even later. Tana positioned the angel on the floor, propped up against the bed. Open, his wings were huge. The angel’s eyes were still closed, but while she was moving him, it felt like he was trying to help. She took off her shoes and tossed her soaked jacket over the chair; she stood there thinking, then opened the shuttered wardrobe door, and standing behind it, she peeled off her leggings, ankle socks, and undershirts and tossed them on the floor; she put on her heavy blue sweater and gray sweat pants. She was searching for her slippers under the bed and heard the angel take a deep breath. He hadn’t moved. Tana cracked the door open—the way was clear—and praying no one would see, she quickly steered the angel to the bathroom that she shared with her mother.  She set him on the edge of the tub, his left shoulder against the wall, wings tucked in, legs facing out to keep him from falling. Without her help, he’d just be gripping the tub for support. His hands were very white. She didn’t dare look him in the eye. The angel’s head was down on his chest, like someone bobbing asleep on a train. Tana turned on the hot water and started washing the angel’s wings with the shower hose. The angel wasn’t what she expected. He was almost what you saw in Catechism pictures, but not quite. His wings weren’t attached at the back, from the shoulder blades, but from the same place as the arms, though the arms rotated like a man’s arms and the wings seemed hinged to rotate toward one another, then backward. And they weren’t bird feathers: they were flesh, like very slender tongues, the skin paler and thicker than normal skin, rougher. The angel had on a sleeveless white tunic—but filthy—that came down almost to his feet, with slits up the sides to the knees. She ran the jet of warm water over his wings, scrubbing them with a sponge; she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, but maybe he was chilled through, even suffering from hypothermia, and she had a feeling his wings were his weak spot: they were so much paler than his face or arms.

In a short time, the wings started moving, seemed to be stretching, and the tongues of flesh were rising, letting the warm water penetrate beneath; the skin below was no longer pale; it was bright pink, the web of capillaries pulsing: this didn’t seem like skin; it was more like—and Tana had also read this in the encyclopedia at home—like an internal membrane. The tongues of flesh were captivating as they rose and fell, row by row, like a wave, the wings moving only slightly, as though the angel, checking to see that they still worked, was afraid to bend them any further. These wings were fascinating, almost a live thing on their own, and then seeing the pink beneath the tongues, Tana thought of her own tongue in her mouth, and she was suddenly filled with disgust, and she turned away from the wings; she raised her head to see the angel staring back at her over his shoulder, and she was afraid. The angel had red eyes. One of her classmates, Maria, had a mother with eyes like that: she was an albino with white hair and skin so transparent it was disgusting. The angel was staring at Tana, staring, his eyes steady and confident, and she didn’t expect this at all; she thought he’d be afraid, shy, keep his eyes down; but he was shamelessly staring, eyes narrowed, as if to get her into better focus, with no shyness whatsoever, and no curiosity, no gratitude, either. Tana was frightened. She dropped the shower hose and ran to her room. She felt like crying; her head was spinning. What now? What now? she thought. The angel might be dangerous, cruel, she thought. With those red eyes, he might even be a demon. But then she thought how stupid it was—being afraid of an angel. And what if her mother went into the bathroom and saw him, she thought, and her stomach clenched with fear. She cracked open the bedroom door and no one was out there. She slipped into the hall; she hadn’t shut the door to the bathroom all the way when she ran to her room. She peeked in: the angel was sitting with his legs in the tub, methodically washing his feet. She watched him, wondering why she’d been so afraid: there was nothing to be afraid of; it was stupid to think the angel had to be like she’d always imagined. She watched the angel, admiring how he took care of himself; he seemed perfectly capable, and she felt disappointed, then ashamed of herself for being disappointed. Of course an angel knew how to take care of himself and could wash his own feet. And Tana knew how completely wrong it would be to keep thinking the angel needed her help. She could offer her help, and she had, but she also needed to know when to stop. Feeling better, she went back to her room; she’d leave the angel alone. But she left the door partway open so he wouldn’t think she was rejecting him. Her head seemed to be clearing; she felt brave and secure.

Just then, she heard her father and brother in the entranceway: when the weather was bad, they’d arranged that Tana’s father always picked up Sergio. Her father worked in a shoe store and two years earlier had found Sergio a job in the store where he’d worked years before and was still friends with the boss. He’d never come get me, Tana thought. Her father and Sergio had never liked each other much, but they’d bonded since Sergio started in the same job. They were colleagues; they felt important and special. At night, the only thing they seemed to talk about was shoes; Tana couldn’t stand either one of them. Sometimes she thought she should figure out a way to team up more with her mother so they could face the two males together, like women had to. But it seemed as though her mother had decided the only way to get the men to think of her at all was to serve them with absolute devotion, and that left no room for Tana. All of this came to her as she heard Sergio and her father returning home, and she realized she’d never find an ally in this apartment, or any place for an angel. They’d never even notice him, she thought. She heard her father and Sergio speaking, and she could hear that their voices were strange. She couldn’t make out their words, couldn’t tell what they were saying; their tone sounded sharp; they were almost shouting; but she had no idea if they were happy or upset; their voices were like a 33 LP set to play like a 45. Tana looked down the hall, and her father and Sergio were running around at high speed—just like their voices—not like people hurrying but like characters in a revved-up film. They were racing in and out of their bedrooms, the kitchen, their bathroom, moving so fast they jerked. They were doing what they always did when they came home at night; Sergio, always so fussy about what he wore at work, was taking off his shoes and putting on his sweatsuit; they both were washing up: but it was as if they had to push themselves to do the usual things; it took an exaggerated effort; as if, Tana thought, they had to put in their whole life’s effort, the effort of every single cell. Now they sounded happy, but she still couldn’t understand. She stepped into the hall and came toward them. They didn’t even see her. Different expressions kept flashing across their faces, across her mother’s face, and Tana couldn’t make out any of them. Their faces were like those claymation figures she’d seen in the bitters commercial. She went into the kitchen; the red table cloth appeared on the table along with four plates, and she automatically sat down at her usual place. Her mother, father, and Sergio were eating in a frenzy, as though they hadn’t eaten for a year. Tana sat still, dazed; at one point she felt her arm being steadily tapped, it was her mother, and she realized her mother was saying something in that new incomprehensible language, probably trying to get her to eat. But she barely had time to think this before the tablecloth vanished, her mother clearing off everything, racing, tossing the plates into the sink like a juggler tossing tennis balls or colored pins, not breaking a thing.

Tana got up from the table—she hadn’t eaten—and she went back and slipped open the bathroom door: the angel, looking satisfied, was studying his feet, clean now, washed and warm, a lovely rose color. Water sparkled in his soft, blond curls. He’d managed to clean up his tunic a little. He looked more dignified and seemed very strong. Tana took comfort in this. When she opened the bathroom door all the way, the angel looked up, got to his feet, and smiled at her, not a friendly smile, she thought, more satisfied than friendly, but at least he was smiling, and she said, “You want to eat?” The angel said, “Yes,” without so much as a “thank you,” but he spoke so quickly that Tana thought: He’s starving; and his voice sounded uncertain, still weak, without the force that seemed to fill his body and wings. Tana took the angel by the hand and led him to the kitchen. Her father and Sergio were watching TV in the living room, leaping up, constantly shifting positions on the couch, and speaking in their new shrill voices, probably about shoes; her mother was in her usual spot in the kitchen in front of the smaller TV, her chair turned so she could rest her left elbow on the table, her chin in her hand; the TV was flashing, but Tana could see it was the usual soap opera, and her mother was asleep like always, and she’d only wake up at the end when the commercials came on at a higher volume, and she’d curse about missing yet another half-episode and come up with a hundred theories about what had happened while she slept—though really, Tana thought, nothing ever happened on that soap opera: phone calls went on for hours when the old man was dying, everyone fighting over the money, with him in agony for maybe twenty episodes. Tana sat the angel down at the table; she took the small pot of broth from the fridge and started heating it up; she sliced some of the leftover bread, threw out the crumbs, and pushed the slices down into the big bowl she’d had since she was little and miraculously never broken, not even one of the handles; she emptied the grated-cheese container over the bread, then poured in the warm broth and slid the bowl toward the angel. The angel was staring at her the whole time. Tana had a cat some years back that stared at her in the same way, from a distance but paying very close attention while she prepared its food in a small bowl. Meanwhile her mother had woken up, turned off the TV, told her a few things in that new voice of hers which Tana didn’t need to understand, and then sat down in her same spot to mend some socks. She’s going so fast, Tana thought, she’s going to prick her finger, but her mother didn’t prick her finger. And Tana tried to avoid looking at her mother, and her father, too, when he came into the kitchen for a match to light his cigarette; Tana sat facing the angel, trying to concentrate on him alone. The angel was slowly sipping the broth, taking a big spoonful, pausing quite a while, taking another; then he began to scoop up the bread at the bottom of the bowl, and she realized he was trying to get it all up at once without tearing the pieces apart.

The broth smelled nice and hot; Tana was extremely hungry, but she knew this wasn’t the right time, not now. She watched the angel set the spoon on his plate and raise the bowl for the last drop. When he set the bowl down, he gave her another satisfied smile. His eyes seemed a little less red now, or maybe the red was a little less piercing and raw, as if the broth’s warm vapor had dimmed his eyes, softened them. He must have been really cold, Tana thought, even on the inside. She recalled being achy and cold and how satisfying it was to wash herself warm, eat warm, cover herself back up in wool. She asked the angel: “What’s your name?” The angel said: “Roberta.” Tana didn’t know what to think; on the one hand, the angel had been quite comfortable saying “Roberta,” as if “Roberta” was the exact right name for an angel; she looked at the angel, at that simple, unmarked face, like the face of a child, without a trace of beard; but the tunic fell straight from the chest, and though the face was childish, it was definitely a male face, and those arms on the table were male arms (but they weren’t resting on the table like arms do, Tana thought, they were more like two things the angel didn’t need just then), and she’d seen the angel’s feet in the bathroom and they were big, male feet. She forced herself to answer: “My name’s Tana, but Tana’s really short for Gaetana. I’ve been Tana since I was little, though, and didn’t really know how to talk—” She suddenly stopped: the angel looked bored; she stopped and thought: Why am I telling him this? A name’s a name. He didn’t ask me mine. His is Roberta; she looked at him, embarrassed, and he was staring back at her with no expression, just watching with the faintest hint of expectation—not that he wanted something, more like he was available—she didn’t fully understand and just kept staring. Her family must have gone to bed, she hadn’t noticed, but now she remembered that while the angel was eating, she felt something brush against her right cheek, and then her father hurried away; he kissed her every night, if she didn’t shut herself up in her room first to avoid that kiss—it was so humiliating, like she was a child—but tonight she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t realized she’d been kissed. She led the angel back to her room, pulled her pajamas out from under her pillow, turned down the covers to her bed (which was a three-quarter bed, because ever since she was little she’d tossed so much in her sleep she kept falling on the floor, so they got her this wider bed a few years back), and she gestured to the angel that he should “make himself comfortable,” though she didn’t dare say a word, and then she fled to the bathroom. She studied herself in the mirror: she was still filthy, her hair smeared with dirt, her eyes tired. What little makeup she’d put on had run down her cheeks. She was shivering. In the bathtub, she washed herself thoroughly, then sank down in the hot water to warm up some more; she was also hoping the angel had settled in and gone to sleep. But then she started worrying that while she was shut up in the bathroom, the angel might take the opportunity to leave, and she splashed out of the tub, wrapped herself in a big towel, and leaned out to check: the angel was sleeping on top of the blankets, using his wings as a pillow and also to cover himself up a little. She felt calmer and went back to the bathroom, dried her hair, and slipped into her pajamas that she’d laid over the radiator to warm. The angel was fast asleep on the side of the bed closest to the wall; Tana slipped under the covers, turned off the light, closed her eyes.

Tana, eyes closed, was thinking about the angel’s sex organ. She hadn’t realized it, that this was what she was thinking about, until the angel said his name. Maybe he’d said it on purpose, and it wasn’t even his real name. A few months ago, at the end of June, she and a group of around fifteen others, boys and girls, had taken mopeds to Camin’s pit, just outside town. The sun was hot, but Tana was cold, even though she had on a light sweater and was sitting behind on the moped and out of the wind. It only took ten minutes to get to the pit. The water was gray and still. The pit had been dug two years earlier, for the new beltway, and then no one filled it in. And so it stayed. The road was a few meters away, hidden by the line of trees. There was grass, some bushes. The pit was somewhat forbidden because apparently there were weirdoes wandering around. And sometimes drifters set up camp but never for more than a few days. A few posted signs read, “No swimming allowed.” It was filthy behind the bushes. At the height of summer, a lot of people came, and the city council sent workers in once a week to clean, even though, theoretically, no swimming was allowed. At this time of year no one came, so no one came to clean. There was also some netting around the whole area, including a small ditch, but the netting was half torn down and someone had found a couple of good places to lay boards across the ditch. The boys and girls knew that over there all you had to do was slip behind a bush or cover yourselves up with a towel, and you could make love, and no one would say a word. One boy threw the idea out there, and then all the boys were racing not to be last, as they stripped and jumped into the water. They splashed around a bit, the water just up to their waists (it was only deep in the middle of the pit), and then they climbed up the bank of the pit, looking slightly blue and numb. They made excuses about having to dry off, and so they stood in front of the girls sitting on the bank. One girl was shocked and screamed and went off to sit by herself, her back to the boys. The boys stood with their hands on their hips, shivering, their genitals just at eyelevel. All the boys were thin and beautiful, at least Tana thought so. The boy closest to her, who went to a technical school, she’d only seen a few times before in the group. She moved over a little without getting up, so she could see better.

The boy turned slightly toward her. A patch of hair rose from his groin, thinning, disappearing toward his belly button. His chest was smooth, white, with just a few long hairs twisting around the nipples. Tana looked down at that thing dangling in the clump of dark hair. It seemed weak, strange. She raised her right hand and touched it with one finger, and she saw it jolt. She pulled her hand back; the thing was swelling. The boy shifted just a little closer. Tana held her hand out straight and slightly cupped so she could lift that thing and see the semi-hidden testicles, and she felt it rise on its own, still swelling, growing stiff, and on the tip, there was an opening in the skin, and a purple stain. Tana kept staring, amazed, at this thing in her hand, watching it change, and she felt the boy’s hand from above, touching her neck, pushing down, trying to get her closer. Tana let go; she drew back, scrambled to her feet; she stood there staring back and forth at all the boys; she didn’t know what to do.  Then the boys put their clothes on, silently, and they all went back to the piazza. The boy Tana had touched tried to get her to climb on the back of his moped, but she kept her distance. A few days later, he called (one of the others must have given him her number) and calmly suggested that they go out next Saturday; his parents would be gone until Sunday night. They could go to the movies and then she could come over; he’d make them some dinner and get them something to drink, some cigarettes. Tana listened, and then she hurled as many insults at him as she could, calling him every name she knew, and even some she didn’t. She saw him a few more times in the piazza but always avoided him. Once while she was out, she turned around to see him laughing and talking with two other boys, and she could feel them watching her. She screamed something after him, and the boys started laughing until her friend pulled her away. They slipped into a coffee bar, and the girl said she really didn’t understand Tana: she was really an idiot not to go out with him, this girl had actually tried, but he didn’t give a shit, and all the other girls there told her he was really a good guy, he always paid, and he always had a rubber, and they’d have fun together. Tana, lying in bed with her eyes closed, the angel breathing beside her, remembered what she’d decided that day: that god had been especially cruel to men and women, giving them this awful reproductive system, jumbling up the organs, so those organs that gave the greatest pleasure, the parts concentrated on love, were all mixed together with the most disgusting parts; and so, ever since the pit, her vagina was disgusting to her, and she stopped touching herself, stopped masturbating, though she still felt desire—sometimes at night, a raging desire—and more disgusting yet was that with this desire came the boy, standing there naked, and he was beautiful, gorgeous, whatever she touched she was touching him, and she saw the two dark stains of his nipples, and in her hand, that flesh, soft at first, then swelling, enormous, and the purple stain opened, there was a sour smell—Tana, during her nights, forced herself to look at that reddened flesh, which, if she kept imagining long enough, suddenly threw out a jet of yellow, foul-smelling, never-ending urine; she felt it gushing out, that urine, with its rotten smell, felt it wet on her body, lukewarm, revolting, she even tasted it in her mouth, and it was only then, thanks to this remedy, that the image faded, her desire grew indistinct, weaker, then almost disappeared, and Tana stopped feeling and lost herself to sleep. 

Now Tana turned on the small lamp, and rolled over to look at the angel while he slept. She got to her knees on the bed. She inched forward as quietly as she could. The angel’s wings were slightly spread; he looked a little disheveled. He looked like someone who was sleeping so deeply, his extreme exhaustion had to wear itself out before he woke up again. His knees showed under his tunic. Tana was afraid, but she also had a thought she couldn’t shake: that this was why the angel was here; this was why he’d allowed her to find him, clean him, feed him: to make her understand that he was available, that she could do whatever she wanted. Anything you could do with an angel would be OK. Tana slipped her right hand under his back and lifted him a little, and with her left hand gingerly drew up his tunic. She laid him back down, and knelt by his knees; she hesitated, then lifted the hem. The angel’s sex organ wasn’t circled by hair. It looked like a child’s, only larger. Tana thought it was beautiful. The flesh was very pale, like the rest of his body.  His belly peacefully rose and fell with each breath. Tana, propped up on her left hand, touched the angel’s belly with her right, not pulling away, running her fingers over his left thigh, between his legs, up his right thigh, onto his belly. Her fingers came near his sex organ, but she didn’t dare touch it: not out of disgust, absolutely not, but out of respect. She wanted him to stay asleep. She brought her face closer to his sex organ, to see it better in the half-light; it was smooth and clean and didn’t smell bad. She touched his sex organ with her lips, a small kiss, like you’d kiss a sleeping infant, kissing him without waking him. His sex organ didn’t rise. Tana kept looking, kept running her fingers along the same path, never touching it. She liked doing this. After a while, she felt sleep pressing down on her, from inside her head, her legs and left arm were tired in this position, and then she covered the angel back up and looked at him. She looked him over, from head to toe, his wings and arms and fingers, and he seemed entirely beautiful. Looking at the angel, she felt no desire whatsoever, just pleasure, pleasure at touching him and giving him that very light kiss on his sex organ. And then she thought it must be very late, and she burrowed under the covers and shut her eyes tight so she’d fall fast asleep, and she dreamed that the angel was leaving, flying away. He was flying away and all along his path, below, the roofs were coming off the houses, and from the houses rose a golden light piercing the dark night sky. The next morning, Tana woke with a wonderful fever, and she was filled with tenderness and dreams and the joy of staying cuddled up in bed and phoning her school friends to come see her, to make them jealous of her good luck, a week’s vacation while, outside, it was raining everywhere, and the rain was washing the world, preparing the world for winter, so lovely.


“Tana” © Giulio Mozzi. By arrangement with Sironi Editore. Translation © 2012 by Elizabeth Harris. All rights reserved.

English Italian (Original)

The rain began that morning. Tana was coming home from school. Thursday afternoons they had sewing class, and now on the bus, she realized this was the first day she’d left school in the dark. It would go on like this for months. It was cold out, raining, and the bus, jammed with boys and girls, with students, was steaming hot. The windows were fogged up; someone had managed to pry one open, and Tana, already sweaty, was freezing. She thought: I might get sick, stay home a week. She didn’t try to get out of the draft; she didn’t protest. The rain hit her face, her eyes. It hadn’t rained in a while and the city and air were full of dust. She felt the rain burning against her face, her eyes. The bus was incredibly noisy, but so much noise filled Tana’s head that all the passengers seemed to be opening their mouths with no sound coming out; they were laughing silently.  She remembered reading in the encyclopedia about a South American Indian tribe that lived surrounded by ferocious enemies; as a result, the men and women hardly ever spoke and the rare times they did was just to whisper in each other’s ear; they bandaged the children’s mouths until they learned the rules; they cut the hunting dogs’ vocal chords with special, long, sharp knives. That way their enemies didn’t hear a sound. Everyone in the village moved with extreme caution, with silent steps. They didn’t build fires. Maybe, Tana thought, it wasn’t even a real village: each person had a cloak, and that cloak over his head was home. Shut up in his house, the person from a distance must have looked exactly like a bare shrub, or the torn-up roots of a rotten fallen tree, or some rejected animal carcass. Something no one was interested in. To avoid any cooking smells, the animals they killed they ate raw, and they ate every last bit, down to the last bone and shred of skin, down to the last feather, not leaving even a trace behind. Maybe the tribe never gathered together; each of them wandered alone in the dense, dripping forest, wives and husbands meeting only now and then, always in different places, always on days set according to different rules. Though often, just to be safe, they didn’t meet at all. Or more likely, a man wandered the forest, leaving it to luck or to the gods if he met a woman, and if he did, then she would be his wife, and if he met a man, then that man would be a friend or foe. It was her stop: Tana jumped up. At first the mass of students seemed to strain to hold her back, but then it pushed her out with more force than she expected. She stumbled onto the sidewalk, stunned. She opened her umbrella too late; rain ran down her hair and neck. There was an electric clock above the bus-stop sign: instead of the usual twenty minutes the trip had taken almost an hour .

Tana was shivering. Her backpack felt heavy; her arm holding the umbrella was already so tired, it ached. Her clothes were ice-cold. Let’s hope I get sick this time, she thought. Tonight I’ll have some broth from yesterday’s stewed meat, nice and hot, with bread. And I’ll have a little wine to bring on a fever. I’ll put on two pairs of pajamas and an extra blanket so I’ll sweat a lot. I want to stay in bed a week—I want to stay in bed so long I’ll think my bed’s disgusting from then on. Tana was walking slowly, almost blind, her umbrella over her face to protect her from the burning rain. She made no effort to avoid the puddles: good, she thought, I’ll get even sicker. And I can always have as many shoes as I want. The passing cars splattered her thighs. Her shoes had come untied; her flowered leggings were soaked; her heavy-cloth jacket stank like a wet dog. Tana took the side street; she could barely make out the traffic light at the end, only some fifty meters away. She saw the angel just as she crossed the street by the traffic light. What she really saw was a pile of feathers, a sort of ball pressed up against the lowered shutter to the grocery shop. The shop’s glass front came in slightly, by a half-meter, so those feathers were at least a little protected from the rain. You could tell they were white feathers, but they were filthy with rain and mud. The mud was blackish-red and made Tana think of blood. She approached carefully, holding her open umbrella in front of her, ready to defend herself. What Tana saw was like an enormous bird, but as she circled at a slight distance, there was a very pale, helpless foot poking out from under the cover of the wings. She came forward and saw that the pile of feathers was jerking slightly, an erratic, uncontrollable tremor. She came closer and tried to speak. She didn’t know what to say. She said, “What’s the matter?” in more of a whisper than she liked, and at once she thought “What’s the matter?” was a really stupid thing to say. But what should she say, then? She came even closer, shifted the umbrella to her left hand, stretched out her right, and touched the pile of feathers; she leaned over the top. The pile jolted, the wing moved slightly, and underneath Tana saw some blond hair smeared with rain and dust. She tried to pull the wing aside—it resisted a little—and there was a face with closed eyes. She touched the angel’s forehead, which was cold but not freezing-cold. That forehead didn’t move under her touch. Once again Tana said, “What’s the matter?” but there was no answer. Then she said: “Can you get up?” and the mass of feathers answered with an uncertain shudder. That must mean no, she decided, and she closed her umbrella, slipped it through the loop on her backpack, and she lifted the angel, reaching into the feathers, raising him by the armpits. It didn’t take much effort, even if her backpack threw her off balance. The angel was much bigger than she was but not that heavy. Tana tucked her shoulder under the angel’s left armpit, put her right arm around the angel’s waist, then his shoulders, and with her left hand gripped his left arm. From below, she looked up at the angel’s face, at his eyes, which seemed slightly open. She said, “Come on—you can do it,” and they started off.

The angel kept nearly falling, but then right when they were both ready to tumble onto the flooded sidewalk, he’d take a step. Tana’s condo was the fifth one on the left, just before the levee. The street was empty. The houses had their sliding shutters pulled down to keep out the rain. Tana announced at the intercom, “It’s me,” and she pushed the angel into the elevator. She leaned him up against the elevator mirror and let go. She dropped her backpack. At her floor, she helped the angel into the apartment, dragging her backpack behind her. She quickly got the angel to her room and shut the door. Her mother was shouting something from outside the door; Tana shouted back that she was soaked through, that she was changing and then she’d take a hot bath and go to bed, she didn’t feel well, didn’t want anything to eat, she just wanted to be left alone. When Tana shouted like that, her mother never insisted on coming in or saying what she had to say. Her mother was the only one home at this hour. Her father and Sergio nearly always came in together, at eight, and tonight they’d be even later. Tana positioned the angel on the floor, propped up against the bed. Open, his wings were huge. The angel’s eyes were still closed, but while she was moving him, it felt like he was trying to help. She took off her shoes and tossed her soaked jacket over the chair; she stood there thinking, then opened the shuttered wardrobe door, and standing behind it, she peeled off her leggings, ankle socks, and undershirts and tossed them on the floor; she put on her heavy blue sweater and gray sweat pants. She was searching for her slippers under the bed and heard the angel take a deep breath. He hadn’t moved. Tana cracked the door open—the way was clear—and praying no one would see, she quickly steered the angel to the bathroom that she shared with her mother.  She set him on the edge of the tub, his left shoulder against the wall, wings tucked in, legs facing out to keep him from falling. Without her help, he’d just be gripping the tub for support. His hands were very white. She didn’t dare look him in the eye. The angel’s head was down on his chest, like someone bobbing asleep on a train. Tana turned on the hot water and started washing the angel’s wings with the shower hose. The angel wasn’t what she expected. He was almost what you saw in Catechism pictures, but not quite. His wings weren’t attached at the back, from the shoulder blades, but from the same place as the arms, though the arms rotated like a man’s arms and the wings seemed hinged to rotate toward one another, then backward. And they weren’t bird feathers: they were flesh, like very slender tongues, the skin paler and thicker than normal skin, rougher. The angel had on a sleeveless white tunic—but filthy—that came down almost to his feet, with slits up the sides to the knees. She ran the jet of warm water over his wings, scrubbing them with a sponge; she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, but maybe he was chilled through, even suffering from hypothermia, and she had a feeling his wings were his weak spot: they were so much paler than his face or arms.

In a short time, the wings started moving, seemed to be stretching, and the tongues of flesh were rising, letting the warm water penetrate beneath; the skin below was no longer pale; it was bright pink, the web of capillaries pulsing: this didn’t seem like skin; it was more like—and Tana had also read this in the encyclopedia at home—like an internal membrane. The tongues of flesh were captivating as they rose and fell, row by row, like a wave, the wings moving only slightly, as though the angel, checking to see that they still worked, was afraid to bend them any further. These wings were fascinating, almost a live thing on their own, and then seeing the pink beneath the tongues, Tana thought of her own tongue in her mouth, and she was suddenly filled with disgust, and she turned away from the wings; she raised her head to see the angel staring back at her over his shoulder, and she was afraid. The angel had red eyes. One of her classmates, Maria, had a mother with eyes like that: she was an albino with white hair and skin so transparent it was disgusting. The angel was staring at Tana, staring, his eyes steady and confident, and she didn’t expect this at all; she thought he’d be afraid, shy, keep his eyes down; but he was shamelessly staring, eyes narrowed, as if to get her into better focus, with no shyness whatsoever, and no curiosity, no gratitude, either. Tana was frightened. She dropped the shower hose and ran to her room. She felt like crying; her head was spinning. What now? What now? she thought. The angel might be dangerous, cruel, she thought. With those red eyes, he might even be a demon. But then she thought how stupid it was—being afraid of an angel. And what if her mother went into the bathroom and saw him, she thought, and her stomach clenched with fear. She cracked open the bedroom door and no one was out there. She slipped into the hall; she hadn’t shut the door to the bathroom all the way when she ran to her room. She peeked in: the angel was sitting with his legs in the tub, methodically washing his feet. She watched him, wondering why she’d been so afraid: there was nothing to be afraid of; it was stupid to think the angel had to be like she’d always imagined. She watched the angel, admiring how he took care of himself; he seemed perfectly capable, and she felt disappointed, then ashamed of herself for being disappointed. Of course an angel knew how to take care of himself and could wash his own feet. And Tana knew how completely wrong it would be to keep thinking the angel needed her help. She could offer her help, and she had, but she also needed to know when to stop. Feeling better, she went back to her room; she’d leave the angel alone. But she left the door partway open so he wouldn’t think she was rejecting him. Her head seemed to be clearing; she felt brave and secure.

Just then, she heard her father and brother in the entranceway: when the weather was bad, they’d arranged that Tana’s father always picked up Sergio. Her father worked in a shoe store and two years earlier had found Sergio a job in the store where he’d worked years before and was still friends with the boss. He’d never come get me, Tana thought. Her father and Sergio had never liked each other much, but they’d bonded since Sergio started in the same job. They were colleagues; they felt important and special. At night, the only thing they seemed to talk about was shoes; Tana couldn’t stand either one of them. Sometimes she thought she should figure out a way to team up more with her mother so they could face the two males together, like women had to. But it seemed as though her mother had decided the only way to get the men to think of her at all was to serve them with absolute devotion, and that left no room for Tana. All of this came to her as she heard Sergio and her father returning home, and she realized she’d never find an ally in this apartment, or any place for an angel. They’d never even notice him, she thought. She heard her father and Sergio speaking, and she could hear that their voices were strange. She couldn’t make out their words, couldn’t tell what they were saying; their tone sounded sharp; they were almost shouting; but she had no idea if they were happy or upset; their voices were like a 33 LP set to play like a 45. Tana looked down the hall, and her father and Sergio were running around at high speed—just like their voices—not like people hurrying but like characters in a revved-up film. They were racing in and out of their bedrooms, the kitchen, their bathroom, moving so fast they jerked. They were doing what they always did when they came home at night; Sergio, always so fussy about what he wore at work, was taking off his shoes and putting on his sweatsuit; they both were washing up: but it was as if they had to push themselves to do the usual things; it took an exaggerated effort; as if, Tana thought, they had to put in their whole life’s effort, the effort of every single cell. Now they sounded happy, but she still couldn’t understand. She stepped into the hall and came toward them. They didn’t even see her. Different expressions kept flashing across their faces, across her mother’s face, and Tana couldn’t make out any of them. Their faces were like those claymation figures she’d seen in the bitters commercial. She went into the kitchen; the red table cloth appeared on the table along with four plates, and she automatically sat down at her usual place. Her mother, father, and Sergio were eating in a frenzy, as though they hadn’t eaten for a year. Tana sat still, dazed; at one point she felt her arm being steadily tapped, it was her mother, and she realized her mother was saying something in that new incomprehensible language, probably trying to get her to eat. But she barely had time to think this before the tablecloth vanished, her mother clearing off everything, racing, tossing the plates into the sink like a juggler tossing tennis balls or colored pins, not breaking a thing.

Tana got up from the table—she hadn’t eaten—and she went back and slipped open the bathroom door: the angel, looking satisfied, was studying his feet, clean now, washed and warm, a lovely rose color. Water sparkled in his soft, blond curls. He’d managed to clean up his tunic a little. He looked more dignified and seemed very strong. Tana took comfort in this. When she opened the bathroom door all the way, the angel looked up, got to his feet, and smiled at her, not a friendly smile, she thought, more satisfied than friendly, but at least he was smiling, and she said, “You want to eat?” The angel said, “Yes,” without so much as a “thank you,” but he spoke so quickly that Tana thought: He’s starving; and his voice sounded uncertain, still weak, without the force that seemed to fill his body and wings. Tana took the angel by the hand and led him to the kitchen. Her father and Sergio were watching TV in the living room, leaping up, constantly shifting positions on the couch, and speaking in their new shrill voices, probably about shoes; her mother was in her usual spot in the kitchen in front of the smaller TV, her chair turned so she could rest her left elbow on the table, her chin in her hand; the TV was flashing, but Tana could see it was the usual soap opera, and her mother was asleep like always, and she’d only wake up at the end when the commercials came on at a higher volume, and she’d curse about missing yet another half-episode and come up with a hundred theories about what had happened while she slept—though really, Tana thought, nothing ever happened on that soap opera: phone calls went on for hours when the old man was dying, everyone fighting over the money, with him in agony for maybe twenty episodes. Tana sat the angel down at the table; she took the small pot of broth from the fridge and started heating it up; she sliced some of the leftover bread, threw out the crumbs, and pushed the slices down into the big bowl she’d had since she was little and miraculously never broken, not even one of the handles; she emptied the grated-cheese container over the bread, then poured in the warm broth and slid the bowl toward the angel. The angel was staring at her the whole time. Tana had a cat some years back that stared at her in the same way, from a distance but paying very close attention while she prepared its food in a small bowl. Meanwhile her mother had woken up, turned off the TV, told her a few things in that new voice of hers which Tana didn’t need to understand, and then sat down in her same spot to mend some socks. She’s going so fast, Tana thought, she’s going to prick her finger, but her mother didn’t prick her finger. And Tana tried to avoid looking at her mother, and her father, too, when he came into the kitchen for a match to light his cigarette; Tana sat facing the angel, trying to concentrate on him alone. The angel was slowly sipping the broth, taking a big spoonful, pausing quite a while, taking another; then he began to scoop up the bread at the bottom of the bowl, and she realized he was trying to get it all up at once without tearing the pieces apart.

The broth smelled nice and hot; Tana was extremely hungry, but she knew this wasn’t the right time, not now. She watched the angel set the spoon on his plate and raise the bowl for the last drop. When he set the bowl down, he gave her another satisfied smile. His eyes seemed a little less red now, or maybe the red was a little less piercing and raw, as if the broth’s warm vapor had dimmed his eyes, softened them. He must have been really cold, Tana thought, even on the inside. She recalled being achy and cold and how satisfying it was to wash herself warm, eat warm, cover herself back up in wool. She asked the angel: “What’s your name?” The angel said: “Roberta.” Tana didn’t know what to think; on the one hand, the angel had been quite comfortable saying “Roberta,” as if “Roberta” was the exact right name for an angel; she looked at the angel, at that simple, unmarked face, like the face of a child, without a trace of beard; but the tunic fell straight from the chest, and though the face was childish, it was definitely a male face, and those arms on the table were male arms (but they weren’t resting on the table like arms do, Tana thought, they were more like two things the angel didn’t need just then), and she’d seen the angel’s feet in the bathroom and they were big, male feet. She forced herself to answer: “My name’s Tana, but Tana’s really short for Gaetana. I’ve been Tana since I was little, though, and didn’t really know how to talk—” She suddenly stopped: the angel looked bored; she stopped and thought: Why am I telling him this? A name’s a name. He didn’t ask me mine. His is Roberta; she looked at him, embarrassed, and he was staring back at her with no expression, just watching with the faintest hint of expectation—not that he wanted something, more like he was available—she didn’t fully understand and just kept staring. Her family must have gone to bed, she hadn’t noticed, but now she remembered that while the angel was eating, she felt something brush against her right cheek, and then her father hurried away; he kissed her every night, if she didn’t shut herself up in her room first to avoid that kiss—it was so humiliating, like she was a child—but tonight she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t realized she’d been kissed. She led the angel back to her room, pulled her pajamas out from under her pillow, turned down the covers to her bed (which was a three-quarter bed, because ever since she was little she’d tossed so much in her sleep she kept falling on the floor, so they got her this wider bed a few years back), and she gestured to the angel that he should “make himself comfortable,” though she didn’t dare say a word, and then she fled to the bathroom. She studied herself in the mirror: she was still filthy, her hair smeared with dirt, her eyes tired. What little makeup she’d put on had run down her cheeks. She was shivering. In the bathtub, she washed herself thoroughly, then sank down in the hot water to warm up some more; she was also hoping the angel had settled in and gone to sleep. But then she started worrying that while she was shut up in the bathroom, the angel might take the opportunity to leave, and she splashed out of the tub, wrapped herself in a big towel, and leaned out to check: the angel was sleeping on top of the blankets, using his wings as a pillow and also to cover himself up a little. She felt calmer and went back to the bathroom, dried her hair, and slipped into her pajamas that she’d laid over the radiator to warm. The angel was fast asleep on the side of the bed closest to the wall; Tana slipped under the covers, turned off the light, closed her eyes.

Tana, eyes closed, was thinking about the angel’s sex organ. She hadn’t realized it, that this was what she was thinking about, until the angel said his name. Maybe he’d said it on purpose, and it wasn’t even his real name. A few months ago, at the end of June, she and a group of around fifteen others, boys and girls, had taken mopeds to Camin’s pit, just outside town. The sun was hot, but Tana was cold, even though she had on a light sweater and was sitting behind on the moped and out of the wind. It only took ten minutes to get to the pit. The water was gray and still. The pit had been dug two years earlier, for the new beltway, and then no one filled it in. And so it stayed. The road was a few meters away, hidden by the line of trees. There was grass, some bushes. The pit was somewhat forbidden because apparently there were weirdoes wandering around. And sometimes drifters set up camp but never for more than a few days. A few posted signs read, “No swimming allowed.” It was filthy behind the bushes. At the height of summer, a lot of people came, and the city council sent workers in once a week to clean, even though, theoretically, no swimming was allowed. At this time of year no one came, so no one came to clean. There was also some netting around the whole area, including a small ditch, but the netting was half torn down and someone had found a couple of good places to lay boards across the ditch. The boys and girls knew that over there all you had to do was slip behind a bush or cover yourselves up with a towel, and you could make love, and no one would say a word. One boy threw the idea out there, and then all the boys were racing not to be last, as they stripped and jumped into the water. They splashed around a bit, the water just up to their waists (it was only deep in the middle of the pit), and then they climbed up the bank of the pit, looking slightly blue and numb. They made excuses about having to dry off, and so they stood in front of the girls sitting on the bank. One girl was shocked and screamed and went off to sit by herself, her back to the boys. The boys stood with their hands on their hips, shivering, their genitals just at eyelevel. All the boys were thin and beautiful, at least Tana thought so. The boy closest to her, who went to a technical school, she’d only seen a few times before in the group. She moved over a little without getting up, so she could see better.

The boy turned slightly toward her. A patch of hair rose from his groin, thinning, disappearing toward his belly button. His chest was smooth, white, with just a few long hairs twisting around the nipples. Tana looked down at that thing dangling in the clump of dark hair. It seemed weak, strange. She raised her right hand and touched it with one finger, and she saw it jolt. She pulled her hand back; the thing was swelling. The boy shifted just a little closer. Tana held her hand out straight and slightly cupped so she could lift that thing and see the semi-hidden testicles, and she felt it rise on its own, still swelling, growing stiff, and on the tip, there was an opening in the skin, and a purple stain. Tana kept staring, amazed, at this thing in her hand, watching it change, and she felt the boy’s hand from above, touching her neck, pushing down, trying to get her closer. Tana let go; she drew back, scrambled to her feet; she stood there staring back and forth at all the boys; she didn’t know what to do.  Then the boys put their clothes on, silently, and they all went back to the piazza. The boy Tana had touched tried to get her to climb on the back of his moped, but she kept her distance. A few days later, he called (one of the others must have given him her number) and calmly suggested that they go out next Saturday; his parents would be gone until Sunday night. They could go to the movies and then she could come over; he’d make them some dinner and get them something to drink, some cigarettes. Tana listened, and then she hurled as many insults at him as she could, calling him every name she knew, and even some she didn’t. She saw him a few more times in the piazza but always avoided him. Once while she was out, she turned around to see him laughing and talking with two other boys, and she could feel them watching her. She screamed something after him, and the boys started laughing until her friend pulled her away. They slipped into a coffee bar, and the girl said she really didn’t understand Tana: she was really an idiot not to go out with him, this girl had actually tried, but he didn’t give a shit, and all the other girls there told her he was really a good guy, he always paid, and he always had a rubber, and they’d have fun together. Tana, lying in bed with her eyes closed, the angel breathing beside her, remembered what she’d decided that day: that god had been especially cruel to men and women, giving them this awful reproductive system, jumbling up the organs, so those organs that gave the greatest pleasure, the parts concentrated on love, were all mixed together with the most disgusting parts; and so, ever since the pit, her vagina was disgusting to her, and she stopped touching herself, stopped masturbating, though she still felt desire—sometimes at night, a raging desire—and more disgusting yet was that with this desire came the boy, standing there naked, and he was beautiful, gorgeous, whatever she touched she was touching him, and she saw the two dark stains of his nipples, and in her hand, that flesh, soft at first, then swelling, enormous, and the purple stain opened, there was a sour smell—Tana, during her nights, forced herself to look at that reddened flesh, which, if she kept imagining long enough, suddenly threw out a jet of yellow, foul-smelling, never-ending urine; she felt it gushing out, that urine, with its rotten smell, felt it wet on her body, lukewarm, revolting, she even tasted it in her mouth, and it was only then, thanks to this remedy, that the image faded, her desire grew indistinct, weaker, then almost disappeared, and Tana stopped feeling and lost herself to sleep. 

Now Tana turned on the small lamp, and rolled over to look at the angel while he slept. She got to her knees on the bed. She inched forward as quietly as she could. The angel’s wings were slightly spread; he looked a little disheveled. He looked like someone who was sleeping so deeply, his extreme exhaustion had to wear itself out before he woke up again. His knees showed under his tunic. Tana was afraid, but she also had a thought she couldn’t shake: that this was why the angel was here; this was why he’d allowed her to find him, clean him, feed him: to make her understand that he was available, that she could do whatever she wanted. Anything you could do with an angel would be OK. Tana slipped her right hand under his back and lifted him a little, and with her left hand gingerly drew up his tunic. She laid him back down, and knelt by his knees; she hesitated, then lifted the hem. The angel’s sex organ wasn’t circled by hair. It looked like a child’s, only larger. Tana thought it was beautiful. The flesh was very pale, like the rest of his body.  His belly peacefully rose and fell with each breath. Tana, propped up on her left hand, touched the angel’s belly with her right, not pulling away, running her fingers over his left thigh, between his legs, up his right thigh, onto his belly. Her fingers came near his sex organ, but she didn’t dare touch it: not out of disgust, absolutely not, but out of respect. She wanted him to stay asleep. She brought her face closer to his sex organ, to see it better in the half-light; it was smooth and clean and didn’t smell bad. She touched his sex organ with her lips, a small kiss, like you’d kiss a sleeping infant, kissing him without waking him. His sex organ didn’t rise. Tana kept looking, kept running her fingers along the same path, never touching it. She liked doing this. After a while, she felt sleep pressing down on her, from inside her head, her legs and left arm were tired in this position, and then she covered the angel back up and looked at him. She looked him over, from head to toe, his wings and arms and fingers, and he seemed entirely beautiful. Looking at the angel, she felt no desire whatsoever, just pleasure, pleasure at touching him and giving him that very light kiss on his sex organ. And then she thought it must be very late, and she burrowed under the covers and shut her eyes tight so she’d fall fast asleep, and she dreamed that the angel was leaving, flying away. He was flying away and all along his path, below, the roofs were coming off the houses, and from the houses rose a golden light piercing the dark night sky. The next morning, Tana woke with a wonderful fever, and she was filled with tenderness and dreams and the joy of staying cuddled up in bed and phoning her school friends to come see her, to make them jealous of her good luck, a week’s vacation while, outside, it was raining everywhere, and the rain was washing the world, preparing the world for winter, so lovely.


“Tana” © Giulio Mozzi. By arrangement with Sironi Editore. Translation © 2012 by Elizabeth Harris. All rights reserved.

Tana

Pioveva dalla mattina. Tana tornava a casa da scuola. Il giovedì pomeriggio avevano il laboratorio di sartoria, e Tana pensò, nell’autobus, che quel giorno per la prima volta, all’uscita da scuola, non c’era stata più nessuna luce in cielo. Sarebbe stato così per mesi, ormai. Fuori era freddo, pioveva, l’autobus era stipato di ragazzi e ragazze, studenti, e ci faceva un caldo da scoppiare. I vetri erano tutti appannati, qualcuno era riuscito ad aprire un finestrino e Tana, che era già tutta sudata, si trovò nel gelo. Pensò: potessi ammalarmi, stare a casa una settimana. Non si tolse dalla corrente, non protestò. Le arrivava della pioggia in faccia, negli occhi. Era un pezzo che non pioveva, la città e l’aria erano piene di polvere. Tana sentì bruciare la pioggia contro il viso e negli occhi. Nell’autobus c’era un baccano infernale, ma Tana aveva così tanto rumore nella testa che le sembrava che le persone dentro l’autobus aprissero la bocca senza emettere suoni, ridessero solo con i muscoli del viso. Pensò a una tribù dell’America del Sud, della quale aveva letto in un’enciclopedia, che viveva circondata da nemici ferocissimi, tanto che gli uomini e le donne non parlavano quasi mai, e quelle poche volte sottovoce direttamente nell’orecchio, ai bambini si fasciava la bocca finché non imparavano la regola, ai cani da caccia si tagliavano le corde vocali con dei coltelli lunghi, affilatissimi, appositi. In questo modo i nemici della tribù non potevano avvertirne la presenza dai rumori. In quel villaggio tutti si muovevano con estrema cautela, perché ogni passo fosse silenzioso. Non si facevano fuochi. Forse, immaginava Tana, non c’era nemmeno un vero e proprio villaggio: ognuno aveva un grande mantello e quel mantello, tirato sopra la testa, era tutta la casa. La persona chiusa in casa, da una certa distanza, doveva assomigliare perfettamente a un cespuglio senza frutti commestibili, o alla radice divelta di un albero marcio e crollato, o alla carcassa di un animale immangiabile. Non doveva essere interessante per nessuno. Gli animali cacciati venivano mangiati crudi, perché non si sentissero gli odori della cottura, e completamente, comprese le ossa e la pelle o le penne, in modo che non restassero tracce. Forse la tribù non si riuniva nemmeno mai, ognuno vagava solo nella foresta fittissima e gocciolante, le mogli e i mariti si incontravano ogni tanto, sempre in luoghi diversi, in giorni stabiliti secondo regole sempre diverse. Molte volte però, per prudenza, gli appuntamenti non venivano rispettati. Oppure no, gli uomini giravano per la foresta affidandosi al caso o agli dèi, e se incontravano una donna quella era la loro moglie, se incontravano un uomo quello era un amico o un nemico. Era la sua fermata, Tana si buttò fuori. La massa degli studenti prima sembrò voler trattenerla, poi la spinse fuori con più forza di quella che Tana si aspettava. Traballò sul marciapiede, stordita. Aprì l’ombrello troppo tardi, aveva già pieni d’acqua i capelli e il collo. Sopra il cartello della fermata c’era un orologio elettrico: il viaggio era durato quasi un’ora, contro i venti minuti soliti.

Tana aveva i brividi. Lo zaino sulla schiena le sembrava pesantissimo, il braccio che teneva l’ombrello era già stanco, le faceva male. I suoi stessi vestiti le sembravano gelidi. Questa è la volta che mi ammalo, speriamo, pensò. Questa sera mi bevo il brodo del lesso di ieri, bello caldo, col pane.

Prendo anche un po’ di vino, così mi va su la febbre. Mi metto due pigiami e una coperta in più, così sudo. Voglio stare a letto una settimana,voglio stare a letto così tanto che poi il letto mi farà schifo per sempre. Tana camminava lentamente, quasi alla cieca, con l’ombrello inclinator davanti per difendere il viso dall’acqua bruciante. Non faceva niente per non cacciare i piedi nelle pozzanghere: tanto meglio, pensava, mi ammalerò di più. Tanto di scarpe posso averne finché voglio. Le automobili facevano schizzi alti fino alle cosce. Le scarpe di Tana erano sfasciate, i fuseaux stampati a fiori erano zuppi, il giaccone di panno pesante puzzava come puzzano i cani bagnati. Tana prese la laterale, in fondo il semaforo si vedeva appena, anche se era solo a cinquanta metri. Tana vide l’angelo subito dopo aver attraversato la strada al semaforo. Veramente vide solo un mucchio di penne, quasi un rotolo, incastrato contro la clair abbassata della latteria. La vetrina della latteria era un po’ rientrata, di un mezzo metro, così che, lì sotto, quelle penne erano un po’ protette dalla pioggia. Erano penne bianche, si vedeva, ma erano tutte sporche, di pioggia e di fango. Il fango aveva un colore rosso nerastro che a Tana fece pensare al sangue. Si avvicinò prudentemente, pronta a difendersi abbassando l’ombrello aperto. Sembrava un grosso uccello ma Tana vide, girandogli attorno un po’ a distanza, un piede molto pallido che sporgeva indifeso da sotto la copertura delle ali. Si avvicinò, e vide che il mucchio di penne aveva dei piccoli sobbalzi irregolari, come un tremito incontrollato e discontinuo. Si avvicinò di più, cercò di chiamare. Non sapeva cosa dire. Disse: «Cosa c’è?», a voce più bassa di quello che avrebbe voluto, e subito le sembrò che dire «cosa c’è?» fosse una cosa stupida. Ma cosa doveva fare? Si avvicinò definitivamente, passò l’ombrello nella mano sinistra, allungò la mano destra e toccò quel mucchio di penne, sporgendosi, proprio in cima. Il mucchio sussultò, l’ala si scostò un poco e Tana vide, sotto l’ala, dei capelli chiari, impastati di pioggia e polvere. Provò a scostare l’ala, che resistette un poco, e c’era un viso con gli occhi chiusi. Toccò la fronte, che era fredda, ma non gelida. La fronte non si era mossa quando lei l’aveva toccata. Tana disse ancora: «Cosa c’è?», senza nessuna risposta. Poi disse: «Ce la fai ad alzarti» e la risposta fu un movimento tremolante, indeciso, di tutta la massa. Tana decise che questo voleva dire no, chiuse l’ombrello e lo appese a una cinghia dello zaino, provò a sollevare l’angelo. Buttò le mani dentro le penne, trovò le ascelle, lo sollevò. Non fece molta fatica, anche se lo zaino la squilibrava. L’angelo era più grande di lei, ma non sembrava molto pesante. Tana infilò la spalla destra sotto l’ascella sinistra dell’angelo, lo allacciò alla vita con il braccio destro, si passò sopra le spalle, e prese, con la mano sinistra, il braccio sinistro dell’angelo. Tana guardò, da sotto in su, la faccia dell’angelo, e le sembrò che avesse un poco aperto gli occhi, una fessura. Gli disse: «Vieni, coraggio», e cominciarono a camminare.

Sembrava che l’angelo stesse sempre per cadere, faceva il passo sempre appena un attimo prima che tutt’e due finissero sul marciapiede allagato. Il condominio di Tana era il quinto a sinistra, l’ultimo prima dell’argine. Per strada non c’era nessuno. Le case avevano le persiane abbassate, per non far filtrare la pioggia. Tana disse al citofono: «Sono io», e spinse l’angelo nell’ascensore. Nell’ascensore se lo tolse da dosso, lo appoggiò con la schiena contro lo specchio. Scaricò lo zaino e l’appoggiò per terra. Al piano si caricò di nuovo l’angelo, entrò in casa trascinando lo zaino sul pavimento. Lo nascose subito in camera, chiudendosi dentro. Sua mamma le gridava delle cose attraverso la porta, Tana gridò che si era bagnata tutta, che adesso si cambiava e si faceva il bagno caldo, che si metteva a letto subito, che stava male, che non voleva mangiare niente, che la lasciasse in pace. Non era mai successo, quando Tana gridava così, che la mamma entrasse in camera a vedere, o che insistesse a dire quello che aveva da dire. Doveva esserci solo lei a casa, a quell’ora. Il papà e Sergio tornavano quasi insieme, alle otto, quella sera sarebbero tornati ancora più tardi. Tana aveva appoggiato l’angelo per terra, seduto, con la schiena contro il letto. Le ali erano grandi, aperte. L’angelo aveva ancora gli occhi chiusi, ma Tana aveva sentito, appoggiandolo, che aiutava i suoi movimenti. Tana si tolse le scarpe, buttò sulla sedia il giaccone fradicio, poi ci pensò un attimo, aprì l’armadio, stando dietro l’anta si tolse i fuseaux i calzini e le maglie, li buttò per terra, si mise addosso un maglione pesante azzurro e i pantaloni di una tuta da ginnastica grigia. Cercò le ciabatte sotto al letto, e sentì l’angelo respirare a fondo. Non si era mosso. Tana aprì un poco la porta, vide via libera, e più velocemente che poté trasferì l’angelo nel bagno suo e della mamma, che stava proprio di fronte alla sua stanza, pregando che nessuno li vedesse. Lo sedette sul bordo della vasca, appoggiato con la spalla sinistra al muro, con le ali dentro e le gambe fuori, e vide che si reggeva. Senza che lei lo avesse guidato, si era appoggiato con le mani al bordo. Tana vide che le mani erano molto bianche. Non aveva il coraggio di guardarlo in faccia. L’angelo teneva la testa abbassata sul petto, come uno che ciondoli dal sonno in treno. Tana aprì l’acqua calda, con la doccia a filo cominciò a pulirgli le ali. Allora si accorse che l’angelo era diverso da come le era sembrato che fosse. Era quasi come le illustrazioni del catechismo, ma non del tutto. Le ali non erano attaccate alla schiena, sulle scapole, ma sembravano uscire dalla stessa attaccatura delle braccia, anche se le braccia erano articolate come quelle di un uomo e le ali, invece, sembravano articolate per muoversi verso l’alto e all’indietro. Le penne non erano penne come quelle degli uccelli, erano fatte di carne, sembravano delle lingue molto sottili, con una pelle un po’ più pallida e dura di una pelle normale, un po’ rugosa. L’angelo aveva addosso una tunica bianca, ma sporchissima, senza maniche, lunga fino quasi ai piedi, con due spacchi laterali che arrivavano alle ginocchia. Mentre lavava le ali col getto caldo, Tana le sfregava con la spugna; non sapeva bene quello che faceva, ma le sembrava che il problema fosse il freddo, forse addirittura l’assideramento, e aveva la sensazione che le ali fossero il punto debole, anche perché erano tanto più pallid del viso e delle braccia.

 

Dopo un poco le ali cominciarono a fare dei movimenti, come delle specie di stiracchiamenti; le lingue di carne si sollevavano per far penetrare l’acqua calda all’interno, e sotto le lingue la pelle non era più pallida, era di un rosa intenso, con una rete di venuzze che pulsavano: non sembrava nemmeno pelle, sembrava – anche questa cosa Tana l’aveva vista sull’enciclopedia che c’era in casa – una membrana interna del corpo. Tana si incantò a guardare le lingue di carne che si sollevavano e si riabbassavano, una fila per volta, producendo come un’onda, mentre le ali facevano dei piccoli movimenti, come se l’angelo avesse voluto provare se le articolazioni funzionavano ancora, ma non avesse avuto il coraggio di muovere più che tanto le ali. Tana guardava affascinata queste ali che le sembravano quasi una cosa viva, per conto loro, e all’improvviso guardando il rosa sotto le lingue pensò alla lingua dentro la sua bocca, si sentì disgustata di colpo, smise di guardare le ali, alzò la testa e vide l’angelo che la guardava da sopra la spalla, e le venne paura. L’angelo aveva gli occhi rossi, come gli occhi della mamma di Maria, una sua compagna di classe, che era albina e aveva i capelli bianchi e la pelle così trasparente da dare una sensazione di disgusto. L’angelo guardava Tana, e la guardava con uno sguardo fermo e sicuro, uno sguardo che Tana non si aspettava per niente, lei si aspettava che l’angelo avesse paura, che la guardasse timidamente, che tenesse gli occhi bassi: invece l’angelo la guardava sfrontatamente, strizzando appena un poco gli occhi come per metterla a fuoco meglio, senza nessuna timidezza ma anche senza nessuna curiosità, senza nessuna riconoscenza. Tana prese paura, mollò la doccia a filo, si nascose in camera. In camera le venne quasi da piangere, le girava la testa, pensava, cosa faccio adesso cosa faccio, pensò che l’angelo poteva essere pericoloso e crudele, che se aveva gli occhi rossi poteva essere un demonio, poi pensò che era stupida e non poteva aver paura di un angelo, poi pensò che se la mamma fosse entrata nel bagno l’avrebbe visto, si sentì prendere dal terrore nel ventre. Socchiuse la porta della camera e non c’era nessuno. Entrò nel corridoio e spiò dentro il bagno. Scappando non aveva chiuso del tutto la porta. L’angelo era seduto con i piedi dentro la vasca, si stava lavando con cura. Tana lo guardò, pensando che cos’era la sua paura di prima: era stata niente, era stata solo stupidità di pensare che l’angelo dovesse essere fatto come lei si immaginava. Guardò ammirata l’angelo che si prendeva cura di sé, cosa che le sembrava ormai perfettamente in grado di fare, e si sentì delusa, poi si vergognò di questa delusione, un angelo sicuramente sa fare da sé, anche se si tratta di lavarsi i piedi. Tana pensò che avrebbe sbagliato tutto se avesse continuato a pensare che l’angelo avesse bisogno di lei per qualsiasi cosa. Lei poteva offrire all’angelo qualcosa, e l’aveva già fatto, ma doveva trovare la misura giusta. Tornò in camera, rassicurata, pensando che doveva lasciare tranquillo l’angelo. Lasciò la porta mezza aperta, per far vedere che non voleva rifiutarsi. Le sembrò che i suoi pensieri stessero diventando una cosa ordinata, e si sentì coraggiosa e sicura.

 

In quel momento sentì nell’ingresso il papà e Sergio, che arrivavano insieme perché erano d’accordo, da sempre, che col cattivo tempo il papà passava a prendere Sergio con la macchina. Il papà lavorava in un magazzino di scarpe e due anni prima aveva fatto prendere Sergio in un negozio dove aveva lavorato lui stesso molti anni prima, ed era rimasto amico del padrone. A me non mi verrebbe a prendere mai, pensò Tana. Il papà e Sergio non si erano mai voluti tanto bene, ma avevano fatto lega da quando Sergio aveva cominciato a fare lo stesso mestiere di suo papà. Erano colleghi, si sentivano importanti e speciali. A Tana sembrava che la sera discutessero sempre di scarpe, non li sopportava. Ogni tanto Tana pensava che avrebbe dovuto trovare il modo di far lega con la mamma, per opporsi come si doveva ai due maschi. Ma le sembrava che la mamma avesse deciso che l’unico modo di farsi considerare dai due maschi era di servirli con enorme devozione, e non c’era spazio per Tana. Tana aveva pensato tutti questi pensieri perché aveva sentito Sergio e il papà rientrare insieme, e si era resa conto che non avrebbe potuto trovare in quella casa nessuna alleanza, nessun posto per l’angelo. Non si accorgerebbero nemmeno di lui, pensò. Sentì le voci del papà e di Sergio e sentì che erano voci strane. Non distingueva le parole, non capiva cosa dicessero, le pareva che avessero un tono acuto, quasi un grido; non capiva neanche se erano allegri o arrabbiati, le voci sembravano quelle di un disco a trentatré giri messo a quarantacinque. Tana guardò nel corridoio e vide che il papà e Sergio si muovevano, come le loro voci, a velocità esagerata, non come persone che si affrettano, ma come i personaggi di un film che venga proiettato troppo velocemente. Correvano dentro e fuori dalle loro stanze, dalla cucina, dal loro bagno, con movimenti che, così accelerati, sembravano rigidi e goffi. Facevano quello che avrebbero fatto tornando a casa in una sera qualsiasi, si erano tolti le scarpe, Sergio, che in negozio stava vestito come un damerino, si era messo in tuta da ginnastica, si lavavano: ma era come se, a spingerli a fare queste cose solite, ci fosse una forza esagerata; Tana pensò che era come se ci mettessero tutta la forza della loro vita, la forza di ogni singola cellula del corpo. Adesso il tono delle voci sembrava allegro, ma non si poteva capire. Tana entrò nel corridoio, si avvicinò a loro. Le sembrava che nemmeno la vedessero. Sulle loro facce, e sulla faccia della mamma, si succedevano continuamente espressioni diverse, senza che se ne potesse cogliere una precisa. Sembrava che le loro facce fossero fatte di plastilina, come i pupazzetti della pubblicità di un amaro che Tana aveva visto in televisione. Tana entrò in cucina, vide apparire sulla tavola la tovaglia rossa con quattro piatti, d’istinto si sedette nel suo posto solito. La mamma il papà e Sergio mangiarono freneticamente, come non avessero mangiato da un anno. Tana restò immobile, come stordita, a un certo punto si senti toccare leggermente, ripetutamente, sul braccio dalla parte della mamma, e si rese conto che le era stata rivolta qualche parola, in quella nuova lingua incomprensibile, e che doveva trattarsi di una sollecitazione a mangiare. Tana non fece quasi in tempo a pensare questo, e vide la tovaglia sparire e la mamma che disbrigava tutto, velocissima, lanciando i piatti nell’acquaio come un giocoliere avrebbe potuto lanciare in aria delle palle da tennis o dei birilli colorati, senza rompere niente.

Tana si alzò da tavola senza aver mangiato niente, tornò a socchiudere la porta del bagno e trovò l’angelo che si guardava soddisfatto i piedi puliti, lavati e riscaldati, belli rosei. Aveva i capelli gocciolanti, biondi luccicanti, ricci e morbidi. Si era pulito alla bell’e meglio anche la tunica. Aveva un aspetto più dignitoso, e sembrava molto forte. Tana si sentì confortata. Quando aprì del tutto la porta del bagno l’angelo la guardò, si drizzò in piedi e le sorrise, non un sorriso amichevole, pensò Tana, ma un sorriso di soddisfazione, ma in somma sempre di un sorriso si trattava, e Tana disse: «Vuoi mangiare?». L’angelo disse: «Sì», senza aggiungere nemmeno un «grazie», ma lo disse così in fretta che Tana pensò: questo muore di fame; e lo aveva detto con una voce ancora incerta, ancora molto più debole della forza che sembrava aver riempito del tutto il suo corpo e le sue ali. Tana prese l’angelo per una mano e lo guidò in cucina. Il papà e Sergio erano in salotto, a guardare la televisione sobbalzando e cambiando continuamente posizione sul divano, e a parlare con quelle loro nuove voci veloci e stridule, probabilmente di scarpe; la mamma era al suo solito posto in cucina, a guardare nel televisore piccolo, la sedia girata in modo da appoggiare il gomito sinistro sulla tavola, e la testa sulla mano sinistra; tra i bagliori velocissimi Tana riconobbe la telenovela solita, e vide che la mamma si era già addormentata, come faceva sempre, si sarebbe svegliata solo alla fine della puntata, quando le pubblicità vengono trasmesse a volume più alto, e avrebbe imprecato dispiaciuta per aver perso un’altra volta mezza puntata, e avrebbe fatto cento ipotesi su quello che poteva essere successo durante il suo sonno – tanto, in quella telenovela, pensò Tana, non succedeva mai niente, c’erano delle telefonate che duravano ore, quand’era morto il vecchio, quello di cui adesso tutti si disputavano i soldi, aveva avuto un’agonia di almeno venti puntate. Tana fece sedere l’angelo alla tavola, tirò fuori il pentolino del brodo dal frigo e lo mise a scaldare, prese gli avanzi del pane e li tagliò a fette, buttando via i pezzi sbocconcellati, mise le fette di pane nella sua tazza grande, quella che usava da quand’era bambina e non si era rotta mai, miracolosamente, aveva conservato perfino i due manici, svuotò sopra il pane tutta la coppetta del formaggio grattato, versò il brodo caldo nella tazza e la spinse davanti all’angelo. L’angelo la aveva guardata con interesse, durante tutte le operazioni. Tana aveva avuto un gatto, qualche anno prima, che la guardava così, come da lontano ma attentissimo, mentre lei gli preparava il pasto nella coppetta. La mamma si era già svegliata, intanto, aveva spento il televisore, aveva detto delle cose con la sua nuova voce che Tana non aveva bisogno di capire, e si era messa, sempre nello stesso angolo, a rammendare calzini. A quella velocità non potrà non pungersi, pensò Tana, e invece la mamma non si pungeva. Poi Tana cercò di non guardare la mamma, non guardò neanche il papa quando venne in cucina ad accendersi una sigaretta con un fiammifero, Tana cercò di concentrarsi sull’angelo, stando seduta difronte a lui. L’angelo mangiava il brodo lentamente, a grandi cucchiaiate, ma lasciando passare molto tempo tra una cucchiaiata e l’altra; quando cominciò a raccogliere il pane sul fondo Tana vide che cercava di raccogliere le singole fette tutte intere, senza farle spezzare.

Il brodo aveva un buon odore di caldo, Tana sentiva una gran fame ma si rendeva conto che non era il momento adatto, per lei. Guardò l’angelo che appoggiava il cucchiaio sul piatto e sollevava la tazza per bere l’ultimo goccio di brodo. Quando posò la tazza le fece di nuovo quel suo sorriso soddisfatto. A Tana sembrò che gli occhi dell’angelo fossero diventati un po’ meno rossi, o almeno di un rosso meno pungent e crudo, come se il vapore caldo del brodo li avesse appannati e ammorbiditi. Doveva avere tanto freddo, pensò Tana, anche dentro. Le vennero in mente i ricordi suoi di gran freddi patiti, e delle soddisfazioni a lavarsi calda, a mangiare caldo, a ricoprirsi di lana. Chiese all’angelo: «Come ti chiami?». L’angelo disse: «Roberta». Tana rimase incerta, d’altra parte l’angelo aveva detto «Roberta» con tranquillità,veramente come se «Roberta» fosse il nome più adatto a un angelo; Tana lo guardò, vide che l’angelo aveva un viso semplice, intatto, come il viso di un bambino, e non aveva traccia di barba; vide che la tunica gli cadeva dritta sul petto, e che il viso, anche se infantile, era decisamente un viso maschile, erano maschili le sue braccia, che ora stavano appoggiate sul tavolo (non come due braccia che si riposano, pensò Tana, ma come due cose che per il momento non si usano), e maschile era la grandezza dei suoi piedi, che Tana aveva guardati nel bagno. Tana si sforzò a rispondere: «Io mi chiamo Tana, Tana che sarebbe Gaetana, ma io mi chiamavo Tana da piccola, quando non sapevo ancora parlare bene, così…». Si fermò di colpo, perché le era sembrato di vedere, nella faccia dell’angelo, passare come una noia; si fermò di colpo e pensò: che cosa gli vado a dire, un nome è un nome qualsiasi, lui non mi ha chiesto il mio nome, lui si chiama Roberta, lo guardò imbarazzata e lui di nuovo la guardava senza nessuna espressione, osservatore, solo con appena appena l’aspetto di uno che si aspetta qualcosa, non una richiesta ma, piuttosto, una specie di disponibilità; Tana non capì bene, rimase a guardarlo. A casa tutti dovevano essere andati a letto, Tana non ci aveva badato, si ricordò che mentre l’angelo mangiava aveva sentito un leggero contatto sulla guancia destra, aveva visto il papà allontanarsi di corsa, la baciava tutte le sere, quando lei non si chiudeva in camera per prima, soprattutto per evitare il bacio del papà che le sembrava un’umiliazione, un trattamento da bambina, ma quella sera non ci aveva badato, non se ne era accorta nemmeno. Prese l’angelo per mano e lo portò in camera, tolse il suo pigiama da sotto il cuscino, rimboccò le coperte al letto, che era un letto da una piazza e mezza perché Tana, fin da bambina, si era sempre tanto agitata nel sonno, non poche volte era caduta addirittura per terra, così le avevano preso un letto da una piazza e mezza, qualche anno prima; fece un gesto all’angelo come per dirgli «accomodati», senza osare dirgli niente, poi scappò nel bagno. Si guardò allo specchio e si vide ancora sporca, i capelli impiastricciati, gli occhi stanchi. Quel po’ di trucco che si metteva le era colato sulle guance. Le venne un brivido di freddo. Si lavò per bene, poi restò ancora immersa nella vasca calda, per scaldarsi di più, sperando che intanto l’angelo si fosse addormentato, che avesse trovato lui il modo di sistemarsi. Poi le venne l’angoscia che l’angelo avesse approfittato che lei si era chiusa in bagno per andarsene, e allora schizzò fuori dalla vasca, avvolta nell’asciugamano grande si sporse a controllare e vide l’angelo che si era addormentato sopra il letto, senza infilarsi sotto le coperte, con le sue stesse ali che gli facevano cuscino sotto la testa e gli coprivano in parte il corpo. Tana si calmò, tornò in bagno, si asciugò i capelli, si infilò un pigiama che aveva messo a intiepidire sopra il radiatore. L’angelo dormiva tranquillo sul lato del letto contro il muro, Tana si infilò sotto le coperte, spense la luce, chiuse gli occhi. Tana, con gli occhi chiusi, pensava al sesso dell’angelo. Non se ne era accorta, che era questo il suo pensiero, finché l’angelo non le aveva detto il suo nome. Forse ha fatto apposta, pensò, e non è il suo vero nome. Qualche mese prima, alla fine di giugno, erano andati tutti, una quindicina di ragazzi e ragazze, con i motorini, alla fossa di Camin, appena fuori città. Il sole era caldo ma Tana aveva avuto freddo, col suo golfino addosso, anche se sul motorino stava dietro ed era protetta dall’aria. Alla fossa si arrivava in soli dieci minuti. L’acqua della fossa era grigia e ferma. La fossa era stata scavata due anni prima, durante i lavori per la nuova circonvallazione, e poi era rimasta lì. Nessuno l’aveva riempita. La circonvallazione era pochi metri più in là, nascosta da qualche fila di alberi. C’erano erbe e cespugli. Andare alla fossa era una cosa un po’ proibita, perché si diceva che ci girasse gente strana. Ogni tanto ci si accampavano dei nomadi, ma sempre per qualche giorno appena, non di più. C’erano dei cartelli con scritto «vietato bagnarsi». Dietro qualche cespuglio c’era della sporcizia. In piena estate ci veniva molta gente, e allora il Comune mandava degli operai a pulire, una volta alla settimana, anche se teoricamente restava vietato bagnarsi. In quella stagione non ci andava nessuno, e così nessuno puliva. C’era anche una rete, tutt’attorno alla zona, e un fossatello, ma la rete era mezza abbattuta, e sopra il fossatello, in un paio di punti comodi, erano state tirate delle assi. I ragazzi e le ragazze sapevano che lì, mettendosi appena dietro un cespuglio, o solo tirandosi sopra un asciugamano, si poteva fare anche l’amore, che nessuno ti diceva niente. Un ragazzo aveva lanciato l’idea, e allora tutti i ragazzi, facendo a gara per non restare ultimi, si erano spogliati e si erano buttati in acqua. Erano rimasti a sguazzare qualche minuto, nell’acqua che arrivava alla vita, solo al centro la fossa diventava più fonda, poi erano risaliti sulla riva, un po’ lividi e intirizziti. Con la scusa che dovevano asciugarsi, erano rimasti in piedi nudi davanti alle ragazze, che si erano sedute sulla riva. Qualcuna si era scandalizzata, aveva gridato ed era andata a sedersi più in là, voltando le spalle ai ragazzi. I ragazzi stavano lì, con le mani sui fianchi, rabbrividendo, con i genitali che stavano all’altezza degli occhi delle ragazze. I ragazzi erano tutti magri e belli, almeno così sembrava a Tana. Il più vicino a Tana era uno che aveva visto solo qualche volta nella compagnia, che frequentava un istituto tecnico. Tana aveva fatto un passo e mezzo, senza alzarsi in piedi, per guardarlo meglio.

Il ragazzo si era un po’ girato verso di lei. Dall’inguine la chiazza di pelo gli risaliva, diradata e leggera, fino all’ombelico. Il petto era liscio, bianco, con solo qualche pelo lungo e ritorto attorno ai capezzoli. Tana aveva abbassato gli occhi su quella cosa che pendeva in mezzo al ciuffo nero. Le sembrò debole, strana. La toccò con la punta delle dita della mano destra e la vide sussultare. Ritirò la mano e vide quella cosa ingrossarsi. Il ragazzo si girò un altro poco, appena un poco, verso Tana. Tana allungò la mano tenendola orizzontale, un po’ a coppa, per sollevare quella cosa e guardare i testicoli seminascosti dietro, e sentì quella cosa che si sollevava da sola, la vide ingrossarsi ancora e irrigidirsi, scopriresulla punta, dove la pelle si apriva, una macchia violacea. Tana guardava, stupefatta, tenendo quella cosa in mano e guardandola trasformarsi, quando sentì la mano del ragazzo che dall’alto le toccava il collo, la premeva sulla nuca come per cercare di avvicinarla. Tana aveva mollato tutto, si era allontanata alzandosi in piedi, era rimasta a guardare tutti, in piedi, girando la testa qua e là, senza sapere cosa fare. Allora i ragazzi si erano rivestiti, silenziosi, e tutti erano tornati in piazza. Il ragazzo che Tana aveva toccato aveva cercato di farla salire dietro sul suo motorino, ma Tana lo aveva evitato. Qualche giorno dopo il ragazzo le aveva telefonato, doveva essersi fatto dare il numero dagli altri, e le aveva proposto, tranquillo, di uscire insieme, il sabato dopo, i suoi genitori erano via e sarebbero tornati la domenica sera. Potevano andare al cinema e poi stare insieme da lui, avrebbe anche preparato un po’ di cena, e avrebbe procurato da bere e sigarette. Tana l’aveva ascoltato e poi lo aveva insultato più che aveva potuto, dicendogli tutte le parolacce che sapeva, anche quelle che non era sicura bene cosa significassero. Poi lo aveva visto altre volte in piazza, e lo aveva evitato. Una volta, girandosi, lo aveva visto che parlava e rideva con altri due ragazzi, e le era sembrato che guardassero lei. Lei gli aveva gridato dietro, e quelli giù a ridere, finché un’altra ragazza non l’aveva portata via. Si erano nascoste in un bar e la ragazza aveva detto a Tana che non la capiva proprio, che era proprio una stupida a non andarci con quello, che lei ci aveva provato ma lui non la aveva cagata neanche un po’, che le altre che c’erano state le avevano detto che era proprio un bravo ragazzo, che pagava sempre lui, e aveva sempre anche il preservativo, e che si erano trovate proprio bene. Tana, nel suo letto con gli occhi chiusi, con il respiro dell’angelo accanto, si ricordò che aveva pensato, quel giorno, che dio era stato veramente cattivo con gli uomini e con le donne, a imporre un sistema così bestial per la riproduzione, e a confondere gli organi che potevano dare un così grande piacere, le parti del corpo dove si concentrava l’amore, con gli organi che servivano alle funzioni più schifose; era la sua stessa vagina, da quella volta della fossa, che le faceva schifo, e aveva smesso del tutto di toccarsi e di masturbarsi, anche se il desiderio le rimaneva, e in certe notti diventava furioso; e quello che le faceva più schifo, era che quando il desiderio le veniva, le appariva sempre quel ragazzo, nudo, in piedi, e le sembrava bello, bellissimo, qualunque cosa toccasse le sembrava di toccare lui, e vedeva le due macchie scure dei suoi capezzoli, e sentiva nella mano il contatto con quella carne prima molle e poi gonfia, ingigantita, e vedeva la macchia violacea aprirsi, sentiva un odore acido – Tana si costringeva, nelle sue notti, a guardare quel pezzo di carne arrossato che, improvvisamente, dopo lunghi sforzi della sua immaginazione, buttava fuori un getto di orina gialla, puzzolente, interminabile; se la sentiva venire addosso, quell’orina, e ne sentiva l’odore di marcio, l’umidità tiepida e ributtante sul corpo, addirittura il sapore in bocca, e solo allora, grazie a questo rimedio, l’immagine cominciava a scomparire, il desiderio diventava indistinto, poi diminuiva, lentamente quasi spariva, e Tana insensibilmente si perdeva nel sonno.

Ora Tana accese la luce piccola, e voltatasi guardò l’angelo che dormiva. Si inginocchiò sul letto. Cercò di muoversi lentamente e con leggerezza. Le ali dell’angelo si erano un poco aperte, tutta la sua posizione si era un po’ scomposta. Dormiva come uno che dorme un sonno profondissimo, come se solo l’esaurimento della sua stanchezza, che doveva essere enorme, potesse provocare il risveglio. La tunica scopriva le ginocchia. Tana aveva paura, ma aveva anche un pensiero che le girava per la testa, e che sarebbe stato impossibile scacciare: che l’angelo era lì per quello, che per quello si era fatto trovare, che per quello si era lasciato lavare e nutrire, per farle capire che lui era a sua disposizione, che lei poteva fare quello che voleva. Tutto quello che si poteva fare con un angelo andava bene. Tana gli infilò la mano destra sotto la schiena, lo sollevò e con la sinistra, delicatamente, portò su la tunica. Lo riappoggiò, si inginocchiò vicino alle ginocchia dell’angelo e di colpo, dopo un’esitazione breve, alzò il lembo della tunica. Il sesso dell’angelo non era circondato da peli. Sembrava quello di un bambino, ma era grande. A Tana sembrò bello. La carne era molto pallida, come quella di tutto il corpo. La pancia dell’angelo si sollevava e si abbassava, nella respirazione, tranquillamente. Tana, appoggiandosi sul letto con la sinistra, con le dita della mano destra toccò la pancia dell’angelo, poi senza staccare le dita spostò la mano sulla coscia sinistra, scese tra le gambe, risalì sulla coscia destra e sulla pancia. Si avvicinò al sesso, ma non osava toccarlo: non per schifo, assolutamente, ma per rispetto. Voleva che l’angelo continuasse a dormire. Avvicinò il viso al sesso, per guardarlo bene nel mezzo buio, vide che la pelle era liscia e pulita, non sentì nessun odore sgradevole. Toccò il sesso con le labbra, un piccolo bacio, come si darebbe un bacio a un neonato che dorme, per baciarlo senza svegliarlo. Il sesso non si svegliò. Tana lo guardò ancora, ripeté qualche volta il percorso con le dita, senza mai toccarlo. Le piaceva fare così. Dopo un po’ sentì il sonno che le premeva da dentro la testa, le gambe e il braccio sinistro che si erano stancati in quella posizione, e allora tornò a coprire l’angelo e lo guardò. Lo guardò tutto, dalla testa ai piedi, guardò le ali e le braccia e le dita delle mani, e le pareva che l’angelo fosse tutto bello. Tana non sentiva nessun desiderio, aveva solo piacere a guardare l’angelo, aveva avuto piacere a toccarlo e dargli quel piccolo leggerissimo bacio sul sesso. Pensò che doveva essere molto tardi, e allora si ficcò per bene sotto le coperte, chiuse bene gli occhi per dormire sodo, e sognò che l’angelo andava via, volando. Andava via volando e sotto il suo passaggio c’erano le case che si scoperchiavano, e dalle case verso il cielo nero della notte c’erano dei raggi di luce dorata, vivissima, che salivano. Alla mattina Tana si svegliò con una febbre buona, una sensazione di morbidezza e di sogno dentro tutta la carne, la felicità di stare appallottolata a letto, telefonare alle compagne di classe per farsi venire a trovare, farsi invidiare per la sua fortuna, una settimana di vacanza mentre fuori dappertutto pioveva, e la pioggia lavava il mondo, preparandolo all’inverno freddo, che bellezza.

© Giulio Mozzi

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