and tomorrow we would have had them both on our doorstep
waving your essay in our faces."
"I'm not a fool and I didn't hand it in. I've told you that, but
you don't believe me. What's the point?"
"Look, it's just that ...I wanted to be sure." Rino kicked at a
rock and then, with a sigh, looked up at the clouds. "I'm scared,
Cristiano ... Scared they'll split us up. That's what they want. If they
split us up, I..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He squatted down and went on
smoking his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
All Cristiano's anger melted away like the snow that had fallen
that night. He felt an overwhelming urge to hug his father, but just
said, with a lump in his throat: "I'll never let you down. You must
believe me, papa, when I tell you things."
Rino looked at his son, then narrowed his eyes, with the butt
between his lips, and said in a serious voice: "I'll believe you if you
can beat me."
"What?" Cristiano didn't understand.
"I'll believe you if you can beat me to the top." He pointed to
the hill of sand in front of them.
"What the fuck has that got to do with it?"
"Never mind about that. Don't you realize what a fantastic opportunity this is for you? If you beat me I'll have to believe you for the
rest of my life."
Cristiano was trying not to laugh. "What a load of bullshit ...
Typical..."
"What's the problem? You're young. Athletic. I'm an old man. Why
shouldn't you win? Just think, if you beat me you'll be able to tell
me that you heard Quattro Formaggi repeat `Thirty-Three Travellers
from Trento' and I'll have no choice ... You little bastard!"
Cristiano had suddenly sprinted off toward the hill of sand.
"This time I am going to beat you!" growled Cristiano, hurling
himself at the steep side of the little mountain.
He took the first three steps and had to dig his hands into the
sand to stop himself sliding back. All the sand was crumbling away.
His father was below him, a couple of yards behind.
He had to win this time. He always lost against his father. At
darts. At arm wrestling. At everything. Even at ping-pong, where
Cristiano knew he was an ace and his father was crap. He would get to eighteen or nineteen-six, and only two points away from
trouncing him, then that bastard would start telling him he was
tiring, that he was scared of winning-he would dazzle him with
words and he wouldn't score another point and Rino would win.
Not this time. I'm going to beat you.
He imagined he was an enormous, climbing spider. The secret
was to dig your feet and hands right in. The sand was cold and
damp. The higher he climbed, the steeper the slope became, and it
crumbled under his shoes.
He turned to check where his father was. He was getting closer.
His face was contorted with the effort, but he wasn't slowing down.
The trouble was, every three steps Cristiano took forward he
slipped another two back. The top wasn't far away, but it seemed
impossible to reach.
"Go on, Cristiano! Go on ... You can do it! Beat him!" Danilo
and Quattro Formaggi cheered him on from below.
He put everything into it, shouting with the effort, and he was
almost there, only a yard and a half from the top, he'd made it,
he'd beaten him, when a clamp gripped his ankle. He was pulled
down, together with a landslide of sand.
"It's not fair!" he shouted, as his father went straight over him as
if he had caterpillar tracks. Cristiano tried to grab him by the seat of
his pants, but his hand slipped and he nearly got a kick in the face.
And his father dug his hands into the summit of the hill, got to
his knees and raised his arms to the sky as if he'd scaled K2,
shouting: "Victory! Victory!"
Cristiano lay there gasping, flat on the sand, half a metre from
the top, while everything around him crumbled away.
"Hey... Come on up. You nearly made it. Never mind. After all,
you did come second ... you weren't last," panted his father, bent
double with the
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