The Crossroads by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

friends. And do you know why? Because everyone thinks you’re a weirdo. Just a pathetic weirdo …’
    He was close to tears, but he would have torn his eyes out of their sockets rather than cry.
35
    Rino Zena couldn’t hear anything. A whirlpool of terror had sucked him down into darkness. He could already picture the social worker accompanied by two carabinieri waving Cristiano’s essay in front of his face.
    They would take him away. For ever.
    And that couldn’t happen, because without Cristiano he was nothing.
    Rino swallowed hard and put his hands over his eyes. ‘Where the fuck do you get these ideas?’ He spoke quietly, breathing through his nose. ‘How many times have I told you you’ve got to keep everything inside … you mustn’t let anyone know what you think, or they’ll use it against you. You and I are hanging by a thread, don’t you realise that? And everyone’s trying to break it. But they won’t succeed. I’ll always be with you and you’ll always be with me. I’ll help you and you’ll help me. Don’t you understand that you must never bare your throat? Think of tortoises, think of their shells. Always remember you’ve got be so strong that nobody can harm you.’ He slammed his fist down on the dashboard so hard that the glove box shot open, spewing out paper.
    â€˜Why do you do this, papa? Why don’t you believe me?’ said Cristiano in a broken voice.
    â€˜Don’t whine like that! Nobody’s hurt you, have they? What are you, a little girl? Are you going to burst into tears?’
    Danilo motioned to Cristiano not to react and to keep quiet, and tried to mediate: ‘Come on now, Rino, he told you the truth. Your son doesn’t tell lies. You know him.’
    Rino rounded on him. ‘You shut your face! Don’t interfere! Do I interfere in the problems between you and that whore of a wife of yours? I’m talking to my son. So keep quiet.’
    Danilo lowered his gaze.
    Cristiano dried his eyes with his hands. Nobody dared to speak. Everyone sat in silence, and the only sound was the background noise of the river and of the branches brushing against the sides of the van.
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    They stopped in the yard of a disused sand-dredging works from the Seventies. Huge mounds of sand formed a semicircle round the rusty machinery.
    Cristiano jumped out and ran towards the extraction tower.
    He stopped by a tumbledown hut. Its windows were smashed and it was plastered with graffiti and drawings.
    He wanted to go home on foot. It was a long way, but that didn’t matter. Although the air was cold, it probably wouldn’t rain for a while. The weather was changing. To the south the grey blanket of clouds had broken up, revealing patches of crystalline blue. A pair of cormorants flew overhead. The sound of the rain-swollen river could be heard in the distance.
    He pulled his hoodie over his head.
    In front of the hut were the charred remains of a bonfire. The metal skeleton of a chair. Tyres contorted by the heat. Some sandals. A gas cooker.
    Cristiano took the essay out of his pocket and flicked on his cigarette lighter. He was about to put the flame to the paper when he heard behind him: ‘Cristiano! Cristiano!’
    His father was approaching. He wore a tartan woolly jacket with a plush lining. It was open and he only had a vest on underneath.
    How come he never feels the cold?
    He set light to a corner of the paper.
    â€˜Wait!’ Rino took it out of his hand and blew on it, putting out the fire.
    Cristiano lunged at him, trying to snatch it back. ‘Give it to me. It’s mine.’
    His father took two steps backwards. ‘Are you crazy? Why do you want to burn it?’
    â€˜So there won’t be any evidence. And you’ll be happy. There’s always a chance burglars might break in during the night and steal it, isn’t there? Or the police … Or the