The Crossroads by Niccolò Ammaniti Page B

extraterrestrials …’
    â€˜No, don’t burn it.’
    â€˜What do you care? You didn’t even like it.’ Cristiano ran off towards the river.
    â€˜Stop!’
    â€˜Leave me alone! I want to be on my own.’
    â€˜Wait!’ His father caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.
    Cristiano tried to wriggle free, shouting: ‘Let me go! Go away! Fuck off!’
    Rino hugged him tightly and held his face against his chest. ‘Listen to me for a moment. Then you can go if you want.’
    â€˜What do you want?’
    Rino let go, and stroked his shaven skull. ‘It’s just that … Look …’ He was having difficulty in finding the words. Finally he lit a cigarette. ‘… You must understand that if I get angry there’s a reason … If you’d handed it in, that bitch of a teacher of yours would have immediately given it to that arsehole of a social worker and tomorrow we would have had them both on our doorstep waving your essay in our faces.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 stub between his lips, and said in a serious voice: ‘I’ll believe you if you can beat me.’
    â€˜What?’ Cristiano didn’t understand.
    â€˜I’ll believe you if you can beat me to the top.’ He pointed to the hill of sand in front of them.
    â€˜What the fuck has that got to do with it?’
    â€˜Never mind about that. Don’t you realise 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 …’
    â€˜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 towards the hill of sand.
    â€˜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 metres behind.
    He had to win this time. He always lost against his father. At darts. At arm wrestling. At everything. Even at ping-pong, whereCristiano 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