“He’s a deaf mute,” I said.
Apparently, no one had noticed at first. He was only a strange, rather silent, solitary boy who didn’t take up much space in the gym. He always arrived on time for his training, changed without looking at anyone, was always last in the queue for warming up, and whenever Buio, the trainer, explained a technique, he would always stand a little back from the others, his eyes as sombre and dark as TV cameras — but he’d record everything and then get down to it until he’d grasped it, practising again and again, probably practising at home by himself, too. Right after right, left after left, hook after hook, like a machine.
It was Masi who discovered he was a deaf mute. Masi was a tall, slim guy, the son of a gravedigger, a typical street kid, a bit of a hooligan, who liked beating up smaller kids as they came out of the football stadium. He was a decent middleweight, agile and confident, maybe the great white hope of the gym at the time. Just then, he was in training for the Italian championships, which he would lose in the semi-finals to a young guy from Bergamo who was as hard as a mule.
The Goat was working out at the punchbag, and Masi couldn’t find another one free. It wasn’t right that the aspiring Italian champion, beginners’ class, should have to cool his heels waiting to go a couple of rounds at the punchbag. He stood behind him and waited for the Goat to finish his round. When the bell on the big grey clock which hung on the dirty wall at the back of the room rang at the end of the four minutes, Masi said he needed the punchbag. He was on his feet, loosening up his neck and punching the air lightly to relax his arms. The Goat did not reply.
“Hey,” Masi said, raising his voice. “I need the bag.”
But the Goat still didn’t respond. He stood there in front of the punchbag, like a brawny little Roman in front of a column.
“HEY,” Masi cried, raising his voice even more. “I NEED THE BAG.”
Everyone stopped, and those who saw the Goat from the front realised that he had his eyes closed. Masi looked at his pals, shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as if to say, “What is this guy, an idiot?” Then he made his mistake, he did something that anyone who’d been around the block a bit would advise you not to do in a boxing gym: he picked a quarrel. He brought both his gloves down on the Goat’s shoulders, sending him thudding into the punchbag like a skier into a tree. Masi barely had time to see him turn before the short, squat, fair-haired boy was under him. Two feints, then a left, a right and a left, and Masi was on the ground, stunned, and that squat, fair-haired boy was standing over him whinnying like a horse and looking as if he was spitting fire from his nostrils. Masi got back on his feet, smiling.
“So you want to do this the hard way,” Masi said. He took off his stinking punchbag gloves, leaving only the bandages on. “Come on,” he said. He fired off two lefts at the Goat’s head, but the Goat parried and turned with his fists up and his head down. There was Masi, tall and slim, his arms and shoulders going up and down like in a documentary on boxing, and there was the other guy in front of him, all hunched and as closed up as a ball of granite. A left and a right from Masi. The Goat saw that long, sharp right before it had even started on its journey. He bent his knees, parried to the left, moved forwards and, pressing down with the full weight of his body, fired off one more of those millions of uppercuts to the liver that he’d been practising in the last few weeks. He saw, as if it was lit up, that uncovered area of the body where Buio had said the liver was and which brings everyone down. And, as if it was all one move, the Goat followed it with a short right to the chin and a left hook to the temple. There are those who are ready to swear they saw Masi leave the ground before he went flying into the punchbag, and then he was down, flat on the ground, and unconscious for five minutes. Masi weighed twelve kilos more than the Goat, and was almost twenty-five centimetres taller. Buio came running and pushed the Goat away, insulting him as he did so. Everyone crowded around Masi, ignoring the young sensation, not even hearing the weak “I’m sorry” muttered by someone who had obviously never learnt to speak.
A couple of days later, a short, plump woman wearing a man’s hat came to the gym and asked for the owner. Someone went to fetch Buio.
“Hello, I’m Sonia Mugnaini.”
“Hello, I’m Buio.”
“Good evening, Signor Buio. I’ve come to ask you to take my son back for training. The thing is, this is the first time I’ve seen him really interested in something. Everyone always makes fun of him and I know he’s not particularly bright, but deep down he’s a lovely boy. He’s had a hard life and he’s always alone and—”
“One moment, signora. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh.” Signora Mugnaini was puzzled. “He told me he can’t come back because he hit someone. You have to forgive him, it won’t happen again. It’s just that, you know, he gets these attacks, but maybe you could try to understand, maybe—”
“Signora, just stop there. Are you the mother of that fair-haired boy?”
“Yes, of course, who did you think I was talking about?”
“You know, signora, a lot of boys come here, and they’re always hitting each other, one way or another.”
The man had a point, Signora Mugnaini thought.
“Anyway, signora, your son can come back whenever he likes. Your son is very talented.”
“Didn’t you throw him out?”
“No. Of course, I don’t want him beating up all my boys.”
Signora Mugnaini let out a laugh. “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “It’s just that he didn’t hear, you know how it is—”
“He didn’t hear?”
“Well, I should have thought that was obvious.”
“Not really. I heard, and I was in my office.”
Signora Mugnaini again gave Buio a puzzled look. “I’m sorry, Signor Buio, but in six months haven’t you noticed that my son is a deaf mute?”
One evening a few months earlier, while watching an old Dean Martin film, it had occurred to Buio that it had been a long time since he had last felt embarrassed. And he had come to the conclusion that maybe that’s one of the things you acquire as you get older: you have your work, you’re well respected, you have a bit of a paunch but two big arms and a mean look, and the bad old days when life wrongfooted you and landed you in embarrassing situations have long gone. You get backache sometimes, you need to have your prostate checked, the other day one of your knees turned to jelly, but you don’t have to worry any more about being embarrassed. And then life comes along, in the form of a cylinder-shaped lady in a man’s hat, and slaps you in the face, right there, right where you’re at home, where you’re the boss, everyone looks on you as a master, everyone respects you when you shout at them in your loud voice and everyone likes it when you pat them on the back. Life takes the form of a mother and leaves you stunned. And makes you turn red like a little boy.
“A deaf mute?”
“I’m sorry again, Signor Buio.” Signora Mugnaini’s voice had assumed a very slightly ironic tone. “My son has been coming here for six months, three times a week, four if he has time. I even bought him a punchbag for his room. And you never noticed he’s a deaf mute?”
Buio looked at the lady, his back stooped. The skin of his face suddenly dropped, as if someone had attached dozens of weights to it.
“Well, no,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice, no one noticed. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is.” Signora Mugnaini’s tone was decidedly sarcastic now.