Sweet Dreams by Massimo Gramellini Read Free Book Online

and who managed to combine pure class and brute force. Each time he scored a goal, my doublewould wave his arms in the direction of an area of the public stands, where a woman recognizable only for her blond hair responded to the tribute by elegantly clapping her hands.
    Whenever there was someone else at home—normally Mita, who was in most of the time—I took care not to raise my voice or I put a record on to cover the sound. But sometimes she would burst in unannounced and find me red in the face and holding my mother’s headscarf in my hands.
    â€œYou’re crazy. Just wait till I tell your father.”
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    I used to sweat a lot. Day and night, summer and winter. Sweating was my way of crying.
    Belfagor hated tears. Like all the monsters which attack our souls, he was convinced that everything he did was for my own good. He wasn’t capable of giving me any love, but he could stop the world hurting me. All I needed to do was shut it out. He hated the truth: his mission in life was to show how I could escape from situations which might involve suffering. But even so he’d not quite given up on the idea of scraping togetherwhatever odds and ends of affection were available by encouraging my self-destructive tendencies in order to attract the attention of others.
    The most harmless of my neuroses—looking at my knees all the time—ended the day I started to wear long trousers. But in the meantime another more dangerous one had emerged.
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    As a little child I had welcomed the arrival of all kinds of germs with enthusiasm. My mother was an indulgent nurse. There was nothing better than having to spend weeks in bed with my face all covered in spots while she sat by my bedside and read me fairy tales or hummed songs. But then the nurse had abruptly handed in her resignation and I’d realized that even being unwell would no longer be the same thing.
    So Belfagor filled me with the terror I might become ill. He’d enter my head unannounced and hiss his peremptory orders.
    â€œDo such and such a thing or else you’ll catch a bug.”
    The things I had to do were never the same. Stopping in the middle of crossing the road to take two steps backwardsand one step diagonally. Pinch a passerby’s bottom and then make a run for it. Aim a ball at the small painting of the Madonna in the headmaster’s office.
    They were usually actions which involved skills of precise physical coordination. Acts of pure vandalism were less frequent, and in any case were always followed by immediate repentance: once I spread glue all over a bus seat, but then I sat down on it myself.
    The situation got worse one summer day at the end of an excursion into the countryside with Giorgio and Ginetta. We’d eaten our packed lunches and Dad stretched out on the grass for a nap. He was snoring. The nape of his neck gleamed about two feet from a tree trunk.
    I was lolling in the grass at a safe distance, flicking a stone, when Belfagor spoke.
    â€œYou’ve got to throw the stone between the tree trunk and your father’s neck. If you don’t, you’ll get ill—really really ill.”
    Too agitated to take aim with the proper consideration, I threw the stone: it hit my father right on the nape of his neck.
    He reemerged from his snoozing limbo and lunged at me like some wounded animal.
    I stumbled up a steep path with him in hot pursuit. With every step I took I was panting fit to burst.
    â€œBut, Dad, you don’t understand. It was a test, and I’ve flunked it—and now I’m going to get ill!”
    â€œYou bet you will! Just wait till I catch you . . .”
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    But he didn’t catch me, and the phobia of falling ill faded. It was replaced by a fear of burglars. Every evening I would go through the whole house inch by inch to see if they’d managed to get into the linen cupboard or were inside the washing machine. But perhaps I wasn’t looking