Free City by Alessandro Baricco Page A

stopped at thirty-four. A career, like so many, with one memorable match. Twelve rounds at Atlantic City, against Barry “King” Moose. They ended up on the mat four times each. It looked as though they were going to murder each other. They spent the last round leaning on each other, head to head, exhausted, their fists swinging like pendulums winding down: and for those last three minutes they insulted each other like pigs. In the end the victory went to Moose, he’d gotten some hooks in. Mondini tried to forget. But one time, when they were all watching TV, and there was something about a murder in Atlantic City, someone heard him mutter: Great place, I spent a week there once, one Sunday night.
    â€œShall I touch up all this white hair?” said Wizwondk. On Monday, his day off, he visited the cemeteries; he seemed to have relatives everywhere. And at night, at home, he played the guitar. The neighbors opened their windows and listened.
    POOMERANG: Mondini stopped when he was thirty-four. His last fight was against a black guy from Philadelphia. He was at the end of the line, too. Mondini called his wife, who always sat in the first row, and said to her:
    â€œDid you take the money?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOK. All on me, on points.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œDon’t argue. Me, on points. And let’s just hope the guy manages to stay on his feet to the end.”
    Mondini went to the mat in the second round and again in the seventh. He didn’t fight badly, but he just didn’t see that damn left hook coming. The black guy did a good job of getting it off, you couldn’t see it coming. He let him have one in the tenth, and put him out cold. Mondini saw stars for a while. Then he saw his wife looking at him, leaning over the cot in the locker room. He attempted a smile.
    â€œDon’t worry. We’ll start over.”
    â€œDone,” his wife said. “I put it all on the other guy.”
    It was with that money that he opened the gym. And he became Mondini, the real thing. The Maestro. Try finding another like him.
    The kid sitting right under the Berbaluz calendar (hair dyes and shampoos) began to tremble like a condemned man. His whole body was trembling, violently. He slid off the chair and lay on the floor. He was gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth. With every breath he let out a frightening hiss. Wizwondk stopped, scissors and comb in his hand. They were all staring, no one moved. The big fat man who was sitting in the chair next to him said “What’s with him?”
    No one answered. The boy was in bad shape. He was beating his arms and legs on the floor, and his head was bobbing on its own, his eyes were crossed and the slobber was fouling his face.
    â€œFucking disgusting!”
    The fat man got up, looked at the boy lying in front of him, and ran his hands over his jacket, as if wiping them off. He was pale, and his forehead was shiny with sweat.
    â€œAre you going to make him stop, or not? It’s indecent!”
    Wizwondk couldn’t move. Someone else got up but no one dared approach. An old man who had remained sitting in his chair murmured something like
    â€œYou have to let him breathe . . .”
    Wizwondk said
    â€œThe telephone . . .”
    The boy hit his head on the floor, he didn’t complain, nothing, only that dreadful hissing . . .
    DIESEL: A really fine gym. Mondini’s Gym. Right above the door, so there would be no mistake, was written, in red, “Boxing: Do It If You’re Hungry.” Then there was a picture of Mondini as a young man, with his fists in the air, and one of Rocky Marciano, autographed. There was a blue ring, a little smaller than regulation. And equipment everywhere. Mondini opened at three in the afternoon. The first thing he did was plug in the clock, the one that timed the rounds. It only had a second hand, and every three circuits it rang and then stopped for a minute. Mondini