Free City by Alessandro Baricco Page B

had a kind of reflex. When the bell rang he’d spit and then smile: as if he had emerged unharmed from something. He lived in his own time, divided into three-minute rounds and one-minute pauses. When he closed the gym, late in the evening, the last thing he did, in the dark, was unplug the clock. Then he went home, like a ship whose sails have been lowered.
    POOMERANG: He took a couple of kids to the national title, kids without much talent, but he worked them well. He killed them with training exercises, and then, when they were ready, he sat them down and began to talk. About everything. And among the other things, boxing. After half an hour they got up. They wouldn’t have been able to repeat a thing, but when they went into the blue ring to fight, it all came back to their minds: how to defend, how to fake a hook, how to duck a left. Leaning on the ropes, Mondini watched them in silence, not missing a move. Then he sent them home without saying a word. The next day, it started again. His students trusted him. He managed to bring out the best in each of them. When the best was to get beaten soundly every time they went into the ring, Mondini would call them over, one evening like all the others, and say I’ll take you home, OK? He’d load them into his old sedan, twenty years old, and, talking about other things, drive them home. When they got out of the car, they also got out of the ring. They knew it. Some said: I’m sorry, Maestro. He’d shrug. And that was the end. It went on like that for sixteen years. Then Larry Gorman showed up.
    The boy started to pee on himself. His pants flattened out and the pee ran over the linoleum floor tiles. The fat man walked around the boy, he was beside himself:
    â€œGod damn it, this is disgusting . . . stop it, you fucking bastard, will you stop it?”
    No one was thinking of going near him, because the boy was still writhing, and the fat man was frightening he was so angry. He went on shouting.
    â€œCut it out, you bastard, you hear me? Cut it out, he’s peed all over himself, little bastard, shit, he’s peed on himself, like an animal, God damn . . .”
    He was standing in front of the kid, and suddenly he kicked him, in the ribs, and then looked at his shoe, a black loafer, to see if it was dirty, and that utterly enraged him.
    â€œFucking shit, can’t you see how revolting it is, disgusting, make him stop!”
    He began kicking him all over. Wizwondk took two steps forwards. He had the scissors in his hand. He held them like a dagger.
    â€œNow that’s enough, Mr. Abner,” he said.
    The fat man didn’t even hear him. He was like a madman kicking the boy. He shouted and struck, the boy was still trembling, there was drool all over his face, and every so often he made that hissing sound, but weaker, as if from a distance. Everyone was terrified. Wizwondk took another two steps forwards.
    DIESEL: Larry Gorman was sixteen. A good build, a light heavyweight’s; a good face, not like a fighter’s; a good family, from an exclusive neighborhood. He came into the gym late one night. And he asked for Mondini. The Maestro was leaning on the ropes, watching two guys who were sparring. One of them, the blond, was always leaving his right side unprotected. The other didn’t have his heart in it. The Maestro was brooding. Larry went up to him and said: Hello, my name is Larry, and I want to be a boxer. Mondini turned, looked him over, pointed to the red letters over the door, and went back to the two who were fighting. Larry didn’t even turn around. He had already read the words. Boxing: Do It If You’re Hungry. As a matter of fact, he said, I haven’t had dinner yet. The bell rang, they stopped fighting, Mondini spat on the floor and said Very funny. Get out. Someone else would have left, but Larry was different, he never left. He sat down on a bench in a corner and didn’t move. Mondini kept at it for