The lawn unrolled like a carpet until it touched the sky.
The schoolchildren arrived at the park in single file: one after the other like so many little colored ants and each one kept their right hand on the shoulder of the companion who preceded them. The expedient of the support was useful, according to the teachers, for immediately noticing if one of the little ones wandered off along the street. There were about thirty of them, and the teachers only three. Once a trip had caused a snowball, but nothing serious had happened, just a few scrapes, and in the end everyone had a great time.
"Don't trample the flowerbeds!" With this exhortation the lines were dissolved, and joyful life broke out: the children ran impatiently like ponies to which the fence opens, and the light stamp stroked the slightly damp ground.
The teacher Vinciguerra, young, petite, with a thin waist, had childish features framed by brown curls. She was no taller than the lankiest in the class and if she had aligned with the class no one would have noticed that the intruder she was no longer old enough to attend second grade.
"Be careful not to hurt yourself!" The teacher Pizziballa, whom some of the younger ones called "Mamma Pizza", at the age of fifty had already educated several generations. She was a very sweet creature born with a vocation for teaching and motherhood, roles that she had never separated in her life: mater et Master's degree, so he liked to define himself emphatically comparing himself to the universal Church.
The two good women brought home-made sweets, apple pie, sponge cake. Today is a different day, recess is in the park, the children will have a snack outdoors, on the grass, and not in the classroom where the sky, the flowers, the sun are painted on the walls. Today the world is real, the sun is hot and backpacks contain sandwiches and fruit juices.
Even the voice of the teachers, modulated by the trees, sounds flute, not set as in school when they say: «Color this little page»; or: "Sit down nicely."
The rearguard was formed by Maestro Quintavalle, a physical education teacher seconded to the primary school. A large jaw with a strong physique, in blue jeans, a sweatshirt, an anorak and rubber-soled boots. He was holding a clear plastic bag full of balls and balls.
In the park there was a narrow creek with a stony bottom that ended in a pool little bigger than a tub.
The children dipped their hands in the water, someone recklessly wet their shoes too. The master decided that it was possible to cross without any danger and showed how to do it: first they had to roll up their trousers, then walk in short steps, placing their feet on the larger stones.
In one stride, he reached the other side and stretched out his arms to welcome the young pioneers. The teachers forded the stream holding the little ones by the hand.
Now the children have taken possession of the territory, they chase each other, they call each other, they play football, and Quintavalle shoots surprising low shots into the goal bordered by two leafy plane trees, while the frugoli that nobody wants in the team surround the teachers who invent new, ancient games for them.
A few meters from the park, in a gully full of rubbish and old stuff, in no man's land, a little body half hidden by the leaves. Curled up in a fetal position, naked, umbilical cord still attached, thumb of right hand in mouth.
It looks like a doll the newborn that a cowardly nature got rid of a few hours ago by throwing him into the ditch between the trash can.
I am Nobody, that's why they threw me away.
I'm useless, I was annoying.
Maybe I had done something wrong but I don't remember what.
Sure I've been mean but when?
Will it be because of the kicks I gave in the belly? O why was i yawning?
Yes it will be for what they threw me from the bridge.
How bad when I rolled on the stones!
They could have left me somewhere instead of throwing me into the void.
I must have bua my shoulder, because I can't turn around.
brrr! How cold!
I am thirsty. I am hungry. Hungry and thirsty. And I'm freezing.
Not even a drop of water gave me.
I must have been awful, but I didn't ask to be born.
In my nothingness there was neither choice nor will.
I am Nobody.
If I close my eyes, however, two soft arms soft and they lift me up, they cradle me and I no longer feel frozen.
And a very sweet voice that says to me: “I'm sorry I mistreated you. Let's start over."
Her rage has passed! She forgave me! She showers me with kisses, she holds me tight against her warm chest.
I reopen my eyes and… I'm still a dead baby on the living grass.
How long?
But now I know that they will come to take me back.
I have to stay calm and tense to wait. They are already looking for me.
I hear voices. Someone runs…
That ball… If it came a little closero… with an enormous effort I would be able to relaunch it …
"It's snack time, come on kids take a break!"
"Enough with the ball. Let's sit in a circle, let's form a magic circle."
The teachers have to work hard: when the kids play, they no longer think of anything, they live in another dimension. They forget the food, the game satisfies them.
«Don't throw the papers here and there: we collect everything in a bag» recommends Maestro Quintavalle, «you know that nature must be respected. We must leave the park as we found it."
The children let themselves fall on the thick grass, someone piled up the dry leaves to compose a sort of seat and sat down as if on a throne.
The packed snack began. Pudgy fingers listlessly pulled the packets lovingly prepared by the mothers from the bags: puffy ham sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, buttered toast sealed in the domo pack, cereal snacks, packets of crackers.
The teachers hand out napkins and paper cups, because dessert will be coming soon. What would a picnic be without dessert?
Children who unwrap, nibble, crunch or just crunch have not realized that there is a new snack companion.
I am Nobody, abandoned the nightmare, is sitting between them, his legs crossed in the Turkish style. He is eating an orange. He is immensely happy, his blue temples flutter, his heart beats wildly: in this new world he is the same as all the other beings who are close to him and who talk and laugh. One of them shows him how to drink from the bottle without getting wet. A bit confused, he puts the thermos to his lips and the cool drops quench his thirst.
A long girl long – grown more than the others – goes around with a tray in her hands. She is offering the cake and, with a smile, she also hands him a slice, who feels full without eating it.
«Mamma Pizza, Mamma Pizza I know how to make pizza a little man with a broad forehead and big dark eyes torments the teacher.
«Tell us how to do it, so that next time we can all make pizzas» the teacher encourages him.
The child mimics the gestures he has seen his mother do, knead, flatten, season, bake, and while everyone is clapping their hands he announces seriously: «When I grow up I want to be a pizza chef».
"I'll make a ghost to scare my sister" is the declaration of intent of a curly-haired cherub, with eyes as blue as marbles, who while making the announcement sets his little face in a horrendous grimace.
"I'm the footballer, or rather the goalkeeper, I like being in goal!" warns another, freckled face and dimpled hands and knees.
«Yes, but you'll have to block goals, don't step aside to let the ball pass... Today you've collected two...» Quintavalle jokes.
"I'm the plumber like my dad!"
"I'll prepare the knives!"
I am Nobody he is very attentive, does not lose a syllable, does not say anything, but has decided: he wants to be a child when he grows up!
"The bus is coming. We have to get going. On children, we collect papers, cans, crumbs. We put everything in envelopes. We must leave no trace of our passage.”
The group – red cheeks, backpacks on their shoulders and some inevitable caprice – leaves the park, and this time it is the teachers Vinciguerra and Pizziballa who close the ranks of the tireless army.
I am Nobody he remained on the lawn, his eyes pleading, a smile of joy on his lips. He waves his hand to greet his comrades who are leaving. He would like to join them, answer the call of life, as well as the dog's London follows the wolves howling and becomes a wolf with them…
A few meters from the park, in a gully full of rubbish and old stuff, in no man's land, a little body half hidden by the leaves. Curled up in a fetal position, naked, umbilical cord still attached.
The author
Maria Rosaria Pugliese she has a degree in Economics and Commerce and has worked for a credit institution for thirty years. You have always been sensitive to social issues. Among her writings, the debut Lost patients (Robin Edizioni, 2010) and the contribution to the anthology The throat (Giulio Perrone Editore, 2008) and toEncyclopedia of Nonexistent Writers (I edition, Boopen Led, 2009; II edition, Homo Scrivens, 2012). With goWare he published the short story collection Carretera. Fourteen stories along the way.
