Beppe

I awoke to the sound of many footsteps down the corridor outside my room. As my eyes came into focus, my brain attempted to process the unusual number of feet in our house. My heart kicked into action before my brain. It thumped against my chest and propelled me up onto my feet.

Blindly slipping on the black and red number 3 shirt and white shorts laid in a heap on the cool stone floor next to my bed, I pressed my ear against the wall. My mind was caught between the many hushed voices and the incredible blue sky visible through the thin slats of the window. It had been a long winter. The snow-capped Swiss Alps sprawled for miles in the distance, illuminated by the first spring sunshine.

I could hear my mother talking quickly, her voice was full of emotion. An unknown man’s calm voice replied. The thick walls of our ancient house muted the sharpness of their conversation. My heart pounded in my chest. What was going on? Who was the strange man? What was he doing in my uncle’s room?

Gently, I lifted the worn metal latch on the white, wooden panel door. Inevitably, the creak of old hinges interrupted their conversation.

My uncle’s voice broke the heavy silence, “Alfredo, come my boy, come.”

Uncle Giuseppe had lived with us ever since I could remember. Mama and Papa looked after him. As a boy soldier in 1943, he lost his right leg during the invasion of Sicily. His memory of the events had faded over time. He’d often sit on the balcony and stare up at the stars, eyes glazed with tears, as he retold the moment he lost his leg.

His ability to get around on crutches had significantly lessened over the last year. His heavyset body was too much for his arms to support. He’d developed a deep rasping cough. Our star gazing nights had become fewer and fewer.

My mother wiped a slow tear away from her cheek, “thank you Doctor, we will do all we can.”

The strange, tall man dipped his head through the bedroom doorway as he left. His expensive shoes echoed their way out of the house.

“Mama, what’s going on with Uncle?’’

“He’s fine aren’t you Beppe?” Mama replied.

“Never been better. Come Alfredo, let’s talk about the match.”

I climbed up onto my uncle’s bed and laid down next to him. He smelled of warm tobacco, his heavy arm felt like a blanket over my shoulder. The pink newspaper on his bed, our Bible, La Gazzetta Dello Sport, was yet to be opened. Fresh bread and two glasses of milk appeared from Mama. We laughed as we remembered the magic of last week’s 93rd minute winner by Patrick Kluivert.

As we talked, Beppe retrieved a tightly bound black notebook from the drawer by the side of his bed. This was our weekly ritual. The notebook had come with a tin of newly sharpened pencils. Exploring the hard and soft centres of each hexagonal wand, I would draw my heroes from the front and back pages of our pink Bible. Uncle Beppe had framed my best work of “Saint” Paolo Maldini. It sat above his bed along with his crucifixion. Black rosary beads and a cross were casually draped over the dark wooden frame.

I sat quietly, my eyes fixed on the front page of the pink paper. Etching every contour of Kluivert’s face, I created a photographic image on the paper in front of me. Beppe silently watched the drawing come to life. It was an unspoken tradition that he would fall asleep as I drew. He did not disappoint.

Today, I was travelling into Milan. It was Derby day, the fiercest duel in the calendar. I couldn’t afford a ticket but my job washing dishes at La Lanterna had allowed me to save enough for my journey and a soda. Match day was a series of rituals. I kissed Beppe on his forehead.

He held my hand, “may God be with us today.” He kissed his rosary beads, and our black book, before handing it to me.

Next, I kissed my mother on the side of her face. Her perfume smelt light and safe.

“You be careful, stay away from the ultras,” she warned.

I tucked my red and black scarf into my jacket and the black book into my pocket.

The bus journey to Bergamo was over 90 minutes. From there, another hour or so train ride would take me into the heart of Milan. A ripple of rubber on the gravel road, a plume of dust and a hiss of breaks signified the beginning of my journey. Sitting at the back of the bus, I took out the black book. Kluivert needed more work.

In the blink of an eye, the centre of Bergamo swung into view. The train station was busy with travellers and football fans. I kept my head down. I’d be easy pickings for a pack of Inter ultras. The tension in the air was thick. The smooth black book in my jacket gave me comfort. It was my protection.

I boarded the train. It was still early enough to get a seat to myself. As the doors closed, a heavyset man with dark sunglasses, a black roll neck jumper, jeans and dark boots, leapt onto the train. He fell onto a seat opposite me. His face looked angry. I tried not to stare. The beads of sweat on his brow told me he’d been running. His dark stubble was flecked with silver, his breathing heavy.

I swapped my gaze to the window of the train. The man’s opaque reflection filled me with fear. From nowhere a symphony of sounds rang out. The man answered the smallest phone I’d ever seen. His booming voice jolted me to the core. He was furious. I was frozen in my seat. He was swearing loudly. Slamming the phone down, he cursed again.

We both sat in silence. Thankfully, the rhythm of the train made him nod to sleep. His mouth was open, his snoring loud. The Milano Porta Vittoria Station slowly came into view. The train casually bumped to a stop. A heavy snort from the man made me jump. He sprang into life, grabbing his phone and launching himself back through the doors as they closed.

I was relieved. Then immediately, filled with fear. A small black leather bag sat in front of me. I closed my eyes tightly and wished it away. The train pulled out of the station. I opened my eyes. The bag stared back. I looked around. A family of five sat close by, oblivious to the sudden stress ball bouncing around in my stomach.

“Open it.”

The voice in my head broke the silence.

“Open the bag.”

I stood slowly, it felt like the whole world was watching. I sat next to the bag. The sound of the train exploded as we hit a short tunnel. I jumped out of my skin. Daylight smashed into my face.

“Open the bag. Come on. Open the bag.”

I felt sick to my throat. The black leather fob of the zip felt soft between my finger and thumb. My heart pounded in my chest. The zip was smooth and light. The bag was obviously expensive. I thought of the angry man and the mobile phone. As the zip came down, the bag fell away, revealing it’s contents. My heart leapt again, wishing I’d not looked in.

“Come on, take another look.”

Bundles of American dollars sat quietly in the soft leather bag. I quickly zipped the bag back up and placed it on my knee.

“Finders keepers. Finders keepers.”

The train pulled into the next station. Instinctively, I slumped deep into my seat. Scores of fans wearing the blue and black of Inter Milan descended on the carriage. My hand gripped the soft handle of the bag and I closed my eyes.

“Finders keepers. Finders keepers.”

The train finally arrived into the Milano Centrale Station. Carrying my new friend, I held him tightly as the crowds swept me along to the football stadium, San Siro. As ever, I headed to Barreto 1957 Milano. It was one of the few cafés of neutral territory. It was heaving. I weaved in and out of the old men. Coming to a rest at the bar, I ordered my soda and looked up at the TV on the wall.

“Finders keepers. Finders keepers.”

I couldn’t concentrate on the game. It was going badly. I didn’t care. We lost 3-0 but all my thoughts were of my new friend. I left early to avoid the rush of bodies.

It was nearly 10.00pm before I slid in through the front door. As was tradition, Beppe was waiting for me.

“We never fought. We never laid a glove on them. Kluivert is a dummy. Capello must resign.”

I had to tell him. I had to show him. I started to shake.

“Beppe, can you keep a secret?”

The question took him by surprise. He crossed his fingers and put them to his lips, “sure Alfredo, sure.”

I slipped my jacket off. Like a magician, I pulled the bag out in front of him. Quick as a flash, I unzipped the bag. My theatrical movement tipped the contents of the bag onto the sandstone floor.

In slow motion, Beppe’s mouth widened. Repeatedly, looking at me and then to the bundles of money scattered on the floor, he swore and said “Alfredo what have you been doing?”

It was the first and only time Beppe had ever sworn. I wanted to laugh. Quickly, I stuffed the money back into the bag. Without taking a breath, I told him all about my day. His eyes never blinked once. The red wine in his hand disappeared as quickly as my tale unfolded.

“Go and check to see if your mama and papa are asleep.”

I slipped my shoes off. The cool stone felt familiar under my feet. The duet of heavy breathing told me all was well.

“Let's count it Alfredo, let's count it.”

Beppe’s eyes lit up, just like on our star gazing nights, but brighter. In less than 15 minutes, ten neat stacks of $2000 sat in front of us.

“Can I keep it Beppe?”

Beppe tapped his fingers on the table and downed the last of his wine, “I hope so kid, I hope so, but we have to do this properly.”

“What does properly mean?”

“Let me speak to Luca at the police station tomorrow, he’ll know what to do.”

I kissed Beppe’s forehead good night and headed for my bed.

The next day Beppe called Luca. It was clear. If nobody came forward in the next 28 days the money would be mine. We kept our secret. We agreed that Mama and Papa would only know if I got to keep it. Beppe kept the bag under his bed. My new friend would be safe.

I daydreamed about what I’d do with the $20,000. I’d buy a new wheelchair for Beppe and a giant television for the World Cup, a new fridge for Mama, two season tickets for the San Siro, a new notebook for me, French red wine for Papa. The first few days dragged by, but I soon got on with school and washing dishes. I lost track of time.

It was a Thursday night. I’d worked late at the restaurant. I kicked stones all the way home, scoring winning goals. I pushed the front door open. Beppe was sitting at the kitchen table. Two glasses of red wine, waiting, untouched. He paused for an age.

“It’s yours kid, it's yours.”

Tears welled in his eyes, a giant smile across his face, his heavy arms outstretched. I ran and fell into his embrace, the familiar smell of warm tobacco enveloped me. His big hands held my head tightly.

“Finders keepers.”