Something grey The air, swept through the night by the wind, has stopped in the somewhat implausible stillness of crystal: the green sponge of the forests on the distant mountains is visible in every slightest fold; higher up, the skeleton of the rock stands out, sharp. The river has subsided into a smooth, placid becalmedness, barely rippled by the occasional surface shimmer; from time to time, mirror-like gleams light up the valley. Sitting on the bank, with a book on my lap, I watch from above as Emmanuel, barefoot on the sandy bank, his trousers tucked up to his knee, throws pieces of wood at Saucepan; the dog stands up on his hind legs to observe the trajectory of the stick, then dives into the river, swims to reach it, brings it back to its master and receives his caresses and compliments. Now the two are tired: Saucepan repeatedly shakes himself at Emmanuel, as usual, and begins to roll in the sand, ploughing it with his muzzle; he sits on the riverbank and waves to me, while with one hand he picks up his trainers and with the other wipes his feet from the sand. I point to his watch from a distance. He nods with a snort and starts to walk back up the bank. I watch him approach in a feast of colours juxtaposed in an absolutely random way: the gold of his hair, the blue of his eyes, the purple of his smiling lips, the green and white horizontal stripes of his T-shirt, the blue of his blue jeans, the multicoloured checks of his grandfather's shirt that he uses as a jacket. Judged according to social conventions, one would call him ridiculous: seen through the eyes of nature, he is stunning. Next to him Saucepan, grey and shaggy, looks like the ghost of a porcupine. He lets himself fall into the grass, leaning on his elbows. Down, Pan, he intimates to the dog who tries to dry himself on me. I stroke him and repeat the order. The animal crouches in the sun panting, its mouth open and its tongue hanging out, a foolish expression of happiness on its muzzle. Immediately, however, he gets up and rolls on his stomach over the corpse of some beast, conscientiously rubbing his back on the fetid decomposed remains. Emmanuel looks at him puzzled. Why do you think he does that? I think it's a conditioned reflex: jackals roll over carrion to camouflage their scent. So Pan is descended from a jackal? Yes. How many things you know. I take off my glasses with a professorial gesture. I was born a little before you. And then I was a model student, me. No allusions, right? No allusions. Be careful, now the jackal will try to convey his odorous camouflage by rubbing himself all over you. And why should he do such a stupid thing? Because you are his master and he wants to share everything with you. Puah. He throws a stick at him: the dog runs off to retrieve it and returns shortly afterwards with the piece of wood in his mouth. He crouches down and starts gnawing on it, holding it between his front paws. He smells really bad: I'll wash him later. And anyway, he is not a jackal. He lifts his childish face, which the slight squinting of his eyes and the pouting of his lower lip make somewhat imperfect, and therefore more charming. I put the book in front of him: You have a quarter of an hour to go over the conditional clauses. Latin or Greek? Greek, don't you see? In exactly twenty minutes I will interrogate you, and if you don't know it by heart I can be very vindictive. What will you do to me? I'll probably beat you up. He thinks about it for a moment. I might like that. He gives me a silly smile. I look at him sternly. Look kid, we need to talk. He turns on his side leaning on an elbow. I'm listening. No, that's enough. Sit up straight. He obeys and sits cross-legged. You know, don't you, that you're putting me in a position where I can't fulfil my commitments to your people? More or less. More or less? No way! That's not honest of you. Don't take advantage of the fact that you're nice and that I like spending afternoons with you. Am I nice? Somewhat, but that's not the point. Do you really enjoy spending afternoons with me? Don't change the subject. I'm not going to keep leading you on: we're both wasting our time, and I have other things to do in life. I'm sorry. You're not excused. You really don't excuse me? I swear I didn't do it on purpose. Besides, I know the conditional clause well enough. It's not something you can know 'well enough': either you know it or you don't. And now try to be serious and explain to me what you don't like about school. I'd sooner explain what I like. Don't make it funny, I'm not joking. Don't force me to conclude that you are just a spoiled kid, which doesn't seem to fit your type of teenager. "My type". "Doesn't seem to fit". You have a creepy way of expressing yourself, teacher. So? I'm waiting. He shakes his head and strokes the dog. How can I explain it to you? You wouldn't understand, you have a top-of-the-class mentality. At most I can describe my impressions to you, if you don't get angry. Do that. Ok. Cold, mould, basement, cobwebs... Go ahead. Corpse, grave, claustrophobia, dead sewer rat on its stomach... I get it, stop. In my opinion, you teachers lack everything necessary to be alive. No offense, of course. Why should I be offended? I'm not a teacher. I don't understand whether you are there or you are doing. Adolescent slang doesn't work with me. Try to express yourself in a more sophisticated way. And stop with the "you," I've already told you I'm not a teacher. Alright, professor. Let me rephrase my thoughts in a more evolved manner: I don't understand if the teachers are so obtuse to think that studying useless things is important, or if they do it just to make fun of us. Is this better? Much better. You constructed a sentence with five subordinates and one coordinated indirect question. That's nonsense: I said the same thing with more words. Form is substance: one day you'll understand. I see that you didn't understand, but that was obvious. Explain it better, maybe I can do it. I doubt it. Essentially, when I'm at school, I feel like a Martian. I watch my classmates taking notes, asking questions, raising their hands to answer instead of the students being questioned, and they all seem dumb to me. There's something wrong with my head. Or theirs. He's a funny guy. I look at him with all the seriousness of which I am capable under the circumstances. First: studying useless things is not useless at all. On the contrary, it's an excellent workout for your neurons, which are self-destructing at a dizzying pace. Why just mine? he asks resentfully. I can't help laughing despite everything. Second: maybe you have a point when you say that it's not essential to know dead languages, although to really connect with the great authors of the past, you have to read them in their own language. See? Then I'm not always wrong. I'm not interested in connecting with them. We'll talk about this in a few weeks. In any case, understanding the roots of our civilization is fundamental to understand who we are, unless you prefer to live like a bumpkin; in which case you'd better get to work, because farming requires a certain effort, especially if you want to maintain a villa with a pool. Thank you for reminding me of my economic condition. As if I had chosen it. But you're not doing anything to escape from it, right? How do you know? I'm doing what I can to escape, give me time: I'm only sixteen. Okay, we'll see. I'm curious to see what you'll do at twenty: I bet you'll enroll in business and economics. Are you kidding me? No, why would I? But please, continue your reasoning. It's over, I'm not a great thinker. Anyway, these Greek authors are one thing, but how can you stand the Latin ones? It's all fake, it's all rhetorical, professor: there's no blood, there's no sex, there's no emotion, there's nothing that's needed to make good music. What does music have to do with Latin? It has to do with everything. He closes the conversation and doesn't seem to want to reopen it. I'm afraid I was too abrupt with him and I try to fix it. Let's play the mental association game, shall we? No, it's a silly game. Not even to do me a favor? All right, come on: if it's to do you a favor... Answer point blank, without thinking about it. I say a name and you answer the first thing that comes to mind. Well, let's start. Archilochus. Mercenary, shield, the hand of Neobùle. Sappho. Ugly woman, the boatman, the leap from the cliff of Lefkada. Catullus. Sparrow, Lesbia, Sirmione. Lesbia. Sparrows, kisses and sighs. As "I" imagined: it's all to be redone. Tomorrow we start reading the complete work of Catullus starting from the poem ninety-nine. Why exactly from that? You'll understand tomorrow. Okay. You should stop saying okay: the same thing can be said otherwise: "I agree", "it's fine". Okay, I agree, it's fine. He lies down on his back to look at the sky, tickling Pan's belly, who by a conditioned reflex begins to mimic the gesture of scratching himself with his hind paw. Then he throws out a question in a distracted tone: What exactly do you do in your learned mornings? I'm doing a job that will seem boring to you: a collation. Collection? What do you collect? You can save yourself such jokes, my kid. They are old and boring. It wasn't a joke, it's pure ignorance. Collation, not collection: it means comparison. It's good to know that you spend your mornings comparing. And what do you compare? At the moment I am comparing the Greek original of an astronomical poem by Aratus with its three Latin translations. I find Cicero's version interesting: I quoted it just yesterday in an article on the use of caesuras in the archaic Latin hexameter. "Do" you publish articles? Yes, in specialized magazines. Oh. Then you are an important person. Do not joke. And then? Tell me, I'm all ears. Then my teacher asked me to verify the correspondence between Aratus' astronomical treatment and that of his main scientific source, Eudoxus of Cnidus. And what are you concluding? That Aratus was incompetent. Great. And what else do you do in life, besides writing completely useless things? I keep a completely useless readership. On what? On the metrical structure of Euripides' Aristophanesian parody. Put like that, it sounds like a bore, but I assure you it's not. I believe you on faith. What is it about? Aeschylus in the Otherworld shows Euripides that a flagon always fits in his verses. This already seems less boring. Aristophanes is a genius. Really? Yes. You'll realise that by studying him. Are you that good with metrics? I get by, although to be honest there is one line that is giving me trouble: it seems to me to be a maior ionic with ditrochean anaclasis, but I'm not at all sure. Is it important to know? From which point of view? From any point of view. I answer him after a moment of silence. Nothing is important, kid. One dies anyway. Precisely because one dies, one should not waste time on useless things, don't you think? What would be the useful ones? I don't know, but certainly not these. Cultivate land? Earning lots of money? Be a Red Cross volunteer? Sailing around the world? Or what? Just to see what's important to you. Forget it, I bullshitted. Besides, I don't just live off that, I also do other things with my life. Like wasting time on me? Yeah, that too. There's only one person who could convince me to devote myself full-time to philology: I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, if only he'd say 'drop everything and come with me'. Jesus Christ? You're no fun, kid. Don't take everything personally. Come on, tell me who this guy is that you'd follow to the ends of the earth. Professor Mustard. What does this professor teach, french fries at McDonald's? Always the funny one. Professor Mustard teaches classical philology at the University of Lecce and is a distinguished historian of antiquity. I would do anything for him, absurd investigations, boring research, compilation work... I would work for free, I would even move there right away. So far away? Yes, no regrets. To stay and work here is pointless. Why? Too long to explain. Trust me. What about my brother? Your brother knows me, he'd understand. I'm not a worldly person, I'm good in the midst of books and characters from the past. That is, among the dead. They are much more alive than most people I know. Do you know that you have more or less the ideals of a mole, prof? If you think so, let's stop right now: I don't want to inflict my mole ideals on you. No, what's that got to do with it: I'm glad you're helping me, you can see I'm trying. It's just that, I don't know how to put it, I find it hard to connect a nice girl with such pallid things. I remain interjected for a moment. If it was meant to be a compliment, you've failed badly. What's a pretty girl supposed to do, be a starlet on TV? Hook up with a rich husband? As for the rich husband, I'd say you're on the right track. Now you're insulting. Did it ever occur to you that I might be in love with your brother? No, actually it never crossed my mind, but I think it's because I've known my brother since I was born: he's not the type someone like you falls in love with. I snap out of it. All right, that's enough. If you're going to put it that way I'm leaving, I'm not willing to be sassed by a sixteen year old. Okay, okay, don't get pissed off. And stop saying okay, you sound like a Fonzie caricature. Who's the Fonzie? Yeah, silly me, how would you know? I forgot I'm a Jurassic relic. Get up, we're going home: it’s late. All right, I get it, I'm sorry. I misspoke, I said a lot of offensive, macho bullshit. I just wanted to understand what your purpose in life is, that's all. Please, can you excuse me? I take a moment to make up my mind. Then I take a deep breath and sit back down. I have a brain, kid: why shouldn't I cultivate it? Males have always done it and no one asks why. Males never have to justify themselves. The world continues to think male: apart from motherhood, you would think that no other kind of creativity is allowed to women. What about pink quotas? What about them? They are nonsense: it's not like a woman has the right to hold political office just because she is a woman. Right, I agree. I was talking about spiritually elevated activities: art, philosophy, non-material creativity. Have you ever thought about the fact that man proceeds in a straight line while woman always repeats the same cycle? On the one hand the Sistine Chapel, on the other the dirty nappies to change. That's why history is male. If it's any consolation, professor, I am male, but I certainly won't leave a trace in history. Besides, who cares about history. You're not normal. Thank you, huh. Seriously, it's not normal at all at sixteen to be walking around alone like a dog. With a dog. Besides, I'm not always alone. If I'm invited somewhere, I go. But you have no friends. True: I only have acquaintances. I look dumb, but I understand the difference. What's wrong with them? It is hard to explain. Give it a go. He sighs and crosses his arms behind his neck. They're fucking with me. First because I was too thin and had braces, now because I have long hair, don't wear designer jeans and don't like the things they like. Sometimes they call me a fag. For them it is an insult. Over time you'll get big paybacks, you'll see. I think you will become a beautiful boy. You say? Maybe, but it doesn't change much. In fact, it could make everything worse. Why? Because I don't care about those rematches. What others consider normal has a completely different effect on me. Sometimes I come home feeling all bruised. Bruised by what? By a lot of things. Life beats hard on me. I understand you. He turns to look at me. Do you really understand me? Really. He rests his head again and smiles. This is a good thing. Now study. No building can be built without bricks and mortar. What if one wanted to build an igloo? I glare at him and drop the open book on his face. Ouch! Are you stupid? Shut up and study. He turns around grumbling, leans on his elbows and immerses himself in the review. As I gather his books scattered in the grass, I am curious about the sight of a thick notebook with a worn leather cover: I take it in my hand without opening it. He sees me out of the corner of his eye. My grandfather gave it to me he says It's my diary. Do you keep a diary? Of course: before I met you I had no one to talk to. That's a really nice compliment. I put down the notebook. You can read it, if you want. I would feel very indiscreet. I'm an open book to you, you know. How stupid you are, Emmanuel. I leaf through the diary feeling a strange thrill. In the middle of the diary I see a passage entitled "Saucepan". I lean against a tree trunk using my bent knees for a lectern and try to decipher the small, tangled left-handed handwriting. I own a gray dog named Saucepan. As a dog he's not worth much: if he's intelligent he doesn't show it; he's cowardly, boring, expressionless as a fish. Physically it resembles a bicycle frame. He is disobedient and not even too faithful. I bought it at the Porta Palazzo market, but I told my parents that I found it on the street. He was inside a cage, dirty and fetid, together with a dozen other puppies, all more beautiful than him. I noticed it because, more than a dog, it looked like a big pantegana. He blankly stared at people and when he saw me he started barking. I passed by to go buy a cd, but on my return, as soon as he saw me, he started barking again; when I stopped in front of the cage he stopped and started wagging his tail: so I understood that he really wanted me. I gave the seller whatever was left in my pocket and took it away stuffed in a plastic bag. He doesn't give me any satisfaction: when I call him he doesn't obey, he steals from waste, he doesn't know how to behave like a civilized dog, he gnaws at everything and only obeys if I threaten him. He lacks the most basic instincts: he doesn't sense dangers, he's not distrustful, he doesn't defend himself, he constantly risks ending up crushed under a car or mauled by dogs bigger than him, in front of which he never backs down; I've had him stitched up a couple of times already, his legs are all a patch. He loves cats, but cats don't love him: a street cat split his nose in half and one of the two halves risked detaching; luckily with a plaster he went in place. He even tried to nurse abandoned kittens: he put them on his stomach and licked them like a mother. Strange as it may seem, the kittens survived. He is a discolored and mushy dog, his hair is greasy, opaque and stinky; I wash him often, but it's all in vain: he always stinks. His eyes are round and glassy, colorless; as a child he had them in a magnificent light blue and they were his only beauty. He has a personal treasure under a tree in the garden: he has collected all the pine cones he could find, a rag, a couple of bottle bottoms, a piece of aluminum foil and a dead sparrow; he spends half his days guarding the treasure and nibbling on pinecones. The other half is spent barking at passers-by, and a strange crest of hair stands up on his back because he's afraid they'll react: he's a strange cross between a daredevil and a coward. He is an unfortunate being who exists and survives by mistake, a mistake of nature: and it is precisely for this that I love him. He gives me nothing, perhaps not even affection; but it is enough for me to see him live, to be alive and happy thanks to me. This made me reflect on the meaning of love. I will never fall in love with a lucky and beautiful girl. I could fall madly in love with a mediocre woman, not despite that, but precisely because of that: to see her live, laugh, be happy thanks to me. Yes, I'm sure: if I ever fall in love, I will fall in love with a loser. I close the diary. I watch him for a long time as he finishes the review lying in the grass, with his temples resting on his fists, his knees bent and his ankles crossed. He is a strange boy. Finally he raises his head. "I'm ready," he says, handing me the book. As I leaf through it he gets up and stretches his legs, hopping, as if to train for the interrogation. Then suddenly he crouches next to me and kisses my cheek. Why? I ask him. So, there's no reason. I'm happy. Me too. And I will be even more so when you have repeated the conditional clause to me by heart.