8969-8970. A chapter.

III

First, they hear the engine: the rumble that can come out even from two small air-cooled cylinders, if the muffler is punctured or missing entirely. The four raise their heads and see the car arrive. A white Fiat 500 with a dark hood, perhaps red. Not out of some fashion; only the result of a bad repair, made with a piece found by the car wrecker. In short, a pile of real rubbish that, a few meters after passing next to them, puts the arrow and stops.

In the 1100 everything freezes. Even their breath. Nicola, the New, stops contemplating his confusion. Together with the others, he looks at the 500 that turns left, slowly climbs the sidewalk, goes over it, crosses the beaten ground in front of the tower block next to it and ends up parking in the space between another 500 and an NSU Prinz mirror polished by its proud owner.

"Come on," says the elder of the Fantoni, adjusting the puncher that he slipped on his right fingers: five steel rings, welded together and with rounded reliefs, almost like artificial knuckles, to do even more harm.

"No!", Ludovico stops him, in a tone that leaves no doubt about who is in control, that evening: "Let's wait for him to get out: if he sees us first, he is able to run away!"

"But ..." The voice of the other twin Fantoni reveals a certain nervousness: "I say, but are we sure it's him?"

An idiotic question. As if there were many cars around with such a hood or heads of blond curls like the one that emerges from the 500. A head followed by the body of a giant who struggles to free himself from the driving seat and straightens himself in all his stature. He wears jeans and a white T-shirt, with a design that is difficult to distinguish. It looks really high; huge.

"Fuck," comments the old Fantoni, "he must be two meters tall".

“So?” Ludovico silences him, “what does it mean? If they are tall, they hurt more when they go down. " A bold statement, to flaunt certainty that, basically, he does not prove. There is a reason if Roberto wanted four of them to go. Well, at least three, waiting to understand what the New can be worth. Zeno the-hell-his-surname is not an orator: he has become someone, within the Movement, because when he has to lead, he does not hold back. A picture of him also ended up on the Corriere della Sera. His hair and nothing else emerging from a swarm of policemen. Five or six: those who had served to keep him still, a year earlier, in March '68 to be precise, during the half revolution that broke out at the Catholic University. Twenty thousand people: one of the biggest demonstrations that had been seen. Things that Ludovico doesn't want to think too much about, though. He has a mission to accomplish. He stays focused and watch Zeno bend over to close the door of the small car. He waits for him to do it then he says, "Now!"

He and the two Fantoni rush out of the 1100.

The New, as expected, does not move. Not immediately, at least. He has an indecision like those that can precede the signature of an important document. He's blocked by a struggle between opposing desires that do not arise from rational thoughts, but from instincts. In the end, after five long seconds, he too gets out, but without enthusiasm; moving with difficulty.

Ludovico and the two Fantoni have almost reached the blonde. The younger of the twins has an iron tube as long as a forearm in his hand. The other twin is beside him with his puncher.

Zeno is waiting for them. He heard the noise of the doors opening. He spun around. He saw them get out. He stays still. He looks even taller. His curls are dyed orange by the light of a lamppost.

Nicola, the New, suddenly starts running towards him. Towards what is about to happen. Whatever it is, he feels the need not to be missed. Yes, the need. Made of a heart that started to beat wildly. Of an adrenaline rush. Of sudden excitement.

The younger of the Fantoni raised the iron pipe. His twin loaded his fist.

Ludovico has remained two steps behind but seems ready for anything.

Zeno takes off at that precise moment. He is a veteran. He is a fighter. In such situations, when others would panic, he is more lucid than ever. He assessed the situation. He understood that if he attacked one of the twins, the other would take him from behind. He doesn't even try to hit them. It launches into the gap that divides them. A space a step wide that opened to give way to the younger to handle his weapon. An opening that does not have time to close again. The twins are taken by surprise. The younger takes the hit, but is now late. The iron pipe emits a low hiss in the air. All that affects. The elder, with his iron knuckles, centers Zeno on one shoulder. Too little to stop him. Zeno doesn't even notice it. He keeps on running. He comes upon Ludovico who, for his part, is still motionless, with his mouth open in surprise.

Not even Ludovico is a novice. He participated in clashes. He gave and took some hits. His talents, however, are different. He's a calculator. He can evaluate; he can make considerations. If he had something more, that something more that he knows he doesn't have, would be an excellent leader. That evening he realizes that he also lacks reflexes; the ability to react to the unexpected. He finds out for the price of a broken nose. The result of a blow to the face. A kind of wide slap, with which Zeno sweeps him away. Really like a twig.

Nicola, however, discovers the exact opposite. To be able to act without thinking. Relying on instinct. Recovering the distant memory of the year that he has spent with the youth team of the city's rugby club. One year only. Then he stopped liking that sport, of which he had become infatuated after seeing some pictures of it on Sports Sunday. And the field was too far from home. And he had to study. And ... So many "and" who had made him stop, but not before learning how to tackle.

Zeno does not stop running, but looks over his shoulder. Ludovico is on the ground, with his hands on his face. The two Fantoni are chasing him, but without any conviction. They may be strong, but they are slow. Zeno feels he has made it. Maybe he saw Nicola, but he forgot about it. Anyway, he must not have considered it dangerous.

Nicola, on the other hand, does not take his eyes off him. Just like they taught him to do with his opponent. He waits for him to be just one step away, then he almost dives forward. Moving down. Trying to hit Zeno on the abdomen with the shoulder. He manages to do so while Zeno is still looking back. Taking him by surprise. Blocking him as if he had collided with a wall. Pulling him to the ground with him.

Zeno kicks. He hits Nicola on the back with punches that seem to be hammer-blows.

Nicola, however, does not let go. Nothing would make him loosen what has become a kind of embrace. Heels the body of the other under him. His strength. His vitality. He would like to tame him; to subdue him. To own him. As if it were his only reason for being in the world.

The Fantoni twins arrive. They grab Zeno's hands. They keep him still. The oldest goes to sit on his chest. He crushes him on the ground and starts hitting him. Four, five, six punches, with fingers covered by those iron rings, until the head of blond curls no longer moves.

The two Fantonis get up.

Nicola also gets up. With shortness of breath and a heart that continues to pump pure adrenaline. He couldn't take it anymore, Zeno's blows must have filled his back with bruising, yet it is as if everything had ended too soon for him. He looks down, almost with nostalgia. Zeno still lies inert: the iron puncher has erased his face; turned it into a blood mask.

Blood continues to flow from Ludovico's nose too. He too got up. He has reached the others and looks down, to the enemy still lifeless. "Son of a bitch," he comments. Words that accompanies with a spit. Saliva, phlegm, and blood that mix with the blood on Zeno's face.

For a moment it's just silence, hard breathings and Zeno's rattle.

Ludovico orders: "Let's get out of the way."

The others hesitate. Ludovico insists, "fuck, let's go, before someone comes", and he starts. The others follow him.

Finally Nicola, who, arrived at the 1100, returns to look towards Zeno. He sees that he is recovering; that he is on all fours, with his head down, his chin resting on his chest. From the tip of his nose drops of blood fall towards the asphalt.

Nicola does not get into the car. Goes back to him.

Ludovico says something. Give an order.

Nicola doesn't hear it. He hears nothing. He doesn't think anything. Only he feels the need to finish; to seek a kind of fulfillment. An impulse that must not act alone; which must be combined with others who oppose it. The result is the mechanical movements, almost jerky, with which he returns next to Zeno, still kneeling.

Nicola looks at him for another moment of silence, of a silence that weighs like lead: Zeno’s back; his white shirt torn and dirty; his curls.

Nicola says something. It is not understandable. Maybe even he wouldn't understand. Then he takes a half step back and unloads a terrible kick. To make those curls disappear. To erase them too. Go find out why.

Zeno seems hit by an electric shock. His head splashes upward then crashes onto the road followed by the rest of his body.

Nicola gasps as if he has just finished running a marathon. He's able to hear again.

"Fuck!" Ludovico shouts: "Fuck, you killed him!"