Viper

42

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii For a split second Franco Castellani couldn't work out the cause of the sharp slapping sensation inside his head. Still slow and wasted from the heroin, he gradually realized that the pain was coming from his grandfather's hand rather than from the after-effects of the drug.

'What in God's name do you think you are doing? You crazy crazy, child!'

Franco covered his face. Not that the slaps carried much weight. Rosa. His fingers still smelled of Rosa.

'Sit up! Sit up and tell me that this is not what I think it is. Not what I know it is.'

Antonio backed off to give him room. Franco forced his eyes open wide enough to see the syringe and the empty plastic packet being dangled above him. The air was hot and stale. Flies buzzed around a dirty plate near his cousin's bed. Franco finally commanded his legs to move and raised himself into a sitting position. The door jerked open and blinding white light flooded in. Paolo stopped in his tracks, fresh bread and milk in a carrier bag swinging in his hand.

'Get out!' shouted Antonio.

Paolo turned on his heels.

Franco noticed his cousin had been dressed in work clothes. He guessed he'd overslept and his grandfather had come looking for him. 'It's heroin,' he admitted, shielding the light from his face. 'If you were me, you'd be taking it too. Lots of it.'

His grandfather slapped him again. 'Don't give me this self-pity shit. Be proud of who you are, what you are.'

Franco put his hands back to his face; this time the blows had stung. 'What I am? I'm the living dead, that's what I am.'

Antonio hit him again. Slapped hard at the boy's stubborn head. Tried to knock some sense into his thick skull. Then he grabbed him. Shook him and held him. And felt his own tears stream down his face. 'Franco, you shame yourself with this stuff. You disrespect yourself and your family. We are not junkies. We are not cowards. Whatever life throws at us we raise our heads above it and show the world we are proud to be ourselves.'

'But I'm not, Grandpa. I'm not proud.' His voice was shaky and his eyes watery. 'I hate myself and everything that's happening to me.'

Antonio held his grandson by the arms. His brown, liver-spotted fingers dug into the thin white forearms snaked with needle tracks. 'Don't do this, Franco. Be a man. Come on; find your self-respect.'

Franco Castellani searched deep inside himself. There was no trace of self-respect. Only a stinking sump-oil residue of painful memories. His jailbird father, his runaway mother and his current fleapit, hand-to-mouth existence. Finding respect was impossible.

'I'm sorry,' he said and kissed the top of his grandfather's head. 'I know I disappoint you. Mi dispiace.'

Before Antonio could reassure him, Franco had pulled away from his grandfather and was gone. Leaving the wind to slam shut the rusty old door of the van.