The Lake

{1913 - Somewhere in Northern Italy}

“Can you keep a little secret, Son?” Said the man in his mid-40s to a young Davide sitting on the other edge of the blue bench beside the lake. 

The lake made tiny waves a few feet from them every time a dipper bird dived in looking for an evening snack on a particularly cloudy day.

The man’s greying hair fluttered with the breeze as he looked intently at the mountains on the other side of the lake. Two scars jarred his face - lining up like the faraway mountain hills. One ran horizontally on his forehead. The other - vertically from the side of his left eye all the way below his ears.

“Excuse me” Davide took a pause from reading, “Are you asking me?”

He broke his distant gaze and turned towards the boy, “I don’t see anybody else around.” His low-pitched voice scratched like sandpaper when rubbed against granite.

“Yes.” Davide reluctantly agreed.

“You agree that there is no-one around?” The man chuckled as he fixed his posture and sat upright. He brushed dried leaves off his old weathered coat. 

It must have been clear brown once, Davide thought, like father’s coat. Now it resembled the shade of dried leaves stuck on it. 

“I meant yes, I can keep a secret sir.” He responded in haste this time, trying to convey an urgency to return to his book. 

The man leaned over to catch a few words from the book. “Ah! Literature. Always wanted to be a god-damned poet.”

“Sorry?” The little outburst got him wary. 

The man pulled out a box of cigar from his pocket and picked one of the last two left in the box. He offered the last one to Davide which he meekly denied with a shake of his head. “You’ll eventually.” Remarked the man as he placed the box back in his pocket and took out a slim, fancy looking matchbox. It instantly grabbed Davide’s imagination. He had never seen one like it before.

The man noticed Davide’s fascination with the matchbox. He lit his Cigar and pushed his hand out, “It’s yours.” Davide, unsure of the reason for the gesture, took the slick matchbox and scrubbed its shiny surface to feel the texture.

“Where were we?” A cloud of smoke rose up as he let a long relaxed exhale out. Oh yes, the secret. But you mustn’t tell anyone or I will have to kill you.” 

Davide, still fascinated with the matchbox, grinned in response to the man’s boisterous laughter that followed the joke. 

The man leaned towards Davide once again and whispered, “The lake sends a gift to special kids.”

“A gift?” Davide inquired.

“Yes. A special gift for a special child.” The man blurted in a rustled baritone worthy of a secret. “A friend from the future.”

“From the future? How?” Davide’s curiosity mixed with the cloud of smoke from the cigar and rose up.

 “The question isn’t how, but who?” The man said looking away at the mountains.

“Who?”

“Me.” He turned towards Davide. “I am your friend from the future and you’re that special kid, Davide.”

Davide felt nervous when he heard his name.

“How do you know my name?” He sprung to his feet, uncomfortable with where the discussion was suddenly headed.

Davide dropped the matchbox and picked up his schoolbag. He unzipped the the bag and hastily placed his book inside. “ I need to head home. My mother must be waiting for dinner.” He turned around to leave.

“Your mother has been bed-ridden for two years. She can’t even wash her hands, let alone make dinner.” The man’s voice interrupted Davide’s quick strides. “Sure, your father will beat you if you’re late. But then, he will probably beat you anyway.”

“Also, your mother has a tomcat called Battista, who bosses you around but you think you don’t need a boss who licks his own balls.”

The man took another long puff of the cigar. Davide found it difficult to lift another foot.

“So yes. I know your name and everything else about you.” He said calmly, careful not press the little boy any further with dramatics.

“You want to know how?” 

Davide took a slow turn towards the man. “How?”

“Because I am who you become 30 years from now. So you don’t need to fear me kid. If I harm you, I harm myself.”

“You are bluffing Signor. I know you’re. My mother had warned me about strangers.” 

The man didn’t respond. He kept looking at the mountains and took another puff.

“You want to become a poet.” He said. “But you are bullied by other boys because you’re the only one who chose literature with 12 other girls in your class.”

“What do they call you?” The man looked at Davide. With squinted eyes, he tried to recall the name, “Ah yes! Palle Rotte, No? Broken balls.” 

The man let out a hearty laugh. “You have to admit, it’s a little funny.”

A few drops of tears escaped Davide’s eyes and rolled down his cheek as he mumbled, “No.”

“Sorry, What?” The man asked.

“It’s not funny.” Davide shrieked. He felt his gut churn. The pulsating anger he had bottled in, throbbed to find a way out. 

“Oh sweet Davide, it is!” The man exclaimed. “In a few years you find those bullies and get them executed. It is funny how you become what you hate the most.”

“What I become what I hated the most.” He corrected himself. “A bully.”

“I get them exe… No.” Davide felt his knees quivering with anxiety. He thought it was best to sit on the soft grass beside the lake.

For the first time, the man looked at him with compassion. He stood up and walked over to a weeping Davide and took his place beside him.

“Let me tell you who you do become though. It’s not all bad.” He said gently patting Davide’s shoulders whose innocent was still processing what the man said.

“Tomorrow you score an A in your literature test. Your teacher, Signor Giuseppe helps you get your poem published in The Sunday Mail. In a couple of years, your poem /‘Maroon Country’/ will become the symbol of nationalist pride. You’ll have the attention of the leaders. They will come to you like flies flock to a lamp. In another few years, a new era will begin in Italy called the National Fascist Party and you will become the young artistic face of its propaganda machinery. Of course, you would think that you’re doing it to save your country. To eliminate the communists and other anti-nationals.” 

Amidst his passionate soliloquy, the man failed to notice that Davide had been listening to his words intently. He had never imagined that his love for writing poems would take him so far. How could he? He was all but 13 years old. He knew nothing of the ways of the world. The man continued.

“You become a powerful man. A really successful and a powerful man. Your books on rising fascism and anti-semitism will be sold all across the Europe. You poems will be sung aloud when carriage full of jews are lined up for detention. You will work with the greatest scientists of your time to send coded messages to Hitler in Germany. Your poems will echo in the streets when political opponents are dragged by their hair, when their spouses and daughters are molested and brutalised. Until one day when…..” His voice cracked at this point. The lump made it difficult to speak.

“What happens then?” Davide’s curiosity had hit its peak.

“Until one day when your sister joins the resistance. A year later she will be dragged by hair and paraded naked through the streets of Bologna. She will be thrown in a detention centre for the protestors where she’ll be raped by a whole platoon of national guards before being executed.” It was the man’s turn to tear up. “Her death will be a kindness.”

“Silvia?” A shocked Davide blurted.

“Yes. Silvia. She must be 5 year old now, right?” The man didn’t wait for a response. 

“Everything will feel different after that. There will be no pride left. No power and no success. Only guilt and remorse. They will eat you from within. And Nightmares will haunt you every time you close your eyes. And then…” He paused to gather his trembling breath.

“And then?” 

“And then you will try to make the nightmares stop by switching sides. You will manipulate the codes to inform the enemies about the plans. The resistance will eventually take down the fascists and democracy will return.”

“So I will save the country?”

“Not in the least son. The Allies will start trials soon after the war and declare you a perpetrator of crimes against humanity. The resistance will forever look at you as their enemy and rightly so - your poems would have killed millions of men, women and children by then. The leftovers of fascists will want your head for betrayal. For years and years, you’ll be in hiding, fearing for your life every waking second. And there will be a lot of those seconds and minutes and days because nightmares wouldn’t let you sleep.”

“You will betray everyone and all you’ll be left with are scars to show for it.”

The man turned to Davide who was shivering at his place. “Why? Why would so many bad things happen to me?” He asked in his guileless tone looking at the scars on the man’s face.

“Because you are angry at your bullies now. Your anger will soon turn into hatred. And with success your hatred will turn into a raging thirst- baying for blood.”

“What should I do?”

The man smiled. “It is so easy son. Don’t be angry. Let it go. Don’t let it control you.”

“But how? I hate it when they call me Palle Rotte.”

“They don’t know any better, kid. They will never see success like you. Write poems about love and heartbreak. About the sky, the clouds, the million stars and that extraordinary girl you’ll meet. Write about loss and sadness. About the universe. You’ve a gift. A special power. You will see things like no one does. Use it for the good of the people. And you see, everything will be alright, son.”

“It is so strange.” Davide jumped up on his feet.

“What is?” 

“I am not angry with the boys who bully me. I mean, I can imagine them calling me names but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

The man smiled as he started breaking into little pieces of dust.

Davide saw the man disintegrating and shrieked, “Wait.. Where are you going?”

Before his existence merged with the breeze, he looked at Davide and said smiled , “You have freed me from my betrayals son. Now I will go and sleep where there are no nightmares.”