Me and You

Niccolò Ammaniti, Kylee Doust

• Publisher: Black Cat
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9780857861986
• eBook ISBN: 9780802194701
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

The bestselling author of I'm Not Scared "elegizes adolescence fiercely and sympathetically" in a novel that's "scary, lovely and at last a heartbreaker" ( Kirkus Reviews).
 
Lorenzo Cuni is a fourteen-year-old loner. His wealthy parents think he is away on a school skiing trip, but in fact he has stowed away in a forgotten cellar. For a week he plans to live in perfect isolation, keeping the adult world at bay. Then a visit from his estranged half-sister, Olivia, changes everything.
 
Evoking the fierce intensity and the pulse-quickening creepiness of  I'm Not Scared, Ammaniti's bestselling first novel,  Me and You is a breathtaking tale of alienation, acceptance, and wanting to be loved by "a fearsomely gifted writer" ( The Independent).
 
"Immensely engaging . . . Both tender and emotionally arresting, Ammaniti's novel is unforgettable." — Publishers Weekly, starred review
 
"Italian author Niccolò Ammaniti does a lot in 160 pages, including surprise, humor, and frighten you—sometimes simultaneously." —Daily Candy
 
"Ammaniti's prose is nimble, perceptive and economical . . . There's a lot to love about this book—its reticent empathy, its delicate and pragmatic treatment of addiction, its remarkable use of restricted physical space." —Full Stop
 
" Me and You takes a short time to read but offers a memorable experience in a mutual recognition of loneliness and grief." — Curled Up With a Good Book
 
" Me And You, at just over one hundred pages . . . [is a] perfect book . . . Niccolò Ammaniti disgusts me for how talented he is . . . He has written a masterpiece." —Antonio D'Orrico,  Corriere della Sera

Rome

Ten years earlier

1

On the evening of the eighteenth of February 2000 I went to bed early and dropped off straight away, but during the night I woke up and wasn’t able to get back to sleep.

At ten minutes past six, with the feather quilt pulled up underneath my chin, I was breathing with my mouth open.

The house was quiet. The only sounds I could hear were the rain tapping against the window, my mother walking backwards and forwards between the bedroom and the bathroom upstairs, and the air going in and out of my throat. Soon she would come and wake me up to take me to the meeting with the others. I turned on the cricket-shaped lamp that sat on the bedside table.

The green light painted the slice of the room where my backpack sat, swollen with clothes, beside the waterproof jacket and the bag with my ski boots and skis.

Between my thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays I’d had a growth spurt, as if they’d put fertiliser on me, and I was taller than my peers. My mother said that two carthorses had stretched me. I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror studying my white skin stained with freckles, the hairs on my legs. On the top of my head grew a hazel bush that had ears sticking out of it. The shape of my face had been remodelled by puberty, and a substantial nose separated two green eyes.

I got up and I slid my hand into the pocket of the backpack.

‘The pocket knife’s there. So is the torch. I’ve got everything,’ I whispered.

My mother’s footsteps moved down the hallway. She must be wearing the blue high heels, I thought.

I dived back into bed, turned off the light and pretended to be asleep.

‘Lorenzo, wake up. It’s late.’

I lifted my head off the pillow and rubbed my eyes.

My mother pulled up the shutters. ‘It’s a foul day . . . Let’s hope the weather’s better in Cortina.’

The gloomy light of the dawn reflected her thin silhouette. She was wearing the grey skirt and jacket that she used when she did important stuff. Her round-necked cardigan. Her pearls. And her blue high heels.

‘Good morning,’ I yawned, as if I’d just woken up.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did you sleep well, darling?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to make you breakfast . . . You go have a shower in the meantime.’

‘What about Nihal?’

She combed my hair with her fingers. ‘He’s still asleep. Did he give you your ironed T-shirts?’

I nodded.

‘Get up, come on.’

I wanted to, but a weight on my chest was suffocating me.

‘What’s the matter?’

I took her hand. ‘Do you love me?’

She smiled. ‘Of course I love you.’ She stood up, looked at her reflection in the mirror beside the door and smoothed out her skirt.

‘Get up, come on. On a day like today do I have to beg you to get out of bed?’

‘Kiss.’

She bent over me. ‘Look, you’re not joining the army, you’re going skiing for a week.’

I hugged her and slid my head under her blonde hair, which hung over her face, and I put my nose against her neck.

She had a nice smell. It made me think of Morocco. Of its narrow alleyways full of stalls with coloured powders. But I had never been to Morocco.

‘What perfume is that?’

‘It’s sandalwood soap. The usual.’

‘Can you lend it to me?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘So I can wash myself with it and carry you with me.’

She pulled the covers off me. ‘That would be a first, you washing yourself. Come on, don’t be silly, you won’t have time to think about me.’

Through the car window I studied the wall of the zoo covered in wet election posters. Higher up, inside the aviary where they kept the birds of prey, a vulture was sitting on a dry branch. It looked like an old woman dressed in mourning, asleep in the rain.

The heating inside the car made it hard to breathe and the biscuits I’d had for breakfast were stuck at the back of my throat.

The rain was easing up. A couple – he was fat, she was skinny – were doing exercises on the leaf-covered steps of the Modern Art Museum.

I looked at my mother.

‘What is it?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the road.

I puffed up my chest, trying to imitate my father’s low voice: ‘Arianna, you should wash this car. It’s a pigsty on wheels.’

She didn’t laugh. ‘Did you say goodbye to your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Not to be silly and not to ski like a maniac.’ I paused. ‘And not to call you every five minutes.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Yes.’

She changed gear and turned down Flaminia. The city was beginning to fill up with cars.

‘Call me whenever you want. Have you got everything? Your music? Your mobile?’

‘Yes.’

The grey sky hung heavily above the roofs and between the antennas.

‘Did you pack the bag with the medicines? Did you put the thermometer in there?’

‘Yes.’

A guy on a Vespa laughed into the mobile stuck under his helmet.

‘Money?’

‘Yes.’

We crossed the bridge over the Tiber.

‘We checked the rest together yesterday evening. You’ve got everything.’

‘Yes, I’ve got everything.’

We were waiting at the stoplight. A woman in a Fiat 500 was staring in front of her. An old man was dragging two Labradors along the footpath. A seagull was crouching on the skeleton of a tree covered in plastic bags that stuck out of the mud-coloured water.

If God had come and asked me if I wanted to be that seagull, I would have answered yes.

I undid my seat belt. ‘Drop me off here.’

She looked at me as if she hadn’t understood. ‘What do you mean, here?’

‘I mean, here.’

The light turned green.

‘Pull over, please.’

But she kept on driving. Luckily there was a rubbish truck that slowed us down.

‘Mum! Pull over.’

‘Put your seatbelt back on.’

‘Please stop.’

‘But why?’

‘I want to get there on my own.’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

I raised my voice. ‘Stop, please.’

My mother pulled over, turned off the engine and pulled her hair back with her hand. ‘What’s going on? Lorenzo, please, let’s not start . . . You know I’m no good at this time of the morning.’

‘It’s just that . . .’ I squeezed my hands into a fist. ‘Everyone else is going there on their own. I can’t turn up with you. I’ll look like a loser.’

‘What are you saying?’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m supposed to just leave you here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I don’t even thank Alessia’s parents?’

I shrugged. ‘There’s no need. I’ll thank them for you.’

‘Not on your life.’ And she turned the key in the ignition.

I flung myself on her. ‘No . . . No . . . Please.’

She pushed me back. ‘Please, what?’

‘Let me go by myself. I can’t turn up with my mummy. They’ll make fun of me.’

‘That’s just silly . . . I want to make sure that everything is all right, if I have to do anything. It’s the least I can do. I’m not rude like you.’

‘I’m not rude. I’m just like all the others.’

She flicked the indicator on. ‘No. No way.’

I hadn’t counted on my mother caring this much about taking me there.

The anger was starting to build. I started banging my fists on my legs.

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Nothing.’ I squeezed the door handle until my knuckles were white. I could rip off the rear-view mirror and smash the car window.

‘Why do you have to act like a child?’

‘You’re the one who treats me like a . . . dickhead.’

She stared daggers at me. ‘Don’t swear. You know I can’t stand it. And there’s no need for you to make such a scene.’

I punched the dashboard. ‘Mum, I want to go there on my own, for Christ’s sake.’ The anger was pushing against my throat. ‘All right. I won’t go. Are you happy?’

‘Look, I am really getting cross, Lorenzo.’

I had one last card to play. ‘Everybody else said they were going there on their own. I’m the only one who always turns up with his mummy. That’s why I have these issues . . .’

‘Now don’t make me out to be the one who causes your problems.’

‘Dad said I have to be independent. That I have to have my own life. That I have to break away from you.’

My mother closed her eyes and pressed her thin lips together as if she were trying to stop herself from talking. She turned around and stared at the cars driving by.

‘This is the first time they’ve asked me along . . . what will they think of me?’ I added.

She looked around as if she was hoping someone would tell her what to do.

I squeezed her hand. ‘Mum, don’t worry . . .’

She shook her head. ‘No, I will worry.’

***

With my arm round the skis, the bag with the ski boots in my hand and the backpack on my shoulders I watched my mother do a U-turn. I waved and waited until the BMW had disappeared over the bridge.

I headed up Viale Mazzini. I went past the RAI building. About a metre before reaching via Col di Lana I slowed down. My heart beat faster. I had a bitter taste in my mouth like I’d been licking copper wire. All the stuff I was carrying made me clumsy. I felt like I was in a sauna inside my goose down jacket.

When I came to the intersection, I poked my head round the corner. At the end of the street, parked in front of a modern-style church, was a big Mercedes SUV. I could see Alessia Roncato, her mother, the Sumerian and Oscar Tommasi stuffing their luggage into the car boot. A Volvo with a pair of skis on the roof rack pulled up next to the SUV and Richard Dobosz got out and ran over to the others. Soon Dobosz’s father also got out.

I drew back behind the wall. I put the skis down, unzipped my jacket and took another look around the corner.

Now Alessia’s mother and Dobosz’s father were tying the skis to the roof rack. The Sumerian was hopping from side to side pretending to take a shot at Dobosz. Alessia and Oscar Tommasi were talking on their mobiles.

It took them ages to get ready. Alessia’s mother kept getting...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Also by Niccolò Ammaniti
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Cividale del Friuli 12 January 2010
• Rome Ten years earlier
• Cividale del Friuli 12 June 2010
• About this Guide
• Questions for Discussion