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1    
THE ROPE    
The subway's 3 train opens its doors, and Harvey Miller steps off. His long, messy hair hanging down over his eyes, Harvey waits for the crowd of passengers to disperse. Then he grouchily shoves his hands down into his pockets and walks over to the stairsleading outside. On the street, the air is filled with a strong burning smell. The asphalt glistens with rain. The sky over the rooftops of Harlem looks fragile.   The boy pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the address. There are potholes in the street. A tangle of roads make their way down to the river.   New York, January, northern end of Manhattan.   Harvey walks along. At the address he was looking for he finds a brick building with a basement. Closed windows sealed off by thick curtains. On the wall, graffiti. A family sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for who knows what. On the corner, someabandoned trash. Farther down, other stairways, other closed windows.   All around it are old, anonymous, grim-looking buildings. Farther down the block, a bar, a greengrocer's, a Middle Eastern diner. On the lampposts on the corner, posters for Black History Month are splattered with white paint. Harvey breathes in an airthat's filled with anger. The perfect neighborhood for a boxing gym.   It isn't hard to find. The gym's name is written in big letters on a dark awning. On the first floor, there are a labor lawyer's office, a few numbers and some indecipherable initials. There's no mistaking it. Number 89. The same number he's got writtendown. Still, Harvey hesitates. He walks partway past the building, leans against a rusty railing and stares at the door to the gym for a few moments. All the lights are on in the basement. Harvey checks his watch. It's five o'clock. The sky is almost completelydark.   What should he do? He can't decide. . . . He doesn't have an appointment, and he doesn't need to see anyone in particular. But he's had that address in his pocket for a week now, ever since he saw the black-and-white poster plastered to a column in theColumbus Circle station. At the top of it was the drawing of a guy wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. Written on his boxing gloves were the words:   Olympia Gym--Boxing and Greco-Roman Wrestling   He'd liked the poster and had copied down the name and address. The idea of coming all the way here had been stuck like a pin in his head ever since. He'd imagined himself throwing punches, and the thought of it had made him smile. It was a good idea forhim to learn to defend himself and be sure he could take on a stranger. Especially after what happened in Rome at New Year's.   Harvey rolls up on the balls of his feet and straightens his back, like he does whenever he has a problem.   Not far away from him, an old crow flies down and perches on a railing. It has a pointy beak and one eye is in terrible shape.   Harvey ignores it. He heads back and tries going down the flight of stairs leading to the basement. At the last step, from the other side of the door, he can hear the squeal of gym shoes on linoleum. Voices of people talking.   He's found the gym.   He knocks, spots a doorbell, rings it.   He waits. He glances back at the street above him.   The crow is still perched, motionless, on the railing. It scratches at its cloudy eye with one foot. Then, when the gym door starts to open, it flies off, disappearing among the rooftops.   Standing in the doorway is a young black woman. "I don't know you," she says to Harvey with a hint of a smile. She's very pretty. Short hair, damp with perspiration on her forehead, and big hazel eyes. Her slightly crooked nose gives her a rough-and-tumblelook. She's wearing a gray sweat suit, a sweatband of the same color around her head and a pair of bright, lilac-colored kneesocks. She doesn't have shoes on. And she's really heated up.   Harvey takes an almost imperceptible step back, thinking he's made a mistake. What's a woman doing in a boxing gym?   "My name's Harvey Miller and--"   Something crashes to the ground behind her. She whirls around and shouts, "Michael! You be careful with that punching bag or I'll make you buy a new one!" Then she turns back to Harvey and says, "Sorry. You were saying?"   Harvey runs his hand through his thick tangle of hair. "Never mind . . . ," he grumbles, feeling an irresistible desire to get out of there. "I guess I just misunderstood and . . ."   "What is it you think you misunderstood, Harvey Miller?" she replies, looking him up and down. Her tone of voice is sharp. Typical of someone who likes to provoke people. "Did you misunderstand because you don't really want to be here or because you realizedyou don't have the guts?"   "Hey!" Harvey protests. "I didn't say that. . . ."   As her only reply, she takes a little step to the side, letting him see a dirty gray linoleum floor, a wall lined with two rows of empty hooks, a few jackets and a wooden bench with gym bags resting on it. "You didn't say anything, but your face did. Wantto come in?"   Harvey's head sinks down between his shoulders and he hunches over suspiciously.   "You look shorter standing that way, Harvey Miller."   "You sound just like my mother."   "Your mother's right."   Harvey stands up straight, offended.   "That's better," the woman remarks. "Well?"   Harvey throws his hands up. "Well, what? What do you want me to say? I just came by to take a look."   "And what do you see?"   "I see you standing in the doorway!"   "So you came here to a boxing gym to see a woman standing here in a doorway?"   "No!" Harvey snaps impatiently. "I came here because I wanted to see a boxing gym!"   She nods for him to come in, a perfectly satisfied look on her face. "Rule number one," she says, "whoever loses his cool and his concentration loses the match. Rule number two: If you want to come to a boxing gym, you come wearing sweats and a T-shirt,not dressed up for school. In any case, I might have something to lend you."   "But I--"   "You don't need to pay for the first lesson. If you like it, you can keep coming. Otherwise, no hard feelings. Follow me."   A little confused, Harvey steps into the gym.   "And shut the door!" the woman yells without turning around. "You want us all to catch colds?"   Inside, the gym is pretty big. It's lit up by rows of white neon lights. No machines. No mechanical equipment. Just dozens of blue mats lying on the floor, wooden chin-up bars on the walls and a bunch of punching bags in all different sizes hanging fromthe ceiling. A teenager with his face hidden beneath the hood of a gray sweatshirt is jumping rope, crossing it beneath his feet.   In the center is the ring: a white platform encircled by thick ropes. Two people wearing blue and red foam rubber headgear are duking it out in a practice match. He can hear their gloves hissing through the air and the smacking thuds of their blows hittingtheir padded helmets.   The moment he sees them, Harvey stops, fascinated. The two have on tight-fitting shirts, silky-looking shorts and socks trimmed in dark blue. They're moving around on their tiptoes like ballerinas, but what they're doing isn't a dance. It's a battle.   "Terence and Evelyn are going to have their first real matches in a month. Both featherweights, but different tournaments, naturally," explains the woman, a few steps in front of Harvey.   "Evelyn?" he asks, noticing only then that one of the boxers is a young woman.   "Yeah, Evelyn . . . who happens to pack the strongest punch in this place." Then, noticing Harvey's surprise, she adds, "Did you think boxing was only for guys?"   When Harvey pulls his eyes away from the ring, he sees that the woman is holding her hand out to him. "Nice to have you here, Harvey Miller. I'm Olympia. I run this gym."       Olympia is leaning against the wall outside the men's locker room. Harvey can see her silhouette through the door's frosted glass panel. The walls of the room are covered with graffiti written by other boxers. The only shower seems to have lost its mixertap long ago, and the overall smell is a combination of mildew, sweat and clogged drains.   Sitting on the wooden bench, Harvey anxiously puts on a pair of worn-out gym shoes. He slides his thumbs around inside the heels to stretch them out a little as he shoves his feet in. He checks out his reflection in the mirror. He looks ridiculous, partlybecause nothing he's wearing is exactly his size. None of it is exactly clean, either. But he doesn't care.   He comes out of the locker room and walks over to Olympia, who doesn't bother with small talk. "We can start now if you want."   "How'd you know I was going to stay?" Harvey asks, following her over to the mats.   "Some things I can tell at first glance."   "Yeah? How?"   "You came alone. No dad dropping you off, telling me he was a boxer when he was your age, before he joined the army. No mom sniffing the locker room, letting me know the gym's too dirty."   "Yeah," Harvey remarks, thinking of his parents.   "We're here to box, not to do housecleaning," the trainer continues. Then she leads him over to the opposite corner of the gym, where a giant black punching bag is hanging from the ceiling. She hugs it and shows it to Harvey. "This is going to be yourenemy. But before you learn how to hit him"--she shoves it at the boy, bashing him square in the face--"you need to learn to take his punches." The bag gently swings back into her hands. "And before you learn to take his punches, you need to learn to dodgethem."   Harvey rubs his cheek, where he can still feel the sting left by the bag's rough canvas. "Sounds like a good idea," he grumbles.   "To learn how to dodge them, you need to understand your body's natural balance. Legs, arms, shoulders, torso, neck. And there's only one way to do that." Olympia bends down and picks up a rope from the floor. She hands it to Harvey. "Start jumping," sheorders him.   The boy grabs it, disappointed. "No gloves?"   "No gloves. Just a hundred jumps done well. Then push-ups, chin-ups and another hundred jumps. When you're done, we'll see if you're still standing. You do know how to jump rope, don't you?"   Harvey positions the rope behind his ankles, whirls it over his head and jumps over it with an awkward hop. "I can learn."   Olympia looks at him with a critical eye. "You got friends, Harvey?"   He doesn't stop jumping. "Some. Why?"   "Just curious."        

2    
THE SONG    
"Might I know where it is you're going, looking so unpresentable?" Linda Melodia asks Elettra right outside the front door of the Domus Quintilia hotel. She leans on her broom and peers at her niece with a critical eye.   "What's wrong?" the girl asks with a groan. A cascade of raven-black hair falls over her dark, dark eyes. She wears a close-fitting white ski jacket, gray slacks and a pair of black and purple sneakers.   "Your shoes," Linda remarks, pointing at them with the tip of her broom.   One after the other, Elettra raises her feet, which are clad in brightly colored Asics. "They're gorgeous!" she protests.   "They're filthy. What's that on the heels? Mud?"   "Auntie! How could anyone avoid the mud on the streets? The snow just melted."   "A well-dressed young lady always wears clean shoes."   "Well, I'm not a well-dressed young lady, then!"   "If your mother--"   "Could see me right now, I know! Whatever! Auntie, I've really got to go." Elettra rises up on her tiptoes, gives her aunt a kiss and darts out the front door.   Elettra walks across Piazza in Piscinula and from there reaches Viale Trastevere, where she gets onto tram number 3. The trip doesn't last long. Once she gets off at her stop, she looks up at the rooftops, searching for the eleven little pyramids of thefacade of Santa Maria dell'Orto Church. She goes over to the entrance and checks the time. It's four o'clock sharp.   Sheng is waiting for her between two white pillars. Black hair in a pageboy cut, mysteriously blue eyes, a shiny silk sports coat worn with jeans and gym shoes. "Man, I'm sorry. This is my dad's jacket," he says, greeting her.   "It isn't exactly . . . um, fitting for the occasion," the girl remarks, giving him a quick hug.   "I don't think anybody will complain," Sheng says, leading the way into the church. "In fact, I don't think anybody's even here."   The church is dark and freezing cold, but strangely intimate. The two friends press up against each other and head toward the altar. Between the rows of pews, resting on a metal stand, is a black wood coffin.   There are no flowers. And no people, with the exception of a woman in the front row, a tiny woman wearing a hat with a peacock feather and a gray sheepskin jacket, which make her look like a giant turtledove. It's Ilda, the owner of the newsstand in LargoArgentina.   Elettra and Sheng sit down beside her. They smile at each other and clasp hands. "I'm sorry . . . ," the woman says in a feeble voice. "I'm so, so sorry."   The priest looks at them from the little doorway of the sacristy, coughs and then goes to change. The smell of incense begins to waft through the silent air. The loudspeaker crackles and then begins to fill the church with warbling, melancholy music.   "Maybe we should've brought a flower . . . or something . . . ," Elettra whispers, suddenly overcome with sadness. The sound of shuffling footsteps makes her turn around. The gypsy woman from Via della Gatta has arrived, too. She's wearing a gold earringthat glimmers through her hair. She rests two stolen flowers on the coffin and hides herself away in the back of the church, in the shadows.   Then a man walks in. It's the waiter from the Caff Greco. He didn't want to miss Professor Alfred Van Der Berger's funeral.       Outside the window, the rooftops of Paris are a flow of dark shingles lining the dormers and round windows of the garrets like chocolate on a frosted cake. A few starlings are perched in the shade of a bow window, snuggling up to each other to warm themselves.Others are whirling through the sky beneath clouds as fluffy as cotton.   At the back of the classroom, Mistral is staring out at the Seine and the domes of the churches.   Then the singing teacher's voice summons her back to the real world. "Miss Blanchard? Are you with us? Or have you set off on another one of your long journeys?" she asks with a snobbish tone reminiscent of schoolmarms from the last century.   Mistral's classmates snicker. She snaps out of it at once and smiles, too dreamy to be annoyed. She looks around at the classroom, takes a step forward, does up the top button on her V-neck sweater and asks, so innocently that she almost seems impertinent,"Is it my turn?"