Fuori è quasi buio

In an abandoned hut, with no one to count on, Simone and Mattia are alone. Ever since their mother’s car hit a lorry, the two brothers have been on the run from social services without a destination. They live by their wits: they talk to no one, eke out the little money they have left to go shopping, and wash in the river near the hut. The only constants are Mattia and his respiratory attacks and epileptic seizures. Simone tries to handle them according to his memories of what his mother taught him: count (three minutes, no more), uncap the syringe, inject. If it doesn’t work, inject a second one. And wait: wait for Mattia to regain consciousness and – with gestures – speak to him. Simone has learned: a hand on the elbow is ‘bread’, a circle on the chest is ‘hug’, a fist is ‘snow’. But also ‘mum’. It will be encountering Mercy, a little girl with a disabled little sister, that will make the two brothers understand that there’s nothing wrong with asking for help and that – in the end – another ‘home’ is possible. It’s a poetic, heartbreaking and profound novel. Fuori è quasi buio (it’s nearly dark outside) talks about strength, about the innate resilience in each of us, but also about mutual care and solidarity, understanding and repressed emotions that seek a way to make themselves heard, through the body. An imposing figure that dominates the entire novel is that of the mother: irritable, scary at times, already absent before the collision with the lorry, but always sought after, yearned after by little Simone; essential to Mattia and his survival. In an identification and overlapping, Simone takes on the maternal role, only to remain a pre-adolescent looking for his place in the world.  

Fuori è quasi buio
by Alice Keller
Risma, 2023