I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  ‘I fear he will.’

  A thousand thoughts were crowding into her head, a thousand images turning around in rapid succession.

  It was finally clear to her what she would do.

  ‘Michael, if it became known that you had betrayed the secret of the confessional, what would the consequences be for you?’

  Father McKean stood up, looking like a man who feels his own soul sinking. ‘I’d be excommunicated. Permanently barred from the ministry.’

  ‘It won’t happen. Because nobody will know.’

  Vivien explained how she intended to proceed. As she did so, she was thinking of the man who was with her in that white room and what was best for Joy and what was being done there every day for young people like Sundance.

  ‘I can’t put a bug in the confessional. I’d have to explain too many things. But there’s something you could do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the man comes back, call me on my cellphone. Leave it on between you, so that I can hear your conversation. That way I’ll be the only one to hear him, and I’ll be able to control the operation and make sure that he’s arrested away from the church.’

  Michael McKean, a priest who had lost every certainty, saw hope shining on the horizon. ‘But when you’ve caught him, the man will tell it all.’

  ‘And who’ll believe him if you and I deny it all? I have another witness who saw a guy in a green jacket somewhere else. He can take all the credit for himself. You’d come out completely clean.’

  Father McKean remained silent, examining the proposal as if Vivien were standing there holding out an apple to him. ‘I don’t know, Vivien. I don’t know anything any more.’

  Vivien put her hands on his arms and squeezed them. ‘Michael, I’m hardly the right person to preach to you. I don’t go to church very much and I’m not a very fervent worshipper. But one thing I’m sure of. The Christ who died on the cross to save the whole world would surely be able to forgive you for saving the lives of many people.’

  ‘All right. I’ll do it.’

  Vivien felt overcome with gratitude and liberation and had to force herself not to embrace Father McKean.

  As for the priest, he had never felt so close to mankind as at that moment when he believed that his soul had strayed from God.

  ‘How about going out in the garden?’ Vivien suggested. ‘I really want to see my niece right now.’

  ‘The kids are just going to lunch. Will you stay with us?’

  Vivien realized she was hungry. Optimism had set her stomach working again. ‘I’d love to. Mrs Carraro’s cooking always deserves to be celebrated.’

  Without saying anything else, they left the room and closed the door behind them.

  After a few moments the figure of John Kortighan emerged from behind the screen. He stood there for a few moments looking at the door, grim faced and with tears welling in his eyes. Then he sat down on the bed and, as if that movement had cost him an immense effort, hid his face in his hands.

  CHAPTER 31

  Seated in a comfortable red armchair, Russell waited.

  He was used to waiting. He had been waiting for years, without even knowing what he was waiting for. Even now, when he was almost breathless with impatience, he sat quietly, casually observing his surroundings.

  He was in the waiting room of an ultra-modern Philippe Starck-designed office that occupied one whole floor of an elegant skyscraper on 50th Street. Crystal, leather, gilt, a touch of moderate kitsch and deliberate craziness. In the air, a vague aroma of mint and cedar. Attractive secretaries and solid-looking executives. Everything put together in such a way as to welcome and astonish visitors.

  It was the New York office of his father’s company, Wade Enterprises. A company with its headquarters in Boston and various branch offices in the major cities of the United States and a number of world capitals. The company had its fingers in many pies, from construction to supplying technology to the army, and from finance to commodities, principally petroleum.

  He looked down at the tobacco-coloured carpet with the company logo. It must have cost a fortune. Everything around him was a silent, discreet act of homage to Mammon and his worshippers. He knew them well, and he knew how loyal they could be.

  Russell, on the other hand, had never cared much about money. Now less than ever. The only thing that mattered to him right now was that he didn’t want to feel like a failure any more.

  Never again.

  That had always been his life. He had always been in the shadows. Of his father, his brother, the name he bore, the great headquarters building in Boston. And the protecting wing of his mother, who up to a certain point had managed to overcome the distress and embarrassment some of his actions had caused her. Now the time had come to get out from under those shadows. He hadn’t asked himself what Robert would have done in this situation. He knew for himself. The only possible way to tell the world the story he had in his possession was to get to the end and then start from the beginning.

  Alone.

  When he had finally realized this, the memory of his brother had changed. He had always idealized him so much, he had refused to consider him as a person, with all his qualities and all his defects – indeed, for years he had stubbornly rejected the idea that he had any defects. Now he wasn’t a legend any more, but a friend whose memory was with him, a point of reference, not an idol on an excessively high pedestal.

  A bald, bespectacled man in an impeccable blue suit came in and walked up to the reception desk. Russell saw the woman who had greeted him get up from her desk and lead the man into the waiting room.

  ‘Please, Mr Klee. If you don’t mind waiting a few moments, Mr Roberts will see you straight away.’

  The man nodded in gratitude and looked around for somewhere to sit. When he saw Russell, he reacted with disgust to his crumpled clothes and went and sat down in the chair furthest from him. Russell knew that his presence struck a wrong note here, in this padded kingdom of harmony and good taste. He felt like smiling. It seemed that his greatest talent had always been to be a nuisance.

  Vivien’s words forced themselves back into his mind, the night he had kissed her in her apartment.

  The one thing I know is that I don’t want complications …

  He had said the same, but at the same time he knew he was lying. He felt that Vivien was something new, a bridge he wanted to cross to discover what was on the other side. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t run away. And he had been made to suffer what he had often made women suffer. With the bitter taste of irony in his mouth, combined with embarrassment, he had heard himself say words that he, too, had uttered many times before turning his back and leaving. He hadn’t even given Vivien time to finish what she had to say. In order not to be hurt, he had preferred to hurt her. Afterwards, he had sat in the car, looking out the window, feeling alone and useless, debating with himself the only truth: that night clung to him like a made-to-measure suit. And in spite of everything, the complications had come.

  When, in front of his very eyes, Vivien had suddenly turned into a person he didn’t know, he had left the apartment on Broadway weighed down with disappointment and resentment. He had entered a bar to get something to drink, something strong that would go down and warm that cold knot he felt in his stomach. By the time the barman reached him, he had changed his mind. He had ordered a coffee and started thinking about his next move. He had no intention of giving up his search but was aware of the difficulties he would have in getting a result using only his own resources. Reluctantly, he had had to admit that he had no choice but to turn to his family.

  He didn’t have either battery or credit on his cellphone, but he had seen a pay phone at the other end of the bar. He had paid for his coffee and asked for a handful of quarters. Then he had walked to the phone booth to make one of the most difficult calls of his life.

  The coins had fallen in the slot with a sound like hope, and he had dialled the number of his home in Boston
, pressing the keys like a wireless operator launching a desperate SOS from a sinking ship.

  Naturally, the impersonal voice of a servant had answered. ‘Hello. Wade Mansion.’

  ‘Hello. This is Russell Wade.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Russell. This is Henry. What can I do for you?’

  The butler’s prim face had superimposed itself on the advertising cards in front of him. Medium height, punctilious, impeccable. The right person to run a household as complicated as the Wade family residence.

  ‘I’d like to speak with my mother.’

  An understandable moment of silence. The servants, as his mother persisted in calling them, had a very efficient grapevine, and he was sure everyone knew about his difficult relations with his parents.

  ‘I’ll see if Madam is at home.’

  Russell had smiled at the butler’s tact. What his cautious reply actually meant was, ‘I’ll see if Madam wants to speak to you.’

  After what seemed an interminable length of time and another couple of quarters

  tlink tlink

  swallowed by the telephone, he heard his mother’s kindly but suspicious voice.

  ‘Hello, Russell.’

  ‘Hello, Mother. It’s nice to hear your voice.’

  ‘Yours, too. What are you up to?’

  ‘I need your help, Mother.’

  Silence. An understandable silence.

  ‘I know I’ve abused your support in the past. And given you nothing but trouble in return. But this time, I don’t want money, and I don’t need legal help. And I’m not in any trouble.’

  A hint of curiosity in his mother’s aristocratic voice. ‘What do you need, then?’

  ‘I need to talk to Father. If I call his office and give my name they’ll tell me he isn’t there, or he’s in a meeting, or he’s on the moon.’

  Her curiosity had suddenly turned to apprehension. ‘What do you want from your father?’

  ‘I need his car. For something serious. The first serious thing in my life.’

  ‘I don’t know, Russell. That may not be such a good idea.’

  He had understood his mother’s hesitation. In a way, he felt sorry for her. She was caught between a rock and a hard place, her respectable husband on one side, her wayward son on the other. But he couldn’t give up now, couldn’t admit defeat, even if he had to beg.

  ‘I realize I’ve never done anything to deserve it, but I need your trust’

  After a few moments Margaret Taylor Wade’s aristocratic voice admitted surrender.

  tlink

  ‘Your father’s at the New York office for a couple of days. I’ll talk to him now and call you back.’

  This was an unexpected stroke of luck. Russell had felt euphoria spread through his body more effectively than any alcoholic drink.

  ‘My cellphone isn’t working. Just tell him I’m going to his office and I’ll wait there until he sees me. I won’t leave until he does, even if I have to wait all day.’

  He paused. Then he said something he hadn’t said in years.

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  tlink

  He hadn’t had time to hear her reply, because the call had been cut off as the last coin had fallen.

  He had gone out on the street and invested his last few dollars in a taxi ride to 50th Street. Now he had been here for two hours, being stared at by people like Mr Klee, waiting for his father to grant him an audience. He knew he wouldn’t see him straight away, that he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to humiliate him by making him wait. But he didn’t feel humiliated at all, only impatient.

  And he had waited.

  A tall, elegant secretary had appeared in front of him. The carpet had muffled the sound of her heels in the corridor. She was beautiful, as the surroundings dictated, and he assumed that if she had been chosen for that job she was also highly efficient.

  ‘Mr Russell, please come with me. Mr Wade is waiting for you.’

  He realized that, as long as his father was alive, there would only ever be one ‘Mr Wade’. But he could change that if he wanted, and he wanted it with all his might.

  He got up from the armchair and followed the secretary down a long corridor. As he watched the woman’s bottom move gracefully under her skirt, he felt like smiling. Maybe a few days before he would have indulged in some vulgar comment, embarrassing the woman and consequently displeasing his father. Then he reminded himself that, until a few days earlier, he would never have dreamed of coming to this office to see Jenson Wade.

  The secretary stopped in front of a dark wooden door. She knocked lightly and, without waiting for a response, opened the door and motioned to him to enter. Russell took a couple of steps and heard the swish of the door closing behind him.

  Jenson Wade was sitting behind a desk placed diagonally between two corner windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city. The backlighting was compensated for by lamps artfully placed around the large room, which was one of his father’s command posts. They hadn’t met in person for a long time. He looked older but in excellent shape. Russell stood looking at him while he continued reading documents and ignoring him completely. Jenson was the image of his younger son. Or rather, it was Russell who bore a resemblance that had proved uncomfortable for both of them on several occasions in the past.

  Jenson Wade raised his head and looked at him with steady, uncompromising eyes. ‘What do you want?’

  His father didn’t like beating about the bush. Russell came straight to the point. ‘I need help. And you’re the only person I know who can give it to me.’

  The reply was curt and predictable. ‘You aren’t getting a cent from me.’

  Russell shook his head. Although he hadn’t been invited, he calmly chose an armchair and sat down. ‘I don’t need a cent from you.’

  His father looked straight at him, without a trace of affection in his eyes. He must be wondering what Russell had got up to this time. But he found himself unexpectedly confronted with something new. His son had never before had the strength to sustain his gaze.

  ‘What do you want, then?’

  ‘I’m pursuing a lead on a news story. A big one.’

  ‘You?’

  In that incredulous monosyllable, there were years of photographs in the scandal sheets, lawyers’ bills, betrayed trust, money thrown away. Years spent mourning two sons: one because he was dead, the other because he was doing everything he could to be considered dead.

  And had finally succeeded.

  ‘Yes. I might add that many people will die if I don’t obtain your help.’

  ‘What kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time?’

  ‘I’m not in any trouble. But a lot of other people are, even though they don’t know it.’

  Curiosity was starting to take hold. His voice softened a little. Maybe he had sensed that the person facing him had a decisiveness different from the Russell he was used to. But all those past disappointments obliged him to proceed with extreme caution.

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. That’s a point against me, I know. I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me.’

  He saw his father lean back in his chair and smile as if at a witty joke. ‘With you, the word trust seems a little out of proportion, to say the least. Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Because I’ll pay you.’

  The smile became a sarcastic grimace. When it came to money, the powerful Mr Wade was on home ground. And Russell knew he had few equals there.

  ‘With what money, may I ask?’

  He returned the smile. ‘I have something I’m sure you’re going to like more than money.’

  He put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a sheet of letter paper folded in three. He opened it, got up from his armchair and placed it carefully on the desk in front of his father. Jenson Wade picked up his pair of glasses and read what was written on the paper.

  I, the undersigned, undertake to work for Wade
Enterprises for three years from the beginning of June this year for the sum of one dollar per month.

  Russell Wade

  Russell saw first surprise, then temptation, play over his father’s face. The thought of having him in his power, being able to humiliate him just as he liked, must be an enticing prospect. The sight of Russell in coveralls, cleaning the floors and the toilets, would surely take many years off him.

  ‘Let’s say I agree. What would I have to do?’

  ‘You have a whole lot of connections in Washington. Or rather you have a whole lot of people in your pocket, both in politics and in the army.’

  He took his father’s silence as a self-satisfied admission of his power.

  ‘I’m following a lead, but I’ve come up against a brick wall and I don’t see any way of getting through it. Maybe with your help I could.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Russell approached the desk. From his pocket he took the photograph of the young man and the cat. Before handing over the original to Vivien he had scanned it and printed a spare copy for himself. He had felt a little guilty at the time, but now he was glad he’d done it.

  ‘It’s something connected with the Vietnam war. From 1970 onwards. I have the name of a soldier called Wendell Johnson and this photograph of an unknown man who fought with him. I think both of them were involved in something unusual, something that’s still classified. I need to know what it is. And I need to know as soon as possible.’

  Jenson Wade thought about it for quite a while, pretending to look at the images. Russell did not know that it wouldn’t be his words that convinced his father, but the tone in which he had said them. That impassioned tone that only the truth possesses.

  He saw his father indicate the armchair in front of the desk. ‘Sit down.’

  When Russell was seated, Jenson Wade pressed a key on the telephone.

  ‘Miss Atwood, get me General Hetch. Now.’

  While waiting, he put the call on speakerphone. It occurred to Russell that there were two reasons for that. The less important was to allow him to hear the subsequent conversation. The other, the main reason, was that he was about to give Russell yet another demonstration of what his father’s name meant.