The Dawn of Sin

by Grassetti, Valentino

  The cameras had lingered on her tears, moving housewives and mothers in front of the TV.

  The whole show was running on the right track. There was the girl with an uncommon talent, an emotional mother and a composer brother who, in her absence, was feeding the viewers' curiosity.

  All oxygen to the ratings. And the ratings were turning into euro palates thanks to the profits from the advertising sales.

  NCC's contracts were based on ratings. The higher the ratings, the more companies that advertised their products paid more to the sender. And each share point was worth something like two million euros.

  For Sandra, however, the program was taking an unpleasant turn.

  Why are they making fun of my son? she wondered. The authors know he's not well. They talked to him a lot. They even prepared a video with a cross-section of our family. An interview where Daisy talked about her dreams, her affections, her mother, her father who's gone... The authors know about Paolo's suicide, Adry's problems. They were impressed and saddened. That's why they advised against mentioning it on TV. Daisy's only 16. She can't handle an interview where they talk about things bigger than her. Why are they acting like this now? That wasn't the fucking deal!

  The ratings were on the jury monitors. The average for the Next Generation was normally around nine percent. Jurors got excited when they read that the share was close to eleven.

  The data was calculated in real time using a sophisticated system that cross-referenced information from a sample of 20,000 households across all regions. And eleven percent was great news, so the authors decided to go heavy with Daisy. She was the one who raised the ratings.

  We had to create interest around the girl. A lot of interest. On the judges' monitors, a string of particularly cynical suggestions appeared in fiery characters.

  Listening goes up. Hit the girl hard!

  Go for it. Go through the shit. We need to get to thirteen!

  The father killed himself. See if you can get it in there somewhere.

  Crazy brother, suicidal father. This is strong stuff. We agreed not to do this, but to hell with it! Get it all out. But make sure it doesn't turn on us. We have to splash at thirteen.

  Jenny Lio was staring at the monitor enthusiastically. She thought of the jury's bonus, also calculated on the share. If the ratings had been on 12, she could have collected a surplus of 50,000 euros. But to earn that amount, you would have to give your best. She stood up. Sarcastic hummed: "Adrianoooo! Adrianinooooo! Why are you playing hide and seek?"

  Isabella Larini, too, when she did her math, started her wicked show. The juror pretended to be outraged and shouted, "Forget it, Jenny. Don't be a bitch. Adriano's not here because he has a problem. And we're talking about something serious. Aren't we, Daisy? As far as I know, Adriano, the author of your beautiful song, is... Do you want to say it? Do you want to talk about his problem?"

  Daisy was unprepared for that question. That wasn't the arrangement. She was supposed to sing and have fun. And if, on top of that, she was really good, she'd have a chance to get into show business.

  The judges weren't sticking to the chords or the set list now.

  She hoped they wouldn't force her to talk about her family's misfortune.

  After all, I’m Rose wasn't just a song.

  It was her story.

  "Come on, Daisy. You can tell us anything. What's wrong with your brother?" Sebastian asked, twiddling his thumbs under his chin, pretending to be careful and concerned. "My brother's not well” replied the girl, feeling like a lost bunny surrounded by ravenous wolves.

  At that moment she would want her mother beside her, and throw herself into his arms to feel as safe and protected as when she was a child. She watched as the judges pressed on with more and more uncomfortable and indisponsive questions. Her cheeks shed tears and cursed her stupidity. She had to be strong, she had to respond to those insidious questions at a stroke. Instead, all she could do was cry.

  A flash of triumph crossed Jenny Lio's eyes... The display showed the share at thirteen and a half.

  Daisy's crying was capturing the viewers. But, above all, it would have added another thirty thousand euros for her.

  Jenny, Isabella and Sebastian exchanged a look full of satisfaction.

  On the monitor came the tips of the authors, which gradually became more and more nasty.

  Go ahead, take the snap. Let the little girl tell you what the fuck is wrong with her brother.

  Come on, come on, come on! If we get to fifteen, it's a hundred thousand euros!

  Come on Circe, get a move on. You're not doing anything to raise your voice. Hurt her. Hit her hard with a question of your own!

  Sandra wanted to complain to someone, but she didn't know where to turn. The two cameramen who were filming her followed her backstage, until she came across one of the

  writers, a bald guy like an ostrich egg with two huge headphones on his ears and a clipboard in his hand.

  "Mrs. Magnoli" he said peremptorily, "you cannot come here, you must stay in the area that has been assigned to your parents, and..."

  "Get the fuck off me, you fucker!" Sandra screamed, pointing her hands at the thin boy's chest, pushing him away.

  "Please calm down now" she begged the author in the face.

  A sturdy and discreet orderly approached Sandra. The author waved his hand to make it clear that everything was under control.

  "How can I calm down? My daughter's crying on the fucking stage!" Sandra raved, desperate.

  "A lot of kids are crying during the show. It's normal for them to get excited" the young writer replied, angry at a cameraman who wanted to film the scene. The protest of a minor's parent on air could have raised a hornet's nest of controversy. And many consumer associations and security agencies would have been happy to bring down the program, considering the presence of people like Circe and Monroe unsuitable for a protected band.

  "I warn you. Leave my son out of this" Sandra threatened to point the finger at the author.

  The bald young man knew full well how legitimate the woman's anger was. He couldn't blame her, but there was a lot of money at stake.

  If he listened to him again, he would have pocketed 20,000 euros. In fact, his name was the headline immediately after Sebastian Monroe's, and the young author had no intention of giving up such generous compensation. He warned the director to turn off the drone that was filming backstage, and had cameras six and seven, the ones on Sandra Magnoli, darkened. When he did so, he ordered the security man to escort the woman back to her family members' seats.

  Sandra reluctantly accepted, but without any intention of letting her guard down. If anyone tried to rage against her children, she would run to the stage to drag Daisy off, after insulting the judges and denouncing the program's producers live.

  "It's 14 and a half!!!!"

  The inscription flashed followed by a triumphant row of exclamation points.

  Daisy would have wanted to escape from the stage. But she was nailed there, unable to react. The jurors' questions became more and more precise, nasty and outrageous.

  There was a 30-second commercial break. The share dropped physiologically by two points.

  When the commercial ended, the ratings went up again.

  Daisy's clean face furrowed with tears leapt to the top of Twitter's topic trends.

  Sebastian looked at the display with a flash of euphoria.

  They were at fourteen and eight, two more points and the bonus of one hundred thousand euros would be triggered. With that money he could have bought top quality cocaine, and a gold piercing studded with diamonds that he already imagined dangling from the rosy nipple of Christine, his underage lover. Sebastian had fallen in love with the little girl when she was fifteen, and he never ceased to be surprised by the naturalness she showed in certain complicated erotic games.

  "Well. Here we are again in your company. We were talking about Adriano” Sebastian summed up, before adding, "Forgive me if I'm indelica
te, but I was wondering how a mentally ill boy could compose such a fantastic song as I’m Rose.

  ʺNo, you're not indelicate, you're just a bastard, filthy dickhead thought Daisy, who replied by trying to keep her anger in check.

  "My brother is suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. It's a very serious illness. Besides, crazy or not crazy, I love my brother. I love him more than anything in the world. He is sensitive. He's sensitive. He's a good boy. And if I'm here, it's all because of him."

  An emotional sigh rose from the audience.

  Fourteen and nine.

  The audience was getting up again. Daisy's response, with those brief words dictated from the heart, had struck deep into the viewers.

  Jenny Lio and Isabella Larini took an enthusiastic look at Sebastian. On the monitor, the authors wrote more and more pressing messages.

  We're about to hit the big time. Come on, come on, come on! Let's make it round, so tonight we'll toast with Moet & Chandon surrounded by fancy sluts and faggots!

  Sebastian passed the palm of his hand over his sweaty brow. It was time to use the heavy artillery.

  Daisy felt his evil look on his face. She was frightened by the next question, which turned out to be a masterpiece of wickedness.

  "Did you love your father too, Daisy?"

  The girl became earthy. How could they do this to her? How could they afford to name her father?

  "Well, Daisy?"

  She didn't say anything. She tried to chase away the memory of her parent, but she couldn't. She'd never got over the trauma of suicide despite years and years of therapy.

  The show's judges, pressing her with no humanity at all, brought it all back, and Daisy relived the horror that stained her childhood. She saw her father again dangling from the tree with his eyes slit open staring into the void, his tongue dangling inert on the side of his lip, his neck stretched, his cervical vertebrae broken. He never really saw it, but he always imagined it that way.

  "Well, Daisy?"

  Daisy heard her mother screaming and calling someone a bastard. She distinctly heard Adiano's cry of pain, even though her brother wasn't there, and she thought she was going mad.

  "So? Tell us about your father..."

  "Enough! Enough!" she shouted as if she had been seized with hysterics.

  "Enough! Enough! Enough!"

  Suddenly, a deaf thud made the trellis that supported the stage lights vibrate. The steel mounts where the strobe lights were attached jumped off. Another thud was heard.

  The spotlights exploded one after the other between flashes of white light.

  The stage jolted, as if someone, or something, was pressing in from below.

  A pylon suddenly tilted down, tearing the electrical wires. Sparks crackled from the bare wires. The bolts gave way. The pylon fell to the ground dragging cables and reflectors. Daisy screamed when the pylon hit the jury table.

  Jenny Lio heard a thunderous blow. She had been grazed by the pylon. A cable waving like a snake, crackling with energy, struck her in the face. She fell to the ground unconscious. The 20,000-volt discharge burned her face, leaving a gash on her neck, while her right ear had shrivelled to a steaming black stump.

  Isabella Larini was lying on the ground. She was screaming in pain because her right arm was trapped under a corner of the pylon. The unnatural position of the limb suggested that it was a horrible fracture.

  Circe was sitting there, unharmed. Covered in blood, not hers.

  Sebastian's sight made her scream with horror.

  The head of the jury was lying on the table, his back crushed by the pylon. Blood was dripping on the lit screens. Her eyes

  were still and staring wide open on the monitor, where the historic record of ratings was flashing.

  Next Generation was interrupted at 10:35 a.m. on Thursday, November 19.

  Death brought the share to forty-nine per cent.

  7

  Like every morning, Greta Salimbeni entered the studio wearing one of her severe grey suits.

  Dr. Salieri's assistant was able to change the general impression people made of her. Greta could appear icy, winking, surly, or sensual, all without being aware of it, as if the virtues and flaws were only in the eye of the beholder.

  When she started working in the studio she was a young married woman, but disappointed by marriage. One recurring thought was that she would soon become the lover of her boss. But Salieri was in love with his wife. And a good marriage was a necessary balancing act for someone in the psychiatric profession.

  Those who treated men's psyches had to maintain a private life without conflict and tension, or else they would dump their frustrations on their patients.

  Greta was in love with the doctor, but she didn't want to be a second choice. This is why Salieri remained a pure and simple erotic fantasy.

  Greta opened the door to let the patient in.

  Adriano Magnoli entered and renewed his gaze on the porcelain that embellished the study.

  "Hi, Adriano" greeted Salieri, raising an eyebrow, the concentrated expression of those who study the patient down to the smallest detail.

  "I'm sorry about what happened” said quickly the boy.

  "Yes. It wasn't a good time” Salieri said, crossing his arms and pushing his shoulders to the back of the chair to relieve the body, which had been immobile behind his desk for too many hours.

  "You will tell me everything calmly. Sit down."

  Adriano sat resting his elbows on the inlaid table. He nervously rubbed his hands, his expression full of guilt. The psychiatrist noticed some red bruises on the boy.

  "I'm so sorry. But I'm better now."

  "Your marks are left” noted Salieri pointing the pen at Adriano's wrists.

  "If that's why, they're on my ankles too” said Adriano, raising one knee to lift the flap of his trousers and lowering one sock. The skin underneath showed a purplish bruise.

  "During a crisis, it happens to attack people” noted the doctor scribbling a note with a nervous handwriting.

  "I shouldn't have bitten him. But I wasn't myself."

  "How long did they keep you in bed?" Salieri asked, turning on the computer.

  "Two days. The straps on the bed were leather, and I got so nervous. That's why I was left with the marks."

  "Three weeks in the psychiatric ward. Must have been tough, boy."

  "When the pylon collapsed on the stage, I thought Daisy was impressed, too, and that's when I went out of my mind."

  "Do you want to talk about it?" Salieri asked, sliding his mouse lightly over the mat, his eyes on the screen following the arrow pointing to a folder to open.

  "I would, but I remember almost nothing about that night” Adriano clarified. "They say, however, that I went downstairs into the living room. Everyone was shouting about what was happening on television. At that point I became aggressive, but that's what they believe."

  "So, why did you rage against the guests who were watching your sister on TV?"

  "Because I saw bits of coal raining down in the room. Yes, I remember that. I threw myself at them to protect them. I wanted to prevent someone from getting hit."

  "You also pushed your aunt, who fell on the floor, right?"

  "Yes. Unfortunately, yes. She hit her head, but I swear I didn't want to hurt her."

  "I know she wasn't hurt, except for a bump, and I know she defended you to the very last moment so you wouldn't be committed. She said you were very upset about the incident on stage."

  "I don't know. I... I just know that I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

  "The bite on the nurse, remember?"

  "Not much. Again, I wasn't well. They wanted to take me away, but I didn't want to, and that's when the whole mess happened."

  "I've seen the medication packs, you haven't been taking them regularly, Adriano. That's why the hallucinations came back."

  Adriano, clumsy, nodded with an air of guilt.

  "Tell me about Daisy, rather. How is she?" Salieri asked,
opening the file he was looking for. He began to look at it with particular attention, half-closing his eyes and nudging his nose closer to the desktop.

  "Daisy got scared. But she's strong, and she stood up for me. That's why what happened... what we saw on that stage. But I... well... God, I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm a bit nervous..."

  "It's okay. We're among friends. Express what you want to say calmly" the psychiatrist exclaimed distractedly while typing with two fingers on the keyboard.

  Adriano emitted a restless sound.

  "I mean that man, Sebastian Monroe, should not have provoked him."

  As Adriano spoke, Salieri clicked on the file that contained the boy's medical history. The man noticed something unusual. He smoothed his chin. He took a look at Adriano. He looked at the screen again and frowned at his eyebrows.

  "The incident on stage. Maybe it was this thing” said Adriano, reclining his head to grab it in his hands. "This

  thing that's here, inside my head. Maybe it doesn't just take root here, maybe it can take root anywhere. Maybe it's already everywhere."

  Adriano talked, ignoring that he was no longer the center of Dr. Salieri's attention. The psychiatrist had put an earpiece in his ear and was completely absorbed by the computer, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk.

  "Doctor, are you listening to me?" Adriano asked him with a moan.

  "Sorry. I got distracted." Salieri replied to the boy as he removed his earpiece, his chest rising relaxed in a sigh of worry.

  "So, you were telling me about this mysterious being” said the psychiatrist with apparent calm.

  "He, the parasite, is looking for her. He's been looking for Daisy all his life... and now he's found her, you see, Doctor? Do you understand what's going to happen? No, he doesn't, because we're just getting started. Sebastian Monroe shouldn't have provoked her. That's why he ended up like that."

  Adriano finished his speech shrugging his shoulders, as if to get something annoying off his chest, and put it aside. This was followed by another twenty-three minutes of conversation, in which the boy managed to put together some coherent, sometimes confused reasoning. Salieri pulled up his shirt cuff to look at the watch, a steel Rolex that needed reloading. He squeezed his thumb and index finger on the spring winding bezel, turned it in small, rapid movements until the hands moved, and said, "All right, Adriano. We're done for today. The hospitalization was a bad thing. I just wanted to see you just to see if you were feeling better. Tell your mother she doesn't owe me anything. But promise me you'll always take the medication. Keep on the five hundred milligram pills. I'll see you next week. Same time."