The Dawn of Sin

by Grassetti, Valentino

  The psychiatrist shook Adriano's hand without getting up.

  "Take my greetings to Mrs. Magnoli for me."

  When Adriano left the office, the doctor started smoking. Just two puffs. He squeezed the cigarette on the ashtray and pressed the button on the extension phone to call Greta.

  "Look for Professor Marco Buccelli. Office 102 of the Umberto II Hospital. Tell him it's urgent."

  The doctor lit another cigarette and pulled more nervous puffs until the phone rang.

  "Hello, Marco. How are you?"

  "Dr. Salieri! What a pleasure. Everything's fine. How are you?"

  "I'm fine, thank you. Listen, I'm calling about Adriano Magnoli."

  "Yes. A bad crisis. But we've fix him. Have you seen it?"

  "I've seen it. You haven't fixed a fucking thing" he said in a frank tone that you can only afford with an old friend.

  "Huh? What's the problem?" he asked surprised Buccelli, a man with a wide forehead furrowed with deep wrinkles, and a forest of grey, stubbly hair on his head.

  Roberto Salieri and Marco Buccelli had been university friends.

  A friendship based on no special affinity, except the kind you get when one appreciates the value of the other.

  During their university studies, they had engaged in endless discussions about Freudian theories. They talked for hours, and when they finally seemed to get to the heart of the matter, they moved away from the problem. Only after several gallons of beer and several grams of marijuana did they find themselves thinking the same way. After 40 years, they stopped seeing each other, but there was still sincere affection between them.

  "Listen to Marco. Can you spare a minute?" Salieri asked.

  "Of course, of course. What's happened?"

  "You've changed your doses of Leponex, done electroconvulsive therapy, psychomotor and psychoactivity tests. I understand this from your medical records."

  "Yes. That's right."

  "I'll explain. The boy came to me. Classic apathy problems, mood disorders, alienation, and some hints of hallucination. Nothing unusual so far. That's happened before."

  "Don't go around it and get to the bottom of it" Buccelli pressed him on the other end of the phone.

  "Follow me. Before the visit, I didn't have him sit in the usual waiting room, but in the next room; the windows are closed with heavy curtains, a sofa here, a table there, and so on. Inside the room is a hidden camera. You know what I mean."

  "You're not the only one spying on schizophrenic patients, Roberto."

  "That's perfect. I see you're following me. Of course, I have the mother's consent. Mrs. Magnoli knows everything. So there is nothing illegal."

  "I repeat, we all do. What happened in there?" asked the head physician, curious.

  "Are you around the ward?" Salieri said.

  "Yes. I'm done with visits now."

  "Well, then go into the study. Lock yourself in. Turn on the computer and see what I'm sending you on Skype."

  A minute later, Marco Buccelli saw Salieri's pulled face on the computer screen.

  The head physician opened the file that the psychiatrist attached to it.

  Inside was the film, shot unbeknownst to Adriano, where the boy could be seen entering a room with high ceilings, in the style of the old mansions of Castelmuso.

  In the video, Adriano walked with his hands behind his back into a darkened room, waiting to be received by Salieri. Then he approached the window to move the curtains, as if

  he wanted to let light into the room. He had begun to mumble something unclear, before becoming stuck in a completely unnatural way. His body had stiffened, his neck bending in a nasty lateral movement.

  You could clearly see his face turning red and his neck veins swelling around his throat. After a prolonged tremor, the boy had straightened his head before shaking it - the expression was that of someone who didn't seem to understand where he was at the time.

  Buccelli observed the boy's face on the screen, framed by a restless laugh.

  You are an intrusive boy. How many times have I told you not to look for me.

  Adriano, now, was talking to himself in a low, hoarse voice, which seemed to belong to someone else. His posture had straightened out overwhelmingly. His face was furrowed by a web of wrinkles, unusual on a teenager's face.

  After less than a minute, Adriano was back to his usual boy, though more frightened, pale and insecure than usual. Buccelli watched him back as he held his head in his hands with a sense of horror.

  He spoke of the parasite creeping into his mind, and begged to be left alone. Then the pallor disappeared again, his cheeks turned yellow like ripe peaches, almost as if he had been burned by a scorching sun. His face was again rippled with deep wrinkles.

  Do I still have to kill for her? He asked, and followed up with a few incomprehensible phrases, before she began to whine, "Please. Leave me alone. Leave us alone. Above all, leave her alone. Stay away from my sister."

  There was a pause where Adriano remained crouching in front of the mirror the whole time. Two minutes passed, when he was shaken again by a gasp. He straightened up his head, his lips reaching out to the row of his upper teeth. He pointed his finger at the mirror looking straight into his eyes,

  blazing with malice. The subtle voice was crossed by an exaltation, sometimes triumphant, sometimes mocking.

  If you don't want me to kill you, he said, under the gaze of the hidden camera, you must welcome me into you. Accept me without resistance. She is in my destiny. You can do nothing for your sister but write sublime music.

  "I don't want... I don't want you inside me. Go away. You must go." cried Adriano.

  Accept me, boy. That's the deal I'm asking you. Why be an enemy when you can be an accomplice?

  At that point, in the video, you heard a knock: the door handle turned slowly and Greta appeared and entered the room, inviting Adriano to follow her. You could see how relaxed the boy had suddenly relaxed, leaving the room as if nothing had happened.

  The film closed on Greta as she approached the door.

  In Buccelli's computer, Roberto Salieri's face reappeared.

  "Holy shit..." cursed the head physician, passing his hand on the wrinkles of his forehead.

  Salieri turned the wheel of a zippo with his thumb, lighting the umpteenth cigarette and, with a tip of irritation, pointed out: "As you can see the clinical picture of Adriano is this. An undiagnosed dissociative identity disorder. A nice little mushroom that came out of nowhere that you should have picked up. But you didn't notice anything."

  "I don't understand. We had a hypnotherapy session. A personality dissociation would have had to come out anyway” Buccelli reflected, adding, "Roberto, you have to keep him under observation, unless you plan to have him admitted with a mandatory medical treatment.

  "No. His condition does not justify forced hospitalization” Salieri replied, inhaling the pungent odour of smoke with satisfaction. "His mother is the only one who can decide whether or not to have him committed. Adriano is quiet for

  now, and Mrs Magnoli will not sign again to have him tied up on a cot in your ward.

  "You know there will be a recurrence. He'll probably turn violent again” replied the head physician. Salieri remarked, "If Sandra Magnoli won't give the go-ahead, then that's going to be a problem."

  "In that case, we'll find a solution. Thanks for calling me about the big dick. This time I deserved it."

  "Just like old times."

  "Fuck you, doc."

  "Bye, doc” concluded Roberto Salieri by closing the line. The psychiatrist watched the footage again. The character of the boy who was changing over the course of a minute was unsettling, and for more than one reason. Adriano's personality dissociation was not the kind of disorder where the patient lies to himself and consciously creates a different identity. Adriano didn't feel like he was wearing a mask - he was really scared. The belief that an unknown being had taken hold of him was well established, and while this certaint
y complicated his clinical picture, it made him particularly interesting.

  Salieri thought of the cases studied by Buccelli. It was no mystery that his colleague had earned his place as Chief of Staff at Umberto II through an essay in the pages of Psychological Science.

  The quality of his study was so great that it was published in many other journals. It spoke of a specific disorder of the child's psyche. When it was mentioned in Science, the chair was insured.

  Salieri could have studied Adriano's case and published it in some prestigious magazine. Buccelli always teased his desire to compete, and Castelmuso had been holding onto him for some time. The country was small and boring, but the psychiatrist was still forced to live there, since he could not give up his large package of patients. A few years earlier he

  had even risked divorce because of the tedious life in the village. His wife, in fact, was a sophisticated Frenchwoman, a Parisian from Le Marais. An educated and passionate woman who had followed him to Castelmuso for love. But the feeling for her had long since ended, and after twelve years the woman could no longer stand living in a place she believed to be inhabited by closed, hostile and bigoted people.

  ʺYesʺ thought Salieri. ʺA publication on Adriano's case could open up some career opportunities for me far away from here. I'll talk to Elettra...ʺ

  That same evening, at the Umberto II Regional Hospital, the head physician Marco Buccelli got up from his desk, pulled the flaps of his white coat crumpled to give him a fix, but his mind was elsewhere, busy reflecting on the never diagnosed split personality of one of his patients.

  He wanted to take one last tour of the ward before he took off and went home, when one of the nurses came breathlessly into the office. The girl, a blonde girl with narrow hips and a big bosom, wanted to say something, but she was visibly sick. She leaned her shoulder against the door jamb. Pale and agitated, she exclaimed in a broken voice:

  "Professor... Dorotea... you... you should... you should come to the ward. Something's happened..." The sentence ended with a regurgitation. The woman put her hand over her mouth to hold back a gagging gag, but she couldn't. Green, slimy splashes filtered through her fingers, soiling her immaculate gown.

  Buccelli came forward to help her, but the nurse reassured him that she was fine. She was not the problem, and urged the doctor to run to the isolation ward, where patients who became particularly aggressive during seizures were locked up.

  In the hallway, in front of Room 101, he saw a crowd of nurses. A patient in a dressing gown with crooked teeth who was suffering from senile dementia moaned with the palm of her hand on her forehead.

  She cried and, in a voice choked with pain, called Dorotea.

  Marco Buccelli entered the room. Dorotea was an eight-year-old, white-haired bastard with hazelnut hair. One of the most appreciated dogs by patients among all those used for pet therapy.

  They found her lying on the bed, her front paws tied to leather straps used to immobilize patients during their seizures. The dog showed a deep cut under her belly, the intestines scattered on the blood-soaked sheets.

  The room was the same where, a month earlier, Adriano Magnoli was locked up.

  8

  DAISY

  20 YEARS OLD

  Rinaldo Duranti was considered a legend in the world of independent Roman discography. His production house was located in a building near Piazzale Clodio. An important

  construction of bricks, glass and steel confiscated from a builder in handcuffs due to a round of rigged contracts.

  Duranti had bought three floors at auction for four million euros. On the ground floor was the first of his three companies, Musix Entertainment, a leader in the management sector.

  Upstairs was Gold Music, the record label, twelve employees chosen from among relatives, a couple of disabled employees hired to satisfy the politician on duty, a few interns, an administrative director, as well as four salespeople. On the last floor, Duranti Multimedia, the company that dealt with major events, such as the organization of concerts in stadiums and squares around the world, especially those in Eastern Europe, where Italian singers could always count on legions of fans.

  Rinaldo Duranti, dressed in a fresh tailor's suit, wearing white Lotus shoes with openwork on the tips, nervously walked around the office furnished with kitsch memorabilia from the 1960s: a flame-red juke-box, a white Fender Stratocaster kept like a relic in a crystal display case, a screen-printing of Andy Warhol's Marilyn, a huge tin can of Campbellʹs soup.

  In the studio, four boys looked at it with admiration and respect, as if it were an equestrian statue.

  "Let's recap. The feeling you're giving me is pretty weird" the record company exclaimed, stopping in front of the computer resting on his desk.

  "It's like when a river flows quietly, and instead of getting off your asses and getting busy anyway, you're just sitting there, looking at the water.

  "I don't think I understand" Sailor replied confusedly. Sailor was a pretty brunette who tended to chat, but could adapt to circumstances while remaining calm.

  "Let me explain. There's a guitar solo on the song. The drums follow the piece to the rhythm, the bass below is

  precise and fussy. Everything is interesting. Sorted. People who follow the rules like you will never make bad music. That can be a good thing, but I tend to consider it a limit."

  "So did you like it or not?" Asked doubtful Laurel, the band's frontman, a young man with a beautiful, open face.

  To that question, Duranti answered by pushing a button on the computer. The CD player opened with a hum. He took the Navy Seals diskette and threw it in the wastebasket.

  "The piece is worthless. It's like quiet water for my ears. A river of calm, flat notes. The music, as I understand it, must be an overflowing torrent. It must break the banks, break it, raise rippling waves, release energy. In short, fewer rules and more emotion. Yours is just a little fucking task."

  The CD in the basket was a shock. A glorious animosity darkened the faces of the Neavy Seals, four Roman rockers from Centocelle. When you're 20 years old, they'll either crush you, or they'll bend you. And the four guys until then had been very stubborn. For days they had tortured Duranti's secretary to get an appointment. Now, after being received by the boss, they were still unable to understand or accept their limitations.

  "It was clear, Mr. Duranti. Maybe we can fix the piece, or make new ones. As you can imagine, the important thing for us is to have a contract with your record company... you know... with any record company, but you are the only one who has received us” said Brando, the group's bassist, with naive sincerity, a short, shiny, long-haired man with an aquiline nose that ruined the aesthetic of a beautiful, almost ephebic face.

  Rinaldo Duranti puffed impatiently. He was no longer surprised by the candour of the young people. The way he saw it, there was less harm in the world to the cunning, unscrupulous types than the candid, naive people, just like those four young men.

  "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. I have received you, I agree, but I am also telling you that you are not capable of making real music. And here I stop" said the man, shaking his head.

  Frankie, the dark, black-eyed bass player, thought he'd reply, but he kept quiet, not because he didn't have something to say, but because of an innate discontent that made him particularly grumpy. He knew that if he opened his mouth he'd come out with a little elegant fuck off, or something like that.

  "The piece doesn't work” continued Duranti. "You're not going. But if you are here, there is a reason."

  The phone rang. Rinaldo Duranti answered listlessly, giving the boys eyes full of deadly boredom.

  "Hello. Hello, Alvaro. Yes, yes. The tour in Russia... I'm organizing it, yes. Last time, there was Glasnost. The singer, the asshole, he fucked up all the cachet in the casinò. Yeah, he did. Of course he did. I'll take a note" Duranti remained silent, nodded to something that amused him, had a big laugh, waved and turned off his phone.

  "That's
the point” he said back to the guys. "I have under contract a singer you know well. Someone who understands a little bit about music. She heard your piece. She finds the lyrics weak and puerile. Creativity in general around zero. But she says you have technique, passion, and you know how to play. I trust her, but I trust myself more. You could have stayed at home, but she says it would be a shame not to give you a chance, so... the proposal I'm making is this: either get the fuck out of here and goodbye, or if you want to do something with Gold Music, forget about the band. Navy Seals out. What I can do is let you play someone else's music. No stuff from you on stage. Do you understand the concept?"

  The guys kept quiet, they were surprised by the proposal. The four of them already considered it a success to have

  been received by the head of Gold Music. The record company specialized in reviving old showbiz glories. Great artists tarnished by fashion and age. For some time, Duranti had also been focusing on young talents. The music of the digital age wasn't what it used to be, so he was trying to expand his business by trying new talent to enter the music market.

  "You have plenty of time to think about it. I'm waiting for a no or a yes tomorrow."

  The band left the studio knowing the answer. When you live near the park of Centocelle, where the view is a horizon of syringes planted in the ground, and where dirt reigns supreme along with a plethora of minors who beat for twenty euros ... well, in that case you are convinced that dreams are not made for the drawers, but to be modified by adapting them to reality. That's why the next day they would have phoned Duranti and accepted his proposal.