Only the scent of your memory comforts me.
You are here.
All around me.
Inside me.
ʺShit. I can't cry! ʺ she said to herself. ʺWere just kids' stuff.
It never worked with Guidoʺ thought Daisy.
Turned over a new leaf.
She found Guido again.
March 8th.
Guido says he lives on love only. He's forgotten everything. Even the things he felt sorry for or desired. He is very jealous. Today, he wrote to me, "I don't know the boy who kicked me out. Don't talk about him as if he was Johnny Depp. I think he's wonderful, and I feel like crying. I feel like a loser. One who fought and lost. And without the honour of guns. I realize I'm nothing compared to him. Don't introduce me, please. I couldn't bear the presence of such perfection.
Daisy still read a passage.
March 12th.
Guido is heartbroken. I don't know whether it flatters me more to be his whole world, or to take pleasure in his suffering for me. It's been six months since our first date. Six months since the Next Generation incident. Six months since that pylon killed a man, crushing my dreams. I'm still seeing the psychiatrist about the trauma. And all Guido did was trample on tragedy by putting his broken heart in the front row.
Same old male who wants to be at the centre of the world.
Goodbye, you selfish fuck.
ʺNo. It couldn't work. Too jealous, insecure, and paranoidʺ thought Daisy.
She kept flicking through the diary, stopping at the last page.
October 18th
I write after two years. I untied the child's braids and threw the dolls away, replacing them with the dogmas of the present. My playthings now are bright prospects that contemplate fame, celebrity and money. I'm on the right track to make the big score. It's just that so much ambition makes me happy. Maybe, because I live in the middle ground where you're not a girl anymore, but you're not a woman either. I have the flaws of the two conditions: the loss of the child and the adult's shrewdness. Artists like me fear so much uncertainty. Art dies when the enchantment of that bridge between the opposite shores of consciousness ends. And you can't be happy when you kill the bad guy in your dreams. Unfortunately, awareness is the euthanasia of beauty.
"Miss Magnoli, we are near L'Aquila, a mile from the gas station. Would you like to take a break? Would you like something to eat?" asked the taxi driver, looking in the mirror at the passenger's assorted eyes.
"Call me Daisy. Don’t be so formal."
"All right... Daisy. Shall I stop, then? "The stop will not be included in the fare."
They stopped for ten minutes. The time for a coffee, to pee, to buy a huge bar of chocolate, the kind you only find in motorway service stations, and they got back on the road.
The rain was shining down on the highway. The dark, tree-covered mountains slid from the window, leaving the limelight to the mighty, barren rock of the Gran Sasso.
The taxi slid into the tunnel carved into the belly of the mountain. When it came out, the weather had surprisingly changed. The mountains had shielded the masses of heavy
rain clouds. On the east side, the sky was now starry, and the biggest rush shone beautifully above the peaks.
Daisy, who just couldn't sleep, had a little conversation with the taxi driver. Nothing memorable. A good man, married, two daughters, a football fan with a prohibition to access sportive events for a few punches on the corner of the Olympics. ʺThe A.S. Rome is a faith for certain wild and ignorant hearts like mineʺ was proudly justified.
The taxi had now left Teramo. The mountains were now behind it, and the car sped off to the coast. After a few kilometres on the provincial road, it took the A14, the motorway that bordered the Adriatic coast.
The sea, at times visible from the roadway, was unusually furious, swollen with winds from the Balkans.
The moon was spreading out over the waters with bright silver reflections, the waves were arching forward, the peaks bubbling and thunderously crashing down on the cliffs.
The highway was quite busy. Daisy heard the gloomy sound of the wheels changing, as if the road surface had become lighter, a sign that the car was running on a suspension bridge between two valleys. Further on, beyond a small mountain, the shady profile of a village on top of a hill appeared.
Daisy watched Castelmuso slipped out of the window.
The cold voice of the navigator warned to turn right to exit the motorway. As she exited the tollgate, she relaxed, closing her eyes, her head reclining on the headrest rocking because of the bumpy shoulder.
Rows of vines ran parallel to the straight stretch of the provincial road, which immediately snaked into a snake of tight curves. Each curve uncovered cottages, stumps and brambles, and acres where solid roots of old cedars, holm oaks, olive trees and sumptuous oaks were planted that seemed timeless.
They came to a crossroads. The car pulled straight to a stop sign, because the road was deserted at three o'clock in the morning.
The taxi sped by the sign announcing WELCOME TO CASTELMUSO. One of the most beautiful villages in Italy.
Daisy was now asleep. After three hours, the taximeter read one thousand two hundred and eighty three euros.
The car drove along the road around the old walls of the village, until the navigator ordered to turn right.
There were work in progress on the street. The direction of travel had changed and the taxi was taking the wrong side of the road. The driver grabbed the gear knob, climbed the gear because the road was uphill, and the engine was losing revs.
The cars parked on the side of the road were all stopped with their faces pointed towards the taxi, a sign that the driver was going the wrong way. He didn't notice.
Halfway up the hill, an unusual bank of fog completely obscured the road.
The car drove blindly under the Porta Duomo gate, a stone's throw from the town's cathedral.
Daisy was dreaming of travelling with her brother.
In the dream, a strange smile gave Adriano's facial lines an unusual expression of desire. She, confused, had abandoned herself in his arms.
He stroked her hair. She closed her eyes. She felt serene, safe and secure. He softly bent over her, the space between her two faces blurred, and kissed her on the mouth.
Daisy pulled him away, ashamed that she still felt a thrill of pleasure. She turned embarrassedly towards the window, while Adriano was moaning something confused. She didn't understand the words, but she could clearly sense his state of mind. In the dream, everything was on a deeper level, immersed in a slimy layer of allegory. Her brother's meaningless groan was melancholy and sad, as if it were goodbye. She, with anxiety pouring out of her chest, turned
to Adriano, and he had disappeared into thin air. There was a squeal of gum. Her hair swayed forward, and her head hit the front seat.
Around it, a shower of crystal flakes. Then a flash of light, as if the fire of hell had ignited. The flames were devouring the entire cockpit: the leather seats, the plastic, the gaskets, the dashboard. Everything was deformed as the flames began to burn. Even Daisy's clothes were burning. Her hairs were crackling, the leather was burning, her lungs full of acrid smoke, her life slipping away.
Then someone smashed the window.
She felt herself grasped by strong, secure arms.
At that moment, the certainty of being inside a dream vanished completely.
9
The Unione's provincial editorial office was on the third and top floor of an old building with a long history behind it.
Originally a furniture factory in the late 1800s, after three generations the company had suffered a physiological decline. The building was abandoned and renovated in the 1930s, only to be occupied by a Nazi command during the last war.
Thirty years after the conflict, there was still a pile of mattresses high enough to reach the ceiling. They were the same mattresses used by German soldiers to rest. Over the next 20 years, children had sneak
ed into the room to jump on rusty mattress springs.
After forty years, the building was gutted and divided into many small apartments. Currently, the modest interior 6 housed the newspaper's editorial office.
In that cramped 40-square-foot office space were three desks, two computers with big, big crates, a PC with an ultra-thin screen for the editor-in-chief, a landline phone, a printer that's always jammed and only needed to fill a corner of the room, a fancy copier, the recycled shelves of an old warehouse, and a bulletin board with clippings of the most significant items on it. Two large, bright windows were on a cluster of low, old hovels, all climbing up the west side of the hill. Beyond, there was a spectacular view of the Sibillini Mountains.
The Union of Milan was a rampant new daily newspaper that was opening offices in all regions. The Castelmusina headquarter, however, was temporary, a simple domicile. Times were tight and it was necessary to open real offices in a hurry, otherwise the newspaper would have chosen another city, most likely the capital, entrusting the local news to an
aggressive patrol of journalists who would have sold their mother to work in a real newspaper.
So much precariousness was based on the formidable motivation of Guido Gobbi.
Over the past four years, the shy, curly boy had risen ten centimetres, graduated with top marks and over time had become a publicist journalist. He stopped writing for Cronache Cittadine after an interview in Milan with the Deputy Director of the Union. He volunteered as a freelancer. The management offered him to set up a local editorial office. They would pay the articles, but not the bills. Guido accepted immediately despite not having a euro in his pocket.
Four twenty-year-old men worked in the editorial office, plus a Milanese editor-in-chief who had never set foot in Castelmuso. The director's was a ruse because he needed a journalist's licence to open the provincial office.
In fact, Guido was in charge of everything. His old high school friends Leo Fratesi, Filippa Villa and Manuel Pianesi were his assistants, editors, graphic designers, proof-readers and handymen in general.
Leonardo Broatesi had dropped out of high school in his fourth year due to an unstoppable tendency towards leisure. He was frowned upon in the village because the villagers in Castelmuso were wary of lazybones. Leo then decided to agree to work for the Union. It was an economically insignificant partnership, but it was good for his reputation. Manuel, the other employee, attended communication science. He only wrote in the newspaper to prove to his father that he was no good for nothing. This was not because he really was good for nothing, but because of a parent's bad attitude toward life in general. His father showed a constant tendency to be angry, envious, and slanderous. Despite so many flaws, he was certain that his son was a worse person than he was. Manuel would have wanted to fuck him so
badly, but he couldn't afford it. In fact, it was the father who paid the university fees.
Filippa Villa was the third force on the field. She was the usual vulgar, arrogant girl. Her curly hair dishevelled, her locks greased to cover her fat, sexually ill face. The overall impression was that of a dirty person, but only beyond the skin. Layers of repugnance that she loved to flaunt only to hide her frailty. Filippa was the same girl who had 154 IQs on a high school intelligence test. That day, the head of the MENSA who presided over the test did not find her score credible.
The man, a snooty and full of himself because of his broad intellectual faculties, had forced the big girl to repeat the test. She reacted with a phrase that remained famous.
"It means I'm going to make better now."
She took a second test, finishing with a staggering 162. When she finished the test, she was expelled from school for one day for burping in the face of the responsible officer at MENSA.
Now Filippa was attending the faculty of ancient literature. She was an embarrassment to her college friends, but all the marks were 30 with honours. At the editorial office, she was in charge of culture. Her articles were elegant, consistent, sharp and scratchy. Guido hired her as a necessary evil.
The three old high school classmates of Leopardi school were particularly dedicated to work when they realized that people were interested in their stories. To please their readers, they applied themselves consistently, improving their style day by day.
Guido, on the other hand, had not chosen them at random. Everyone had a particular talent for writing.
But there was a problem.
Nothing ever happened in Castelmuso.
And that day, Guido was unusually late. Leo, particularly slimmed down from his high school years, his thick copper-colored hair softened with gel, took a map for a cigarette.
"So, how do we set up the article?" he exclaimed, rolling the tobacco and carefully pressing it into the map.
"Creditors are cunning. They make you think they don't exist, only to show up with chainsaws in their hands. Either you pay, or they cut your light, gas, and balls" replied Filippa, the number forty-two untied amphibians resting on the table, one arm dangling behind the back, hand clutching a cigar.
Leo finished rolling the cigarette, lit it up, and happily blew a puff of smoke onto the computer screen.
"I can't think of a decent article on the credit crunch implemented by local banks. Not to mention that five euros for an inquiry is a disrespectful fee to my genius."
"Your genius doesn't deserve five euros” Filippa murmured, softening the tip of the Tuscan with saliva.
Manuel, the telephone handset attached to his ear, beckoned the two of them to lower their voices. He was sitting with his curved back on the desk, his dreadlocks tufts tied in a bun, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled halfway up his arms. The boy was listening with a suspended expression to a voice with a strong southern accent.
"Come on, Brigadier, can it be that nothing happened?"
Manuel's tone was sad, his finger nervously curling the telephone wire. "You want to starve the newsroom... what? Have they arrested Alberto the Larvone again? That's not news. It's tradition. Oh, shit. I can't write about the arrest of the only junkie in the country for the hundredth time. Thanks anyway."
Manuel hung up the phone with a depressed sigh.
"Nothing. Nothing happens in Castelmuso. As usual. What a shitty town. But not normal shit. The kind that only a few
asses know how to express" Manuel said, drinking coffee, now warm, from a cup of polystyrene in a single sip.
Leo got up from his seat and indolently covered the space between him and the crossroads. He reached out his hand between the shelves to take a folder where some notes were kept, most of them coloured notes about Castelmuso.
He leafed through the pages, dwelling on those that carried a triangle of paper folded on the edge, to emphasize the things that could be passable for publication.
"There should be something interesting here. We can choose some curious anecdotes."
Manuel noted, "That's not news. It's gossip."
"Or slander. That's why we don't keep them in computers” added Filippa, throwing a heavy cloud of smoke from his lungs.
Manuel waved his hand in front of his nose to ward off the acrid smell of the cigar. "Hadn't you quit smoking?"
"Only the reeds” replied Filippa. "The vices, if you cannot avoid them, you select them. Anyone want a Tuscan?"
"No, thanks. Filippa, do you have something in mind for the cultural page on Thursday?" asked Leo, scratching a psoriasis spot on the back of his neck with a pen.
"I would propose this headline: ‘Esteemed citizen breaks into a newsroom and smashes everything with a sledgehammer, foiling the cultural page. People applaud the hero’.
"Bad joke. Something more concrete?" Manuel asked while sipping coffee.
"Read this. Sixty-three years. Nymphomaniac. Decayed nobleman has oral sex with kids in the arcade bathroom."
"Is there proof?" asked Filippa without a thread of hesitation.
A depressed silence followed. Evidence or not, no one wanted to write such a st
ory. Talking about forbidden sex in the provinces was considered disheartening, even though it was what readers wanted to read most. But the guys at the
editorial office hated almost any form of junk journalism in principle.
Editor-in-chief Guido Gobbi showed up two hours late. He had spent the last week at the historical archives for a research commissioned by Rotary Provincial.
The rotarians would have wanted to disprove his already improbable theory that the house of Our Lady of Loreto, instead of being flown by angels, was carried by certain templars who were supposed to have been in the Crusades, and therefore considered it a spoils of war. A story that the rotarians would have paid four hundred euros to see published.
Only Guido would never have written that article.
He entered the office holding the black leather briefcase on his right hand, pushing his glasses to the tip of his nose, which he alternated with contact lenses from time to time. The flowing curls were gone, replaced by a short, neat cut that made him look more manly.
He stood at the door and watched his friends as they waited for someone to ask him what had happened, why he was late or had that strange, impatient expression.
"I know you. Something has happened. Something that deserves our full attention” Filippa exclaimed for sure.
"Yes. Something has happened. Something big" replied Guido with a blaze of excitement in his eyes.
An unexpected liveliness animated the boys. Everyone was suddenly on edge. Everyone was asking questions, everyone wanted to know, all their questions were overlapping and Guido was struggling to shut them up.
"Good. Just a second and I'll tell you everything."
Guido Gobbi opened the briefcase. He took out a laminated folder, snapped the rings staring at a bunch of photocopies and distributed the pages on the desks.
"Let's start with a question. What do you know about Pardo Melchiorri?"
The Dawn of Sin Page 10
