“FDM-15 to Rombo. Over,” says Dario.
“FDM-15, so we hear from you at last. Over.”
“I had my hands full with that slut of a sister of yours. Over.”
“I’ve got your mother here with me, and she wants me to say hi. Over.”
The typical humor of the republic’s gangsters leaves secret agent Al and Kasimir impassive.
“Can I ask what’s become of you? Over.”
“Still at the house of the retarded kid and the little whore. Over.”
Calm down, Casimiro, calm down. “Actually, the retard would be you,” we’ll tell him when the time is right.
“Did you get hold of the pipes? Over.”
“Right here under the bed. Three long ones and five short ones. Over.”
So that’s what’s in this bag next to me. Agent Al and the spy Kasimir hold their breath.
“The nuts? Over.”
“Two boxes for each pipe, as requested. Over.”
“Two boxes? We asked for three. Over.”
“Then there must be three . . . hold on and let me check. Over.”
I’m under this bed because I’m a sleepwalker. I’m under this bed but I’m deaf since birth. I’m under this bed but I fell asleep and I never heard a thing, I swear!
I try to crawl away from the bag but I’ve become too big for this sort of escapade, with every movement I make, I run the risk that an elbow or a foot might stick out.
Dario’s hand pats the floor frantically like the tongue of a giant iguana. Unless he finds it right away, I’m done for. This guy’s going to kill me!
“FDM-15, hold on, you were right after all, we said two boxes. Over.”
One of Dario’s fingers grazes my forearm.
“Just when I’d found it . . . Then we’re all good. Over.”
“Where we gonna meet? Over.”
“At the parking lot by the dance hall. Day after tomorrow, two in the morning. Over.”
“But right under the dancers’ noses again? Over.”
“You really must be getting old. If I say it’s safe, it’s safe. The dancers won’t be dancing that time of night, and after all, it’s right near here, the less distance I need to cover with the pipes, the better. Over.”
“Day after tomorrow, then. Over and out.”
I, Al, prince of Santamaria, do solemnly swear that this will be the last nocturnal incursion of my life. I swear the same oath for Casimiro, as well.
68.
With what little information I possessed, it took me a full day to track down the location of the appointment. I was looking for a dance hall, but of course that was code for something else. The only building in the area that had a parking lot was the small Carabinieri station. An isolated place, dark, with plenty of escape routes, and, as I was able to determine, at the appointed time, there was a shift change, which means there were no officers on the streets. Having finished the investigative phase, I only had a few hours left to go into action. All alone, I never would have been able to do it, but with Raimondo as my accomplice and Casimiro standing lookout, there was even enough time to throw in a few additional gems. I’m lucky, I have trusted friends, always ready to hurry to my side when there’s a chance of getting hurt.
But now I need to awaken Vittoria and Roberta, because the flash point of sulphur is 392 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Vittoria! Roberta!”
“A-a-al . . . what is it?”
“Wake up, both of you.”
“No-o-o . . . where are you?”
“I’m waiting for you outside.”
The temperature of a car’s muffler reaches 1500 degrees F close to the engine. According to my calculations, the temperature drops about 125 degrees every eight inches, as you move toward the end of the exhaust pipe.
“Al, it’s two in the morning. What are you doing up?”
“We need to drink a toast.”
“A toast to what?” Vittoria asks in resignation.
“In the meantime, enjoy the evening, the stars, the crickets . . . ”
By calculating the distance between the principality and the Carabinieri station, the car’s average velocity, driving time, and air temperature, I ought to have been able to identify the exact point along the length of the exhaust assembly at which to place my creation so as to ensure that Dario’s nocturnal operation turns out to be anything but silent.
“There’s not even a single cricket,” Vittoria complains.
“They’re probably asleep . . . ” Roberta points out argumentatively.
This is how you can recognize a leader’s charisma. The crew grumbles but no one ventures to leave their post. They know that if their leader calls them, he must have a good reason.
The sulphur catches fire, the black powder explodes.
A first explosion makes them both jump. They look around, alert now.
Then a burst of gunshots in rapid succession makes them jump out of their seats.
“What’s that? Gunfire?” Roberta asks in alarm.
“No, they’re firecrackers,” I say.
Through the trees we see the distant flashes of explosions. Another impressive burst. Three louder reports. Then silence.
“Maybe they’re celebrating,” says Vittoria. “Maybe some local neighborhood saint . . . ”
“Sure, something like that. But hold on, it’s not over,” I say.
With a very narrow angle of trajectory, almost parallel to the ground, rockets take off. Some burst through the line of trees and shoot past us, vanishing into the countryside. The reports and shrill whistles blend with the sirens of the Carabinieri squad cars.
“And now? What the devil is happening?” Vittoria asks me.
Nothing, nothing at all is happening. Except that the principality is free once again.
Headline: “Car Blows Up Right in Front of Carabinieri Barracks. Prison Break Escapee Arrested.” Article: “The car driven by Dario Barella, a convicted criminal already well known to the authorities for armed robbery, arms trafficking, and sex trafficking, was transporting explosives. Perhaps he was planning a terror attack, but the soldiers of the Carabinieri Corps went into action when they heard several loud reports from the street outside. The explosive devices, which blew up prematurely, led the Carabinieri to break up a military arms ring and, after a brief chase, to arrest Barella.”
I’m tempted to cut out this article and frame it, but when Vittoria arrives, I choose instead to just fold up the newspaper and hide it under the sofa cushion. This time, I tell myself, “Good job, Al.”
“What about Dario? His things are gone,” she tells me.
“He left. Actually, I evicted him. I got him to pay up and I kicked him out.”
“And just how did you do that?”
“Things men understand . . . I made it clear to him who he was dealing with.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m sorry I missed the scene . . . ”
I receive congratulations and hugs, I’ll settle for just a small portion of what I really deserve. I had some doubts about the operation because I was afraid that, once captured, Dario might have revealed his hideout to the Carabinieri and caused us a world of trouble, but the marijuana I found hidden under his mattress set my mind at rest. The only thing still missing from his CV was a conviction for possession and dealing of narcotics. While Vittoria was asleep I tossed all his possessions into the dumpster, except for the grass and seven hundred thousand lire in cash which, along with our next salaries, will allow us to complete the principality and prepare for the triumphant return of Agnese and Mario Elvis.
69.
So 1989 is the year of farewells: the Soviets withdraw from Afghanistan, the Chinese students in Tiananmen Square say so long to their hopes for democracy, hundreds of Germans abandon the German Democratic Republic, scampering
across the border between Hungary and Austria, Monsignor Marcinkus leaves the Vatican Bank, and the mayor of Rome resigns because he’s under criminal investigation for irregularities in the contracts for school lunches. I took my last exam and said goodbye without too much exaltation to the too many useless books and their exorbitant price tags, the overcooked cafeteria pasta, the professors who teach courses without a hint of passion, the students who begin their oral exams by conveying the best regards of their illustrious father.
The principality enjoys enviable health, even though the Italian republic continues to undermine our financial solidity with tricks of every sort. The worst example was the fraud perpetrated by our state-funded physician who convinced Vittoria to get an operation to correct a defect in her nasal septum, which he said might cause respiratory problems and potentially grave cardiocirculatory deficiencies. After we’d scheduled the operation and even paid a sizable deposit, in part funded out of Dario’s generous bequest, the police arrested him and the clinic’s chief physician for fraud, falsification, and serious harm as a result of unnecessary operations. A year ago, we were once again on the verge of building walls, we already had an estimate in hand, and then a letter arrived from Mamma and Papà telling us that they were very happy to live outside of Italy, but they still really missed having a bidet. In order to reinstall it, we had to move the sink and redo all the piping. Room rental continues to play a major role in our GDP. A real piece of luck especially considering that, in the letter that came yesterday, Mamma and Papà wrote us that now they live in a house with beautiful furniture, and it’s sad to think of our furniture, so old and beat up. Even if it’s a burden, we want to make them happy, and so we’ll delay the construction of the walls a little longer, so that we can understake the restoration work instead.
In my human flesh diary I wrote: “Women’s weekly magazines might be a good business opportunity, consider the possibility of ginning up scandals in the principality,” “Those who can’t stop saying that if you weren’t twenty years old in 1968 you can’t understand what politics even is have finally won, there’s no longer a single twenty-year-old who gives a damn,” “Limit the number of drugs that are legal in the principality to those you can grow in the field behind the house,” “Become independent as quickly as possible from the craftsmen and handymen of the Italian republic, especially plumbers, electricians, and carpenters,” “New boyfriend for Vittoria: Piero the plumber?” “New boyfriend for Vittoria: Sandrone the electrician?” “New boyfriend for Vittoria: Antonio the carpenter?”
The Italian republic rewards its brightest minds by preventing them from completing their studies in record time. I could easily have taken my degree at the age of twenty-one but the chancellor did everything within his power to delay the assignment of my thesis. Even if he won’t admit it, the problem is that he thinks I’m too young. While waiting, seeing that my age is just fine when it comes to paying university tuition and fees, I’ve decided to find a real job. Something temporary, that won’t distract me too much from my institutional responsibilities as prince, and which will allow me to earn enough to send the furniture to the cabinetmaker, build these blessed walls, and do whatever it takes to ensure that Agnese and Mario Elvis can be there to see me defend my thesis. Since the library continues to slam doors in my face, I’ve decided to fight back using similar weapons: I asked for a recommendation from one of our most recent guests, the son of a city councilor. I had helped him to rewrite his own thesis after it had become clear that every word of it was plagiarized.
Disguised as a hungry young capitalist, in a charcoal gray suit, white striped shirt, tie with a tight knot, and watch fastened over my left cuff, I stick my head into the office.
“Dottor Masci?” I ask politely.
“Yes.”
Yes, my ass, this guy might have finished middle school at the most, and he acts as if he’s a dottore, a university graduate.
“Buongiorno, I’m Almerico Santamaria.”
“Santamaria, Santamaria . . . Ah, is this for the courier job?”
“Yes, Dottore.”
“Come in, take a seat and I’ll tell you about it.”
I adjust my jacket, which is just a little long in the sleeves, and I step into the office. The fake doctor’s jacket has the same defect as mine, so that when we shake hands the sleeves form a single tube connecting my suit to his. I take a seat facing his desk. On the leather desktop there’s a hole where, over the course of the years, hundreds of nervous fingers have worked away. They didn’t even leave me so much as a scrap of foam rubber padding to scratch at.
“There’s no need for me to tell you how important letters and files are inside this ministry. Everything has to be delivered in a timely fashion, nothing must be lost.”
“Certainly.”
“The only thing that’s certain in this life, my good man, is death . . . ”
The man looks at me. He nods, raptly, impressed first and foremost by the profundity of his pearl of wisdom. I gratify him with a convinced affirmative nod of the head, and I pretend to muse over the pinchbeck pearl he’s just palmed off on me.
“As you must have seen, this is quite a large ministry, hundreds of offices, thousands of people who don’t do a blessed thing from dawn to dusk . . . It’ll take you a while to memorize all the names. Maybe on the first day you could just learn the offices on this floor and then, day by day . . . ”
“Berchicci L., De Santis L., Leproni F., De Rita M., Merolli M., Camera M., Rocca P., WC, Conference Room, Dott. Piermartini R., and Dott.ssa Giusti C., Registry Office, Dott. Scanabucci R. and Dott. Lancia E., Dott.ssa Gagliardi A., Dott.ssa Muzi S., and Dott. Masci S.,” I say.
“When did you memorize them?”
“I read them while I was looking for your office.”
“And all you need is to read something once and you memorize it?”
Now the smart thing would be to say no, to avoid the usual spot test and the cascade of “wow”s, “o-o-oh”s,” and “never seen such a thing in my life!”s.
“Yes.”
Masci stares at me, hard, for a moment, then he picks up his desk diary and starts with the test. He reads aloud his notes concerning his appointments for the week, dates, times, names, street addresses, and telephone numbers, two dense pages full of information, and, seeing me sitting there impassive, he decides on the second page to speed up as if the lack of pauses were somehow supposed to pose a greater challenge to me. When he gets to the end of his last note, he’s out of breath.
He launches the challenge with a movement of the chin above which flickers an ironic little smile, the neon sign of stupidity which I’m always delighted to switch off. Twenty-two names, nine of them preceded by “Dottor” and three by “Dottoressa,” four names of agencies, eight phone numbers, one of which must have been copied down wrong because it’s a digit short, ten addresses with street numbers, six brief indications of the reason for the appointment. I repeat it all in the exact same order, without pauses, just as he did, from: “Monday the eleventh four P.M. dentist for new crown” to: “Friday the fifteenth ten A.M. call Dottor Martelli for his daughter’s birthday.”
“Never seen such a thing in my life! Someone like you shouldn’t be a courier . . . You’d be perfect as my secretary!”
“That would be nice.”
“The minute that senile old fool retires, I’ll take care of you. A real job, with real responsibilities . . . ”
“I’d like that.”
“ . . . full-time, with lots and lots of overtime!”
“Thank aaa sancarala, at’s raalla an anarmaas plaasara.”
We spend a good solid minute looking each other in the eye.
“What?”
“At’s raalla an anarmaas plaasara.”
“Does this happen to you often?”
“Daas what happan ta ma aftan?”
“Ok
ay . . . well, in the meantime try to do your best as a courier . . . then we’ll see.”
70.
We were expecting a young man but instead our new paying guest is in his fifties. The minute we saw him we immediately began to worry about the state of the house, as if Mamma and Papà had just come home. Luckily he arrived at night. We thought that we would spend an agreeable evening chatting, but we immediately felt intimidated. Carlo, that’s his name, wears a double-breasted suit and a tie, eyeglasses with thick lens, and long hair gleaming with gel. He showed up dragging a wheeled suitcase behind him. His bewildered gaze ought perhaps to have inspired pity in us, but instead it scared us like hell. When we accompany him to his room, we do our best never to turn our backs on him.
“You can hang your overcoat there, there’s a hook in the wall of LEGO blocks,” I tell him.
No answer.
“You are free to make use of the wardrobe and the dresser there at the foot of the wall of LEGO blocks.”
Still nothing.
I get it, I’m not going to get any compliments from this man for my magnificent creation.
“Where’s the telephone?” are his first words.
“Outside, in the phone booth.”
We had another guest who used to put on the same expression. He was a government undersecretary. They’re a media-modified species that favor the expression: “Now this is the life,” employing it at least one million times, invariably the wrong way. The ones who go to a bank and, instead of speaking to a teller, insist on going straight to the director, who always seem to find a table at any restaurant, who are accustomed to hearing people say: “Dottore, for you I’ll do the impossible,” and who have a phone in every room, because if “he” calls, they must already be ready to answer.
“It’s a safe number . . . no one’s ever come by to do maintenance,” I tell him, well aware that I’m giving him a useful piece of information.
We Are Family Page 25
