Venice Noir

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Five, nine, sixteen turns of the carousel.

  One, two, three cages packed with clams.

  In the distance, from two sides, the lights of Venice and Porto Marghera. Around them, nothing. Under them, the filthy water that moved as if it were retching and spewing up kilos—tons—of toxic clams together with the foaming water and the seabed that came to the surface with all its smell of decay and death. Above them, the flashing lights of the umpteenth airliner ready to land at Marco Polo.

  Dario activated another extractor and began to tip dozens of kilos of mollusks directly onto the boat: they came out of the lagoon like coins from a broken slot machine.

  Twenty-five past one. The Doge was filling up.

  Alvise gritted his teeth and looked up at the sky, toward a plane. He didn’t know how much longer he would be able to stand it; his shoulder felt shattered, as if someone had injected into it a cocktail of glass shards, needles, and hot chilli pepper.

  Half past one. The Doge was already teeming with seafood and Alvise felt that the veins on his neck and forehead were about to explode.

  One thirty-one. Dario spotted a light in the distance. He watched it suspiciously for a moment and halted the operation. He could now see that it was coming closer, at an incredible speed.

  “Stop everything!” he yelled at Alvise, and then, turning to Giorgio: “Someone’s coming! Go! Go!”

  Giorgio and Alvise looked toward the south and saw what was happening.

  Giorgio switched off the engine for a moment and, when the boat stopped turning, became aware that the beam of light did not belong to the floodlights that were standard issue on the customs and excise boats. Which was probably even worse. He swore bluntly and barked an order to the other two: “The Barracudas! Come on! Fuck! Come on! Pull everything up and lie flat, cause we’re really gonna move!”

  Dario pulled the last cage on board, full of mollusks, and helped Alvise unfasten the iron pole from the engine. By then, the beam of light had almost reached them and they could hear the rumbling of the engine of the boat that was cruising straight toward them.

  “Go! Go!” Alvise shouted, lying down on the deck and making a rapid sign of the cross. Meanwhile, Dario started swearing nonstop and resolutely pulled out his gun.

  Giorgio switched on the engine and set off at full throttle in the opposite direction, toward the Ponte della Libertà, which ought to lie somewhere far in front of them, but wasn’t yet visible to them.

  Although the Doge was speeding like a rocket across the surface of the water, the beam of light behind them grew closer and closer, and suddenly, instead of one light there were three.

  “How many fuckers are there?” yelled Giorgio, his ponytail flying in the wind as he raced along at nearly fifty knots.

  “Faster! Faster!” Dario roared, gripping his Luger.

  Alvise lay among the stinking clams and gazed at the faint image of the moon that leaped across his field of vision with the jolting of the hull. He knew that if it were the Barracudas, he and his partners should be prepared for the worst. And deep down he knew perfectly well that the people behind them had to be the Barracudas; he was certain of it when they began firing submachine-gun rounds and pistol shots. Then, as if by magic, the pain in his shoulder became just a distant memory.

  Giorgio and Dario started to return fire as best they could; they were like two sardines trying to escape a shark hungry for flesh. The other boats were getting closer and closer. Always closer.

  The chase became desperate, with Giorgio zigzagging in a frenetic race toward the darkness, trying to avoid wooden poles, shallows, sand banks, and bullets that buzzed like bees a few inches from their ears.

  Shooting, shooting, shooting. From one side and from the other. Shooting and yet more shooting, until, just as they were skirting the island of San Giorgio in Alga, a bullet hit the Doge’s pilot in the head; he let go of the controls and fell into the water like a sack of potatoes. The engine of the drift boat died suddenly and in an instant they slowed to a stop, allowing their pursuers to reach them almost immediately. All the while, they continued to fire like men possessed and roar like ferocious animals.

  Alvise was also hit; a bullet had grazed his thigh and blood was seeping from his oilskin trousers. With immense effort he got up and plunged into the water like a fish, hoping that no one had seen him. He descended to the seabed and tried to swim toward the old deserted island.

  He accidentally drank some of the cloudy water: its fetid smell and its acidic, brackish taste reminded him of rotten fish. There was a burning pain in his leg and he could feel himself getting weaker, when he bumped into something large above him. He quickly realized it was Giorgio’s body that was floating helplessly with its head split open. A feeling of panic seized him, but an instinctive spirit of survival made him persevere, and so he swam forward another few yards until he managed to land on the island. He struggled out of the water and gasped for breath that seemed would never come, then he looked toward the Doge, lit softly by the mocking moon. He was aware of men shouting at someone and then shooting. Soon he heard the splash of a dead weight falling into the water and realized that they had executed Dario. Then the beam of a flashlight struck him like the midday sun.

  “There’s the third one! He’s on the island!” shouted a hoarse voice.

  A boat moved and pointed its prow toward the abandoned quay.

  In his attempt to escape, Alvise fell several times, but in the end he entered the thick, impervious undergrowth, dragging himself with difficulty and repeatedly catching on pieces of glass, old sacks of garbage, debris, syringes, used condoms, and every other type of human detritus. He could hear the boat landing at the quay and the hurried steps of the men who had come to do to him what they had just done to his companions. Alvise reached the ruins of the old monastery that stood on the island and, feeling that his heart would burst at any minute, pushed himself further forward and hid inside the walls of the ancient, crumbling crypt, where a flock of bats fluttered away like a fading cloud. Meanwhile, the light of his tormentors’ flashlights became stronger as they advanced after him. Alvise peered at the woodland surrounding him and a flurry of meaningless images flashed through his brain.

  If you lose, all the worse for you, he thought.

  “He’s over here! He’s over here!” one of the men shouted, shining his flashlight on Alvise, blinding him.

  “You dirty bastard. The clams are ours!” a second voice cried out.

  Alvise heard a gun being loaded.

  “After tonight you’ll never steal again,” the first man said. “Shoot him in the head, Alkan!”

  “No, please!” Alvise begged, his voice trembling.

  In that split second he seemed to smell the perfume of Tania’s body, feel her breasts, her lips, and an instant later he had the worst sensation of his life: the certainty that everything would end now, and then there would be nothing more.

  “Come on, Alkan. What are you waiting for?”

  “Don’t kill me,” Alvise spluttered again. “I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t kill me.”

  A shot. A second shot. The echoes swept through the woods and then out over the lagoon all around them.

  A few seconds later, several feral cats hidden among the brambles let out an eerie lament and the men who had ventured onto the island returned to the quay where their associates were waiting for them.

  With his fading eyes staring upward, Alvise made out the blurry image of an enormous airliner slowly crossing the sky. He tried to raise a hand to catch hold of it, hang onto it, fly away from the city forever, while his final breath escaped his mouth. Then nothing.

  And on the black lagoon the familiar deep silence returned.

  THE COMEDY IS OVER

  BY FRANCESCO FERRACIN

  Calcavia

  Translated from Italian by Judith Forshaw

  First of all, let me say that I’m someone who has always voted for the left.

  By conviction rather
than because of social background, given that mine is a family of solid upper-middle-class conservatives.

  On countless afternoons in Campo Santa Margherita, between one wine-and-campari “spritz” and the next, I have always stood up for a multiethnic, atheist, and social-democratic Italy, the population made up not only of those who were born here but also those who have been compelled to come here.

  I’m telling you this just so you don’t think I’m a member of the Lega Nord or that I’m one of those priggish old dears who fill up the hairdressers of the northeast. And I want to make it clear from the start that I had my faults too.

  I don’t think I need to tell you my name, or provide you with details about my background—which you can work out to some extent from the way I talk.

  All you need to know is that I was born in Venice (the lagoon), I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman, I’m five foot four, and I weigh 115 pounds.

  On the evening of December 16, 2007, I went out for a pizza with friends.

  It’s something that we didn’t get to do often enough, because what with work, boyfriends, and various other things, it’s not as if we have much time left over to have fun.

  But once a month, on a Friday, Chiara, Giulia, Caterina, Zaira, and I used to go out and let our hair down. Usually a pizza, or Chinese—although we didn’t feel like risking it after the time Cate got ill. We chatted about this and that, but had a rule that work and politics were left at home. Then, after the coffee, we’d jump in the car and go somewhere to dance.

  That evening we decided to go to the Molo Cinque, one of the few places on the Venetian mainland where you could have a particular kind of evening. No, wait—don’t imagine that I’m the sort of girl who likes the pretty boys who go there just to show off their new clothes, or the nerds who use fake IDs to get in and then pretend they’ve forgetten they’re with a lady when it’s time to pay the bill.

  It’s not a place where I go to pick someone up. The type of men I like are completely different. They shouldn’t be too good looking (there’s always a risk of dormant homosexuality), nor too tall (we’d look ridiculous), nor too poor (that would just be embarrassing). They have to have a beard (maybe) and a degree in an arts subject.

  My ideal man?

  A philosophy professor (with at least an associate professorship, obviously).

  I’ve had affairs with professional men as well, but I found them as dull as my brother, and they perhaps found me a bit too demanding. It was clear that none of them ever thought my keen intelligence was as important as a nice firm ass, something that at the time I was very far from having.

  But I digress.

  Returning to the subject at hand: once we’d paid for the pizza, Caterina wanted to go home to her husband, as she always did; he sulks whenever she comes home after eleven.

  Meanwhile, Chiara had a baby with a temperature.

  So Giulia, Zaira, and I were left.

  I ought to mention here that of the three of us, Giulia is the real looker.

  Tall. Blond. Looks great for thirty. Truly blue eyes. She’s an assistant in a dentist’s office and has never had any luck with men. (God knows why I thought it worth mentioning that.) Unlike the vast majority of our crowd, which is about twenty people all told, Giulia has never been interested in politics. She says she’s a believer, and I suppose she really is, seeing as she comes from somewhere near Treviso.

  Zaira is originally from the Middle East but she came to Italy when she was a baby. Her father is a journalist for Il Gazzettino and her mother teaches in a school that specializes in sciences. So she doesn’t fit the profile of a typical immigrant.

  Not that it would have made any difference to us—quite the opposite. Several times Andrea and Filippo, the frontal and temporal lobes of our group, have tried to introduce people from other ethnic backgrounds into our ranks, but for one reason or another it never worked out.

  I can say that that was hardly surprising, though I didn’t know then everything I know now.

  But let’s start at the beginning.

  The Molo Cinque was packed. What with a recession on the doorstep and everything else, people seemed to feel an overwhelming need to enjoy themselves. Maybe they wouldn’t buy themselves a new pair of shoes, or they’d purchase their clothes at Oviesse instead of Macelleria (where the “right people” do their shopping). Perhaps they’d keep their old car and update their iPhone instead. I still had the first model, but who cares—I’m hardly one of those bourgeois types.

  There were loads of people and they were having a great time. They were dancing, drinking, laughing, and flirting. Two fit young men buttonhole us. They offer to buy us drinks. They ask us to dance. Each of us in turn, although it’s obvious that both of them are trying to hook up with Giulia. By the third vodka and lemon, the better looking of the two makes his move. Giulia doesn’t go for it. He leans in to kiss her. She slaps him. Insults fly—whore is the only one I feel I can repeat here, just to give you an idea of the level they descended to.

  The bouncers arrive and do what they’re paid to do.

  All three of us are a bit shaken up by what happened. And, it has to be said, a bit drunk. We therefore decide to go home.

  Because she was worried about finding somewhere to park, Giulia came in my car, which I left on one of the side streets off Via dell’Elettricità, right in middle of the Porto Marghera industrial area.

  Not one of the better areas, according to right-wing residents of Mestre.

  Those of us on the left, however, say it’s the beating heart of Mestre. Or of Venice.

  A little way from the Molo there’s the glorious community center—Rivolta—that I went to when I was a girl, when I used to smoke pot and listen to the Neapolitan hip-hop/ reggae group 99 Posse.

  The Marghera that was once working class and is now a social laboratory, as Filippo always says, that doesn’t miss a single ethnic festival.

  A social laboratory …

  Frankenstein’s monster was born in a laboratory too.

  We say goodbye to Zaira, who, with her usual luck, had found a space a few yards from the door of the club, and we set off in silence.

  We walk as far as the crossroads at Via della Pila and carry on till we’re almost under the Mestre flyover, the one that links the bypass to the Ponte della Libertà, and to Venice.

  For those who aren’t familiar with the area: on the left, Mestre, the station, and Via Piave, or rather the scrapheap; on the right, Marghera and the commercial port with the Fincantieri warehouses.

  My Polo is parked on the right-hand side of the street, between an old BMW and one of those Chryslers that looks like it’s out of a Batman comic. The sort of man I would have most liked to run into that evening.

  Giulia and I were walking along side by side. The air was cold. The night silent. So silent it almost hurt.

  The sound of our heels on the frosty pavement echoed like metal between the empty buildings, the offices of hightech service-sector firms and businesses.

  Behind us, suddenly, the voices of two men. A foreign accent. Probably Arab. But it could also have been Slav or Albanian for all I knew.

  Voices that sounded cheerful.

  Probably they were boys who had just left the Molo, like us, and were still on a bit of a high. As we all were, if you get what I mean.

  I turn around, instinctively, and see them walking a dozen yards behind us.

  I can see only their silhouettes, enveloped by the darkness. But from the way they shamble along, they seem young.

  This should reassure me, but instead a shiver runs down my spine. I look at Giulia—she’s a bit nervous too—and I smile at my customary prejudices.

  We’re near the car now.

  I press the button on the key and the sidelights flash their friendly greeting.

  Another lovely evening with friends was nearly at an end.

  A weekend of Christmas shopping awaited me.

  How could anything bad happen? In Marghera?
/>   I didn’t have time to finish the thought before I found myself lying flat on the ground.

  The last thing I remember seeing were Giulia’s eyes wide open in an expression of terror.

  Only the empty eye sockets of the buildings lining the street saw the rest.

  I come to.

  I don’t realize right away what has happened.

  Frankly, I don’t think I really realize for weeks.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open.

  I touch my face, which seems damp, not knowing that it’s my blood oozing from above my right eye and from my broken nose.

  At first I think I must have slipped on the icy pavement. Then I remember the two men.

  My head’s spinning, but I can’t feel anything. Not pain. Nor cold. Nothing.

  I feel nothing.

  It’s as if the world around me has started to move more slowly.

  I touch my head. My hair is sticky. It too is soaked with blood, from another deep cut, above the nape of my neck.

  I try to get up but can’t.

  In that instant I become aware of two things. No, three.

  First: Batman doesn’t exist.

  Second: I still have all my clothes on.

  Third: there’s no sign of Giulia.

  I ought to imagine the worst. To shout. But I don’t have the strength to do anything.

  I try to get up, but my legs won’t support me. I feel ridiculous. And a bit embarrassed. I hope no one sees me like this.

  My father. I need to call my father, I think to myself.

  I look for my phone but can’t find it. Obviously.

  My handbag’s not here either, nor the car keys I had in my hand until a few seconds before.