It was then that I thought how glad I was he couldn't see my face. I felt a sudden wave of heat spreading over both face and neck and then throughout my body, just like when I'd been caught red-handed at school, with no possibility of arguing or lying my way out of the situation. 'I obviously didn't deceive him,' I thought at once, 'and he doubtless knows that I tried to do so deliberately. That I lied to him about Incompara, perhaps he realized this at once and so it was all pointless, useless, because he didn't take the bait, and Incompara didn't get what he wanted, and so the debt wasn't cancelled, or the man paid off his debt with this brutal beating, but filmed by whom, they must have arranged to meet the father at that billiard hall to sort things out, they set a trap, and probably Reresby knew about it beforehand, knew what was really awaiting the old man, ordered a hidden camera to be installed there or else paid the manager or a fifth thug who doesn't appear in the frame because he wasn't taking part in the thrashing and was only directing it or witnessing it so that he could report back afterwards that the deed was done, meanwhile filming it on his cell phone or on his miniature camera. Thoughts crowded into my mind and also a feeling of intense shame that took various forms, or perhaps they were all different, simultaneous shames. But I couldn't give myself away so easily, silence was hardly the normal response after such a revelation, that would have been tantamount to acknowledging that I knew everything or at least a part of it.
'But why?' I asked nervously. Such a question wasn't suspicious, any nervousness on my part could be attributed to the vicious attack I had just witnessed, fortunately with the sound off. 'Why? Why him? What did he do to those guys?'
'He had a lot of gambling debts, and you know what happens with things like that. It depends who you owe the money to, but they never let you off.'
'He's pretending,' I thought, 'he's telling me this as if I didn't already know, when he must be aware that I know a lot. He's testing me. He wants to see if I'll cave in and confess or if I'll play the innocent until the end, without giving anything away. He wants to see how I handle being found out.'
'When does this video date from, when did it happen?'
'Relatively recently,' he replied. 'A couple of months ago or less.'
'Does Patricia know? I mean, has she seen this?'
She had said nothing to me, perhaps because my favor or my pretense had failed so completely: why give me the bad news which, after all, did not concern me, why make me feel responsible, why get me any more involved than I already was? She hadn't told me the opposite either, that everything had turned out well and the debt had been settled, thanks, in part, to my good offices. Then again, it had never occurred to me that she would and I hadn't asked her about it, she had only asked me that one favor, after all, and that ought to be respected; contrary to popular belief, the first occasion doesn't necessarily give rise to a second, whatever it might be.
Tupra gave that same laugh, like a short cough, which indicated sarcasm or incredulity at what he was hearing.
'No, of course she hasn't seen it. What do you take me for? It was bad enough for her seeing him in the hospital. Her father spent a long time there, in fact he may only have been sent home a short time ago, I'm not sure, and it's still unclear whether he'll recover, and well, he's getting on a bit now, he'll never completely get over something like that, they gave the poor devil a real going-over.'
Yes, there was young Pérez Nuix's poor father, whom she loved so much, frozen before my eyes at his saddest moment, his eyes were half-closed, and what little expression could be read in them bespoke disappointment, as if he had never expected the world to inflict such cruelty or that he would experience it in his own flesh, that frivolous man who found suffering tedious; I felt guilty for what they had done to him and that was one of the various shames I felt, perhaps I hadn't been convincing enough when I gave my views on Incompara, it's hard to lie when one doesn't oneself believe the lie, I should have tried harder, have been more insistent and underwritten my words with my thoughts thus making them true, or perhaps it wasn't a failure on my part at all and Tupra had merely seen what he had seen, which was, moreover, as clear as day: that Vanni Incompara was not to be trusted in any way and that he was also utterly ruthless, Pérez Nuix would have picked that up, but would have had to deceive herself, which is what we all do, even those who have the gift, even the most gifted, when what we see affects us and proves unbearable. Perhaps it had been an impossible undertaking, that of persuading my boss that things were otherwise, the same boss who was now showing me this video for who knows what reason, or was it pure coincidence and he had no ulterior motive, after all, I could have said nothing, and then he wouldn't have paused the tape, but let it run without making any further reference to it and without telling me who the victim was. 'And yet he seems to be saying to me: "Take a good look, you didn't deceive me, just see where your attempt at deceit has led, Iago, your cunning plan didn't work, and I paid no attention to your treachery, I wasn't taken in by your recommendations and so I rejected him, and then, of course, he flew into a rage because of the false expectations you had aroused in him; it would have been so much better if you hadn't bothered, he might have been more magnanimous with that cheerful and distinguished old man, your compatriot, and sent him only one thug instead of four, armed perhaps with a blackjack, not a long hard billiard cue, or else he would have found another way to settle the matter, without anger or violence. You really made a blunder there and underestimated me too, thinking you could pull the wool over my eyes, but you've a long way to go before you'll manage that. A whole lifetime." It could also be that he's not saying anything to me.'
'But why didn't you stop it, when you knew he was Patricia's father?' I continued to act dumb; once you set off along a path you have to follow it until it's cut off by the sea, a precipice, a wall, the desert, or the jungle. 'You're not telling me you knew nothing about this, or that the camera filming it was there by chance, that you had nothing to do with it and bought the video on the market. That would be a coincidence, don't you think, the father of a colleague being beaten up?'
Tupra remained impassive, or so I imagined. I still had my back to him, preferring not to see his expression and for him not to see mine. His voice sounded calm:
'Of course it wasn't a coincidence. It was precisely because it involved a colleague that they brought it to us, offered it to us.
They thought it might be of interest, either by revealing where her weaknesses might lie, or to help us carry out reprisals against the aggressors. You know, in our group, we don't talk much about our personal problems—Pat says almost nothing. If it hadn't been for this tape, I would hardly have known a thing. All she told me was that her father had had an accident and was in the hospital. We don't tend to mix socially, as you know'
'And didn't you take reprisals? Not even in a case like this? Then why keep the tape?'
'As I told you, nothing here gets thrown away or given away or destroyed, and this beating is perfectly safe here, it's not going to be shown to anyone. Although, who knows, it might be necessary to show it to Pat one day, to convince her of something, perhaps to stay, not to leave us, you never can tell. For the moment, though, there's no point in taking reprisals, those four men are rank nobodies, they do things like that—a hundred similar things for a hundred different masters—and they're sure to get caught now and then with no need for us to go after them, they're used to prison. As for the men behind it, as I've explained, it's best to wait, as we so often do, to make some better future use of it.'
'Is that what you wanted me to see?' I knew it wasn't, if it had been, he wouldn't have been fast-forwarding over it, risking me not saying anything and depriving him of the opportunity to enlighten me. He had still more poison with which to inoculate me, or more torment to put me through.
'No, that's not it. Let's get on.'
And more scenes, albeit fewer, sped silently by, I could still see most of them, I saw a man screaming at another man who was sitting in a c
ar in an underground parking lot, I mean a private not a public one, he was leaning against the car and screaming at him, resting one elbow on the open window so that the other man couldn't wind it up, their two faces so close that he must have been spraying him with spit, I saw how with a rapid movement he took a pistol from his jacket pocket and placed the barrel beneath the ear lobe of his adversary or victim, I saw how he took not even three seconds to squeeze the trigger and shoot him right there, beneath the ear lobe, at point-blank range. I put my hand to my eyes, so that I could see only through the chinks between my fingers, ridiculous I know, I saw blood spurt out and tiny bits of bone, but that way you somehow feel that you're seeing less or could at least stop seeing it at any moment, although that moment never arrives because you never draw your fingers together. The blood spattered the murderer too, not that this appeared to bother him, there must be a shower nearby or else he has a fresh shirt in his car, another suit, or perhaps this was the underground parking lot for his own apartment building, he turned and disappeared, returning the pistol to his pocket, it was a very brief sequence, but judging by the cut of his trousers—rather short and narrow and made of shiny grey fabric—I would have said he was American, and the fact that Tupra kept the video must mean that the man belonged to the CIA or something similar, the Army perhaps, I refrained from asking questions, perhaps he was now one of its highest-ranking officers, who knows, well, Reresby would.
Immediately after this, I saw someone being beaten to death with a hammer, at least I assume he was killed, a woman of about thirty was wielding the weapon, she was wearing a skirt and high heels and a pearl necklace over her tight V-necked sweater—the clothing and shoes in the same matching green, she looked like someone out of the 1950s or the early sixties, a secretary or an executive or a bank clerk, certainly an office worker—she felled a man considerably taller than herself with a savage hammer blow to the forehead, he was my age or Tupra s, but heavier and broader than either of us, this was probably taking place in a hotel room, the burly man fell backwards and she sat astride him hitting him with the hammer, smashing his skull, which is why I assume that he died, she must have feared or hated him intensely, her necklace jiggled up and down, her skirt was all rucked up; strangely enough, despite her autumnal outfit, she wasn't wearing stockings, perhaps she'd taken them off before and perhaps her panties too, in order to have sex fully clothed, or perhaps she didn't have to take off her panties, or he took them off so as to rape her and would have liked to have her like that, on top of him, or underneath with her legs spread, what would that have made her then, what was she now and who was the victim, I still said nothing, the recording ended abruptly, the woman poised with her hammer in the air, like Tupra with his sword, she had not yet finished delivering her blows, I couldn't help remembering that rather odd actress Constance Towers in that old movie, The Naked Kiss, in Spain it was called Una luz en el hampa—A Light in the Underworld—a slightly ridiculous title—in which she did something similar in the first scene, not with a hammer but with the sharp heel of her shoe, or was it a telephone, and while she was committing this crime her hair fell off, it turned out she was wearing a blonde wig and was revealed to the viewers as completely bald, and maybe that's what was most shocking, like those false stories about Jayne Mansfield; and the image of Luisa also crossed my mind, the dread image I had fantasized about in my darkest or maddest moments, attacked by the man who would replace me, a devious sort who wouldn't give her so much as a moment's breathing space and would isolate her totally, and who, one rainy night, when they were stuck at home, would close his large hands around her throat while the children—my children—watched from a corner, pressing themselves into the wall as if wishing the wall would give way and disappear and, with it, that awful sight, and the choked-back tears that longed to burst forth, but could not, the bad dream, and the strange, long-drawn-out noise their mother made as she died, I just hoped she had a hammer at hand so that she wouldn't be the one to die, but the devious man, the despotic possessive man who wasn't like that in the early stages, on their first dates, but deferential, respectful, even cautious, who, like me, didn't stay the night, even if begged to do so, but put all his clothes back on despite the lateness of the hour, the exhaustion and the cold, and when he went out into the street once again put his gloves on, that man so similar to Tupra.
It's also possible that I was too tired to say a word, as scene succeeded scene, I felt more and more shrivelled, diminished, atrophied ('Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death'), as if that one facet of the world I was being shown were driving out all the other more usual ones, not just the happy smiling ones, but also the anodyne and the neutral, the indifferent, the routine, which—especially the latter—are our salvation and essence. That is what poison does, it infiltrates and contaminates everything. The tiredness, however, must have been cumulative because, at the same time, I realized that, despite all I had seen, nothing being paraded before me made such a painful impact on me as the incident I had witnessed with my own eyes, unmediated by a screen, in the handicapped toilet. Violence that happens right next to you and that breathes and stains is not the same as violence projected onto a screen, even if you know it's real and not fictitious, television doesn't spatter us, it only frightens us. And now and then, Tupra's question would resurface in my mind, the question he had asked me in the car before setting off and that had made him decide to drive us both to his house, 'Why can't one go around beating up people and killing them? That's what you said.' What nonsense, everyone knows why, anyone could have given him the answer. But in the light of what he was showing me ('Let these visions sit heavy on thy soul; and lay down thy edgeless sword and let thy shield roll away; take off thy helmet and let fall thy lance'), I could still find only idiotic puerile answers, inherited but never thought through, the usual trite and vacuous ones that everyone has learned by rote and is ready to trot out without ever having given them a thought, however paltry or vague, without ever having questioned them: why is it wrong, because it's immoral, because it's against the law, because you can get sent to prison or to the gallows in some countries, because you shouldn't do unto others what you wouldn't want done unto you, because it's a crime, because there is such a thing as pity, because it's a sin, because it's bad, because life is sacred, because once it's done it's done and cannot be undone. Tupra was clearly asking me something that went beyond all that.
I saw more flurries of activity, perhaps I shouldn't describe them, I saw worse things, more confused, almost run together. Reresby had increased the speed, he needed to sleep too, yes, maybe he was growing sleepy, although he sounded wide awake, perhaps he was at last in sympathy with my desire to get it over with as quickly as possible, I wanted an end to the fever, my pain, the word, the dance, the image, the poison, the dream, at least for that day and for that very long night, the things that compromise or accuse are not very varied—weird sex, violent sex, adulterous or merely laughable sex, beatings, drug consumption, a bit of torture, cruelty and sadism, corruption, bribes, con tricks and betrayals and debts, failed conspiracies and treacheries exposed, improvised homicides and planned murders, and not much else really, almost everything can be reduced to that, but then there are the massacres, I saw another machine-gunning, on a larger scale this time, of civilians in some African country, twenty or so women and men and children and old people, they fell in quick succession, like dominoes, and thus it seemed less grave or even less true, executed by black soldiers or marksmen under orders from a white officer in uniform, whether regulation or half-invented I don't know, perhaps he was a mercenary who later rejoined his army, there are Englishmen and South Africans and Belgians who have made that return journey, and Frenchmen too, I believe. If that were the case,Tupra had that European soldier exactly where he wanted him, he would have allowed him to rise, make a career for himself, he certainly wouldn't have warned him of the existence of that film nor would he have denounced him, he would be waiting until he reached some lo
fty position, in his own country, in NATO, so that he could then ask him an enormous favor, or, rather, in the light of that video, force him to grant the favor.
And finally he stopped, I mean that he resumed normal speed for one particular sequence and with it restored the sound, he had to rewind a little to catch the beginning.
'Here it is,' he said. 'This is what I want you to see before you go home. Take a good look, and when you're lying in bed think about me and think about this.'
It was, like all the others, a short scene, he hadn't lied about that, even though I seemed to have been there forever, almost all the episodes had been edited together onto that one DVD with barely any preamble, what mattered was the brutality, the crime or the farce, not what came before or afterwards, but what could be used to blackmail the subject of the film. Three men were in a kind of hut, in the background I could make out the tail of an animal whisking back and forth, probably a cow or an ox, there was straw scattered about the floor, I could imagine how it must have smelled in there. Two of the men were standing and they had tied up the third man, who was sitting on a wicker chair, his hands behind his back and each foot tied to a chair leg, to the front legs, of course. There was a cassette or a radio playing, I could hear a tune that I half-recognized, with my reliable memory for music: Comendador had taken a liking to the local songs during his prison stay in Palermo after being arrested by customs because of a drop of blood that trickled from his nose at an inopportune or perhaps opportune moment and aroused the suspicions of a border guard with a very sharp or deductive eye, and who literally set the drug-sniffing dogs on him. He had sent me a couple of CDs as a present, one by Modugno and the other by someone called Zappulla, and I was almost sure that it was the latter's voice I could hear at full volume in the cowshed, singing a song that appeared on my CD, I could remember some of the titles: 'I puvireddi,' 'Suspirannu,' 'Luntanu,' 'Bidduzza,' or 'Moro pe ttia, pretty, pleasant songs, slightly tacky in their melancholy, and I had enjoyed listening to them, over and over, during a melancholy and rather tacky period of my own life, that cowshed must then be in Sicily, an idea confirmed by the presence of the weapon one of the men standing guard wore slung over his shoulder on a chain, a lupara, the sawn-off shotgun once used there for hunting and for settling scores, and perhaps still used for both, the other man had a large pistol in a holster under his arm, his jacket draped elegantly over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging empty, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, a large square watch on his wrist, his hand resting on the back of the chair in which sat the prisoner, stouter and older than the two younger and thinner men, and all three were mouthing the words of the song, they all knew it by heart and were singing along with Zappulla, and although each was doing this of his own accord, so to speak, absorbed and isolated, as if to himself and not in unison, there was nonetheless something very odd about them all momentarily sharing that melody, as if they weren't two guards and their captive or two executioners and their victim, and as if nothing bad awaited the latter, and the tails of the animals in the background seemed to move to the same rhythm, all the living beings in that out-of-the-way place were strangely and incongruously in tune, the man carrying the lupara was even swaying slightly, not lifting his feet, but just moving his legs and his torso and the twin-barreled shotgun, dancing to the lilting melody of 'I puvireddi' or 'Moro pe ttia,' which mean, in dialect, 'The poor devils' or 'I'm dying for you.'
Your Face Tomorrow 3 Page 17
