The guy with the meatball grabbed my coat. ‘You’re Trafficante, aren’t you?’ he mumbled.
‘Never heard of him.’
I shook him off but he grabbed again. ‘You don’t recognize me? It’s Alfredo.’
‘Like I give a damn.’
‘C’mon man, you used to always come over to my place! Alfredo!’ He opened his mouth showing his gums. ‘My face has changed since I lost my teeth.’
This time I looked at him more carefully. It was more of a shock than seeing Ines. She had always been unlucky but Alfredo, wrapped in his silk Chinese dragon robes and his pad full of lights and music … I tried to rewind the film as I stared at his face, filling his sagging cheeks, giving colour to his yellow skin. I put back his black curly hair where there were now a few strands sprouting from his head, as well as the brightness of his eyes. The trick helped for a second and then it clashed with the reality of the miserable wretch who was in front of me. Compared to him I was a god and he told me so.
‘Trafficante, you look good, man. Check you out! You’re in great shape! C’mon, let’s go and have a few drinks and talk. C’mon … ’
I accepted. I was still a little blown away by the whole thing. The Ad Exec’s friends all seemed to have poles up their arses while mine were devastated by life. I needed a third option.
Besides being a stinking mess Milan had now become a pathetic place. The old osterie hadn’t changed their names, but they all seemed like hotel restaurants now. To find somewhere decent we had to walk twenty minutes, until we got to the Parrot Bar. It was a windowless place on one of the side streets in the Navigli district.
It was a cheap meat market bar but at least it hadn’t come out of a plastic mould.
‘Do you want to score some coke?’ asked Alfredo before going in.
‘Do you have any?’
‘If only. It’s not like it used to be, but I know where to get it. Do you see those guys in the car?’ There was a car parked with four Africans inside. ‘They sell it. I know them. Do you have a fifty on you?’
I gave him a note and he snatched it from my hand and ran to the car. I watched him talk through the window. Then he came back skipping on his spindly chicken legs. We finished the gram that we cut badly on a car boot. In my current state of mind I didn’t give a damn if anyone saw me. Alfredo certainly didn’t care. The coke tasted like trash and formed a ball of powder and snot in my throat. But the little coke that was there went into my bloodstream and relaxed my nerves, making me feel a little less scared. When we went in I was in a great mood. A guitarist played some Gypsy Kings on a small stage while two Brazilian hookers danced with a pair of wasted losers.
We sat at the table furthest from the speakers. I told some slut who tried to sit on my lap to get off, and I ordered cocktails. They came covered with pieces of pineapple and paper umbrellas. If you took off the stuff that was on them and the ice that was in them, there was enough booze for two sips. Another round. It seemed like the first decent night that Alfredo had had in a long time. Come to think of it, the same went for me. For the first time in a long time I felt that I had something in common with another human being. I knew it was the coke, but I enjoyed it anyway.
Clicking his fingers to the music, Alfredo told me about his life. He dealt for a while and then, about a year after the last time I had seen him, he got a visit from Anti-Mafia agents.
‘Why the Anti-Mafia?’
‘They said that I was working with the Schiavone clan from Caserta. I told them that I didn’t know anything and that I was never affiliated with any family. I was just a simple businessman. You can say that I’m a dealer, fine, but to say that I was part of the Camorra is something else altogether. It’s not my damn business what my suppliers do or where they get their merchandise.’ He ordered another round. ‘This coke that’s around dries your throat.’
‘No kidding.’
‘The majority of the traffic is managed by the Calabrese clan and they use Africans to sell. What the hell, an Italian can’t make a living anymore. Now there are these Africans, Albanians, Russians and Chinese bastards. Can you imagine that only a few years ago these pricks only sold contraband cigarettes and now they’re everywhere? They don’t respect anybody, and now you can’t even get contraband smokes anymore! What was I talking about?’
‘They arrested you.’
‘Oh, yeah, I told the judge that I didn’t know anything about the war between clans, but there was a rat who said he knew everything about everybody. He said he’d kept track of what, when and where I dealt. You know, they never even said who he was. Never. Even at the trial he wasn’t there. He only spoke on the phone and even his voice was … altered. I didn’t say a damn thing. I said that what they’d found was for personal use. The judge said, “So you’re saying that half a kilo of cocaine, one thousand pills of LSD and one hundred grams of amphetamines were for personal use?” And I said, “I’m a man of many vices your honour, and it wasn’t LSD, it was ecstasy, get your facts straight!” ’
He laughed. ‘They even took apart my house. Shit! They ruined my vintage pinball machines that were worth a bundle! But even if they’d taken them apart like they did with the rest of my stuff they wouldn’t have found anything. They never even found a shred of proof that showed where I got my supply and who I gave it to. What am I, a piece of shit? They gave me a first-degree charge for international drug trafficking; I got a reduced sentence on appeal. I got eight years in San Vittore Prison and a few on parole. It’s only been two years since I’ve been totally free.’
‘How do you get by?’
‘Barely. I get disability allowance and I live with my sister but shit, Trafficante, if I had a chance I’d take it, no questions. What do I care? I’ve got nothing to lose. You got anything for me? I see that life’s been good to you.’
‘I’m retired, Alfredo.’
‘I imagined as much. You made a good decision, man. It’s not worth it. One day I’m going to get a stick of dynamite and go to the bank. If they give me the money, good. If they don’t, I’ll blow myself up along with every bastard around me.’ The hookers had finished dancing and were trying to pick up the two drunks. One of the two didn’t seem interested. The other was too wasted to bother.
I pondered my question and thought, Trafficante, you’ve got enough problems as it is. Forget about it. After thinking again, I couldn’t resist. ‘Alfredo, have you seen Max?’
‘At Due’ – the street number for San Vittore Prison.
‘Did they arrest him?’
‘You don’t know? Oh, yeah, word got around that you two had a falling out.’
‘Falling out is nowhere near strong enough, but please go on.’
‘He lost his mind. He was already out there, but he was even worse after he got the shit beat out of him.’
‘I thought that you did it.’
‘Why? You paid Max’s debt, remember? I stopped giving him credit, so he went to somebody else who didn’t think twice about roughing him up. He was chilled for a while, then he started screwing up again and at that point … he was in and out of Due like a yo-yo. The bastard began robbing chemists. One night the cashier moved wrong, and Max split his head open. The security camera got him. By the time he was home the cops were there waiting for him.’
‘Is he out now?’
‘Since he got AIDS … ’
‘AIDS?’ Shit.
‘It was the needles … his lawyer got him out to a treatment centre someplace out in the country where he was milking cows and stuff like that. Imagine how much fun that must’ve been! Do you want another drink?’
‘Yeah. Do you remember the name of the place?’
My head was clicking; I was missing the final piece.
Alfredo had it. ‘I don’t know … something with the church … wait I got it … Holy Blood, something like that.’
It all clicked.
3
We left the Parrot Bar when it closed at 4am. Alfredo left with a Bra
zilian who was a third his age, paid for by me. I smoked the last cigarette on the street while the buzz of the blow disappeared. My brain floated in booze. Max. Still that prick. Him again. Voices laughed and sang to the rhythm of my footsteps on the tarmac, the soundtrack to the film in my head. Trafficante Productions Presents: Max’s Story.
In the prologue we see scenes of his youth. A good family, a good kid, he studies, he does his homework and plays football. The calendar flips forward to 1977. We now see Max as a teen with his girlfriend, let’s say a blonde with plaits, a flowery dress and clogs. He’s wearing bell-bottoms and they’re just leaving the cinema. What’s showing? Saturday Night Fever.
You can hear the Bee Gees singing “Staying Alive.”
As they walk, a group of students wearing helmets marches by. Clashes with the police, Molotov cocktails, shots fired in the air. Max’s girlfriend screams as he stands stock still and stares as if he’s just seen the Virgin Mary. A golden light surrounds him.
The voices sing The International, the communist anthem.
Max becomes the hardest of the hard-core. We see him yelling at the meeting: Let’s Go, Comrades! Then we see him going out breaking shop windows. He’s protecting his face from tear-gas with a red bandana soaked in lemon juice. Then we see more demonstrations and meetings, free love and joints. A gratuitous sex scene is always a must. Maybe even a threesome. But …
Drum roll.
It’s 1978. On the news we see that they’ve kidnapped the former prime minister, Aldo Moro. Then he’s found dead in the boot of a car. Max escapes while the cops raid communist headquarters all over Italy. Max sees his girlfriend’s mug shot on the front page of the newspaper. She was also known as Comrade Maria, head of the Red Brigade. She seemed so sweet. It turns out she was more hard-core than he was.
Voices: ‘Oooohh.’
We see Max at a meeting, only a few comrades left. Max is marching, a handful of demonstrators surrounded by cops while people jeer get a job. Max closes the headquarters with a padlock.
Voices sing Bandiera Rossa, humming.
The calendar flips forward, alternating images, Max/calendar.
1982. Max is back in the piazza. Now he’s selling hash.
1983. Max breaks into a car, with some difficulty.
1984. Max is cool now; it takes him a second to steal a car. He’s dressed like one of Duran Duran … Voices sing ‘The Wild Boys’ in the background.
1987. Happiness. People are dancing in discos, models, and pimps. Max is blowing lines; he’s dressed well and feeling very Miami Vice. He’s got people all around him.
1990. Max breaks into a house. He then goes out dancing and shuts himself in a bathroom and shoots heroin.
1991. Max goes to Oreste’s and meets yours truly. (I’d like to have an actor worthy of my character, like a young Al Pacino.)
From that moment the real adventure begins. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Let’s throw in a car chase that never has been, and add a shootout with the Marseille gang. Max argues with Al Pacino. They part ways, goodbye old friend. Max then loses it all, he runs from creditors, pushers, he bounces cheques. Then we see him walking in the park at night, someone’s following him. Who’s there? Max screams. Two big guys with baseball bats. They beat the hell out of him. No please, God, no!
Voices: crash.
Max is in the hospital in need of a fix. Withdrawal; he vomits and craps himself. We see him covered in bandages breaking into the medicine cabinet while the duty nurse watches television. Max swallows everything. Max collapses. Later, Max limps out of the hospital. Two months have passed. The house is a mess. Maggots crawl out of the fridge and flies are having a party in the sink. Max shakes his piggybank. Two coins and a single stamp fall out.
We see him getting a package on credit from a dealer with a patch on his eye. Then another package and another and another. The one-eyed dealer gives him a list of what Max owes and shows him a knife. Pay or … Max is desperate; Max doesn’t know what else to do. A light bulb goes on in his head, brilliant! He knocks on a door. Al Pacino/Trafficante opens and he smiles at him. Please come in. Let’s do a couple lines.
Voices: You idiot!
A blow to the head. Al Pacino falls and white dust kicks up. Max takes his money. He dances, showering money in the air like Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge. He flees to the countryside and Al Pacino is after him. He sees his friend as an enemy. Al Pacino makes it to the farmhouse; his eyes are filled with rage just like Dustin Hoffman’s in The Marathon Man. Max is armed. Max shoots him. Max steals his wallet. Max throws him in the cellar. Al Pacino crawls.
Voices: Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas.
Yeah go ahead thanks, keep messing with me.
Voices: You deserve it, Trafficante.
Max blows Al Pacino’s cash and is also blowing two grams a day. Max is broke again. Max looks like a bum that everyone avoids. No more discos, no more chicks. The cars are more difficult to break into. Alarms and electronic keys. He’s too trashed to scale fences. Chemists, the last resort. They bust him. They let him out. Chemist, jail, chemist, jail.
Let’s also let Alfredo make an appearance, a conversation in the prison courtyard. ‘Remember the old days? Man, we had fun!’ Chemist, jail. The tests. The prison doctor, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you’re HIV-positive.’ Max yells, ‘Nooooooooo.’ Dissolve. Black. White. The countryside. The Treatment Programme at the Holy Blood.
Voices: Be praised my Lord, through all your creatures.
Max is dressed in white and gathers eggs and drops one. Max is tied inside a pig stall. Max stealing an apple. Max being whipped by a guard. Max hanged by his thumbs. Max kneeling on corn kernels.
Max on the straight and narrow. He’s like a robot with a blank stare, his head bowed, and he says yes sir. Max packs Cibosanto packages without raising his eyes. Max praying in church. Max in a group photo with the other detainees. While the photo is being taken, a car entering the courtyard distracts him. A black Porsche. A well-dressed guy comes out arm in arm with a haughty woman. The guards greet them. The detainees applaud. The camera focuses on the guy. It’s Al Pacino, now fat and old. He looks at Max without recognising him and pats him on the head, ‘Good job, keep up the good work, God loves you.’ Max growls and seethes with envy and wants revenge. Max has a sparkle in his eyes, just like old times.
Calendar. 2005.
Voices. Psssst. Psssst. Here we go.
Me: Shut the fuck up! Let me think for a second. If he’s still there at the community then he couldn’t have tried to kill me but if he got out …
Voices: If he got out …
Me: If he’s out then I’ve found who moved the balance of the blades.
I made it to the car. I tried to grab the handle but I couldn’t. I lay down on the bonnet and looked at the stars. The full moon had Max’s face in it. I got up and fell on the pavement. Max’s reflection was in the puddle. I got up and fell against the car window. I concentrated and stood up straight. I tried to push the right button and the car alarm went off … another button and it stopped. The doors unlocked. I stumbled into the driver’s seat. I closed the door on my ankle. I tried to light a cigarette with one already in my mouth. I threw it away and the carpet started burning. Get it together, man, shit. I put the flame out with my heel.
I put the key in. Vroooom! The car jumped forward and scared the hell out of me. The adrenaline woke me up a little. And now? Spillo was in custody and there was a chance the cops would be waiting for me at home. They’d also be there at Monica’s. Cops stop by twice a day to check and see who’s staying at the hotels. I had a car that was worth a hundred thousand euros, platinum cards but no place in the world where I could go. I put the iPod on, Vertigo, “Miracle Drug.” The windshield seemed covered in a glaze. I turned on the defrost button but nothing happened. I opened the windows and drove with my head outside. The cold air was bbbbbbeautiiiiiifuuuuuuul.
At five in the morning, I was in front of a burnt out intercom with an anarchy �
�A’ spray-painted across the wall. U2 were singing “City of Blinding Lights.” I pressed all the buttons to the rhythm of the music, and the door opened. I walked up the stairs singing at the top of my lungs. On the first landing a small group had gathered and looked at me, seriously pissed off. They yelled without making a sound. They tried to hold me back. I fought and yelled as I fell.
Last Day
1
‘Get the hell off me!’ I howled. My head was killing me. Not all of it, just the left side, and it was getting worse. Something had died inside me, probably half my brain. I opened one eye and light peeked in. I closed it again. I felt something sticking in my back; I slipped my hand underneath and took out the iPod that was stuck to my skin. The earphones were wrapped around one of my ankles.
‘Are you awake?’
I opened my eye again and it began to water. I turned on my side and Salima was next to me on the bed about a centimetre from my face. She was naked but I wasn’t in the right condition to appreciate it. Up close, you could see that her belly was slightly rounded. My son … or my daughter. Oh, my God. ‘No, I’m really dead.’
She caressed my face. Her fingers were cool. ‘You almost died last night. Do you remember what happened?’
‘My memory hasn’t been the best these past few days.’
‘You woke up the whole building and then you assaulted my neighbours. They tried to talk you down but you were wearing earphones and couldn’t hear them. You kept on screaming leave me alone you damn dirty Arabs.’
I vaguely remembered. ‘I thought it was kind of funny.’
‘It’s a good thing that I came before my neighbours beat the hell out of you. They don’t have a sense of humour. How do you feel?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Do you want a massage?’
‘Do you have any aspirin?’
‘I don’t use medicine. Turn over.’
She rolled me onto my stomach and almost brought me to tears. She straddled me and began pressing along my spine until she got to my neck. Then she went back down again. After the third wave, I began to feel slightly better. ‘I think it’s working.’
In a Heartbeat Page 19
