I lower my head, still undecided. When I raise my eyes to look at Daytona, he’s pulled the envelope back out and he’s licking the flap to seal it. He hands it to me.
“Nice show of trust.”
“I’m putting several million lire into your hands. If you don’t think that’s a sign of trust…”
I take the envelope and stick it into my jacket pocket.
“Okay. But I’m going to remind you that you owe me one.”
“I have an elephant’s memory, I won’t forget.”
I mock him. He deserves it and he owes me.
“You keep on eating the way you do and you’ll have an elephant’s figure, my friend.”
We shake hands and I head for the Mini, which awaits me with its mystery still unresolved.
While waiting for my intuition to suggest a specific direction, I get in the car and start circling around the city, in a series of automotive waltzes.
I swing by the Duomo, to listen to the endlessly evolving conversations of a group of people who never seem to move away from the front doors of La Rinascente department store. Then I drop by the Bar Jamaica and drink a beer with a bunch of demented artists, as funny as they are funny-looking. I have dinner at the Torre Pendente, where I see people and I pick up a couple of jobs for my girls, followed by a quick hop over to the Budineria, the Irish tavern near Via Chiesa Rossa.
At last I find myself sitting in a parking lot outside of town, in a suspicious vehicle, with my pockets full of money that doesn’t belong to me, waiting for the people it does belong to to come along and collect it. The restaurant is closed and I’m all alone in this unpaved area by the main road. The cars that race past give me a gift of light but snatch it back just a few seconds later, hurtling along so that they can play the same trick on someone farther down the road.
I sit and smoke and think.
My life has changed in the past few days. Carla, Tulip, Lucio, Daytona: one new face and other, familiar faces, but with new expressions. Death, emerging out of the darkness and bringing darkness with it. Life, which perhaps still exists.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts …
Meanwhile, time is passing and no one’s showing up.
My watch says it’s a quarter past one. Daytona’s debt to me is increasing exponentially. At two o’clock I decide that the price has risen above its market quote so I mentally tell them to go fuck themselves.
I start the car and head for home, which is luckily very close; otherwise I’d have to charge an annoyance bonus for every additional kilometer, aside from the standard rate for oil and gas.
When I get back to my apartment, I undress and toss the envelope onto the chest of drawers, next to the telephone. Then a thought occurs to me. Tomorrow morning I’m going to have to give Pino one million lire. It goes without saying that I’ll have to pay him in cash, because it’s always a bad idea to give certain people checks. I have some cash hidden in my apartment, in a secure place I built for myself. But I don’t want to dig into my personal reserve for emergency situations. Ever since I put the money away, I’ve forced myself to pretend it doesn’t exist.
I decide to use the money in the envelope, which will save me a trip to the bank before going to see Pino. It’s partly for convenience, and partly because sitting there like an idiot waiting for some assholes who never showed up is still making my balls spin in annoyance and frustration. If Daytona has the nerve to get mad because I opened the envelope, I’ll bitch-slap him around the Milan beltway.
I pick up the envelope, slip my pinky into the little opening at the corner of the flap, and run it the length of the crease. The envelope rips open raggedly and part of what’s inside falls with a rustling sound on top of the chest of drawers. I stand there like an idiot, staring openmouthed at something I can’t believe I’m really seeing. The envelope is full of strips of newspaper, cut into the exact size of a 100,000-lira bill.
12
I’m parked on Via Roma, outside a nondescript bank branch office, sitting in my mystery car. This morning I got up early and left the apartment without even showering and shaving. I decided that the people I was going to meet would have to accept me, unkempt as I am.
When I walked out my door onto the landing, I ran into Lucio with his white cane and dark glasses, climbing the last flight of stairs. He reached the landing and stopped. The sound of my door opening and then closing alerted him to my presence.
“You’re an early riser.”
“So are you, I’d have to say.”
He put one hand in his pocket and pulled out his house key. Feeling the door, he inserted it into the lock.
“I had a session in a recording studio at the Castle of Carimate, last night. It went on longer than we expected and I just slept there. This morning I took the only ride coming back. Practically at dawn, as you can see.”
He opened the door and put the key back in his pocket.
“I came up with a new one for you.”
I had neither interest nor time for cryptic clues. I tried to tell him that in a way that wouldn’t offend him.
“I’m sorry, this is a bad time for it, Lucio. I’ve really got to make tracks.”
He refused to take no for an answer.
“It’s always a good time to give your brain a workout. This one’s easy. Listen: Starlets going incognito in an opera libretto (four plus six equals ten). Memorized?”
“Memorized.”
I started downstairs but his voice stopped me.
“Bravo, just one thing.”
“Tell me.”
“Thanks for the other night. With Carla, I mean. I don’t know what the relationship is between the two of you, but I’m pretty sure that I owe you for what happened.”
For an instant the sight of their bodies on the bed appeared before my eyes, blotting out everything else. Then I became myself again.
“Everything’s fine, music man. Now I’ve really got to go.”
I heard his door swing shut while I was descending the last flight of steps. I did everything I needed to do as quickly as possible, with the aid of mercifully light morning traffic: bank, one million lire from the teller, then at top speed to Pino’s house, in Cormano. I picked up the product of his craftsmanship, slaloming to avoid the fond glances of his daughter, his invitations, and his good advice, the fruit of age-old wisdom that never kept him from spending various stretches in state prison.
* * *
Now I’m a man waiting for someone to show up, and hoping that it turns out differently than last night.
A light green Simca 1000 passes me and pulls in a few slots ahead. A few seconds later Remo Frontini gets out. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket that’s seen better days and a pair of trousers that scream discount store from a mile away. I get out of my car and walk toward him. It’s evident from his appearance that he didn’t get much sleep last night. For different reasons, I’m in the exact same condition. This strange assonance increases my fondness for him, and therefore my concern for his well-being. Maybe it’s because of a certain irritated and instinctive attraction that honesty seems to exert upon people like me.
“Buon giorno, Signore Frontini.”
“I hope it is a good day.”
“It will be. Don’t worry. Trust me.”
Maybe he assumes that he has no reason to do so and that’s the reason for his uneasiness. Awkwardly, with the general attitude of someone who can’t wait for it all to be over, he rummages in his pocket and extracts a sheet of paper folded in half, in letter format.
“Here’s what you asked me to bring.”
I open it and check the photocopy. It’s clear and legible. I pull a newspaper clipping with the numbers of the winning ticket out of my pocket, check it, and recheck it. These numbers at least coincide.
“Excellent. Now all we have to do is wait.”
He doesn’t ask who we’re waiting for.
I offer him a Marlboro. He refuses the cigarette with a simple swivel of the head. I li
ght one up and smoke without even tasting the smoke. What happened last night left a bad taste in my mouth. Not feeling entirely in charge of my life is something I’m not used to. I sense a looming threat of some kind, something coming, and I can’t tell what it is or where it’s coming from. It’s not a particularly enjoyable state of mind, because however hard I try, I can’t find even the beginnings of an explanation.
The strips of newspaper in the envelope can mean only one thing, at first glance: Daytona wanted to rip off his creditors and he decided to use me as the courier and maybe as the scapegoat. All the same, it strikes me as such a stupid plan that even the atrophied brain of that chimp should have been able to glimpse its limitations. The fact that those guys didn’t show up at the appointment is something I can’t seem to place. Was it a stroke of good luck for me, or was it a signal that the explanation should be sought elsewhere? The problem is that I don’t have the faintest idea of where that elsewhere might be.
Then there’s the detail, anything but minor, of the serial number on the chassis of my car. This isn’t one of those innocuous puzzler’s skirmishes between me and Lucio. One of those nameless instincts that make you guess the winning horse or avoid the losing one suggests to me that this is anything but a simple matter. This is a much more complicated puzzle, filled with numbers and letters I can’t put together.
Hard as I try, I can’t figure it out. And when I can’t figure something out I feel like a fool, and that makes me mad.
I see a cream Alfa Romeo Giulietta approach from the right and I recognize Stefano Milla behind the wheel. He parks a fair distance away from us. Since he doesn’t get out, I go over to him. He’s sitting in the car, smoking and waiting for me. I pull open the passenger-side door and get in. No greetings. He reaches into the backseat and picks up a saddle-brown Naugahyde valise. He lays it in my lap.
“Delivery completed.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
Milla shakes his head.
“I’d just as soon that guy didn’t see me. I’m only an escort. Tano told me that you’re in charge on this one. With all the honor and all the risks.”
Experience tells me very clearly just what the scope of the risks and the honor might be. I take the briefcase, get out of the Alfa, and go back to Frontini, who seems more nervous than ever. I invite him to step into my car and sit next to me. I crane my neck to make sure there’s no one around, then I open the briefcase and show him what’s inside.
“Here you go.”
I could never describe that man’s expression. It wasn’t greed, it was astonishment. It was the face of a little boy gazing at a pirate’s treasure trove, staring at something he thought could only exist in the imagination, never in reality. There’s the certainty of a new and unexpected way of life in that briefcase, and I look at him and feel happy for him.
“Go ahead and count. There should be fifty bundles of ten million lire each. A total of five hundred million lire. That’s exactly how much money we agreed on.”
I set the briefcase in his lap.
“Take all the time you need.”
He rummages through the money long enough to count the bills in three or four bundles chosen at random and then counts to make sure there are fifty bundles. Then he closes the top and makes sure that the locks click shut.
“It looks like it’s all here.”
“Perfect. Now you go get that lottery ticket.”
I feel it’s my duty to let him know that the risks and the honor that Milla mentioned a few minutes ago involve not only me, but him as well. Experience has taught me that you can never be too careful, even though I’ve broken this rule of mine several times already with Frontini.
“I want to make one thing very clear. I know that it’s not really necessary, but I feel obliged to emphasize that if you pull any funny business at all, of any kind, the consequences could be very unpleasant.”
To my surprise, he smiles.
“At this point, if I hadn’t figured that out, I really would be an idiot.”
Then he gets out of the car, with his briefcase full of joy in one hand. When he’s out of the car he leans over, rests his arm on the car door, and sticks his head in through the open window.
“I don’t need to go get it.”
He sticks his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out an envelope. The same gesture that Daytona made, the day before, with his little Trojan horse full of cut-up newspaper. But performed by a different man. A very different man.
“Here’s the lottery ticket.”
I open the envelope and check it against my newspaper clipping and the photocopy. Everything matches up: date, scores, validation strips, number of the lottery office. I look at him and this time I’m the one who’s caught off guard. Remo Frontini smiles at me again.
“Bravo, I think that I’m a decent person. And whatever you might think of yourself, I’m pretty sure you’re a decent person too. I want to thank you for your advice, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a piece of advice myself.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s the exact opposite of the advice that you gave me. I’m going to wait before I change the way I live. I think you should change the way you live as soon as you can. You deserve better. Have a good day.”
Before I have a chance to answer, he stands up and strides off at a brisk pace toward the bank, to tuck his little nest egg away from prying eyes and clawing fingers. I sit there alone, with my envelope in my hands.
This is an unexpected piece of luck. I can do what I planned out without haste. From my inside jacket pocket I extract the fruit of Pino’s recent labors. Pino is one of the best counterfeiters around. I commissioned him to make a fake lottery ticket. It would certainly never pass the scrutiny of the experts in the verification office set up by SISAL, but it’s just the thing to make Tano Casale believe he’s holding the winning ticket in his hands. If he tries to collect his winnings tomorrow morning, then it’s quite likely that tomorrow night I’ll be at the bottom of the Ticino River with a rock tied to my ankles, learning to speak Trout. But I’m counting on his greed to make sure that doesn’t happen. I have an idea to suggest to him that ought to cover my ass for a little while.
Just enough time …
I slip the bogus lottery ticket into the envelope and a second later Milla materializes next to my window, on the driver’s side.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s okay.”
I hand him the envelope I’m holding.
“Here. You need to deliver this to Tano.”
“You’re going to deliver it in person. He told me that he’d like to speak to you. So I think you’d better come with me.”
His Jolly Joker face pops out of a chaotic deck of cards, and this time there’s no smile. His tone of voice suggests that he wouldn’t want to be in my shoes. The fact is, I would just as soon not be in my shoes myself. He can’t know that this is just one more unknowable factor tossed onto the pile of unknowable factors.
“All right. You lead the way. I’ll follow you.”
He walks off and a few minutes later his car drives past mine. I pull out of the parking lot and I follow his Giulietta. Because of the various traffic lights, we’re almost separated more than once as we’re leaving Cesano.
I look at the back of Milla’s neck as he drives ahead of me. I don’t know what I can expect from him. Before this, I thought of him as a protector of sorts—whatever a partnership of that kind is worth in a world where at the slightest whiff of trouble everybody’s willing to toss their mother and grandmother overboard into the salty sea. Now that he’s shown his true colors and made it clear that he’s one of Tano’s men, I have no doubt whose side he’d be on if push came to shove. What I can’t quite figure out is how deeply he’s involved, and therefore how far he’d be willing to go.
We pull onto the beltway around Milan not far from my house and we head south. My car struggles to keep pace with the Alf
a Romeo. The two lottery tickets are like anvils in my pockets. If for some reason that I don’t dare to imagine Tano Casale decides to have me searched, my plunge into the waters of the Ticino might be moved up to this evening.
I try to get my mind off the subject, and I think about Carla.
The fact that at this very moment she might be in bed with one or more men makes me neither jealous nor depressed. The day that a straight razor steered me once and for all away from certain activities, in a certain sense it also cut me loose from the corresponding emotions. Not the urge. That’s still there. As a way to compensate for a desire that can be piercing and painful at times, an impulse that can never again be satisfied, women have become an instrument of communication with the world of men.
Women on one side, men on the other.
And me in the middle, still scarred by the aftermath of my own perineal urethrostomy, the operation that affords me a less chaotic relationship with my body when I experience the very human need to piss.
Carla is one of the few people on earth who knows about that. And who understands. I guessed that when she asked permission to make love with Lucio and at the same time offered it to me as a gift. I had further confirmation later, when I felt her slipping into bed next to me and then seeking physical contact.
Milla’s car takes the Opera exit. I instinctively guess that we’re going to the industrial shed with the car crusher where Micky took me. The one that turns into a gambling den at night. The picture in my mind of a rock tied around my ankles as I sink into the dark waters of the Ticino is replaced with one of my body jammed into a junked car and then crushed into a cube. These aren’t pretty thoughts to have as one’s traveling companion, especially on a nice sunny day that, as Lucio Battisti once sang, conjures up salt spray and your laughter.
Instead, the Giulietta continues straight along the road, and a few kilometers farther on turns right onto a narrow lane that ends a few hundred meters later in the parking lot of a trattoria. The building is low, with windows protected by iron grillwork with some degree of artistic aspiration. The walls, which must once have been brick red, are now a faded pink, stained and discolored by the elements. In the back is a pergola with an enormous wisteria spreading overhead. In the summer, this must be the garden for outdoor dining.
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