he drew closer we realized that he was the midwife’s husband, a man who knows us all perfectly well because he practically watched us come into the world. So we lined up, along the fenceposts, thinking that when he passed by he’d greet us one by one, by our names. But instead, when he came even with us, he smiled, waved his hand, and called out “Hi, everybody” and continued on his way …
Giorgio pauses again, looking around with an expression of baffled bewilderment. Then he speaks in a forlorn voice.
… having ruined our childhood .
The audience sits in silence for a moment before it clicks. Then comes the wave of applause, warm with empathy and tenderness, prompted by his surreal sense of humor and the sheer virtuosity of his monologue. Seated next to me in the dark, Laura claps, her eyes glistening, tears of laughter sliding down her cheeks. Giorgio Fieschi must be one good perfomer if he can make someone forget about the existence of a creature like Tulip.
I look at my watch. In just a few minutes I have an appointment to meet Micky, outside in the street. I drag Laura out of the theater. I want her to be able to see me and hear me clearly. As we close the door behind us, surging applause still echoes in the air.
I move Laura back against the wall. I speak to her in an undertone but emphatically. I’m no actor, but I can play my part when it’s necessary.
“Listen to me. I do something for you, you do something for me. I have a meeting in just a little while that should solve your problem once and for all. And you have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, at the Hotel Gallia, room 605, with a very refined and courteous gentleman who, if you’re willing, wants nothing better than to hand you a million lire.”
Laura looks at me. I look back at her and there are no violins in the air, just the rumbling of thunder.
“Tell me that you understand and that the answer is yes.”
She makes the tiniest movement of her head, as if to nod yes.
“Should I consider that to be the yes I’m looking for?”
At last, Laura accepts that she is what she always has been.
“I understand. Hotel Gallia, room 605, at nine o’clock.”
“Excellent.”
I relax. I smile at her and authorize a distraction, one that I would guess she was planning to enjoy in any case.
“Have all the fun you want fucking your little cabaret artist, but tomorrow morning you have to give that gentleman the time of his life.”
I leave her waiting, alone, though I feel sure that she won’t be alone for long. I climb back upstairs to the street, slithering out without a word to anyone. Actually, I’m fifteen minutes early, but I was dying for a cigarette to make up for the sense of envy that other people’s talent and success have always aroused in me. I wait under the glow of the streetlights, studied with some curiosity by a pair of hookers competing for the few passing cars. Then, from around the corner of Via Silva, preceded by the grumbling of the engine, Micky’s Ferrari emerges. As before, he pulls up next to me and waves for me to get in. I open the door and take a seat on the cream Connolly leather upholstery.
“So, are we going?”
He confirms with his voice and his head.
“Yes.”
He takes off while I’m still pulling the door shut. Instinctively I wonder whether this is the last ride I’ll take in any car as I set off for an appointment with a businessman said to have been responsible for a series of unmarked graves scattered through the vast amount of cement that’s been poured in this city.
5
Micky threads his Ferrari through the evening traffic without any pointlessly showy acrobatics. He makes a U-turn, takes Via Tempesta as far as Piazzale Zavattari, and then turns onto the outer ring road. Now we’re roaring through Piazza Bolivar, and where we’re heading is a complete mystery to me. He has chosen silence as the distinctive feature of our journey together and I go along with his
Giorgio pauses again, looking around with an expression of baffled bewilderment. Then he speaks in a forlorn voice.
… having ruined our childhood .
The audience sits in silence for a moment before it clicks. Then comes the wave of applause, warm with empathy and tenderness, prompted by his surreal sense of humor and the sheer virtuosity of his monologue. Seated next to me in the dark, Laura claps, her eyes glistening, tears of laughter sliding down her cheeks. Giorgio Fieschi must be one good perfomer if he can make someone forget about the existence of a creature like Tulip.
I look at my watch. In just a few minutes I have an appointment to meet Micky, outside in the street. I drag Laura out of the theater. I want her to be able to see me and hear me clearly. As we close the door behind us, surging applause still echoes in the air.
I move Laura back against the wall. I speak to her in an undertone but emphatically. I’m no actor, but I can play my part when it’s necessary.
“Listen to me. I do something for you, you do something for me. I have a meeting in just a little while that should solve your problem once and for all. And you have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, at the Hotel Gallia, room 605, with a very refined and courteous gentleman who, if you’re willing, wants nothing better than to hand you a million lire.”
Laura looks at me. I look back at her and there are no violins in the air, just the rumbling of thunder.
“Tell me that you understand and that the answer is yes.”
She makes the tiniest movement of her head, as if to nod yes.
“Should I consider that to be the yes I’m looking for?”
At last, Laura accepts that she is what she always has been.
“I understand. Hotel Gallia, room 605, at nine o’clock.”
“Excellent.”
I relax. I smile at her and authorize a distraction, one that I would guess she was planning to enjoy in any case.
“Have all the fun you want fucking your little cabaret artist, but tomorrow morning you have to give that gentleman the time of his life.”
I leave her waiting, alone, though I feel sure that she won’t be alone for long. I climb back upstairs to the street, slithering out without a word to anyone. Actually, I’m fifteen minutes early, but I was dying for a cigarette to make up for the sense of envy that other people’s talent and success have always aroused in me. I wait under the glow of the streetlights, studied with some curiosity by a pair of hookers competing for the few passing cars. Then, from around the corner of Via Silva, preceded by the grumbling of the engine, Micky’s Ferrari emerges. As before, he pulls up next to me and waves for me to get in. I open the door and take a seat on the cream Connolly leather upholstery.
“So, are we going?”
He confirms with his voice and his head.
“Yes.”
He takes off while I’m still pulling the door shut. Instinctively I wonder whether this is the last ride I’ll take in any car as I set off for an appointment with a businessman said to have been responsible for a series of unmarked graves scattered through the vast amount of cement that’s been poured in this city.
5
Micky threads his Ferrari through the evening traffic without any pointlessly showy acrobatics. He makes a U-turn, takes Via Tempesta as far as Piazzale Zavattari, and then turns onto the outer ring road. Now we’re roaring through Piazza Bolivar, and where we’re heading is a complete mystery to me. He has chosen silence as the distinctive feature of our journey together and I go along with his
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