Read Online A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Giorgio Faletti
Ads: Link
choice. For that matter, what is there for us to say to each other that we don’t already both know? In two very different ways, we’re the same person, even though physically we’re two different chessmen.
In spite of the most impassioned pleadings of counsel for the defense, a couple of pawns, I’d have to add.
We drive on, roaring through a city part of which is sound asleep while another is just getting dressed and made up for a gala banquet of bad habits and vice. Every night can be considered a special occasion, until a midnight finally rolls around when everyone will realize that none of those nights was special at all.
And that’s not going to be a midnight to look forward to.
We stop at a red light, next to a newsstand. Posters cover the little shack, announcing the lead stories of the newspapers and magazines: the ongoing and hopeless saga of Aldo Moro, the trial of the founders of the Red Brigades, UFO Robot Grendizer , Loredana Bertè and her latest love affair, the FIFA World Cup on its way, Juventus and Torino F.C., TV Sorrisi e Canzoni , the troubles of Italian president Giovanni Leone.
All these different stories intertwined on the same wall, in the same world, in the same life. And I don’t give a damn about any of it or any of them. Maybe that’s because first and foremost I don’t give a damn about myself. I turn my head to look at Micky. I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I wonder if he ever asks questions, or if he’s just pure instinct. Fast cars, fast trips, fast love affairs. And time, capable of outstripping the fastest speed there is, time, which kills you quickly because there’s no memory that can remember every instant.
Micky mistakes my glance for impatience.
“It’s going to take us a little while to get there. We have to go all the way out to Opera.”
I dismiss with a nonchalant gesture all my thoughts of just a few seconds ago.
“Don’t sweat it. There’s no hurry. We have all the time we need.”
I turn my head to watch the road.
All the time we need …
Lucio would appreciate the irony. How much time do you need, anyway? Now that I know who I am, I’d prefer not to know it. Memory is the only way of being sure you’ve even lived. But I don’t remember, so I won’t be remembered.
Micky turns right, leaving Viale Liguria and heading for the on-ramp of the Milan–Genoa superhighway. He asks me if I want to snort a line of cocaine. I shake my head no. He pulls a solid-gold contraption out of his pocket, a tiny container that dispenses one snort at a time. He sticks it up his nostril and inhales powerfully. He does the same thing with the other nostril. Then he snaps it shut and shakes it before putting it away, ready for the next snort.
He turns toward me, gives me a look, and comments: “Good shit.”
I have no difficulty taking him at his word. People like him always have the best of everything.
As soon as we’re on the bypass for Assago, the speed begins to increase and the Ferrari’s eight cylinders start to suck gasoline and give back power. The way mechanical objects work is a game I like, an honest game. I give and I get. Cocaine is a fraud: it leaves people exactly as they are and tricks them into thinking they’re different.
We curve onto the beltway and the speed increases even more.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of dying, to be specific. I’ve already suffered that misfortune. A fatal crash in a car rocketing along at 125 mph would be nothing more than a formal certification of the fact, a red wax seal on a letter that’s already been written and signed.
We take the Vigentina–Val Tidone exit. Before entering Opera we take a right. A short time later our trip is over. Micky decelerates and steers the Ferrari left onto an unpaved lane that intersects with the asphalt road. I can hear the tires crunching over the gravel and, because of the car’s stiff suspension, I can feel every bump and pothole in my spine. We rumble through a
In spite of the most impassioned pleadings of counsel for the defense, a couple of pawns, I’d have to add.
We drive on, roaring through a city part of which is sound asleep while another is just getting dressed and made up for a gala banquet of bad habits and vice. Every night can be considered a special occasion, until a midnight finally rolls around when everyone will realize that none of those nights was special at all.
And that’s not going to be a midnight to look forward to.
We stop at a red light, next to a newsstand. Posters cover the little shack, announcing the lead stories of the newspapers and magazines: the ongoing and hopeless saga of Aldo Moro, the trial of the founders of the Red Brigades, UFO Robot Grendizer , Loredana Bertè and her latest love affair, the FIFA World Cup on its way, Juventus and Torino F.C., TV Sorrisi e Canzoni , the troubles of Italian president Giovanni Leone.
All these different stories intertwined on the same wall, in the same world, in the same life. And I don’t give a damn about any of it or any of them. Maybe that’s because first and foremost I don’t give a damn about myself. I turn my head to look at Micky. I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I wonder if he ever asks questions, or if he’s just pure instinct. Fast cars, fast trips, fast love affairs. And time, capable of outstripping the fastest speed there is, time, which kills you quickly because there’s no memory that can remember every instant.
Micky mistakes my glance for impatience.
“It’s going to take us a little while to get there. We have to go all the way out to Opera.”
I dismiss with a nonchalant gesture all my thoughts of just a few seconds ago.
“Don’t sweat it. There’s no hurry. We have all the time we need.”
I turn my head to watch the road.
All the time we need …
Lucio would appreciate the irony. How much time do you need, anyway? Now that I know who I am, I’d prefer not to know it. Memory is the only way of being sure you’ve even lived. But I don’t remember, so I won’t be remembered.
Micky turns right, leaving Viale Liguria and heading for the on-ramp of the Milan–Genoa superhighway. He asks me if I want to snort a line of cocaine. I shake my head no. He pulls a solid-gold contraption out of his pocket, a tiny container that dispenses one snort at a time. He sticks it up his nostril and inhales powerfully. He does the same thing with the other nostril. Then he snaps it shut and shakes it before putting it away, ready for the next snort.
He turns toward me, gives me a look, and comments: “Good shit.”
I have no difficulty taking him at his word. People like him always have the best of everything.
As soon as we’re on the bypass for Assago, the speed begins to increase and the Ferrari’s eight cylinders start to suck gasoline and give back power. The way mechanical objects work is a game I like, an honest game. I give and I get. Cocaine is a fraud: it leaves people exactly as they are and tricks them into thinking they’re different.
We curve onto the beltway and the speed increases even more.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of dying, to be specific. I’ve already suffered that misfortune. A fatal crash in a car rocketing along at 125 mph would be nothing more than a formal certification of the fact, a red wax seal on a letter that’s already been written and signed.
We take the Vigentina–Val Tidone exit. Before entering Opera we take a right. A short time later our trip is over. Micky decelerates and steers the Ferrari left onto an unpaved lane that intersects with the asphalt road. I can hear the tires crunching over the gravel and, because of the car’s stiff suspension, I can feel every bump and pothole in my spine. We rumble through a
Similar Books
