She seemed smaller now that she was finally crying. The snot ran down from her nose and the eye-shadow had dissolved under her eyes and the blue brush she wore on her head had wilted, sticking to her forehead. A little teenager sobbing her heart out.
‘Is it in the car? Tell me, have you hidden it in the car?’
‘Go and see for yourself, you bastard. There isn’t a fucking thing in there,’ Martina screamed and then flew at him with clenched fists and the policeman grabbed her wrists and Martina growled and cried and the policeman shouted. ‘What are you trying to do? What are you trying to do? You’re only making things worse for yourself’ and he twisted her arm behind her back, making her shriek with pain. Then he handcuffed her wrist to the window frame.
Max, with his trousers down, watched his fellow student and future girlfriend being manhandled, without lifting a finger.
It was the policeman’s tone that prevented him from reacting. It was too calm. As if to him it were the most normal thing in the world to grab a guy by the hair and hurl him on the ground and then beat up a girl.
He’s completely nuts. This thought, instead of throwing him into an absolute panic, calmed him down.
He was crazy. That was why Max must not do anything.
Some people have had the experience of dying and being brought back to life. A matter of a few seconds, during which the lungs are immobile, the electrocardiogram is flat and there is no sign of life. They are clinically dead. Then the efforts of the doctors, the adrenaline, the electric shocks and the cardiac massages revive the heart, which gradually starts beating again and these lucky people revive.
On reawakening, if we may call it that, some have reported having the impression, while they were dead, of seeing themselves on the operating table surrounded by doctors and nurses. They had watched the scene from above, as if a TV camera (the soul, others say) which had been ballasted down in their mortal remains, had broken free and tracked away backwards and upwards.
A feeling similar to that which Max was experiencing at that moment.
He saw the scene from afar. As in a film, or rather on a set where a film was being made. A violent film. The blue light of the police car. The headlights of the Mercedes glaring in the puddles. The darkness lashed by the rain. The cars racing by on the road. The distant chimes of a bell.
I hadn’t noticed that bell, till now.
And that phoney policeman and, on her knees, a thin girl
who I only met this morning
who was sobbing, handcuffed to the door of the car. And then there was him, in his underpants, shivering, teeth chattering, helpless.
It was perfect. Just like a film script.
And the most absurd thing was that it was true and that it was happening to him, the great action-film fan, who had seen Duel dozens of times, Deliverance four times and The Hitcher at least twice, and who, if he’d been sitting in the second row of the Embassy with a packet of popcorn in his hand, would have revelled in such a hardhitting scene. He would have delighted in its realism. In the unusual violence that the director had succeeded in putting into it. How strange that he, who would have applauded so enthusiastically, should now be on the receiving end …
Does not try hard enough and does not join in.
How often had they written that crap on his school report?
‘LEAVE HER ALONE!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. At vocal-chord-breaking pitch. ‘LEAVE HER ALONE!’
He charged like a wounded animal at that bastard motherfuckingsonofabitch but fell flat on his face after barely taking a step.
He had tripped over his trousers.
And he lay there in the cold night, crying.
Maybe I’m being a trifle heavy-handed.
It was the sight of Stan Laurel tripping over his trousers and falling in a puddle squealing like a stuck pig that caused this moral doubt to form in the mind of officer Bruno Miele.
It might have been hilariously funny, like something out of Mr Bean, that poor bastard with his trousers round his ankles trying to attack him and falling over, but instead the scene had frozen the smile on his face. Suddenly he felt rather sorry for the guy. A twenty-year-old who starts blubbing like a kid and can’t face up to his own responsibilities. When he had seen the film The Bear, at the moment where the hunters kill mama bear and the cub understands that the Earth is an awful place populated by sons of bitches and that he is going to have to fend for himself, he had felt something similar. A lump in his throat and an involuntary contraction of the facial muscles. (What the hell’s the matter with you?)
The matter? Nothing!
He didn’t feel at all sorry for the girl.
Quite the opposite. He felt like giving her a good slap across the face. He found her so repulsive, with that hysterical little voice like the whine of an electric saw, that he wouldn’t even have screwed her. Yes, he really felt like slapping her face. But that bastard had better stop crying, or he would start crying himself soon.
He squatted down beside Stan … What was his name? Massimiliano Franzini. He addressed him in a tone as sweet as a Sicilian cassata. ‘Get up. Don’t cry. Come on now, you’ll catch cold, lying on the ground like that.’
No response.
It seemed as if he hadn’t heard him, but at least he’d stopped crying. He took him by the arm and tried to pull him up, but without success. ‘Come on, don’t cry. I’ll check the car and if I don’t find anything I’ll let you go. How about that?’
He had said this to induce him to stand up. He wasn’t so sure that he was going to let them go so easily. There were still the matter of all those joints they had smoked. And he would have to ask the station to check their names. The report to write. A whole lot of things to do.
‘Get up or I’m going to lose my temper.’
Flappy Ears finally raised his head. His face was smeared with grime and a second mouth in his forehead was spewing blood. His eyes were tearful and tired, but gleamed with a strange determination. He showed his teeth. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because I say so. You can’t stay on the ground.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll catch cold.’
‘Why? Why do you do this?’
‘Do what?’
‘Why do you behave like this?’
Miele took two steps backwards.
As if suddenly it was no longer Stan Laurel on the ground but a venomous cobra swelling its neck.
‘Get up. I’ll ask the questions. Ge …’
(Explain to him why you behave like this.)
‘… t up,’ he stammered.
(Tell him.)
What?
(Tell him the truth. Explain it to him, go on. Don’t give him any crap. That way you’ll explain it to us, too. Because we don’t really understand either. Tell him, go on, what are you waiting for?)
Miele backed away. He looked like a tailor’s dummy. The trousers of his uniform were soaked up to the knees, his jacket had a dark patch on the shoulders and back. ‘You want me to tell you, do you? Okay then, I’ll tell you, if that’s what you want.’ He went up to Flappy Ears, grabbed his head and turned it in the direction of the Mercedes. ‘Do you see that car there? That car comes on the road, without optionals, at a hundred and seventy-nine million lire including VAT, but if you add the folding roof, the wide wheels, the compute rised air conditioning, the hi-fi unit with the boot-mounted CD changer and the active subwoofer, the leather interiors, the lateral airbag and all the rest, we easily get up to two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty million. That car has a braking system controlled by a sixteen-bit processor identical to the one used by McLaren in Formula One, it has a sealed box containing a chip produced by Motorola which controls the set-up of the vehicle, regulates the tyre pressure and the height of the shock-absorbers, even though all these things, actually, are things you could find – not quite the same, a bit worse – on a top-of-the-range BMW or Saab. The exceptional thing about that car, the thing that gets enthusiasts literally
masturbating, is the engine. It has a capacity of six thousand three hundred and twenty-five cc distributed over twelve pistons made of a special alloy whose exact composition is known only to Mercedes. It was designed by Hans Peter Fleming, the Swedish engineer who created the propulsion system of the Space Shuttle and of the American atomic submarine Alabama. Have you ever tried starting in fifth? Probably not, but if you did you’d find that this car will do it. It has an engine so flexible you can change gear without using the clutch. It has an acceleration that will leave all those crappy coupés that are so fashionable nowadays trailing in its wake and can hold its own with a Lamborghini or a Corvette, if you get the picture. And what about its shape? Elegant. Sober. Nothing flashy. No Martian headlamps. No plastics. Sophisticated. The classic three-litre Mercedes. This car is the preferred drive of Gianmaria Davoli, the Grand Prix presenter, who could use a Ferrari 306 or a Testarossa like I use a pair of sandals. And you know what our prime minister said at the Turin Motor Show? He said that this car is a target to aim at and that when we in Italy succeed in making a car like it we’ll be able to say we’re a democratic country. But I don’t think we ever will, we don’t have the right mentality to make a car like that. Now, I don’t know who your father is, or how he earns his money. He may be a mafioso or a corrupt politician or a pimp, I don’t give a shit. I respect your father, he’s a person who deserves respect because he owns a 650 TX. Your father is a man who appreciates things of value, he’s bought this car, he’s spent a lot of money and I bet my life he doesn’t know that you, you son of a bitch, have stolen it from him to chauffeur around a little tart with blue hair and rings on her face and to smoke joints in it and throw half-eaten sandwiches on the floor. You know what I think? I think you two are the first people in the world who have ever smoked pot in a 650 TX. Maybe some rock star has sniffed a few lines of coke in one, but nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever smoked pot in one. You two have committed an act of sacrilege, of blasphemy. Getting high in a 650 TX is like shitting in St Peter’s. Now do you understand why I behave like this?’
If officer Antonio Bacci hadn’t fallen asleep as soon as he set foot in the police vehicle, perhaps the Bruno Miele Magic Show, live from the hundred-and-twelfth kilometre of the Via Aurelia, would not have gone off so well and Max Franzini and Martina Trevisan would not have kept telling the story of that terrible nocturnal experience for years to come (Max, in corroboration, would point to the scar on his balding forehead).
But Antonio Bacci, as soon as he entered the warmth of the car, had loosened his bootlaces, folded his arms and, without realising it, fallen into a heavy sleep peopled by coconuts, puffer fish, silicone masks and bikini-clad air hostesses.
When the radio crackled into life, Bacci woke up. ‘Patrol car 12! Patrol car 12! This is an emergency. Go at once to the junior high school in Ischiano Scalo, there’s been a break-in. Patrol c …’
Shit, I fell asleep, he realised, seizing the microphone and looking at his watch. Jesus, I’ve been asleep for over half an hour! What’s Miele doing out there?
It was a few seconds before headquarters’ instructions sank in, but at last he managed to reply. ‘Message received. We’ll get going straight away. Should be there in ten minutes at the outside.’
Burglars. In his son’s school.
He got out of the car. It was raining as hard as ever and on top of that there was a blustery wind which blew you off track. He hurried forward two steps, but immediately slowed down.
The Mercedes was still there. Handcuffed to the door was the girl with blue hair. She was sitting on the ground, hugging her legs with her arm. Miele was crouching in the middle of the lay-by talking to the boy, who was lying in his underclothes in a puddle.
He approached his partner and in an incredulous voice asked him what was going on.
‘Oh, there you are.’ Miele looked up and beamed contentedly. He was completely drenched. ‘Nothing. I was just explaining something to him.’
‘And why is he in his underclothes?’
The boy was shaking like a leaf and had a gash on his head.
‘I searched him. I caught them smoking hashish. They handed some over, but I have reason to believe that they have more, hidden in the car. We must check …’
Bacci took him by the arm and pulled him away, where those two couldn’t hear. ‘Have you gone out of your mind? Did you hit him? If they report you you’re going to be in real trouble.’
Miele shook himself free. ‘How many times have I told you not to touch me! I didn’t hit him. He fell down. Everything’s under control.’
‘Why did you handcuff the girl?’
‘She’s hysterical. She tried to attack me. Calm down. Nothing’s happened.’
‘Listen. We’ve got to go to the junior high school in Ischiano right away. There’s an emergency. Apparently there’s been a break-in and shots have been heard …’
‘Shots?’ Miele had begun to get agitated. His hands twitched frenetically. ‘Shots have been heard in the school?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the school?’
‘I said yes.’
‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod …’ Now those fingers as agitated as a grasshopper’s legs had clutched Miele’s face and were pinching his lips, his nose, ruffling his hair.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘My father’s in there, you fool. The Sardinians! Papa was right. Let’s go, quick, there’s no time to lose …’ said Miele in a panicky voice and went towards the two youngsters.
Oh yes. It had slipped Bacci’s mind. Miele’s father is the school caretaker …
Miele ran over to the boy, who was now on his feet, picked up from the ground his clothes, now reduced to soaking wet rags, and thrust them into his hand, then went over to the girl and released her, started back but then stopped. ‘Listen, you two, this time you’ve got away with it, but you won’t next time. Quit smoking pot. It rots your brain. And quit dressing like that. I’m telling you this for your own good. We’ve got to go. Dry yourselves or you’ll catch flu.’ Then he addressed the boy alone. ‘Oh, and tell your father from me he’s got a beautiful car.’ He rejoined Bacci and the two policemen got into the patrol car and drove off, siren blaring.
Max saw them disappear along the Aurelia. He threw aside the clothes, pulled up his trousers, ran over to Martina and embraced her.
They stood clinging together, like Siamese twins, for a good while. And silently they cried. They ran their fingers through each other’s hair while the icy, indifferent rain continued to lash them.
They kissed each other. First on the neck, then on the cheeks and finally on the lips.
‘Let’s get into the car,’ said Martina, pulling him inside. They shut the doors and turned on the computerised air conditioning which in a few seconds turned the car into a furnace. They undressed, dried themselves, put on the warmest things they had and kissed again.
And that is how Max Franzini passed the daunting kiss test.
And those kisses were the first of many. Max and Martina started going out, lived together for three years (in the second year a baby girl was born whom they called Stella), then got married in Seattle, where they opened an Italian restaurant.
During the next few days, in the villa at San Folco, they thought long and hard about reporting that bastard, but in the end they decided to drop the matter. You never knew how it would end and then there was the problem of the hashish and the car he had taken without his father’s permission. Better just forget about it.
But that night remained for ever etched on their memories. The terrible night when they experienced the misfortune of bumping into officer Miele and the great joy of emerging unscathed and becoming lovers.
Max turned on the ignition, slotted the REM album into the CD player and drove off out of this story.
10th December
38
Dring dring dring.
When the phone started ringing, Miss Flora Palmieri was dreaming that she was
in the beautician’s studio. She was lying peacefully on the couch when the door opened and in came a dozen silver-coated koalas. She knew, without knowing why, that those marsupials were bent on trimming her toenails.
They had nail clippers in their hands and they danced around her, singing merrily.
‘Trik trik trik. We’re dear little bears, as everyone knows, we’re going to trim the nails on your toes. Trik trik trik dring dring dring.’
With their clippers in their hands.
Dring dring dring.
And the phone kept ringing.
Flora Palmieri opened her eyes.
Darkness.
Dring dring dring.
She fumbled for the switch and turned on the lamp.
She looked at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table.
Five forty.
And the phone kept ringing.
Who on earth can it be?
She got up, put on her slippers and hurried into the sitting room.
‘Hallo?’
‘Hallo, is that you, Miss Palmieri? I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour … It’s Giovanni Cosenza.’
The headmaster!
‘Did I wake you up?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘Well, it is five forty in the morning.’
‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have rung you, but something very serious has happened …’
Flora tried to imagine what could have been so serious as to justify the headmaster’s calling her at this ungodly hour, but she couldn’t think of anything.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s been a break-in at the school during the night. They’ve smashed the whole place up …’
‘Who?’
‘Vandals.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, they got in and smashed the television and the video recorder, sprayed paint all over the walls, and chained up the school gate. Italo tried to stop them but he’s in hospital and the police are here …’
‘What’s happened to Italo?’
‘I think he’s got a broken nose and he hurt his arms.’