He hated every person in that little box, so much that he sometimes had to restrain himself from picking up the broomstick and smashing it to pieces.
I’d like to line you up one behind the other and shoot you. What’s your crime? You lie to people. You’re rotting the minds of millions of children. Showing them worlds that don’t exist. You drive people to run up huge debts to buy a car. You’re ruining Italy.
Yet Rino Zena couldn’t stop watching television. He would sit glued to it all night. And in the daytime, when he was at home, he was always there on that lounger swearing at them.
Rino changed channels, then he turned and noticed that Cristiano was asleep.
His temples were beginning to throb, but he didn’t feel like going to bed. For a moment he considered going round to Danilo’s, but he decided against it. In the evening Danilo was a pain in the arse: he would start moaning about his wife and go on till he collapsed, felled by the grappa.
No, what I need is a fuck.
He put on his jacket and went out, with no clear destination in mind.
The van was nearly out of petrol. Those two thought it ran on water. They never contributed a penny. He found an all-night garage on the highway and put in his last ten euros. Now he didn’t even have the money to buy a beer.
He replaced the nozzle and was about to get back into the van when a silver Mercedes with its headlights on full beam stopped two metres short of him. A female arm extended from the window on the driver’s side. The hand clasped a fifty-euro note and a two-euro coin.
Rino drew nearer.
At the wheel was a slim woman with long blonde hair and a pair of oval glasses with blue lightweight frames. A microphone wire ran down from her ear across her cheek, ending beside her thin lips, which were painted dark red.
‘Fifty euros,’ she said to Rino, then carried on talking into the microphone. ‘I don’t think so … No, I really don’t think so … You’re wrong, you’re missing the point, Carlo dear …’
Rino took the money, got back into the van and drove off.
42
Danilo Aprea lay in bed in the dark. His arms alongside his body. His face looking up at the ceiling. His green pyjamas with blue polka dots smelled of fabric softener. The sheets, too, were fresh and well ironed. He put out his hand on the side where Teresa used to sleep. It was cold and flat. He regretted changing the mattress. The new one, which had springs, was hard and unyielding. The old one had taken on the shapes of their bodies. On Teresa’s side there had been a long S-shaped hollow, because she always slept on her side. With her back towards him and her face towards the wall.
The red digits of the radio alarm showed 23:17.
He was wide awake. And yet in front of the television he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open … There had been a documentary on the migration of whales. Nature documentaries had always been Teresa’s passion. And her favourites were those about whales and dolphins. She loved cetaceans because, as she said, they had made such an effort to get out of the sea and then, once they had got onto the land, they had decided to go back again. Millions of years spent turning into four-legged animals and then millions of years to turn back into fish. Danilo didn’t see what was so wonderful about that story. Teresa had explained to him: ‘Because when you make a mistake, you must have the courage to retrace your steps.’ Danilo had wondered if she was alluding to the two of them.
He could call her and tell her that there was a documentary about whales on TV.
He heard his wife’s voice thanking him.
Don’t mention it … Can I see you tomorrow?
(Why yes, of course.)
Shall we meet at the Rouge et Noir? I’ve got lots of news to tell you.
(Would four o’clock be okay?)
Four o’clock it is.
He switched on the bedside lamp, put on his glasses and eyed the telephone…
No. I promised.
… then picked up The Da Vinci Code, of which, in two years, he had read about twenty pages.
He got himself comfortable and read a page without really reading it. He looked up from the book and stared at the wall.
But this time he would be calling her about something important. She would be able to see the last quarter-of-an-hour of the documentary. There were killer whales in it too. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number, with bated breath. The phone rang and nobody answered.
Two more rings and I’ll hang up.
One … two … three …
‘Hello! Who is it?’ Teresa’s sleepy voice.
He didn’t reply.
‘Hello, who is it? Is that you, Danilo?’
He repressed the impulse to reply and ran his hand over his cheeks and mouth.
‘Danilo, I know it’s you. You mustn’t ring me, don’t you understand? I’ve turned off my mobile, but I can’t unplug the landline. You know Piero’s mother’s not well. Every time you call you give him a turn. You’ve woken us up. Please stop it. I beg of you.’ She stopped for a moment as though she didn’t have the strength to go on. Danilo could hear her breathing heavily. But then she did go on, in a flat tone: ‘I told you I’d ring you. If you keep doing this I won’t ring you any more. I swear it.’
She hung up.
Danilo put down the receiver, closed the book, took off his glasses, lay them on the bedside table and turned out the light.
43
Ramona had just been released from jail. She wore a sleeveless top, a pair of skin-tight denim shorts and cowboy boots. She was hitchhiking and Bob the lumberjack, dressed in a checked shirt and sitting at the wheel of a pickup, stopped.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked Ramona.
Quattro Formaggi, sitting in his underpants in front of his little TV, said together with the blonde: ‘Wherever fortune takes me. What have you got to offer me?’
Bob smiled and let her in.
Quattro Formaggi reached out and pressed the fast-forward key on the video recorder.
The images on the screen began to flash by. The pickup came to the little house in the woods. Quick greetings. Lunch with turkey. And then everyone naked on the table, screwing. Darkness. Morning. Ramona woke up naked and went out into the yard. Bob the lumberjack was chopping wood. Ramona undid his trousers and took his cock in her hand. Here Quattro Formaggi pressed PAUSE.
This was his favourite scene. He had watched it at least a thousand times and the quality of the pictures was terrible, the colours had all toned to red. He went into the kitchen and turned on the light.
The smell of the boiled cauliflower he had eaten two days before hung in the air, its purple remains still floating in a saucepan on the gas cooker. On the table were the dried-up carcase of a chicken and an empty Fanta bottle.
He took a dozen ice-cube moulds out of the freezer. He put them under the tap and dropped the cubes into a bucket, which he filled with five inches of water. He stood the bucket on the table, rolled up the right sleeve of his dressing gown and thrust in his hand.
A thousand needles pierced his flesh. But after a while the water began to seem boiling hot.
He knew from experience that it took at least ten minutes.
He gritted his teeth and waited.
When it seemed to him that enough time had passed, he took his red, frozen hand out of the bucket and dried it with a rag.
He pinched it.
Nothing.
He picked up a fork from the table and stuck it into his palm.
Nothing.
Holding his right arm up, he went back to the television and pressed PLAY.
He sat down, lowered his underpants and grasped his penis with his ice-stiffened hand.
He felt on his skin the cold fingers squeezing it hard.
That was just how it felt when a girl took your cock in her hand.
It was exactly how it felt.
Ramona’s icy hand started going frantically up and down.
Quattro Formaggi parted his legs and opened his mouth. His
head fell back and an incandescent pleasure exploded just below the back of his skull.
44
The Peace Warrior squat was a leather goods factory which had closed down in the early Seventies. The building had been occupied and rock concerts were often held there.
Six enormous concrete buildings all in a row, covered with graffiti and surrounded by a gravel yard. Tongues of flame and columns of black smoke poured out of a cluster of barrels. A thick fog had formed which dimmed the headlights of the cars into golden haloes. Deafening music came from inside.
Rino parked near a row of big choppers.
He got out of the van clutching a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label, courtesy of the lady in the Mercedes. He set off, with two slits instead of eyes, towards the entrance.
A lot of young men, dressed as punks, American bikers or metalheads, massed in front of the social centre.
Rino pushed his way through the crowd. Some guys protested, but when they looked at him even the biggest and meanest fell silent and let him through. Despite the alcohol that dulled his senses Rino could almost smell their fear of him, as a wild animal can, and it felt great. It was like having a sign on your head: MAKE MY DAY: PISS ME OFF.
But that evening he wasn’t looking for a fight. And it had been a mistake to drink all that whisky when he had such a headache.
He reached the doormen. Three arseholes with hair curled into thick, filthy, evil-smelling twists were holding shoeboxes full of banknotes.
One gaunt-faced guy with sunglasses asked him to make a contribution of his own choosing for the musicians. He clearly hadn’t realized, in all the crush, who he was dealing with, and when he looked up and saw that shaven-headed, muscular, eyeless beast in front of him, he gave a nervous smile and stammered: ‘No … You … I know … Go on in … Go on in …’ And waved him through.
Inside it was at least thirty degrees and the air was unbreathable. The effect of those thousand-odd bodies crammed into the place, heaving and surging like the sea. There was a horrible smell. A disgusting mixture of marijuana, cigarettes, sweat and damp plaster.
At the other end of the room a wall of speakers was blasting out music at the audience. The band, distant dots lit up by red spotlights, were playing some dreadful crap, a mess of fuzzy guitars and drums. One poor idiot was screaming his head off and jumping about as if someone had rammed a hedgehog up his arse. A huge peace flag hung above the stage.
Rino slipped through the crowd and reached the side of the room, near the wall. There the pressure eased and there was a little room to breathe. The beams of the spotlights hanging from the ceiling didn’t reach there and in the half-light you could see silhouettes sitting on the ground, red cigarette stubs, heads kissing, groups of people talking.
Stepping over legs and beer cans, Rino got to within thirty metres of the stage. The music here was so loud he couldn’t hear himself think.
Now he could see the band. With their long hair, those wedges on their feet and their faces plastered with greasepaint, they looked like a poor imitation of an American heavy-metal group.
Below the stage he saw a tall, slim girl with short blonde hair, dancing.
She looks like Irina.
He leaned against a pillar, took a swig from his bottle and shut his eyes. His chin dropped onto his chest. The whole room swayed. He grabbed hold of the pillar to stop himself falling.
Irina had been tall and very slim. With small breasts and wonderful legs. Her legs and her neck were the best things about her. And, apart from her brain, the rest of her wasn’t that bad either …
How he’d loved her! He remembered that if he went without seeing her for more than half a day he would get a pain in the stomach.
Where had it all gone wrong?
“I want an abortion … I’m too young, Rino. I want to live.”
“You do and I’ll kill you.”
And his hand clenching into a fist.
I’m getting maudlin. I’ve had enough of this. I’m going.
Besides, in the state he was in, he would never be able to pull a girl. And he was feeling so miserable now that if he didn’t get out of there he was going to start crying like a baby.
He took another swig of alcohol and stared blankly at the undulating, arm-waving sea of people excited by the deafening music.
I’m thirsty.
Opposite the point where he was standing, on the other side of the room, was a long table where they were selling beer and mineral water.
He still had some money in his pocket. But getting across that human carpet seemed to him an impossible task.
Among the people thronging around the drinks table was the blonde girl. Now he could see her more clearly.
It’s her …
Rino recognised that slim model’s body, that neck … And he thought he remembered that white dress which fell like a tube over her body, leaving her back exposed.
His heart leaped in his chest as if he’d seen a ghost. He gave an alcoholic belch, clutched at the pillar and leaned unsteadily against it, as if he had taken a punch in the face. His legs wouldn’t support him.
Irina!
It can’t be! What’s she doing here? She’s crazy. I told her if she ever came back I’d kill her.
And yet it was her. The same height. The same hair. The same way of moving.
He couldn’t believe it. Not once in those twelve years had he considered the possibility of seeing her again.
One morning he had woken up with a hangover. Cristiano was crying in his cot. Irina wasn’t there. Her things weren’t there. She had left.
Why’s she here now? She wants to take Cristiano away. Why else would she have come?
He felt a lump in his throat. He pushed through the crowd, heading for that blonde hair on the other side of the hall, clearing himself a path with his elbows. She was closer now. He could see her long hair and her bony shoulders. It was her. She didn’t look a day older.
Now he only had to grab her wrist and whisper in her ear: ‘Surprise, surprise! I’ve got you!’ And drag her outside. She was only a few metres away.
His heart was beating frantically. He reached out and just at that moment Irina turned her head and …
Fuck!
… it was someone else.
Rino felt a strange emotion resembling disappointment. As if …
As if, nothing.
It wasn’t her.
45
Cristiano woke up in front of the television. A man was cutting up a Coca-Cola can with a knife.
Cristiano got up and passed by the window. The van wasn’t there.
He’s gone out.
He peed in the kitchen sink. Then he turned on the tap and had a drink.
He went back into the living room, sat down in front of the TV and started to surf the channels, using the broomstick. On a regional channel he found Antonella, a pasty-faced redhead with an eagle tattoo on her shoulder, who was taking off her clothes and talking on the phone and grimacing a lot. It was a good ten minutes before she got around to removing her bra. At that rate it would be daybreak before she got her knickers off. Besides, with all those numbers and written messages you couldn’t see a thing.
Maybe he could have a wank.
He imagined the redhead coming into the living room. A skimpy blue top finished just above her navel, leaving the rest of her body bare. She wore pointed black shoes with high heels. Between her legs there was a little strip of blondish hair. She sat on a chair with her legs apart and a ray of sunlight from the window shone on her pussy, which was open like an oyster … And she was talking to him in a matter-of-fact tone about homework.
He could hear the breathy voice from the television repeating: ‘Go on, call me … Call me … What are you waiting for? Call me … Don’t be shy. Call me.’ In the background, behind the voice, Eros Ramazzotti was singing ‘I’m still hung up on you’, then this faded out and gave way to a mournful song performed by a famous singer of yesteryear, whose name he didn’
t know, and who was saying ‘when you are here with me this room has no walls, but only trees, countless trees, when you are here close to me …’
Cristiano had heard a Frenchwoman sing that song on the radio, in a voice so sweet and clear it made you feel like crying. She had sung it in a normal voice, just as if she was at home singing to her baby boy to lull him to sleep. Maybe that really had been what she was doing. Maybe her husband had taped the song unknown to her and had then told her she ought to make a record of it, and that was how she had become famous.
He didn’t know why, but the song reminded him of his mother. He saw her sitting on his bed with her guitar, singing him a song. She had straight blonde hair and looked like a girl who presented A Special Family on Channel 2.
He had gone to Disco Boom to buy the CD, but when he’d found himself in front of the sales assistant he had been too embarrassed to ask him if he knew it. He didn’t know the name of the singer or the title of the song. And he could hardly start warbling ‘when you are here with me’ to him …
His desire to have a wank had gone. He switched off the television and went upstairs to bed.
46
Rino Zena woke up in darkness, waving his arms about.
He was falling from an aeroplane. Below him there was a black expanse of asphalt. Gasping for breath, he realised it had only been a dream and it was over.
It was dark. He had a stale taste of whisky in his mouth; his tongue had swollen up as if it had been stung by a wasp and he had a splitting headache. From the smell of cigarettes and damp carpet he understood that he was in his bedroom, lying on the mattress.
He reached out, groping for the light switch, and touched a body lying next to him. At first he thought it was Cristiano. Until a few years earlier he had let him sleep in his bed when he had nightmares.
He turned on the light, and when he finally succeeded in opening his eyes he saw the blonde from the concert. The one he had mistaken for Irina. She was sleeping with her arms outspread. Her mouth open. She was naked, apart from a bra pulled down to reveal two small breasts with small dark nipples the size of fifty-cent coins.