In a Heartbeat (14 page)

There was only one who gave me some problems because he wasn’t under me. ‘Business director,’ said Monica; I already knew that from the website. He was a guy about my age, medium build, with neatly combed hair. He sat on the edge of my desk.

‘So? Any news?’ he asked as he played with my pens, which I had ordered neatly by colour.

I had a load of news but nothing that I could tell him.

‘C’mon, don’t be cagey, what did the father-in-law say?’ Father-in-law? Oh yeah, Monica’s father. ‘Is he going to be the new CEO or what?’

‘I have no idea.’

He got up. ‘When you hear anything let me know. Or do you not care about friendship anymore?’

Was he really a friend of mine? He mumbled something and gesticulated like he had to make a phone call. The bastard went into the hallway and tore a strip off some poor guy who got in his way. He obviously had done something wrong.

The last one to visit me was wearing a uniform. He slipped in while I was cleaning my thumbnail with a paper knife. I noticed that something was amiss because the usual background office noise that I almost didn’t notice anymore had come to a halt. The world of B&M was holding its breath and enjoying the scene. I looked up and there he was, large and imposing like a ton of shit. A motorcycle cop still wearing his helmet, his cheeks still red from the cold. I was deciding whether to jump out of the window or to act annoyed. I opted for the latter. The pig was standing with an envelope in his gloved hand (the windows were sealed, by the way).

‘Signor Denti?’

‘What the hell do you want?’

In the portion of the hallway that I could see, half the agency just happened to be passing by for a glance. Their day was getting more interesting between the spitting, somersaults and visits from public officials. I gave them a murderous look, and they went back to work.

I took the envelope.
Office of the Procuratore of Milan
was written across it
.
I signed, then waited for him to leave before I opened it. What I read wasn’t that much of a surprise; the detective had warned me.

I was being summoned by Judge Antonazzi on Thursday at 5:30pm, two days from now, as a suspect regarding the homicide investigation of Mariano Roveda. If I wanted I could bring legal counsel.

I passed Monica the letter. ‘Oh, God,’ she gasped.

‘Do I already have legal representation?’

‘Yes, you do. I mean, you have a corporate lawyer but not a lawyer that handles this type of case.’ She lowered her voice so that it was almost inaudible. ‘A homicide.’

‘OK, let’s find one. I’m getting out of here.’ I got to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve got stuff to do. If anyone asks, tell them that I’m in a meeting or tell them whatever you want.’ I said goodbye to Rina and the myriad of faces that leaned out from their cubicles.

I made it outside.

The air tasted of wet smog. I breathed it in as if it were the best air in the world. I missed it while I was inside that B&M box. I would miss it even more if I were locked up in San Vittore prison. I’ve met fools who have spent more time inside than outside of there. In the end they couldn’t live without bars on their windows. In lockup, there were strict rules, you knew what they were, and everyone respected them. Inside they were somebody; outside they were nobody. They didn’t know how to live without wake up or yard time. They usually got themselves caught and were back within six months. It was always best to keep your distance from guys like that. Who knows, maybe I would become one of them? Considering how I felt at the moment, it was quite likely that I would wind up smashing my head against a wall before something like that happened.

Taxi, traffic.

‘Via Marozzi, nice place,’ said the cab driver in Milanese dialect. Someone still spoke it. ‘If I ever get a call to go there, I don’t go.’

‘Why?’

‘They are all Africans there, none of them want to work, and all of them want to cause trouble.’

‘If you say so.’

I understood what he meant when we got there. Via Marozzi was a cross street of Via Vitruvio right next to the Stazione Centrale. Since the last time I had been there it had changed a lot (correction: since the last time that I
remembered
being there). There were shops everywhere selling useless items, restaurants called Maghreb and Addis Ababa; almost everyone on the street was African or Arab. There were no Christmas decorations in this part of town.

I got out next to a halal butcher shop that didn’t entice me at all, even though my stomach craved real food. There was broken glass and rubbish on the pavement; the stench of urine was everywhere. Number 3/A was a four-storey building that was still standing by some small miracle. The floral curtains on several windows couldn’t hide its general state of disrepair: crumbling walls, balconies with exposed steel rods and dangling shutters. I was standing next to a small shop with blackened and shattered windows, kept together with miles of duct tape. They sold discount phone calls. There were at least fifty foreigners of every nationality pressed together, waiting for their turn in the cabins. K2 CALL CENTRE (
learn
) read the sign.

Using the flame from my lighter, I looked for ‘Fares’ on the intercom next door; someone had scorched it and the name tags were all burnt.

‘Who are you looking for?’

In the doorway of the call centre, there were three Arab kids whose collective age couldn’t have been more than about fifty; they dressed like Public Enemy, with their oversized baggy trousers, dark shades, hoodies and chains. They were passing a large bottle of beer between them. They looked at me as if I were a chimpanzee in a zoo. The oldest one, with light facial hair, was the one who had spoken.

‘Salima Fares. She lives here, but I don’t know the buzzer.’

‘Salima? You’re looking for Salima? What do you want with her?’

That was the same question that I had asked myself on the way over. With the trouble I was in, I was looking for a woman who hated me and who had nothing to do with Roveda’s death. I couldn’t avoid it. I felt in some way that it was important to find out more. ‘She’s a friend.’

‘So, you’re Salima’s friend, huh?’

‘Do you want me to say it again?’

They began to speak in a mixture of French and Arabic. I hoped they weren’t saying things like
let’s take this guy’s wallet
. They couldn’t decide what to do and argued heatedly for thirty seconds until the older one pushed the noisier one and ended the discussion. ‘She’s not home,’ he said. ‘But I can take you to where she is.’

‘Thanks, is it far?’

‘No it’s close by, in that direction.’

He pointed to a cross street, smaller and darker than the one we were already on.

‘There?’ I asked. I wasn’t dying to go.

‘Yeah, there. C’mon, let’s go.’

Either they wanted to rob me or not. I didn’t have a choice at this point. Either way, I was going to find out soon. The three waited until I began to walk with them. They escorted me like an honour guard, one next to me and the others behind. It would have been tough to make a run for it.

‘My name is Ragiul,’ the older kid said as we rounded the corner.

‘I’m Santo.’

‘If you’re a saint, how come you’re not in heaven?’

The three laughed. I had already heard all that crap in primary school. The kids even gave me a hard time about my surname. That’s why I changed it to Trafficante. Who knows if anyone remembered anymore? It was better that way.

The alley was deserted. It was like something out of a
Starsky and Hutch
episode where the guy tries to escape and starts rolling around the rubbish bins looking for a way out only to discover a wall. In fact, there was a wall.

A dead end.

A trap.

Idiot.

4

I straightened up and turned around. The three had calm expressions, hands in their pockets. No razors or chains. Maybe if I broke for it I could make it back to the street before they got me. It was worth a try, or maybe I should just beg? What if they wanted something more than just my money?

I threw up my arms, ‘OK, let’s talk.’

‘About what?’ asked Ragiul. ‘Get in, it’s cold.’

What?
‘Get in where?’

‘There.’

I followed his finger. He was pointing to a rusty metal door, half-hidden behind sacks of piled-up rubbish. I hadn’t seen it in the dark of the narrow alley.

‘Oh sorry. I thought … Ah, nothing.’

‘Wait a minute, I get it. You thought we wanted to rob you! Hey, Santo, not every Arab wants to skin the infidels. Usually in this country it’s the other way around.’

‘Sorry.’ I’d just made a fool of myself once again. Yet another time wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.

The door squeaked open. Inside it smelled of mould. I could hear a distant rhythmic choral sound of voices. One of the kids flicked a switch and a light bulb lit up a corridor, cluttered with rotting furniture. There was a flight of stairs in the middle.

‘What is this?’

‘It used to be a factory,’ Ragiul said.

‘No, a bakery,’ said one the other kids.

‘OK, now it’s empty. It’s ours. Salima is upstairs.’

I had to take two flights of stairs. The walls were covered with Arabic script, but someone had kept the place clean. The broken parts of the handrail had been put together with wire and the splintered wood had been patched up. It was best not to lean on anything, however. As I climbed, the voices grew stronger. I still couldn’t make out the words, but they were brief and tight phrases punctuated with cushioned blows. On the second floor Ragiul passed in front of me and opened the armoured door that looked relatively new. He bowed slightly, letting me in. ‘Safe and sound, you infidel dog,’ he said.

I walked through the door. The voices were stronger now. Children. I counted about twenty kids between five and ten years old. A single large room was lit up with fluorescent lights that dangled from the centre of the ceiling. Draughts entered from the rotting shutters. The children were training barefoot on a floor covered with multi-coloured wool blankets. Even though the temperature was close to that outside they were only wearing trousers, shirts and socks. They were lined up in five rows like little soldiers. Salima was standing in front of them, wearing a karate suit with a black belt tied around her waist. The somersault that she had made me do at B&M now had an explanation.

‘
Yi!’
Salima said, raising her right fist; she then bent her arm, ‘
Er!’
and then she moved her foot. ‘
San!’

The girls repeated her yells and gestures and seemed totally convinced by what they were doing. The oldest couldn’t have been more than ten years old, the youngest maybe four. They didn’t miss a beat. There weren’t any adults.

Salima burst her left arm forward with an open palm.
‘Si!’
You could feel the air swoosh from her quick movements. She repeated them three times and then she clapped her hands. ‘Good. Now from the beginning but faster.’ She saw me. ‘Five-minute break. Sit down and do the breathing exercises like I showed you.’

The children crouched in unison while Salima came in my direction.

‘Can we talk before you chop me up?’

‘Not here,’ she growled.

Ragiul and the others fell back, embarrassed. ‘He said that he was your … ’

‘Get out of here. I don’t want men here. I’m tired of repeating myself, and I don’t want pimpled boys here either. Get out!’

‘And him?’ asked Ragiul pointing at me.

‘I’ll deal with him myself.’

It wasn’t reassuring. The three kids slipped through the door without saying a word.

‘You, come with me.’

Behind the gym was a small room, which Salima probably used for changing. Maybe it had once been an office or a utility room. Now it was empty except for a single chair where she kept her bag and clothes. On a wall was a poster of the human body with words written in Chinese indicating the acupuncture needle points.

Salima closed the door with a kick then crossed her arms; she must have had a foot as hard as a horse’s hoof. ‘What do you want?’

Did I have a choice? ‘I had an accident. I lost my memory. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you spat on me. I would like to know why.’ I said it in one breath to avoid her snapping at me.

With the rhythm of my words a series of expressions flittered across her face: anger, annoyance and sarcasm. At the end she stopped on
sceptical.
‘That’s your excuse?’

I took out a pack of smokes. ‘Can I smoke here?’

‘No, you can’t … you smoke?’

‘In the last memory that I have, I was putting away two packs a day. Now, I’m holding back. I’ll put them away.’