The Goodbye Kiss (16 page)

    In
general, I had to flex some muscle. A few times I didn't even have to use
violence. As in the case of a client who maintained a bank manager in the
province had her sign blank fiduciary notes to guarantee a loan for a
hundred-and-fifty thousand. I went no further than to advise her to withdraw
the charge. On other occasions I was forced to be really nasty. As in the case
of Alexia, a whore from Trieste who was blackmailing a devoted customer of La
Nena. The guy, a well-to-do entrepreneur of metal trinkets, jewelry and what
not, met the broad in a nightclub. Let himself be led back to her place for a
boff to the tune of two-hundred-and-fifty euros. While they were in bed, a
video camera hidden in a bookcase got the whole thing. To stop her from sending
an anonymous package to the entrepreneur's wife and the two dailies in town,
Alexia wanted a hundred grand.

    I
escorted the guy to the meeting arranged for handing over the cash. When the
girl looked through the peephole, she saw only her client, but when she opened
the door, she found me. Frightened, she tried to call the entrepreneur, who was
heading for the stairs. I socked her in the pit of the stomach and pushed her
inside. I recovered the cassette. But despite her squawks, I didn't believe her
when she swore she made no copies. I tied her to a chair. From the kitchen I
took a bag of coarse salt, a funnel and a carafe of water. A standard police
interrogation. After the second carafe she came clean: there were two more
cassettes in the wardrobe between the sheets. Alexia had decided to pluck her
chicken but good. I told the entrepreneur other copies of the video existed and
it'd cost him ten thousand to get them. He paid without any guff.

    Once
they told me to pull a robbery. Well-paid and, I imagine, commissioned by some
pharmaceutical manufacturer. I had to sneak into a hospital ward and lift a few
files that contained clinical data on the patients. Child's play.

    The
lawyer was also right on the issue of friends. When the customers realized I
enjoyed his trust, they started treating me differently. Not like one of them,
but like somebody they could do business with. This got me involved in a couple
more loan- sharking rings. I became a partner in an illegal knitwear workshop
that employed Chinese labor. Above all, I invested in quick, profitable deals,
from lots of wine to furniture, from New Year's fireworks to computers. This is
how things were in the northeast. A rapid turnover of goods and cash. You only
needed to be in the right circle. And I was definitely in the right one.

    Under
the term "friends" I also listed a number of cops. Every kind, from
carabinieri to traffic police. The ones that paid court to Brianese often hung
out at La Nena. Others dropped by every once in a while to have a drink. In the
beginning their presence gave me the jitters. Then I got used to them. The
lawyer wasted no opportunity to praise my drive for reinstatement. In time they
started to ask me questions about some of the customers. This came as no
surprise. Most club owners are informers. Some guys got hassled thanks to my
tips, which only had to do with penny-ante stuff. Fake screen tests, vacation
scams, traffic in art works. All rigged by third-rate criminals. People in such
a hurry to make money they take short cuts, thinking it'll be easy. So easy
they allow themselves the luxury of running off at the mouth. I myself was more
than happy to furnish information to the police. It served to pave the way for
my reinstatement in society. Once even the Digos showed up. Right after the
D'Antona murder. They asked me to let them know if I was contacted by any old
comrades from the days of armed struggle.

    "They'd
never come to me."

    "You
never know. Everybody fucks up some time," the oldest cop was quick to
answer.

    "We're
interested in the ones at the community centers," explained another.

    "They
don't hang here."

    "True.
But keep your ears open just the same. You got it?"

    "I
got it."

    I was
sure I was right. Everybody in town knew La Nena was run by an ex-terrorist.
And the ones at the community centers also knew how I avoided the life
sentence. They showed me by writing "Pellegrini infame" on the
shutters "Pellegrini the Rat." More than once. I'd cover it with a
coat of paint, and they'd come back with a spray can, fire-engine red. One
night somebody wrote, "After Seattle no business as usual." I recognized
the slogan. It was written on every wall in town. I didn't erase it. It didn't
concern me.

    Sante
Brianese became regional councilman. After a skillful campaign he managed to win
an aldermanship which guaranteed a good turnover. He celebrated at La Nena.
Rivers of champagne, hugs from old friends, solemn handshakes from new ones.
His court was growing bigger and bigger. The refreshments were on me. I was
sincerely happy about his success. But also because I felt I now had the
rehabilitation within my reach. The five-year waiting period would be over in
four months. Then, after the petition was filed, I'd have to wait the usual
time for the inquiry and for the date of the hearing to be set. Eight, ten
months at the most. At forty-four I'd become a citizen to all intents and
purposes. That night Brianese wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

    "It's
time you found yourself a nice girl," he said in a fatherly tone.
"People are saying you're a skirt-chaser, and that's not good. Here we get
married in church first. Then, with the priest's blessing, you screw every cunt
that happens to come your way."

    What
he said made me think seriously about marriage for the first time. It was a good
idea. Living with a woman could be useful and pleasurable. I started looking
around. Very soon I spotted a woman around thirty-five who came to have lunch
every day. Her name was Roberta. From what I knew, she worked in a notary's
office. She'd arrive with a couple coworkers and always ordered a light dish.
Even though she was a little too young for my taste, I was struck by her
shyness. When I made the rounds of the tables, I exchanged witty remarks with
the customers. With women I overdid the compliments, like the lawyer taught me.
She lowered her eyes every time, and an embarrassed smile would be sketched on
her pretty mouth. Watching her I convinced myself she was submissive by
temperament, and it wouldn't be necessary to force her into that role. Physically
she attracted me. Tall, slim, built. She didn't have a big chest, but she had
one, as well as a cute little ass. Her chestnut hair fell to her shoulders and
framed a charming face with well-shaped features. But her legs were nothing to
brag about. I took a good look as she crossed them. I noticed her calves
weren't thin, and her thighs were traced with cellulite. Imperfections that
certainly made her vulnerable and in need of approval. I started to make a play
for her. Looks, smiles, little courtesies. I knew nothing about her. I asked
Nicoletta, my ex, the dealer of fake Chanel, to poke around. I learned she
broke off a six-year relationship with a guy who didn't want to take her to the
altar. She lived alone in a small apartment in the suburbs.

    "She
isn't the right woman for you," my spy remarked.

    "Jealous?"

    She
shook her head. "Roberta's an old-fashioned girl. Marriage, kids,
Christmas tree…"

    I
smiled, satisfied. "That's just the kind of woman I want."

    Nicoletta
gave me a pat on the cheek. "Good luck to you then."

    The
opportunity to hook up was a headache. One day she came to the bar and asked me
for a pill.

    I
looked in a drawer. "I have some aspirin."

    "No,
grazie, I'm allergic."

    "I
had an aunt with the same problem. I remember she'd have to be very careful.
Wait, I'll ask the cook. He suffers from migraines and always has a supply of
painkillers."

    I
came back from the kitchen with a tablet. "He told me this should do the
trick."

    She
checked the name of the drug. "It's perfect. Grazie."

    "Wednesday
is the day we close. Would you like to come out with me?"

    She
stared at me. "To go where?" she asked, cautious.

    "A
movie and pizza?"

    She
pretended to think it over. "OK."

    The film
was a sugary mishmash with Richard Gere. His girl dies during an operation, and
he becomes a better man. I never saw such a boring movie, but Roberta wept the
whole time and was wild about it.

    "Bellissimo.
A great love story. Did you like it?"

    "Very
much."

    At
the pizzeria I exploited her state of mind by reeling off a story that was made
to order. "I'm a man who's made mistakes for a good part of his
life," I began. "Now I'm trying to mend my ways and make up for the bad
I've done. Particularly to my family. My father and mother died of heartbreak.
My sisters live far away, and I don't have the courage to see them again."

    She
placed her hand on mine. I told her how wicked teachers and the dark forces of
subversion had led astray my young mind. Paris. Central America. The return to
Italy. Jail. An incoherent heap of lies, supported only by the shattered tone
of my voice.

    "This
is the first time I've confided in someone," I said at the end.

    "I'm
pleased you chose me. I heard something about your past, but I didn't imagine
you had suffered so much."

    She
in turn felt the need to confide in me. She spoke of work, her family and
especially Alfio. He'd been the love of her life. But when the moment arrived
to face up to the subject of marriage, that life slipped away. She had trouble
coming back, and now she wasn't sure she wanted to take a chance on another
man. I acted as if I understood and tried to reassure her with banal speeches
about the sincerity of feelings. Finally I sent her a clear message, revealing
my dreams and my plans to her. She seemed the image of my ideal woman. I
escorted her to the door of her building, saying goodbye with a chaste kiss on
the cheek. As always, she smiled with embarrassment and lowered her eyes.

    From
that day on we went out every Wednesday. The first month only movies, plays and
restaurants. Then one night she came to my house. After dinner I pinned her
down on the couch and kissed her. She let me caress her breast, but when I
undid the button on her trousers, she said it seemed too soon. While she was
putting on her overcoat, I decided to take a chance. The moment had arrived to
check whether I made the right choice.

    "You'll
lose me like this. Forever," I said, my voice a thread.

    She
stopped in her tracks, petrified. Then she removed her coat and returned to the
couch.

    "Put
on some music. Please."

    I
didn't have much at home. Some cheap CD's I bought at the supermarket. Reissues
of old records, mostly. Music I'd listened to when I went to Saturday afternoon
parties and danced the slow numbers with the girls from my school, trying to
touch their tits. I put on the first one I grabbed. Caterina Caselli's hits.

    Roberta
was a terrible lover. The only thing she knew how to do was spread her legs.
Despite my desire to go all the way, I conducted myself like a true gentleman,
lavishing attention on her. I listened to nine cuts before making her come. She
let loose the first squeal as Caselli sang, "Arrivederci amore, ciao, the
clouds are already passing." When I got up to throw away the condom, she
asked me to replay it.

    "It's
called 'Til Never See You Again.'"

    "I
know. It's sad, but I've always liked it so much."

    I
pleased her. Amid the sentimental lovers' patter it became "our"
song. I used it as a signal when I wanted to take her to bed. Which didn't
happen often. I really didn't know what to do with a woman who had no intention
of giving me head or letting me fuck her in the ass. But she had many other
qualities, and since I wanted to marry her, I didn't make myself sick over it.
She was sweet, thoughtful, and didn't break my balls. And at home she kept
busy. I loved her company. She filled a hole in my life. At night. In my spare
time. With a partner things were more fun. I finally understood why people got
married and didn't waste time talking about it. To crown her soap-opera dreams,
I took her to Venezia one Wednesday night. A great restaurant, a turn in a
gondola, a serenade. In Piazza San Marco, I put a little box in her hand.

    "Will
you marry me?" I asked at the exact moment when she found herself staring
at a ring worth seven grand. Obviously I hadn't paid that price, but that's
what it cost.