I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  He turned again to look at the house.

  Bricks and wood.

  Glass and concrete.

  Technique and manual work.

  All human things.

  What was inside those walls, whether of brick or wood, went beyond that. It meant something. And, for the first time in his life, he felt part of that something, regardless of the point of departure and arrival and the unavoidable accidents along the way.

  John Kortighan wasn’t a believer. He had never managed to summon up any faith either in man or in God. And consequently not even in himself. But Michael McKean had somehow managed to open a breach in the wall that people had apparently built to keep him out, the wall that he had strengthened on his side in retaliation. God was still a distant, nebulous concept, hidden behind the obvious humanity of His representative. But in a way, even though John had never said this to him, Father McKean wasn’t just saving the kids’ lives, he was also saving his.

  On the upper floor, behind the windows that reflected the sky, he glimpsed figures moving. Kids moving around in their rooms. Each had his experience, his fragment of life. Put all together by chance, like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope, they made a vivid fragile image. Like all unstable things, it wasn’t easy to decipher but was surprisingly colourful.

  He walked back the way he had come, entered the house by the main door and started upstairs. As he climbed, step after step, he let his thoughts wander.

  The story of Joy was both very simple and very complicated. And as was often the case, its foundation derived from a tragic event, as if some plans needed to be born out of pain in order to find the strength to become reality.

  John wasn’t living in the neighbourhood at that time, but he had heard about it from Michael, whose concise account had been corroborated by a couple of longer conversations with the parish priest of Saint Benedict.

  It was …

  a Friday and they were holding a funeral.

  A boy of seventeen, Robin Wheaters, had been found dead of an overdose in a corner of the park on the other side of the bridge, at the junction of Shore Road and City Island Road. A couple who were jogging had spotted a body lying on the ground, half hidden in the bushes. They had approached and found that he was unconscious but still breathing. The ambulance had rushed him to hospital, but to no avail. Robin had died soon afterwards in the arms of his mother, who had been taken there in a police car, after she had contacted the police to inform them that for some unknown reason her son had been out all night. Nobody in the family had ever had the slightest suspicion that he had been involved with drugs. The cause of death made his appalling end all the more horrifying. The post mortem and the absence of marks on his skin had revealed that in all probability it had been his first time. Fate had decided that there wouldn’t be a second time.

  His mother was the widowed sister of Barry Lovito, a lawyer of Italian extraction who practised in Manhattan but had chosen to continue living in Country Club. He was a rich man, unmarried and a workaholic, who had fought hard all his life to reach his position at the top of the heap. And had been so successful that the heap was now almost entirely his.

  When his brother-in-law had died, his typically Italian sense of family had led him to take his sister and nephew into his house. The woman wasn’t in good health, suffering from all kinds of psychosomatic symptoms, and the loss of her husband certainly hadn’t improved her physical or mental condition. As for Robin, he was a sensitive, melancholy, suggestible boy. Left very much to his own devices, he had fallen into bad company, as often happens when solitude is forced on a person.

  In church they were both there, the uncle and the mother. Counsellor Lovito was wearing an impeccably cut dark suit that marked him out in the middle of everyone as a wealthy person. His jaws were clenched and he kept his eyes fixed in front of him, out of grief and maybe also a sense of guilt. For him, the boy had been the son he had never had and, after a life spent chasing after success, was starting to miss. When his brother-in-law had died, he had deluded himself into thinking that he might be able to take his place, not realizing that the first duty of a parent is to be there.

  The woman’s face was gaunt with grief. It was clear from her hollow red eyes that she had no more tears in her, and from her expression that she was not only burying her son but also any desire to carry on living. She followed the coffin out of the church, leaning on her brother for support, her thin body in a black pant suit that suddenly seemed to have become a couple of sizes too big.

  Father McKean was at the back of the church, surrounded by a group of teenagers, many of whom had been friends of Robin. He had followed the service with that sense of

  As Barry Lovito came out of the church, he turned his head and saw him in the middle of all those kids. His glance had lingered longer than might have been expected on the figure of Father Michael McKean. Then he had turned away and, still supporting his sister, had continued his sad progress to the car.

  Three days later, Father McKean saw him again, accompanied by the parish priest. After the ritual introductions, Paul left them alone. It was obvious the lawyer had come to talk to him, although he had no idea why. McKean had been at Saint Benedict for just under a year and had exchanged only greetings with him up until that moment. As if reading his mind, the lawyer hastened to satisfy his curiosity.

  ‘I know you’re wondering why I’m here. And especially what I’ve come to say. I’ll only take a moment.’

  He started walking slowly towards the priests’ house.

  ‘I’ve just acquired a property, up near the park. It’s a big house, with a decent plot of land. Six acres, more or less. The kind of place that can house up to thirty people. With a view of the sea and the coast.’

  Father McKean must have looked bewildered, because a half-smile appeared on Lovito’s face. He made a reassuring gesture with his hand.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not trying to sell it to you.’

  Lovito reflected for a moment, uncertain whether to continue with this preamble. Then he decided it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘I’d like that house to become the base for a community where kids with the same problems as my nephew can find help and comfort. It isn’t easy, but I’d like at least to try. I know it won’t bring Robin back, but maybe it’ll give me a few hours of sleep without nightmares.’

  Lovito turned his head away. They both knew perfectly well that both things were impossible.

  ‘Anyway that’s my problem.’

  The lawyer paused, took off his dark glasses, and turned to face Father McKean full on, with the resolute air of a man who is not afraid to say or do anything.

  Or to admit his own guilt.

  ‘Father McKean, I’m a practical man and, whatever my motive, the result is the only thing that counts, the only thing that lasts. It’s my wish that this community shouldn’t be just a dream but become reality. And I want you to take charge of it.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘I’ve been checking you out. And what I’ve learned has confirmed what I’d already guessed as soon as I saw you in the middle of those kids. Apart from all your other qualifications, I know you have a great influence on the young, and a great ability to communicate with them.’

  The priest looked at him as if he was looking into the future. The lawyer, a man who had learned to know men, understood. And, being a lawyer, he hastened to forestall any possible objection.

  ‘I’ll provide most of the money. I can also get you a non-returnable loan from the state.’

  He paused to let that sink in.

  ‘You may be interested to know that I’ve already talked to people at the archdiocese. There wouldn’t be any kind of objection. You can call the archbishop if you don’t believe me.’

  After a long conversation with Cardinal Logan he accepted, and the adventure began. The house was refurbished and a fund set up to guarantee Joy a monthly sum that could meet most of the expenses. Thanks to the influence of Counsellor Lovito
word had got out and the first kids had arrived. And Father Michael McKean had been there waiting for them.

  Robin’s mother had been snuffed out like a fire abandoned on the shore a few months after the inauguration, eaten up by her own grief. The lawyer had gone the following year, cut down by a heart attack while working fourteen hours a day to. As often happens, he had left behind a lot of money and a lot of greed. Some distant relatives had emerged from the mists of indifference to contest his will, which had left the whole of his estate to Joy. The motives behind the action were many and varied, but they all had the same intention: to allow the plaintiffs to get their hands on the money. And while the verdict was still awaited, any further emolument to the community had been frozen. Right now, Joy’s survival hung in the balance. But, bitter as the struggle was, it was worth fighting.

  And they would fight it together, he and Michael.

  Almost without realizing it, he found himself outside the priest’s room on the top floor. He checked that nobody was coming up the stairs. Slightly anxious, knowing he was breaking a taboo, John opened the door and went in. He had done this before, feeling only a strange excitement, and no guilt at this violation of another person’s privacy. He closed the door behind him and took a few faltering steps inside the room. His eyes were a camera, recording every detail. He let his fingers play over a bible lying on the desk, picked up a sweater thrown over a chair, and finally went and opened the closet. All Michael’s meagre wardrobe was there in front of his eyes, on hangers. He stood there looking at the clothes and breathing in the smell of the man who, from the first, had fascinated and attracted him. Attracted him so much, there were times he had to walk away, for fear of what his face might reveal. He closed the closet and approached the bed. He ran his fingers over the blanket and then lay down on his stomach and put his head on the part of the pillow where Michael McKean’s head had been. He took a deep breath. When he was alone and thought about Michael, there were times when he wanted to be with him. And there were other times, like now, when he wanted to be him. He was convinced that, if he stayed here, sooner or later he would succeed …

  The cellphone started ringing from somewhere in his pockets. He got up quickly from the bed with his heart in his mouth, as if that sound was the signal that the world had discovered him. He groped for the phone and answered.

  ‘John, it’s Michael. I’m on my way. Paul’s saying mass instead of me.’

  He was still agitated, as if the man at the other end could see him, could see where he was. But in spite of the fact that the voice on the phone came to him filtered through his own embarrassment, it wasn’t the one John usually associated with Michael’s face. It sounded broken or distressed, or both.

  ‘What is it, Mike? Are you all right? Did something happen?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon. Nothing happened.’

  ‘Okay. See you later.’

  John hung up, and stood there looking at the phone as if it could help him decipher the words he had just heard. He knew Michael McKean well enough to know when something had affected him so strongly that he was no longer the person everyone was used to.

  And this was one of those times.

  When he had asked him if something had happened, he had replied that nothing had. But, in spite of his reassurances, his voice had the tone of a person to whom everything has happened. He left the room and closed the door behind him. As he walked back downstairs, he felt like a lonely, useless man.

  CHAPTER 16

  The fork went in and took two strands of spaghetti from the boiling saucepan.

  Taking care not to scald herself, Vivien lifted them to her mouth. They were half cooked. She drained the pasta and placed it in the sauce that was waiting in the frying pan. She sautéed it for a few minutes on a high flame until the excess water had evaporated and everything was the right consistency, just as her grandmother had taught her when she was little. Her grandmother had been the only person in the family who’d never resigned herself to the fact that their surname had changed over the course of time from Luce to Light. She placed the frying pan on the worktop and with the tongs started to separate the spaghetti onto the two plates.

  She didn’t think it was necessary to sit down at table and had laid two places with bamboo mats on the counter.

  ‘It’s ready!’ she called to her niece.

  A few moments later Sundance appeared in the living room of Vivien’s small apartment. She had just taken a shower and her long hair was still damp. The light coming from the window struck her full on. She had put on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and yet she looked like a queen. There were a few traces of her father, but mostly she was the image of her mother.

  Beautiful, thin, fragile.

  Hard to understand and easily hurt.

  Vivien felt a pang in her heart. There were moments when the pain she carried inside her, congealed like a blood clot, suddenly broke free and overwhelmed her. It was pain at what had been, it was regret for all she could have been and fate hadn’t wanted her to be.

  In spite of this, she smiled at her niece.

  She mustn’t allow a sense of all the things they’d lost to spoil those that could still be recovered. Or to jeopardize those new, lasting things that could be built in what remained to her of the future. Time didn’t always heal every wound. For Vivien it was enough that it didn’t cause any more. The rest, as far as it was in her power to do so, she would provide. Not to silence the sense of guilt she carried inside her. Only to stop Sundance giving voice to hers.

  The girl sat down on the stool and bent her head over the plate to breathe in the smell of the pasta. Her hair fell over the table like the branches of a willow tree.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing special. Just spaghetti with tomato and basil.’

  ‘Mmmh. It’s good.’

  ‘Are you taking that on trust?’

  Sundance looked up at her with her clear blue eyes as if nothing had happened. ‘Your spaghetti’s always good.’

  Vivien smiled and made an exaggeratedly self-satisfied gesture. ‘That’s quite a compliment! I think I’ll put it in my personal ad.’

  She sat down next to Sundance. They started eating in silence, each conscious of the other’s presence.

  After what had happened, Vivien had never talked directly to her niece about the things she had been involved in. There had been a psychologist for that, and a long, difficult and tortuous process that was far from over. Sometimes Vivien wondered if it ever would be. But she was the only stable point in Sundance’s life now, since her sister Greta had fallen victim to early onset Alzheimer’s and was moving closer to oblivion day by day. Sundance’s father, Nathan, who’d been a shit all his life, though he’d been skilful at hiding it, had revealed his true colours and run away, trying to forget something that would never abandon him. If nothing else, he had left behind enough money to provide for his wife and daughter. Vivien had often thought, knowing him well, that this was the most they could expect from him. And that in any case anything else that came from him would be more of a hindrance than a help.

  They finished the pasta almost simultaneously.

  ‘Are you still hungry? I can make you a hamburger, if you like.’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Thanks, Vunny.’

  Sundance stood up and went to the TV set. She saw her take the remote control from the armrest of the couch and aim it at the set. The images and voices of Eyewitness Channel entered the room.

  And a spectacle of desolation and death appeared on the screen.

  Vivien took the plates from the counter and went and put them in the sink. The images the channel was broadcasting were a dramatic corollary of what they had seen for themselves at close quarters.

  The previous evening, when the explosion had blocked the traffic in the city and made the world catch its breath, Vivien had immediately switched on the car radio, sure that in a few moments they would find out what had happened. Both had sat there in sile
nce, listening to the presenter’s words and at the same time seeing the glare of the flames in front of them, so vivid and violent it was as if they were burning souls as well as things. The fire had continued to blaze somewhere to the side of the car as they passed Alphabet City at 10th Street. Vivien was certain that the traffic in that area would be stopped very soon, which was why she had chosen to make a long detour to get to her home near Battery Park. She had crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and driven the length of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, emerging downtown through the tunnel. In all that time she’d hardly said a word, continuing to hop from station to station in order to get updates.

  Once they got home they had rushed to switch on the TV. And the images of urban nightmare that had appeared confirmed what they had witnessed. They had followed the broadcasts until late at night, commenting on what they were seeing. They had listened to the words of the mayor and the brief statement from the White House, until tiredness had won out over despair.

  They had fallen asleep side by side in Vivien’s bed, the thunder of the explosion still in their ears, feeling that vibration of the ground that had followed the blast as if, in memory, it would never end.

  Vivien opened the faucet and let the water run over the plates dirty with sauce. She added a few drops of detergent, and watched the foam bubble up. Behind her, she could hear the voices of the reporters, who were adding nothing to what they already knew, apart from an update on the death toll, which continued to grow.

  The ringing of the telephone was a sign of life among all these tales of death. Vivien wiped her hands and picked up the cordless. She heard Captain Alan Bellew’s voice, as strong and incisive as always, but with a slight hint of underlying tiredness.