“And the fact I just gave you two euros, what do you think that means?”
“But, maestro, it’s not that difficult. A question of deduction. In theory it might mean that you’re generous, but you’re not, because you’ve never given me that much before. It could mean that I’ve done you a favor or that I’ve changed in some way you like, but that’s not the case. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time until bumping into each other two days ago, and I change more slowly than the centuries. So there’s just one possibility left: you have changed. And I’ve always seen you in this city as a confident, successful man. And because you’ve necessarily changed, you’re no longer that. Quod erat demonstrandum. The fact you’ve given me two euros today means that things are not going well for you. And that’s the reason I’m asking why you don’t go back north.”
“What would I do there? Escape you?”
“You wouldn’t be able to, maestro. I’d find you wherever you were. You don’t have to go to any trouble. Just call it all part of the service. You’re my customer.”
25.
I remembered her as a big blonde, not exactly slender, but in her own way impressive and, most of all, present, like a woman with the power to fill silences and cavities with the engorging plumpness of her obvious northern appearance. When I saw her again at the specific time of arrival she’d texted me, I was shocked. It could be that, unlike the previous time she’d arrived, I wasn’t really in the mood to be hospitable to luscious forms or forms of any other kind, but she stormed toward my halfhearted welcome hug like a cow toward an open gate. She was enormous. Maybe she’d gotten bigger in the meantime. Or maybe as a result of a summer full of calligraphic, wafer-thin scooter girls I’d forgotten how to see her as an attractive woman. In any case, in my eyes she looked like a blonde mountain with bulges that were in theory in more or less the right places. As she kissed me elaborately in the station, I saw pity in the eyes of my fellow city dwellers. It made me feel embarrassed.
“Ciao,” she said, much too loudly. “Are we going to your house or shall we get drunk on your little square first?” She laughed much too exuberantly. “I know already,” she said. “First, a few drinks. Come on. I know you. I know what you want. I’ll take you to your little square. I think I still know the way.”
I needed a stiff drink, she was right about that. But the way she charged through my city on her overly fat and overly confident legs, rolling her wheelie case noisily behind her, deflated my enthusiasm even further. Every paving stone covers an ancient, well hidden secret that we might whisper about one day when the wine is full, the evening quiet, and the stars favorably positioned. Two or three fragile stories lie on every street corner. Anyone with the courage to admit it will meet the tenuous old ghosts. Anyone living here will lay their ear from time to time to one of the gray, crumbling housefronts and focus on the weak echo of voices from the past. They don’t always say what we want to hear, that’s true. And it’s not always easy to understand them. But that’s why you listen harder. And when you listen really well, you can hear the old walls creaking as they rearrange the labyrinth bit by bit at night. You can hear alleys twisting and the palazzi sighing if you know how to listen and if you listen to the minimal echo of the almost inaudible footsteps within a porcelain grotto.
And she charged cheerfully through all of that on her fat legs. “Nice weather, though. It’s much worse back home. Ooh, I do fancy a Negroni. It’s great to see you again. Come here and give me a big kiss.”
We walked down from the station to Via di Pré. It wouldn’t be the route I’d have chosen in these circumstances at this time of day, but she was leading the way. This was Africa. If I French kissed a blonde mountain of that size in this quarter dominated by black, frustrated, jealous Muslims, I might not make it out alive. “I’m so happy to be back in Genoa, too. It’s all so wonderful here.” She should be counting her blessings that she hadn’t been robbed, raped, and sold as a white slave to the Bey of Tunis by now. A fair amount of money could exchange hands for a woman as massive and blonde as she. “It almost feels a bit dangerous here. I’m glad I’m with you. Give me a kiss. Come on, give me a kiss.” I saw the shining teeth in hungry faces. Knives glittered. Someone spat blood. “It’s so nice here!”
26.
We reached Piazza delle Erbe. Miraculously, we were still alive and in possession of all of our limbs. She wasn’t impressed. She ordered a Negroni. “Allora!” she shouted. The barmaid discreetly whispered in my ear, was it OK? I gestured subtly that it was and that I’d pay.
Within half an hour she was blind drunk. “Va bene!” she screamed. I cautiously suggested that now might be a good time to go home. She was tired, I suggested. Perhaps she needed to rest after the long journey. After that she could freshen up and we could go for another drink. Or maybe she simply preferred to turn in for the night. That wasn’t a problem. Tomorrow was another day, I assured her. “Va bene!” she said, ordering another Negroni.
I’d invited a couple of my Genoese friends to add luster to the occasion of her return. They’d been courteous enough to invite us to their house for a simple dinner. I told her this, and asked whether she was happy with the invitation. She wasn’t obliged to go or anything. I’d understand perfectly if she preferred to get an early night. My friends would also fully understand.
“Va bene!”
She asked what time we had to be there. I said they were coming to pick us up. It would be an honor for them to partake of a little aperitif with us before going to their house.
“Va bene!”
And in the meantime, I’d already bought wine, fave, and salami. My friends were taking care of the main course and the dessert. She didn’t need to worry about a thing.
“Va bene!”
But perhaps it was advisable to lie down for an hour beforehand. Recover a bit from the journey. Perhaps sober up a little before dinner. There was plenty of time for that; she didn’t have to worry in the slightest. And I’d come and fetch her. She didn’t have to think about a thing.
“Va bene!”
But she didn’t go. And that evening as we carefully peeled the fave and attractively draped the special salami in delicate, thin slices on a fragile plate and poured the whispering wine into beautifully designed goblets, one of my female friends cautiously asked her in polished English what she thought of the poetry of contradictions in Genoa’s ancient labyrinth.
“Va bene!” she cried with a slice of sausage in her mouth. “Va molto, molto bene!”
27.
That night I barely slept a wink. After I’d pushed her, staggering and swaying, wheelie case and all, through the alleyways and hauled her up Vico Vegetti to my house on Vico Alabardieri, I was full of hope that in all her enormity she would fall asleep like a log as soon as her spinning head hit the pillow, after which I could tranquilly search for a strip, shred, or crack of available space on the mattress where I could hide with the sheets over my head. But the opposite was true. As soon as she’d stumblingly, topplingly undressed and was lying in my bed with her scandalous blonde thighs and tits, she spotted me next to her and seemed to awaken. Or some kind of demon awoke in her. She bit my arm, hit my belly, and grabbed my cock like a builder reaching for his tools.
“Well,” she said. “Well. There you are at last. Did I misbehave at your friends’ party? I hope so, I certainly meant to.” She began to laugh hysterically. “Do you know what’s so funny? I’ve suddenly realized that I’m lying here with a famous poet’s cock in my hand!” She laughed even louder. “At least, one who used to be famous.” She began to kiss me wildly. She tried to ram her tongue behind my epiglottis. Survival instinct made me fight back with my tongue. “See! You like it, don’t you? Tell me you missed me. Say it!” Her tongue made it impossible for me to say anything. “You know what the funniest thing is?” I’d long lost my sense of humor—there was nothing funny, let alone funniest. “Maybe you think I misbehaved with your friends this evening, but that was just the sta
rt. Tonight I’m going to show you what real misbehavior looks like, you mark my words.” She rammed a finger up my ass. I screamed. “Yes, scream away. I know you like it. My lovely transvestite. Scream away. Yes. Like that. Like that. Yes. Yes.”
At last she fell asleep. She turned onto her side, taking all the covers with her. I was cold, and carefully tried to pull back some covers. But that woke her up, and then she began again. When she finally fell asleep a second time and confiscated all of the covers again, I resigned myself, shivering, to my fate. I lay on my back and looked up at the ceiling. I was cold. I tried to move as little as possible for fear of waking her up again. I shivered. It felt like I’d been raped.
28.
“I’m going for a coffee.” She was completely blonde, freshly showered, awake and cheerful. I felt shattered. “And after that I’m going to go for a little walk. But you can stay in bed, darling. But will I see you again before I leave? I’ll text you where I am.”
She slammed the iron door behind her with a loud bang. I was alone at last. Although I was always alone, it felt like a long-awaited liberation. I turned my back to the door, the city, and her and tried to sleep, not only because I was tired but because I didn’t feel like existing. I didn’t feel like the passing of time. I wanted to cheat. I wanted to skip a stretch of time. Preferably a large stretch. A day or so. In any case, until Inge had safely and, as far as I was concerned, definitively left the city. Perhaps just to be sure I should factor in a safety margin of an extra day.
Hibernation. I muttered the word as a silent prayer. My lips tasted it like the first word, the logos from the beginning. Before the beginning even. That timeless, blissful state the universe was in before it had to go and begin. Everything was perfect until someone rolled over onto their other side and, because he took the covers with him, accidentally awakened a divinity. That was the start of all that crap with time and specific arrival times that had to be texted. That was the start of the misery of consciousness and the consciousness of misery. That was the start of fantasies about belief, hope, and love. That was the start of the fantasy of a better life elsewhere, because it could hardly be worse anywhere else than it was here. Utinam ne in nemore. If only that first tree had never been felled in the holy forest before being deprived of its bark and hollowed out as a vessel to sail to another, better place. All our unhappiness springs from that. But you can’t blame us for any of it, because staying put isn’t an option, either. We can’t remain safely at mama’s side because we’ve been cursed with curiosity and longings. It would have been better off for all concerned if they’d just left us to have a nice sleep. What’s wrong with sleep? According to statistical analysis, the majority of crimes committed in the world are perpetrated by people who were awake, while the contribution of sleepers to the crime figures is negligible. And is the person sleeping unhappy? What kind of longings, failings, complications, or insurance claims from lawyers does he experience in his sleep? Does the sleeper long to awaken so that he can toil away in the frustrated wakeful world among others who are also complaining about having been awoken by such shrill sounds?
The divine being who set off the alarm clock should be immediately arrested and tried at the International Criminal Court. He should be accused of serious crimes against humanity, on behalf of humanity. We have numerous millennia of irrefutable witnesses. He will be given a fair trial, but there’s no other imaginable outcome than that he’ll be given the heaviest sentence. And on that day, delirious crowds will gather on the world’s squares and jubilantly burn their alarm clocks.
29.
I was awoken by her text message. She was in the Bar of Mirrors. I ached all over. I didn’t want to see her again. I wanted to float away in my black gondola along the black river of the black winter.
But I was a knight, too. My suit of armor shone in the corner of the room. I’d sworn an oath of allegiance, though I couldn’t remember to whom or what it involved. But I realized it was my duty to be a good man. I rose creaking from my creaking bed. I splashed my face clean with the little bit of firewater I had left, did up the buckles on my armor, and clattered downstairs.
She was inside the porcelain grotto. I saw her from a distance through the window. I faltered. She sat there so enormous and self-assured that I became embarrassed I was on my way to her, that she was a so-called friend, and that I would have to sit down at her table. She’d seen me, she waved.
She was drinking Prosecco. “Ciao!” she said, much too loudly. I whisperingly ordered myself a Prosecco, too. There she was then. She sat there striking a false note. With everything. With the fragile, elegant people in the bar and with the bar itself, this sacred place where I’d met the most beautiful girl in Genoa and I’d kissed her in the little cubbyhole where they make the stuzzichini. The blonde colossus wouldn’t even fit in there. And she had no idea. That’s what bothered me the most. She thought it was good to be herself, and she hadn’t the faintest inkling of the politely restrained, quivering discomfort around her or my suppressed embarrassment. There she sat, inconsiderate, legs spread, in one of the most sacred places on earth without even wondering where she was.
Some people don’t belong in some places. That’s what they say here about the Moroccans and the Senegalese, I know. But in this case, I can say it, can’t I? If I want to deny a big blonde woman from my very own fatherland access to my new, old, fragile city because she doesn’t understand how old and fragile it is and she doesn’t understand how gentle, slender, and petite she has to be to be allowed to stay here, that doesn’t make me a racist, does it?
I took her to the nearest taxi stand, gave her a peck on the cheek, and said, “See you soon.” I was lying. As far as I was concerned it was a lie. When I went back to the Bar of Mirrors I noticed a large crack in the porcelain-tiled ceiling.
30.
Dear friend, I have good news and bad news. I’ll start with the good news. No, naturally, I should start by thanking you first. The amount you sent me didn’t leave much room for maneuver, but after asking around among friends and with a good bit of negotiating, it turned out to be enough to get us represented by a respectable lawyer. Her name is Stefania Volpedo. She’s young and doesn’t have that much experience, but she works at a reputable office. To be honest, this is her first case. But she was ready to take it on, she assured me. I think it makes her even more motivated to prove herself. And a more experienced lawyer is simply too expensive for us. Essentially this is a simple case. We don’t need a chic hotshot to be able to win it. Stefania made this point several times herself. She described Parodi’s claim as ridiculous, grotesque, and without a hope in hell of succeeding. Exactly like I told you. She said that the judge would probably rule it as inadmissible at the preliminary sitting. In any case, that’s what she’d be aiming for with her plea. In fact, she was amazed that the great Antonio Bentivoglio had even made himself available for such a hopeless case. She was also honored that her first court appearance was going to be against such a renowned criminal lawyer and she was looking forward to inflicting on him one of his rare defeats. It would help her career enormously. It would be a dream start. She thanked me for finding her. She almost kissed me.
The hearing was today. I didn’t have to be there myself, she assured me. It was in fact little more than a pro forma sitting. I wouldn’t be asked to do anything. She would represent us and ensure it didn’t get any further than this one sitting. It has just finished. I just spoke to her. Naturally you’re the first one I’m telling the news to, pronto.
The good news is that we won. The judge ruled in our favor on all the points. The strategy of Stefania Volpedo, Attorney at Law, J.D., worked perfectly. The claim was ruled inadmissible. The great Antonio Bentivoglio hadn’t even prepared a rebuttal. He waived his right to plead his own case. He simply smiled. It was almost too easy, Stefania said. It was too easy.
Just before the sitting was adjourned, he spoke. For two seconds. He announced that he would be appealing against this rul
ing on behalf of his client.
I asked her what it meant. She is convinced that any court of appeal would endorse the verdict. The Parodis can litigate their way to the Supreme Court or the European Court with their star lawyer if they want, but this first judge’s line of reasoning will be adopted everywhere. Stefania is completely sure of this. And I believe her. We will win.
I asked her whether it meant that the Parodis will have to pay the litigation costs. So here comes the bad news. Stefania explained to me that if the case goes to appeal there’s no definitive ruling. And without a definitive ruling, there’s no winner or loser. And without a winner and a loser, there’s no certainty about who is going to be responsible for the costs. We’ll definitely win, but we haven’t won yet. I asked her how long it might take in her professional opinion. She reflected. “A week or two?” I asked. “Three weeks, perhaps?”
She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe a bit longer,” she said.
“How much longer?”
“You have to understand that Italy is a constitutional state. Lawsuits take time.”
“How much time? A month?”
“About seven years.”
“Seven years?”
“If we don’t have to go to the Supreme Court. We’ll leave the European Court aside. But don’t worry. We’ll definitely win.”
“And how much will that cost?”
“I’ll charge the same hourly rate to the bitter end, I promise you. I’m grateful to you for giving me this case. I owe you one.”
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