No Direction Rome

  They probe further and they see hopes that are painted yellow and mauve (what other colours could hopes be?) and fears in electric blue and temptations made of velvet and steak. They see my name. It’s written in English then in Hindi and then in a language we can’t read. Finally there’s a sound we can’t hear.

  Massimo calls when I’m listing options for what lies up my bowels.

  Hey, how’s it going?

  Okay, I’ve survived ten trips so far.

  If it’s any consolation, random foreigners have been driving their SUVs up my ass the last hour.

  Why? What happened?

  All the heads of the country teams are here to meet senior management. And guess who’s preparing their presentations while they show their kids around the Vatican.

  I’m lying on the bathroom floor. I’m clean, but I’m wiping the seat. (Don’t look at me like that! Have you ever tried a colon-cleansing laxative and managed to time your expulsion to the exact second your ass is perched in the middle of your seat?)

  What are the country heads presenting? I croak.

  They’re presenting their respective efficiency reports.

  What? Which countries? Now I’m on my feet.

  All of them. This is trouble.

  Ghana? Vietnam?

  Of course, I said all of them.

  And they’re presenting their own indicators to the bosses? I thought they were all covered in Markus’s presentation.

  That’s what I heard. They’ll all be doing their show, and then Markus will start his.

  I ask Massimo to go and check the data on their presentations. I hold my breath while he looks. If Markus finds out I had made up the numbers, I’ll be looking forward to the prospect of semipermanent unemployment. Massimo checks and yes, they have the actual figures, in bold red because they’re so proud of their measly 10 percent improvements. I still hold my breath. Easier to control all bodily functions when you’re not breathing. Long-distance divers don’t fart.

  I’m fucked, Massimo.

  You mean besides your ten-foot anal probe tomorrow.

  No, I mean I’m fucked like a five-year-old in MJ’s bedroom.

  I don’t think MJ ever fucked a kid. I think he just never realised he had grown up. MJ was the Peter Pan of our generation.

  I am being serious.

  Hard to tell.

  Okay, you can’t say a word about this, but I made up some numbers on Markus’s report. I hiked up the numbers for Ghana and Vietnam. I mean hiked them up to reach our 30 percent target.

  Why the hell would you do that?

  Because. Because he just went on and on about his 30 percent, and I had to leave, and he was crawling all over me. Because. I don’t know. I was just too tired of all the bullshit. I thought if they want 30 percent and they want me to get 30 percent, then I’ll just make it happen.

  Don’t you know we have an auditor’s office? If he catches on, you’re . . . fucked.

  Yes, I am.

  I go on Facebook. I always do that when I can’t make sense of my life. Maybe in the middle of it all—the lopsided smiles and the duck faces and grilled meat with mashed potatoes on the side (in sepia tones because it happened so long ago we have another name for the time: it’s called yesterday) and faces being ripped back by the wind in the middle of a skydive but the hand’s still doing a thumbs-up and the inspirational quotes that you must share because surely you know someone who’s autistic and needs your support—I’ll find an answer.

  If I am a mirror, who is looking in? Do I even care about this job? I don’t even know. Or am I just making up all this bravado because I’m too scared to admit I care. How would I know? If I’m asking the questions, who can answer.

  I go for another shit and this time it’s firmly established that there’s a World of Warcraft game being played out inside my intestines (have you seen the guy who freaks out because his WOW account is cancelled?). If I lose my job, I’ll go back to India. I haven’t learnt much in the last two years here, and India’s a far more competitive job market than you could imagine. Only I’ll never get a good reference from this place, so I’ll probably end up working at McDonald’s. Or as a male prostitute; I could take a gladiator uniform with me. Or I could spend the rest of my life playing video games and growing a thousand folds of fat into my mother’s sofa. The American Dream might be closer than I think.

  I can’t have that happening to me. Also, you know what, fuck Markus. Fuck the system. They’re all screwing us over. I’m not being the fall guy here. I could do the proper thing and mail Markus. Or call him and redo the presentation. But then it’s a Roma game night. I’m going all in. So I call Federico.

  Hey.

  Fede, are you free?

  Not really. Roma Napoli has just started. How come you’re not here?

  Because I’m not well. And I’m in trouble.

  We’re all in trouble. Roma was just massacred by AC Milan. Now I’m committed to a life of crime. Or returning to it. At least till the end of the season. That was my bet.

  I tell him about Markus and my fake report.

  So you didn’t e-mail him? Just gave it to him on a pen drive?

  Yes. I also guess that Markus left soon after me, so the only other copy of my report would be on his laptop (that he was taking home).

  Do you have his address?

  I can get it.

  Cool. Don’t worry. No biggie as we say in Cali. Meet me at the Colosseo metro at midnight.

  Massimo gets me Markus’s address from our company database. It’s always good to have an IT friend. By midnight, I have drained myself completely. I haven’t eaten the whole day, so there’s a constant rumbling in my stomach. There are apparently a billion people who never get enough to eat (I remember from some UN reports, I read that kind of political shit too). An empty growling stomach must be the soundtrack to their lives, much like Lady Gaga or the Rolling Stones is to yours.

  Federico is waiting at the metro station with a car. I climb in, and there’s a huge cylinder in the backseat.

  What’s that?

  That’s the answer to your problem. Sleeping gas.

  I don’t know what the plan is. But at least he has one. And sleeping gas is not as scary as having a Kalashnikov or a rocket launcher in the backseat. Or Lindsay Lohan.

  We’re waiting outside the main door and Federico says he loves modern apartment buildings. So much easier to break into. How are we getting into the building? Don’t worry, he says, Romans are the most trusting people in Europe. That’s why I love this place. He rings a random buzzer. Sono idraulico. I’m the plumber. No questions asked. Door opens.

  I’m on top of the building. Maybe I could check in on Foursquare? This scene is being plastered onto my soul: standing on the terrace of Markus’s building, leaning over the air vents while he slips three pipes tonguing out of the cylinder into the different slits. I’m putting only his floor out. We’ll have ten minutes. Here, wear this. Then we’re wearing masks, like Bane, and waiting. Fede keeps checking his watch and doing a countdown with his fingers. But his countdown is not in sequence: three, seven, two, five, one, Go.

  We walk down the stairs to Markus’s floor and it’s like a post-zombie building. TVs playing from doors, Italian anchors screaming inanities into drugged-out living rooms, someone’s listening to Lady Gaga (to remind us, the gods are watching).

  Fede stops at a couple of doors, slips out a little rod from his jacket and slides the grooved sharp end into the gap. He yanks the door open. But we don’t enter. It’s just to give the impression that more apartments have been broken into, he says. I don’t know what Fede did in California, but he probably wasn’t an accountant.

  When they hear that his laptop was stolen, the neighbours will make something up too. Romans love pity.

  We get to Markus’s door and with a slip and a crack, we’re inside.

  The lights are on. Markus has a bright purple lava lamp in the living room floor. Blobs of lava float up and down, th
rowing twisted shadows all over the walls like a David Lynch movie wet dream. There’s a zebra-striped rug on the floor. Fede stops at the lamp and starts unplugging it.

  Hey, we just need the laptop.

  You just need the laptop. I need this lamp.

  No, Fede, let’s just get the laptop and go. All I need is the report.

  Go ahead, get your report.

  I walk into the room. Markus is slumped on the floor next to his bed. He’s wearing a pink lace dress; the bra straps can barely contain his chest muscles. His dress is ruffled and rises up to his waist. I can see half of a shaved nut. He’s also pissed on himself, but that’s the sleeping gas relaxing all his muscles.

  Now I feel bad for him. Anyone wearing such a nice dress can’t be too much of an asshole.

  I look for the laptop but it’s not on his reading table. I find his office bag and open it. The laptop is inside. There’s also a photo. I pick it out. It’s a photo of our office team. Maybe he actually likes his colleagues. Now I’m sick in the stomach. And then before I can lift the bag from the floor, I’m feeling really sick. No, this is not a metaphor. I need to use the loo. Fuck fuck, the laxative’s not done with me yet. I can’t leave: leaking a trail of shit for the cops to find us. I slam into the loo and collapse on the seat before it’s too late.

  I’m done quickly and I flush. I wash up and open the door.

  And Markus is standing in front of me.

  He’s in some Shaolin Kung-Fu pose, his hands puckered into swans and raised above his head. But he’s not steady: his eyes are quivering in their sockets and he can barely keep his legs straight.

  It’s YOU. You little cocksucker. Haista vittu. Haista paska. How DARE you? Then he’s blabbering again, his hands are unfolding slowly above his head as he prepares his death blow. Runkkari, you will suck my SHIT.

  So I punch him. With everything I’ve got. And that includes thirty years of never knowing exactly why I was where I was. Of being stuck in the same spot while everything spins around me.

  I feel the nose bridge cracking. Markus, in slow motion, keels over. Now he’s on the floor with piss on his dress hemming and blood dribbling out of his nose. I tilt his face sideways so he doesn’t drown in blood.

  Fede hears the noise and walks in. I think he’s laughing, but I can’t hear him because of the mask. I get the bag with the laptop.

  Now I have to run. Will Markus remember? Of course, he will.

  We get into Fede’s car. I think of all the people in the building slowly coming to their senses, some won’t even realise they were sedated for ten minutes. No different from the rest of their lives.

  Will Markus call the police? Will he be too embarrassed by the fact that I saw him in his dress? Should I call him? Tonight? Or wait till morning? Will I get an early morning visit from the special carabinieri police, shoving their semi-automatic weapons into my mouth?

  I thank Fede and get off near the Protestant cemetery (he leaves with the laptop, the lava lamp, and his cylinder).

  don’t care what Markus wears or what he does. I just don’t want to be screwed over. Now it’s like we’ve got each other by the balls. Only his are shaved, so they’re difficult to hold on to.

  I conducted an episode of assault and burglary. And he was just wearing a dress.

  But he’d be too worried about what people at work thought.

  I’m walking and, before I know it, I’m at Via Galvani. Making my way from the corner of dead poets to Chiara. It’s late but she opens the door when I buzz; she sounds worried.

  She’s in a long nightshirt with Winnie the Pooh yawning into a starlit sky. Her hair is tousled into a crown around her head. If this were the only scene I remember during my moment-of-death-recap, it would definitely break my heart.

  Are you okay?

  Yes. In fact, I’m great.

  What’s happening? It’s almost two in the morning.

  I had to come and offer you the opportunity of a lifetime.

  Krantik, if you’re on something, please leave. I don’t have the time for this. Not right now.

  Can I come in? I have to talk to you.

  If you’re in trouble, then come in.

  We’re all in trouble.

  She slouches on the sofa. I get myself a glass of water (I’m still empty inside) and I start.

  Hear me out. I don’t want to be here anymore. In fact, I don’t want to be anywhere in particular.

  Okay.

  I lie a lot. I lie all the time. I don’t mean the easy lies: investment fraud and drug deals and cheating spouses and disloyal friends. Those are the lies we deal out because we want to continue engaging with the real world, because we want to find something real in this world. But me, it’s not just that I refuse to see. I make up all these worlds so I can’t even see anything for real.

  We all do, Krantik. Stop your juvenile obsessions with yourself and your privileged quests for something that will give you meaning.

  I’m done with quests. But I have a plan. A real one. Have you heard of Goa?

  I have. Krantik, are you okay? Or are you just fucking around?

  There’s this beach in Goa. It’s called Palolem, hidden in the south. We could go there, you and me, and we could set up a restaurant. I have some money, enough capital for a shack. You could teach someone to cook Italian and I mean the real thing.

  What’re you talking about?

  I can cook too. You haven’t tried my Thai curries. And I could learn to make cocktails. Or you can take the bar if you want, we’ll work out the details.

  You’re fucking crazy.

  This is the most serious I’ve ever been. It’s not about the food. We’ll be away from all this. All of this, my job, your stupid paintings, we don’t need any of this shit.

  You need to leave, Krantik.

  Yes, I need to leave. And you need to leave. Come away, this whole world is pulling us down. It’s pulling me down.

  You’re pathetic. And now I’m serious. She sits up. You’re just like them all.

  I’m pathetic? I come up with a plan, and I’m the one who’s pathetic?

  Yes, you are. You’re acting like a jerk right now.

  Come with me, Chiara. You can do what you want. Marco can come visit you. You’ll be free. We’ll have enough money to get by, and that’s all we need.

  Listen. If this is how you behave, I don’t want to see much of you.

  You don’t? She’s really taking my trip now. What do you want to do instead? Sit here and slice up your arms, like you’ve done a thousand times before? Talk about your mom singing Gianna in the dark? Or spend your whole life grieving her gunshot?

  Get out of my apartment. Get out, RIGHT NOW.

  Of course, you don’t want to hear me. Because you don’t have the courage to examine this hippie-free-love life you’ve created. I know we’ll be happy. That doesn’t matter. We’ll be free. Marco’s just a dick in a sausage factory; they’re making Spam for the whole world.

  Shut up about Marco. This is not about Marco. She stands up and starts nudging me to the door.

  No, it’s not. I’m not moving. This is about you and me. How many more lines will you carve into yourself?

  You’re all the same. You fuck me once, I send you a few e-mails, and you think you own me. Maybe all you need is a wife.

  I don’t need a wife. I don’t need anything. All I need is to get out of here alive. And so do you.

  Now she’s pushed me to the door. Have you seen yourself? she asks. You’re so scared you can’t even talk to real people. You spend your life asking directions from strangers.

  I don’t say anything, I can’t say anything, but she carries on.

  And you think a pain in your ass will kill you. You’re too scared to live, and you’re terrified of dying. And now you have a Bollywood plan to find love and life.

  Now I’m outside the door and she slams it in front of me.

  Go find your kitchen knife, I say, though I don’t want to. That could help you fe
el better.

  The door opens. She sticks her head out for a moment. Good your dad died so early. At least he didn’t see you grow into this. Go home. Find another freak to talk to.

  I walk back, empty trams run past me, but I can’t be bothered to get on.

  I put on some music, but I don’t know what’s playing.

  I go to my bedroom and I pick up my cricket bat. I practise a few shots in the air, a cover drive with my arms above my head, a hook with my body swivelling on my toes.

  And then I take guard near the oven.

  I swing the bat back. A good back-lift is important for a powerful shot. I slam it into the oven door. The glass shatters into the dark space inside. I can hear the grilling trays clattering.

  I move to the TV. I step back. I rush to the TV and crash the bat into the screen. The TV explodes and vomits all its shit on my living room floor.

  I hammer the bat into the dining table near the oven. There’s no dent. I hit it again. And again. I drive the bat into a leg and the table tilts over.

  There’s a full-length mirror in front of the door. I take aim. I heave back and hear the mirror crashing. Now the floor has a thousand mirrors.

  There’s a knock on the door. So I shut up and wait.

  I am not breathing. There is another knock.

  Krantik? Krantik? Open the door. Are you inside? It’s Leonardo. I have the keys. I’m coming in.

  So I slide open the door.

  He walks in. He’s not in uniform. Now I’m sitting on my couch and I’ve put the bat on the low-slung chairs I bought last month.

  He walks gingerly over the destruction spilled all over the room. I’m sitting and not looking at him, because I don’t particularly want to see anyone right now.

  What happened?

  I look to the left, away from him. The Bosch painting is in front of me. Men, women, and beasts run naked through the three panels in a hellish pursuit of pleasure. Everyone and everything is fucking each other. The Garden of Earthly Delights.