In a Heartbeat

by Sandrone Dazieri

  I heard the sound of a tram rattling behind me, so I ran to the stop and waited, but I couldn’t get on. It looked as though it had come from a circus; it was enormous, glossy and painted with bright colours. I just watched it as it slid away. Behind the tram there was a line of taxis, and I stared at them open-mouthed. They were all white instead of yellow! It was like drinking a can of Coca Cola that tasted like orange juice. And that was only the beginning.

  In Piazza Cavour, the La Notte sign had disappeared. It was the newspaper that I used to read in the afternoons just to see who had died in the morning. In its place was a sign for the ‘Downtown’ gym that offered fitness. Fitness? What the hell was that? Next to that was a huge billboard that advertised something called ‘Fastweb Internet.’

  I was breathless when I got to the end of Via Turati.

  There was an ad with a bikini-clad young woman holding a phone. Even the subway sign had changed. Instead of a double red ‘M’ there was a single one and a green ‘S’ on a blue background. I couldn’t even consider going inside; I could have got lost. Maybe I’d be crushed by the jaws of a giant snake or ripped to pieces by a shark or even hanged, drawn and quartered by a psycho-sadist. Who knows?

  My feet were frozen by the time I got to Via Vittor Pisani.

  The telephone booth that I had used a thousand times was gone. There was no one around. On a building column ads rolled continuously for films I’d never heard of.

  In the background, the Stazione Centrale grew bigger and bigger with its stone lions and black roof. It seemed the same as before, but as I got closer I saw that the cobblestones in front of the station were no longer there and in their place was what looked like an enormous ice skating rink skirted with flower beds.

  A group of drunken Africans chased one another throwing empty bottles. Africans? I stood there watching that absurd scene for a minute, unable to carry on. Then something clicked inside my head and I began to walk without bothering about my surroundings. People hustled and bustled around me. If they tried to talk to me I just kept walking. I lost all sense of time and wound up, I don’t know how, on the corner of my street, Viale Monza. I was frozen to the bone and felt so bad that I passed my house without even noticing.

  I sensed that something was wrong about halfway down the street and turned back. I walked back slowly. Ten, Eight, Six. Where the glass and iron door of my building should have been, a glass window of a bank that I’d never heard of now shimmered in the darkness. I walked back along the same street from beginning to end, back and forth, over and over again. I finally gave up.

  My apartment had disappeared just like my glasses, my jeans and the yellow taxis. I was washed up in a world where nothing was the way that it was anymore.

  I dropped like a lead balloon onto a pile of boxes in front of the bank. The cardboard was soaking wet and the water soaked through me down to my underwear. I couldn’t move. I would have stayed there until I turned into a block of ice if it hadn’t been for a light in my face. Behind the light, I saw a police car, not like the ones that came from my world. It was like a big American military jeep with huge off-road tyres. Now they’re gonna bust me, I thought. I didn’t care anymore. A policeman shouted from the window. ‘Hey, is there a problem?’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘OK, let’s go and check him out,’ he said to his partner.

  I heard the car doors open and the footsteps of the two cops approaching. Their voices entered my head but I couldn’t understand them. They were background noise, and I couldn’t respond.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a tramp.’

  ‘By what he’s wearing I’d say definitely not. Sir, are you OK?’

  ‘Hold on while I check for some ID.’

  A hand gently touched my forehead. ‘He’s freezing.’

  ‘No kidding, it’s cold outside.’

  ‘He’s not dressed for winter.’

  A hand felt around my jacket pockets and took out my wallet.

  ‘Sir, what’s your name?’

  ‘This guy’s gone. Another junkie.’

  ‘No way, look at his face. It’s some sort of nervous breakdown.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Sorry if I read books every now and then.’

  ‘Let’s take a look. Santo Denti. Santo, can you hear me? Hello?’

  ‘You’d have a better chance talking to a wall.’

  ‘All right, what do you want to do? Shall we call an ambulance?’

  ‘Wait. Let’s call Headquarters and see if we have any missing-person reports.’

  Static. Beep.

  ‘Car 13 to central … ’

  More static and gibberish.

  ‘Nothing, no report.’

  ‘Shall we call an ambulance?’

  ‘Let’s take him home, it’s closer.’

  ‘Santo. Do you remember where you live?’

  ‘Why don’t you try talking to him in Morse code?’

  ‘Anyway, the address is here on his licence. Corso Vercelli 6.’

  ‘Nice neighbourhood.’

  ‘From the look of his wallet, he can afford it. One, two, three credit cards. A Platinum card. You know how much you have to pay to get one of those?’

  ‘Maybe we can buy something along the way?’

  ‘Stop joking around and give me a hand.’

  They grabbed me, one on each side. I didn’t open my eyes. I had stopped shaking.

  ‘Wow, this guy likes to eat.’

  They pushed me into the backseat of the car and covered me with a blanket that reeked of vomit. I lay stretched out looking at the ceiling. I don’t know how long the trip took. I certainly missed something because the next thing I knew I was standing between the two policemen in front of an intercom with a video camera. My paralysis transformed into elasticity. I went where they pushed me; I stayed where they stood me.

  ‘OK, here it is, Denti.’

  Buzz.

  ‘Let’s hope there’s someone at home.’

  ‘Yeah, who is it?’ It was a female voice. Then she must have seen me because she said, ‘Saint … what happened?’

  ‘Signora, it’s the police. Signor Denti isn’t feeling well. What floor are you on?’

  ‘Penthouse. Oh, my God,’ she said.

  The electrical lock to the front door buzzed open. The policemen took me by the arms and escorted me in. The lift was mahogany with red carpeting and brass buttons. One of the policemen pressed the button for the fourth floor. When we got there the lift door opened to the woman I recognised from La Scala. Her eyes were wide open with worry.

  ‘Saint … ’ she hugged me. I didn’t react. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘We don’t know. We found him unconscious near Viale Monza. Does this happen often?’

  ‘No, never. Come here Saint, please. Oh, my God, you’re freezing.’

  The apartment was huge; the entire stage of La Scala could have fitted inside easily. A long corridor opened up to the arches of a huge sitting room furnished with bizarre and expensive-looking furniture. A flight of stairs with a polished brass banister led to the top floor. A stainless-steel kitchen with a marble table could have accommodated and fed a regiment. The woman took me by the hand and dragged me towards the long sofa. She lay me down and then went back into the corridor. I heard the muffled voices of her and the policemen.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Can you accept money?’ she said as she went though her purse.

  ‘No thanks, don’t worry about it. We’re just doing our job.’

  My right arm swung against a small glass table. I hit my wrist against the corner; the pain provoked my first autonomous reaction: I moved my hand along the smooth surface. There was a glass with a little wine still left in it that had spilled, as well as a newspaper and a long, hard plastic object with an irregular surface. I brought it slowly to eye level.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone. I just want to thank you.’ The woman’s voice was an octave too high.

>   ‘Well, if you insist.’

  It was a Sony remote control with a set of buttons that I couldn’t quite make out. I pressed one, and a section of the wall in front of me lit up. What I thought was a black painting turned out to be a television set as big as everything else in the house. Even in my state of total confusion I was blown away by the colours and the clarity of the images, better than the ones in a cinema. I flicked though the channels. When the strange woman had walked the policemen to the door and come back to me my eyes were still fixed on the screen.

  ‘Saint, what happened? You scared the hell out of me’ she said, kneeling down next to me. ‘Saint, what’s wrong?’

  I gasped. ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’

  I pointed to the television screen. It was the face of a smiling Kurt Cobain. ‘He’s dead, he really killed himself.’

  ‘Saint … ’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘I don’t know, Saint. A long time ago.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘What year is this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What year is this? Just tell me, dammit!’

  I finally began to understand.

  3

  From the time that I took that heavy blow to the head and the time that I woke up at La Scala, fourteen years had passed. Fourteen years! A lifetime. I had forgotten all of them. It couldn’t be. I had seen a lot of weird things in my time, but I was too tired to come up with any explanation. I felt feverish and weak, as if I was recovering from a long illness.

  The woman helped me take off my wet clothes and dressed me in flannel pyjamas printed with umbrellas and telephones. Then she made me some tea. I had switched off the TV, but Kurt Cobain’s face kept coming back to me, like the first time that I had heard the acoustic version of “The Man Who Sold the World.” No. I had forgotten about that as well … like the woman who was in front of me.

  Her name was Monica. We sat in front of the lit fireplace in the living room of a penthouse with walls almost entirely covered with books and CDs, except for one. On that wall hung a monstrous iron and wooden crucifix a couple of metres tall. I could tell that the piece was antique and very expensive. Another time I would have thought about how to get it out and fence it, even if it took a crane.

  Monica slowly turned the cup in her hands, biting her lip, trying not to look at me. ‘Tell me again what happened to you.’

  ‘I don’t have much to say. I woke up in the toilet. Before that, my life was normal.’

  ‘What was the last thing that you remember?’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see. I was at home, drinking.’ More or less that was the case.

  ‘What year was it?’

  ‘It was 1991.’

  She held her breath. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ The tea stank of jasmine. ‘Do you have anything better?’

  She seemed surprised. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Anything, just as long as it’s alcohol.’

  She got up from the sofa and went to an antique table where there were a few bottles. She poured some whisky. I knocked mine back while she sipped hers.

  ‘It’s strong,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not used to it.’ She noticed the perplexed look on my face. ‘You don’t drink anymore. Not for years.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Do you need a reason to stop drinking?’

  ‘Whatever it was, I forgot it.’ I said raising my glass. ‘Can you fill it up please?’

  ‘Jesus Chris’ She didn’t take my request well and tried to stay calm. Then she picked up the bottle and handed it to me.

  I filled my glass and then hers.

  ‘I was short-sighted, now I can see.’

  ‘You had an operation.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Laser surgery.’

  ‘Really?’

  We sat in silence for a good long minute. ‘It’s called amnesia.’ She muttered. ‘It’s when—’

  ‘I know what it is. Do you think I’m stupid?’

  ‘You’re being rude.’

  ‘You’re being rude.’

  I mimicked tiredly.

  She sighed. ‘Saint, look at me.’

  ‘Stop calling me Saint, it’s gay.’

  ‘I said look at me.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘Saint … Santo. I’ll stay calm for you and for me. Even if you tell me things that will hurt me, I’ll stay calm, so please stop trying to provoke me.’

  ‘Your hands are shaking.’

  ‘Shit! I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.’ She smiled so tightly that I thought her teeth would crumble out of her mouth. She poured a little more whisky and started to enjoy it. ‘So you got hit on the head?’

  ‘Fourteen years ago.’ I treaded carefully here. ‘But now I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  I looked at my right palm. ‘I only have this burn mark.’ I‘d noticed it when she’d taken off my wet clothes.

  ‘Let’s have a look. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit.’

  It was almost a perfect red square imprinted in the centre of my hand. She scratched away at something black near the wound with the tip of her fingernail.

  ‘Ouch, that hurts!’

  Monica sniffed her nail. ‘It’s plastic.’ What did you touch?’

  ‘There was a light switch in the toilet that was burning when I came to.’

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘You got an electrical shock.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘You’ve burnt your brain.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such crap.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have remembered it anyway, right?’ she said, proving her point.

  Touché. I took another sip.

  ‘Today is my birthday,’ she said sadly. ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Happy birthday. Where’s the cake?’

  ‘Opera at La Scala was your present. It meant the world to me, Massenet’s Manon. It was sold out for months, but you managed to get tickets.’

  ‘Are you my wife?’

  She got to her feet. ‘What? I can’t believe this! I can’t!’

  ‘So, you are my wife.’

  ‘No, I’m not your wife! I’m your girlfriend. We’ve been together for two years.’

  I was relieved. ‘So we live together?’

  ‘No.’ She sat back down. ‘It’s not something that you do before the wedding.’

  ‘Are you serious, or do they pay you to be this crazy?’

  She froze again. ‘I’ve got to be patient and understanding. You’re not normally like this. It’s the amnesia talking.’

  ‘More than the amnesia, I feel like I’ve been in hibernation like Buck Rogers. You do know who he is, don’t you?’

  I’ve always liked science fiction. I used to buy used pocketbooks at the stand in front of the Stazione Centrale. From what I’d gathered, it’s not there anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about time travel. My own experience was testimony to the fact that you didn’t need complicated machinery to travel into the future. All you needed was a hack on the head with a bottle.

  ‘No, I don’t know who the hell Buck Rogers is!’ She squeezed her fingers so tightly around the glass that they turned white. ‘Listen, we date, OK? Do you understand? We’ve sat on this sofa together hundreds of times, and now you look at me like you don’t even know me.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know you.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t know me! We love each other!’

  ‘OK, let’s pretend that we do. Where do I live now?’

  ‘Where do you think that you live? Here!’

  ‘Here?’ Oh, yeah. The cops had read the address on my license.

  Monica gulped down her drink. Her cheeks turned red. ‘You left your overcoat at La Scala; your keys were inside. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. So I came here. I als
o took your car.’

  I looked around at the decor. My interior decoration. Some taste I’ve acquired. ‘I must be in the inner loop now. No more low profile.’

  ‘I think not. Beagle & Manetti is a market leader.’

  ‘Of what? Heroin?’

  ‘God give me strength! Advertising! You’re the creative director of the agency!’

  My glass stopped in mid-air. ‘No way.’

  Monica waved her hand in my face.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, hello, wake up. It’s 2005, remember? You’re not a student or whoever you were anymore.’ She poured herself another glass. She began to slur a little. ‘We work together, quote unquote, by the way.’

  ‘Are you also a creative director?’

  ‘Almost. I’m your assistant.’

  ‘This too? I’m screwing my secretary.’

  ‘Me and you, we do not screw, you jerk! WE MAKE LOVE!’

  ‘You make it seem like it’s a pain in the ass.’

  ‘You always say that you’ve never met a woman like me.’

  ‘I have to take your word for it. Is there anything else that I should know? Have aliens invaded us? Was there a nuclear war?’

  She laughed covering her mouth. ‘Sorry.’ She kept laughing. ‘This is too absurd.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m having a blast. Ha, ha.’

  Monica took two tentative steps and almost fell into the fireplace. Wasted. ‘Let’s go to A&E,’ she said. ‘You can tell them about the electric shock.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I searched for the words. I couldn’t find them. I was only scared.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  She looked at me with bloodshot eyes. Alcohol had a bad effect on her. ‘You need help.’

  ‘I said to leave me alone! It’s my head.’

  Monica pointed her finger at me. ‘You don’t exist, you understand? You’re just a bad memory. A ghost. You’re like … you’re like an old film on VHS. They taped over you, and the old film is just background noise. You’re like Terminator taped over with Terminator 3.’