In a Heartbeat

by Sandrone Dazieri

  ‘Shit! Sorry. What I meant to say was— Oh, my God,’

  Quite.

  ‘We can imagine it’s a surprise. Isn’t that right, Brambilla?’ Brambilla nodded in agreement.

  I covered my face with my hands. Should I cry or something? Tear my hair out? I decided on a slight moan instead. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He was murdered, Signor Denti.’

  ‘How upsetting … He was so … so young.’

  Brambilla coughed. ‘He was seventy years old.’

  ‘I meant young at heart, for his age.’ Now I was really sweating. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘We’d like to find out.’ Ferolli took out a pack of Nazionali cigarettes. They still existed. ‘May I smoke?’

  ‘Of course, as a matter of fact … ’ I took a cigarette from my pack and managed to light it on the fifth try. I looked around for an ashtray; there was none in sight. That’s right, the Ad Exec didn’t smoke. ‘Rosario! Rosario!’

  ‘Staff nowadays … ’ I said, rolling my eyes.

  ‘They left while you were in the bathroom.’

  ‘OK, then drop your ash on the floor.’

  ‘No, wait.’ Ferolli took the last cigarette from his pack and used the pack as an ashtray.

  ‘Well, I pay them to clean anyway. It’s marble, it won’t get ruined.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Oh, Roveda … ’

  Ferolli wasn’t moved. ‘Signor Denti, when was the last time that you saw Signor Roveda?’

  ‘Alive?’ That was smart. ‘Listen, I’m too upset right now … could we … ’

  Brambilla took out a notepad. ‘They said that you had a meeting with him last Friday.’

  ‘A meeting?’

  ‘At the office.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘May I ask what it was about?’

  Ash fell on my trousers. ‘Dammit.’ I brushed it off. ‘It was about work.’

  ‘Discussion related to company activity,’ Brambilla wrote.

  ‘Could you be more specific?’ Ferolli requested.

  I felt like I was being drilled for my school exams. ‘Well, you know that we’re in advertising. There was an … ad.’

  ‘An ad?’

  ‘For a detergent … you know, stuff that gets everything white.’

  ‘They said that it was an administrative meeting.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘Yes, it was about a detergent as well as an administrative meeting.’

  Ferolli put the cigarette out in the pack. ‘And was the overall mood of the meeting, how should we put it … a bit tense?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ I looked at them. ‘Well, maybe a little?’

  I wasn’t doing very well.

  ‘They told us that Signor Roveda had raised his voice with you. There was, how should we say … the impression of a row.’

  ‘I assure you … ’

  ‘You left slamming the door behind you. They heard you say … can you read the statement, Brambilla?’

  ‘That old piece of shit.’

  Did anyone mind their own business at Beagle & Manetti? I dropped my arms, defeated. ‘So maybe it’s true.’

  ‘This doesn’t mean anything of course,’ said Ferolli. ‘Please don’t feel like we’re pressing you. We’re simply having a friendly conversation. We only need information.’ He smiled at me the way Judas did before he kissed Jesus.

  ‘It doesn’t seem so friendly, if I may say so.’

  ‘So, since then, you’ve had no further contact with the deceased?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Was this a trick question?

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at me, holding his gaze. ‘Did he appear to have any enemies?’

  ‘No. Everyone loved him.’

  ‘Actually … ’

  Ferolli silenced his partner with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Loved, huh?’

  Why couldn’t the ground open up and swallow me? Why couldn’t a bolt of lightning strike me down? ‘Within reason … ’

  ‘Within reason. Brambilla, write it down’.

  ‘Believes that the victim’s relationships with his acquaintances were positive in nature overall.’

  ‘Did you know that the recent decisions by Signor Roveda were very unpopular with personnel?’

  Of course not.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You yourself criticised him on more than one occasion.’

  I was losing energy here. I nodded.

  ‘Signor Denti, last night you were accompanied home in a police car. May I ask you what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t feel well.’

  ‘The police report indicated that you were … please read, Brambilla.’

  ‘In a state of confusion.’

  ‘OK, I was drunk. It happens sometimes. You know what I mean?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Ferolli.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  Ferolli brushed a speck of ash from his brown wool trousers that had razor-sharp creases. ‘You see, Signor Denti, when someone behaves in a bizarre way soon after a homicide, we are forced to ask ourselves what the reason is.’

  ‘Forced, huh?’

  ‘Forced. It’s our job. May I ask what you did on Sunday afternoon?’

  I opened and closed my mouth like a fish.

  Ferolli was grinning again. ‘It’s a simple question. It’s only been a few hours.’

  A simple question for everyone else but me.

  ‘I … ’

  ‘You?’ Brambilla said, ready to write.

  ‘I … ’

  They both hung there, staring at me, waiting. Ferolli’s jaws opened, ready for a piece. The piece was my arse. They had put me in a squeeze and were doing it rather well. If I wanted to save myself, now was the time to get out. Fast. I was forced to take a harsher tone.

  ‘Am I under investigation?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ferolli grew rigid.

  ‘You heard me.’ Under investigation. You’re treating me like … a criminal.’

  I got to my feet and pointed an accusing finger at the Sicilian, the bastard. I was a big fish now, a pillar of the community. People like me made the cops run around. I imagined a scene from Dallas and J.R. Ewing with his back against the wall. ‘Are you insinuating that I could be implicated in the murder of Signor Roveda, a man who was … almost like a father to me? I have to ask you to leave.

  Ferolli looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. The bug had rebelled before being squashed. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked.

  I crossed my arms so that they couldn’t see that my hands were shaking. ‘What do you think? You know the way out.’

  ‘As you wish. Brambilla, let’s go.’ They got up. ‘I’m afraid that the next time it’ll be your turn to pay us a visit.’

  ‘Is that a threat? My lawyers will eat you alive.’

  ‘It’s just a warning.’

  I stayed posing until they went out, then I collapsed on the sofa, soaked in sweat.

  I knocked back two whiskies and ran out, looking for Monica.

  5

  Beagle & Manetti took up an entire five-floor building with an enormous logo painted on the main entrance. It looked like a pig with a flower on its nose. I waited at the corner, freezing under the drizzle. Every now and then a young, unseasonably tanned and well-dressed professional would come out of the front door. When they came in my direction I would slip back into the doorway, stepping over a snoring homeless guy covered in a tattered blanket. The stench of urine kept me company for a good two hours.

  Eventually Monica came out, covering her head with a newspaper. I followed her until we were at least a hundred metres from the office, then I tapped her on the back. ‘Hey.’

  She stumbled and almost hit her head against a lamppost. ‘Santo!’

  I brought my fingers to my lips, ‘Shhh, they can hear you. We have to talk.’

  She turned around, stomping on her heels. ‘Get the hell away from me.’<
br />
  I followed her. ‘Please.’

  ‘Go screw yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Go kill yourself.’

  ‘I was stressed.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Please darling, baby, my love, my life … ’

  She turned around. ‘How dare you mess with me? You bastard. You … ’

  ‘You’re right. But you have to understand. I … I only wanted to push you away, to protect you.’

  She began walking again. Tick tack tick tack on the pavement. ‘Bullshit.’

  I stood in front of her, forcing her to stop. ‘OK, I was a bastard, but if you leave me now, I’ll wind up in jail.’

  ‘Why should I care?’

  ‘Because I’m your boyfriend, I’m sick and I need help.’

  She stayed there, thinking.

  ‘Santo … ’

  *

  I was ready to kneel in a puddle in the rain, but it wasn’t necessary. Half an hour later we were sitting on the sofa in my apartment again, in exactly the same place as the night before. The same place where I had realised what kind of situation I was in. We had got back there in Monica’s car. It was a microscopic two-seater called a Smart Car that looked like it needed a toy crank. I was surprised that we didn’t flip over at each curve.

  I told Monica about the visit from the cops.

  ‘You’re in deep trouble,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t joking before.’

  ‘Saint, you have to tell them everything. About your amnesia.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you find it a little suspicious if you were them? Amnesia exactly the day that someone killed Roveda.’

  ‘But you’re innocent. You are innocent, aren’t you?

  I took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘Of course I am.’

  I obviously didn’t say it with the right tone of voice because she pulled her hand away and curled up away from me. ‘You don’t know.’

  ‘Will you think, please? How can I possibly know? I don’t even know who the hell Roveda is!’

  ‘Mariano was the president and CEO of Beagle & Manetti. He’s your boss.’

  ‘Why am I a suspect?’

  ‘Are you sure that they suspect you?’

  ‘You should have seen the look on that cop’s face. If he’d had just a bit of evidence in his hand, I’d be locked up in San Vittore prison right now.’

  ‘Everyone knew that you and Mariano didn’t get along. Not anymore, not since he killed your project six months ago. A project that you’d invested a lot of time and company money in.’

  ‘What project?’

  ‘Ad pushing on mobile phones using geolocation.’

  ‘In a language I can understand, please.’

  She sighed, looking at the tips of her shoes. She took them off. You could see her beautifully manicured toes. At any other time I would have appreciated them more. I’d always had a thing for beautiful feet.

  ‘Do you know how your mobile phone works?’

  ‘I don’t even know how to turn it on.’

  ‘In a nutshell, mobile phones communicate through electromagnetic radio waves with a site base station, the antennas of which are usually mounted on a tower, pole or building. You can see them around, antennas with white disks.’

  ‘They look like radar antennas.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘OK, so they’re everywhere.’

  ‘Now, if you’re in a certain part of town, your phone knows and so does your network. That’s the mobile phone exchange of your telephone company. At that point, it’s possible to get advertising targeted to your phone. For example, you can get information on special offers, cinema information or even the menu of the closest restaurant.’

  ‘You get a call?’

  ‘No, a text message,’ she sighed. ‘You can send them with your phone; you use them more than voice messages nowadays.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Whatever the case, text or voice, it seems like a big pain in the arse.’

  ‘You didn’t feel that way up until the other day. Anyway, Mariano said that it was a waste of time and money, so he dropped the project.’

  ‘I guess I didn’t take it well.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You lost face, and that’s not all.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘As creative director you’re basically responsible for everything that the company sells. It’s a very delicate role you play, and you have to have the trust of the board of directors.’

  ‘I don’t have it anymore.’

  ‘Word has it that Mariano was trying to replace you.’

  I pressed my head in my hands. ‘What a mess! I also have a motive.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you know where I was yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘You told me that you were home.’

  ‘But you don’t know for sure?’

  ‘No. You were in a bad mood. You said that you had some work to get done and that we would see each other at La Scala. I came by around seven, and you met me outside.’ I reached out an arm and put it on her shoulder. She looked at me with sad eyes, ‘Santo.’

  ‘You can call me Saint. You know I’m getting used to it.’

  I pulled her towards me, and I kissed her on her forehead.

  ‘Baby, can you tell the cops that we were together all day? And that you slept over?’

  She pushed me to the floor. ‘It’s too late, Santo. I already spoke to them.’

  ‘Shit! It didn’t occur to you the kind of trouble that I was in?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it did. This morning,’ she said coldly. ‘I felt terrible about what happened, and I only thought about you. I wanted to meet you. I don’t know, I wanted to make up, but you told me to screw myself, remember?’

  ‘You should have insisted!’

  ‘I called you ten times, even while I was in the bathroom with the cops waiting for me in my sitting room. What else could I do? Tell me!’

  ‘Right, I’m screwed. My fault.’ I got up and started to walk furiously around the room. ‘I don’t have an alibi, I have a motive … and … ’

  The phone records, Spillo.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I leaned against the wall right under the crucifix. I half-hoped that it would fall and kill me on the spot, saving me from all this torture.

  ‘If you’re not guilty, you don’t have anything to worry about.’

  ‘Really? The jails are full of stupid arseholes who felt the same way.’

  I walked over to the table; the bottle of whisky was empty. I peeled the wax off of the top of a cognac bottle that must have been a thousand years old. I poured a full glass and I put in a few ice cubes that I took from the hidden mini fridge.

  ‘You know that you don’t put ice in cognac,’ she said.

  ‘Ah … that’s something really important to know right now. What else? I shouldn’t wipe my mouth with the tablecloth? No red wine with fish?’

  ‘The Santo that I dated would know this. Don’t you see that that’s the problem?’

  I finished the glass in two gulps. Jesus Christ! I really needed something more, something that would help me think a bit better. Maybe a little coke, some speed …

  ‘No, I don’t understand, how is that the problem?’

  ‘I’ll explain. There’s no helping who you are now. Whatever you say or do will make you more suspect. You disappeared from work, you talk and act like a damn truck driver!’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so you have to get help. You have to go back to who you were.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I have to go back to who I was?’

  I shattered the glass against the wall and then took another one and aimed for the television. The screen exploded. The Ad Exec would return, and I’d disappear. I didn’t want to leave him anything. I wanted to take every damn thing with me. Then I grabbed a chair, ready to break it as
she caught me from behind.

  ‘That’s enough, Saint, please.’

  ‘Monica, I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t die. I’m here for you.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ I put down the chair. ‘You’d be happy, wouldn’t you? That way you’d have your fat piece of shit boyfriend back!’

  ‘I only want you to get better.’

  ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’

  Monica embraced me tightly. I let her do it. It felt strange to me, but it did give me some comfort.

  ‘And what if I’m guilty? What if I killed him?’

  She didn’t respond, and five minutes later she called my doctor.

  6

  The last time that I remembered going to the doctor was when I wanted to find out if I had AIDS or not. It was the disease that was in fashion at the time. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to me to get checked even after half the people I knew were dropping like flies. Maybe because I thought that it would never happen to me. Anyway, I finally made the decision to go. It was after a sore throat that I’d had a few months before I found myself in this new life. I kept feeling my armpits, looking for any weird swellings. I was checking my temperature three times a day. The week before I got the results was the worst week of my life. I was sure that I was HIV-positive thanks to some whore or a dirty glass. They said that you couldn’t get AIDS from saliva, but how could you really be sure? I was completely wasted while I waited in the queue at the clinic for the results. They told me that I was negative, and for a second I thought that I had AIDS. I mean ‘negative’ is a negative word, isn’t it? Anyway, I was OK.

  My present social position, however, permitted me to avoid the wait. I was received like a welcome guest directly by my physician at the Capitanio Private Clinic. Monica had persuaded him to be at our disposal after normal working hours. At nine that evening, dressed in only socks and underwear, I was put into what looked like a huge white washing machine. The doctor tied me to a bed which slid back and forth inside a tunnel. Electronic sounds whirred around me. I felt nauseated and like I was suffocating. Luckily, it didn’t last long. I went to wait for the doctor in his surgery while he got the CAT-scan results.

  Monica was with me. She said that I could call the doctor by his first name, Giulio, and that I played squash with him every now and then. She explained exactly what squash was.