‘Study those.’
I sat down and I looked at them first, not daring to touch them. It would have been better if they had been a tangle of poisonous snakes.
‘There’s a call for you,’ said Rina.
I didn’t respond and slid out of my luxurious office area. I needed to breathe; I wasn’t up for this. I wandered around. I said hello to a messenger and to a little guy who filled up the coffee machine. I said hey to a young woman with six-inch heels who seemed to be talking to herself. She had a wireless earpiece stuck in her ear with a blue light flashing from it. There was a guy leaning against the wall two paces away from her. He had an earpiece with a wire hanging from it, and he began yelling into it, holding it like it was a microphone. Maybe he was talking to the woman? I wouldn’t have been surprised. Monica said there were people on the same floor who sent messages to each other via computer.
I found the door to the men’s toilet. I locked myself in a cubicle and I sat on the toilet-seat cover. I wanted to throw up, to fall into the sewer and disappear. My leg was also shaking; actually it was vibrating. The mobile phone; Bank said the display.
Did you usually respond when you are on the toilet? Probably no one would notice. Maybe I could also send pictures? I opened it and put it to my ear.
‘Hello.’
‘Signor Denti, this is Salvatore Caliceti, director of the Monte dei Paschi di Siena.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good morning. We’ve been looking for you urgently.’
‘I was … in a meeting.’
‘I understand,’ he said coldly.
‘Would you please be so kind as to come to our office today?’
‘I’m afraid that I’m very busy today. Is there something wrong?’
‘Signor Denti, I would prefer to speak to you face to face but if you insist … ’
‘I insist.’
‘A request for a money transfer came in today for the rent on your apartment. The amount was for twelve thousand euros.’
I felt a pang of disappointment.
‘The house isn’t mine?’
‘If you don’t know … ’
It was twenty times more than what I paid at my other place. Maybe even more, considering the exchange rate. Luckily, I was already sitting down.
‘OK, I’ll pay it.’
‘I would normally do it but after last Thursday, I’m afraid that it’s impossible.’
‘What happened last Thursday?’
‘It’s strange that you don’t remember. You came in and made a large withdrawal. Actually, at the moment your balance is zero.’
2
If you’re in debt the tactic is always the same. Lie, beat around the bush, promise and give them your word. My clients always did that when they wanted the merchandise on credit. This time it was my turn. The bank manager made my ears burn while people around me used the bathroom and flushed happily. In the end he said that he would cover me on the condition that I deposited my entire salary, benefits and bonuses. He wanted to point out that it was a favour he was doing for me.
I hung up and felt terrible. The Ad Exec had sold his stocks and got rid of the money right before Roveda’s death. Translation: I’m packing my bags and splitting town now! The cops were going to have fun using this against me. There was going to be a nice surprise for Spillo when he tried to cash those cheques. Shit.
I walked out of the bathroom, sweaty and pale. I went back into the hallway saying hey and hello. What happened to Signor Mariano was terrible. Terrible really. Did you see the papers that I sent you? Did you read my email? The attachments? A guy was dragging the cardboard shape of a fur butterfly that was fluttering over the city of Milan. The writing said: THE RIGHT TO LUXURY. It was probably me who came up with that.
Monica intercepted me before I got to my desk. ‘Did you read the memo?’
‘The what?’
‘The documents about Kawatsuki.’
‘Not really, I didn’t.’
‘Darn it,’ she said in a low voice. ‘They’re waiting for you in the conference room.’
‘Tell them I’m sick.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can’t.’
My head was spinning. Enemy faces around me, spying eyes.
‘In the conference room you’re going to see Riccardino and his copywriter, Alessandra, as well as the art director, Pippo. ‘You speak for me, when you can.’
‘I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I don’t know anything about this project.’
‘Even better. That way you’ll be more natural.’
We walked towards the other side of the hallway. More people spoke to me. Would you like a coffee? No thanks.
‘Listen, how much money did I have in the bank?’
‘What do you mean did?’
‘I meant have.’
What are you doing for lunch? I’m sorry but I’m busy. Can you give me five minutes? How’s tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Please give a damn about me, Boss Man.
‘I don’t know, about a hundred thousand I think, considering the money from the stocks.’
There was about a hundred grand that the Ad Exec had hidden somewhere for his getaway. If only he’d left me a message telling me where!
The hallway finished with a plasterboard wall forming a hexagon of about twenty square metres. The conference room. Monica opened the door and entered, touching her nose.
‘Hey, everybody,’ I said, not as happily as I should have said it.
The art director had shoulder-length hair, a pair of cowboy boots, and an orange sleeveless T-shirt. Alessandra was the woman with the heels and the earpiece I had seen earlier. They were sitting on one side of the horseshoe-shaped table. Monica pushed me towards a chair that had a back twice as high as the others. Obviously that one was reserved for me.
‘Is there any news about Roveda’s death?’ Alessandra asked.
They looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know shit.’ Monica kicked my ankle. ‘I wanted to say that I hadn’t heard anything yet, but the police are still investigating.’
‘I’m sure that they’ll be back to annoy us soon enough,’ said the art director. ‘And we’re already behind schedule.’
‘Why are we behind?’ I asked, just to say something. He immediately lost his cockiness.
‘We’re just a little behind. We’re trying to keep up. Isn’t that right, Ric?’
‘Don’t worry. The situation is under control.’ From the look on his red and sweaty face, I didn’t think so.
Alessandra nodded vigorously.
‘OK, fine.’ I had to be careful of what I said. ‘What should we talk about?’
The fat guy cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think that there’s any reason for a briefing but if you want … ’
‘Let’s move on,’ Monica said drily.
The bottom line is that the client threw the proposal back in our faces. The project wasn’t aggressive enough, according to them.’
The art director fondled a penis-shaped gold charm that was hanging from his necklace. ‘I told you it doesn’t work, Ric,’ he said.
‘When did you tell me this?’ He snapped.
‘You don’t listen to me anyway,’ he shrugged.
‘Let’s see the dummy, please.’ Monica asked.
‘Yeah, good idea.’ I said.
The art director opened a cardboard folder and took out some coloured sheets that he then passed to me.
‘I think,’ said the fat guy ‘that the client wants to see the technological impact of their new bike brought to the forefront of the campaign.’
‘I see,’ I lied.
On the first page there was a design of a woman in a bikini riding something invisible. The slogan said RRRRoar. On the next page she was doing a wheelie on the invisible bike. RRRRoam. One by one I passed the pages to Monica, who looked at them without saying a word. The fat guy, on the other hand, continued to blab about how much work they had put into the project. He l
oved this project more than he loved his kids.
The woman appeared in different poses RRRRecognisable. RRRRapid. RRRRelaxing. Finally, on the last page the woman had disappeared into thin air and in her place was the scooter. In the background were nuclear explosions, flames and lightning. I actually hadn’t seen anything like it before. It had three wheels, two in front and one in the back. Like a genetic hybrid. RRRRepulsive! I thought. I looked at Monica and raised an eyebrow. She slightly raised her shoulders.
‘Excuse me, what the hell is the third wheel for?’ I asked. As soon as I finished I knew that I had screwed up. It was obvious that I should have known the answer.
The fat guy looked at me in shock. ‘What do you mean what is it for?’
The art director seemed thunderstruck. ‘You’re a stupid shit, you know.’
‘What did you say?’ Monica asked coldly.
‘No, no, wait, sorry. I wasn’t talking to Santo. I wouldn’t even dream of it. I was talking to this dickhead here! Hey, Ric, wake up! Can’t you see that it’s a suggestion?’
Riccardino got up, foaming with anger, ‘What did you call me?’
Pippo smiled, ‘Wow, aren’t we touchy?’
‘I want an apology now!’
‘C’mon, guys,’ I said. I didn’t want them to end up fighting.
Pippo shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK, I’m sorry.’
Riccardino sat back down. He wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘We were talking about the third wheel. Ah! Right, right!’
The art director took a pen and paper. ‘We can start with a background full of circles.’
‘No,’ said Alessandra. ‘Let’s show that in nature there are only animals with two or four legs.’
‘Actually there are also animals with six legs,’ the fat guy said. ‘Also eight.’
‘But no one cares about eight legs anyway,’ she snapped back.
‘What do you mean, no one cares?’ the fat guy said, groaning.
I expected another scene, but he sounded tired.
‘They’ll love it for sure,’ said the art director, who had already filled two pages of sketches.
‘OK, I think that we can stop here,’ Monica said. ‘Keep working on this idea, and give me something by … do you think that by the end of the week is fine, Santo?’
‘Sure, sure.’ I was still amazed by the whole thing. I got up.
‘Thank you. It’s always a pleasure working with you. It’s good to have some fresh ideas for a change,’ said Pippo.
Alessandra called me while I had my hand on the doorknob. ‘Excuse me, Santo, did you want us to put the word hell in the slogan as well, or was it just to give us an idea of what you wanted?’
*
We let them celebrate amongst themselves and walked back to my office.
‘What if I had asked what the handlebar was for?’
‘Don’t joke around; you had a good idea,’ Monica said proudly. ‘You seemed like your old self again.’
‘If you say so.’
Rina jumped out of her seat when we came into range.
‘Signor Denti, there’s a woman who wants to meet you. She doesn’t have an appointment, but she was very insistent.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She doesn’t want to leave.’
Monica and I looked over the cubicle wall. The woman in question looked like an Arab model. Tall and thin, with black, wavy hair that fell down her back. She wore jeans and a red windcheater. She waited with her arms crossed, standing in front of my desk.
‘Do you know her?’ I asked Monica.
‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
‘What’s her name, Rina?’
Rina read from a piece of paper that had bar codes across it. It must have been a visitor’s pass issued by the guards at the entrance.
‘Salima Fares.’
‘OK, I’ll talk to her.’
‘Are you sure?’ Monica asked. ‘I can ask her to leave.’
‘No, why?’
I’d rather have met her than another employee in need of creative approval. I walked around and said hello, stretching out my hand.
‘How are you?’
She looked at my hand then she looked at me. Her eyes were filled with anger and hate.
‘You son of a bitch,’ she said.
Then she spat in my face.
3
It was a shame no one had taken a picture with their phone. It was a sight to see. We all froze for a moment. The woman was leaning forward, and I stood back with spit on my eyelid. Rina’s mouth was open, oh my … Monica finished with God while the mail guy who just happened to be passing by said holy shit!
‘I only wanted you to know what I think of you,’ she said. ‘I hope you die.’
She pushed Monica out of the way and marched into the hallway.
‘Saint, what just happened?’
‘Signor Denti!’
‘Holy shit!’
I didn’t listen. I ran after the woman, cleaning my face with my sleeve. I got to her about halfway down the hallway then grabbed her by the wrist.
‘Wait a minute, let’s talk … ’
I didn’t have time to finish because the woman did something that took me completely by surprise. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then twisted her wrist in my hand, freeing herself. She then grabbed my wrist in one fluid movement. She jerked away, and I fell flat onto the dirt-coloured carpeted floor. I managed to fall on my side rather than my face. The same side where the bullet was. Now that hurt!
I got back up. Everybody on the floor was looking at me, and the office chatter had stopped. The woman disappeared behind the corner that led to the elevators. When I got there the doors were already closed. I pushed the button. Nothing. The stairs, the stairs …
There were two metal doors on the other side. I opened the first and a piercing alarm went off. No Entry. There was a balcony behind the door. I closed the door, and the alarm stopped. I slipped through the other door. The stairs. A guy tossed his cigarette out the window; he looked like a kid caught cheating in an exam. I shot down the stairs four at a time. My shoulder hurt. I was slow. When I got to the ground floor the woman was gone. I jumped over the turnstile; the guards looked at me, perplexed, as I shot out into the street. Crowds walked by; she was gone.
Huff. Gasp. I have to quit smoking, I thought. Then I remembered that I already had and it hadn’t done anything for me. I leant against the wall and lit a cigarette while my heartbeat lowered to a hundred beats per minute. I put the fag out before going back inside. There was a No Smoking sign written in every language. I walked over to the surveillance booth and knocked on the glass. The guard rolled his seat to the window. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘There was a woman that came out just now. Did you make a copy of her ID? ‘
‘Of course.’
‘Can you tell me where she lives?’
He scratched his head under his hat. ‘Signor Denti, I’m sorry but I can’t. We keep the data in our records, but we’re not authorised to give it out. There are privacy laws.’
‘How long have you been working here, buddy?’
‘One year, sir.’
‘Do you like it here? You’re not tired of being here, are you, or perhaps you’d like to consider finding employment elsewhere?’
‘I’m very happy here, sir,’ he said, changing his tone. ‘I understand.’
‘Bravo.’
‘Please don’t let this get around.’ He looked back at the screen. ‘Would you like me to print up a copy of her ID?
‘Yes.’
Zap! The wonders of modern technology. Salima Fares, born in Algiers, 1982. Nationality: Algerian. Residence: Via Marozzi 3/A, Milan. The photo didn’t do her justice. I got back in the lift with the paper folded in my jacket pocket. On the second floor a guy in his thirties with a short-sleeved shirt got in. He had a huge plastic folder with the company logo on it. ‘Santo, I was just coming to see you. Do you have a minute?’
‘No,
but you’ve got one floor.’
‘That’s just enough, thanks so much.’
He took out two colour photocopies from the folder. There were two models, a blonde and a brunette, covered in foam and lying in an oversized dish. Dishwashing liquid. The slogan: Delicate on the skin.
‘Blonde or brunette?’ he asked.
I got out on my floor. ‘Redhead.’
‘Redhead?’ he swallowed. ‘OK, no problem, we’ll do it again.’
‘Good.’
The doors were closing when he blocked them.
‘Dark red or light red?’
‘I want every tone and curly too, curly like a Brillo pad. Get moving dammit!’ I gently pushed him into the lift.
*
Rina tried her best to pretend that nothing had happened. Monica was on the other side of the partition biting her nails. She turned and looked at me cruelly. ‘Who was that woman?’
‘You’re asking me? Maybe she mistook me for someone else?’
‘Bullshit, she knew exactly who you were.’
‘If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know.’
‘Signor Denti, your lunch is ready.’ Rina left a Styrofoam container on my desk with SuperBio Express written on it as well as a bottle of Evian.
‘Damn, I’m hungry.’
I sat down and opened it. Salad with white beans. I tasted one with a plastic fork that had 100% Biodegradable written across it. Broad beans, no dressing.
‘A question,’ I asked Monica, who lingered over the partition. ‘How do I manage to stay so fat?’
‘You get up in the middle of the night and raid the fridge’
‘Which is full of this stuff anyway. Look, there’s some seaweed as well.’
‘You can’t keep pretending that nothing’s happened.’
‘Sure I can.’
Grunt. Grunt. ‘Tomorrow you have the new presentation for the Ustoni campaign.’
‘Another campaign?’
‘Ustoni is one of our most important clients. You pulled all-nighters at your house with the team. I don’t want to exaggerate, but it makes the agency a tenth of its yearly turnover. Old Man Ustoni will be there in person.’
‘It seems complicated. You go.’
In a Heartbeat Page 9