In a Heartbeat

by Sandrone Dazieri

‘I can’t go. First, it’s your campaign. Second, all the directors will be there.’

  ‘I thought that I was the only director.’

  I was wrong. I was only the creative director. There were also the business director, the administrative director, the marketing director, the human resources director, the communications director, and so on. Monica read me the list, including the names.

  ‘Is there a director of the directors?’

  ‘That was Mariano. He was the CEO. The corporate senior vice president will also be there. You have to handle that guy with tongs. Maybe they’ll give him the position now, I don’t know.’

  ‘OK. I’ll need a crash course on Ustoni.’

  ‘I’ll send you an email with the details.’

  ‘It’ll be faster if you explain it to me in person.’

  ‘I’LL SEND YOU AN EMAIL.’

  ‘All right.’

  After lunch I smoked a cigarette in the toilet. Then I spent two hours studying the various directors on the company website. Multiple degrees, master’s from Oxford, superhuman corporate experience. The corporate senior VP was called Matteo Bianchi. He was about sixty with a protruding jawline and steely grey eyes. A tough son of a bitch. Neither he nor the others looked like they were part of The Flock.

  Every now and then someone would pop in and ask me something. The technique was to come in and talk with Rina until I noticed them. Then they would ask, ‘Do you have a minute?’ And then they would show me photos, clips of spots on DVD (Learn: DVD) or they’d simply explain how much trouble they were having with this or that. The first time I was tense as hell but I soon discovered that they didn’t expect me to know what they were talking about. Even better, they couldn’t wait to tell me everything from the beginning. Monica whispered their names and titles from behind. It wasn’t that difficult making them happy. They didn’t really need advice or suggestions; they only wanted to be reassured that they were doing a good job and that I liked them. I gave them what they wanted: a nice pat on the head. They left satisfied.

  There was only one who gave me some problems because he wasn’t under me. ‘Business director,’ said Monica; I already knew that from the website. He was a guy about my age, medium build, with neatly combed hair. He sat on the edge of my desk.

  ‘So? Any news?’ he asked as he played with my pens, which I had ordered neatly by colour.

  I had a load of news but nothing that I could tell him.

  ‘C’mon, don’t be cagey, what did the father-in-law say?’ Father-in-law? Oh yeah, Monica’s father. ‘Is he going to be the new CEO or what?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  He got up. ‘When you hear anything let me know. Or do you not care about friendship anymore?’

  Was he really a friend of mine? He mumbled something and gesticulated like he had to make a phone call. The bastard went into the hallway and tore a strip off some poor guy who got in his way. He obviously had done something wrong.

  The last one to visit me was wearing a uniform. He slipped in while I was cleaning my thumbnail with a paper knife. I noticed that something was amiss because the usual background office noise that I almost didn’t notice anymore had come to a halt. The world of B&M was holding its breath and enjoying the scene. I looked up and there he was, large and imposing like a ton of shit. A motorcycle cop still wearing his helmet, his cheeks still red from the cold. I was deciding whether to jump out of the window or to act annoyed. I opted for the latter. The pig was standing with an envelope in his gloved hand (the windows were sealed, by the way).

  ‘Signor Denti?’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  In the portion of the hallway that I could see, half the agency just happened to be passing by for a glance. Their day was getting more interesting between the spitting, somersaults and visits from public officials. I gave them a murderous look, and they went back to work.

  I took the envelope. Office of the Procuratore of Milan was written across it. I signed, then waited for him to leave before I opened it. What I read wasn’t that much of a surprise; the detective had warned me.

  I was being summoned by Judge Antonazzi on Thursday at 5:30pm, two days from now, as a suspect regarding the homicide investigation of Mariano Roveda. If I wanted I could bring legal counsel.

  I passed Monica the letter. ‘Oh, God,’ she gasped.

  ‘Do I already have legal representation?’

  ‘Yes, you do. I mean, you have a corporate lawyer but not a lawyer that handles this type of case.’ She lowered her voice so that it was almost inaudible. ‘A homicide.’

  ‘OK, let’s find one. I’m getting out of here.’ I got to my feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got stuff to do. If anyone asks, tell them that I’m in a meeting or tell them whatever you want.’ I said goodbye to Rina and the myriad of faces that leaned out from their cubicles.

  I made it outside.

  The air tasted of wet smog. I breathed it in as if it were the best air in the world. I missed it while I was inside that B&M box. I would miss it even more if I were locked up in San Vittore prison. I’ve met fools who have spent more time inside than outside of there. In the end they couldn’t live without bars on their windows. In lockup, there were strict rules, you knew what they were, and everyone respected them. Inside they were somebody; outside they were nobody. They didn’t know how to live without wake up or yard time. They usually got themselves caught and were back within six months. It was always best to keep your distance from guys like that. Who knows, maybe I would become one of them? Considering how I felt at the moment, it was quite likely that I would wind up smashing my head against a wall before something like that happened.

  Taxi, traffic.

  ‘Via Marozzi, nice place,’ said the cab driver in Milanese dialect. Someone still spoke it. ‘If I ever get a call to go there, I don’t go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are all Africans there, none of them want to work, and all of them want to cause trouble.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  I understood what he meant when we got there. Via Marozzi was a cross street of Via Vitruvio right next to the Stazione Centrale. Since the last time I had been there it had changed a lot (correction: since the last time that I remembered being there). There were shops everywhere selling useless items, restaurants called Maghreb and Addis Ababa; almost everyone on the street was African or Arab. There were no Christmas decorations in this part of town.

  I got out next to a halal butcher shop that didn’t entice me at all, even though my stomach craved real food. There was broken glass and rubbish on the pavement; the stench of urine was everywhere. Number 3/A was a four-storey building that was still standing by some small miracle. The floral curtains on several windows couldn’t hide its general state of disrepair: crumbling walls, balconies with exposed steel rods and dangling shutters. I was standing next to a small shop with blackened and shattered windows, kept together with miles of duct tape. They sold discount phone calls. There were at least fifty foreigners of every nationality pressed together, waiting for their turn in the cabins. K2 CALL CENTRE (learn) read the sign.

  Using the flame from my lighter, I looked for ‘Fares’ on the intercom next door; someone had scorched it and the name tags were all burnt.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’

  In the doorway of the call centre, there were three Arab kids whose collective age couldn’t have been more than about fifty; they dressed like Public Enemy, with their oversized baggy trousers, dark shades, hoodies and chains. They were passing a large bottle of beer between them. They looked at me as if I were a chimpanzee in a zoo. The oldest one, with light facial hair, was the one who had spoken.

  ‘Salima Fares. She lives here, but I don’t know the buzzer.’

  ‘Salima? You’re looking for Salima? What do you want with her?’

  That was the same question that I had asked myself on the way over. With the trouble I was in, I was
looking for a woman who hated me and who had nothing to do with Roveda’s death. I couldn’t avoid it. I felt in some way that it was important to find out more. ‘She’s a friend.’

  ‘So, you’re Salima’s friend, huh?’

  ‘Do you want me to say it again?’

  They began to speak in a mixture of French and Arabic. I hoped they weren’t saying things like let’s take this guy’s wallet. They couldn’t decide what to do and argued heatedly for thirty seconds until the older one pushed the noisier one and ended the discussion. ‘She’s not home,’ he said. ‘But I can take you to where she is.’

  ‘Thanks, is it far?’

  ‘No it’s close by, in that direction.’

  He pointed to a cross street, smaller and darker than the one we were already on.

  ‘There?’ I asked. I wasn’t dying to go.

  ‘Yeah, there. C’mon, let’s go.’

  Either they wanted to rob me or not. I didn’t have a choice at this point. Either way, I was going to find out soon. The three waited until I began to walk with them. They escorted me like an honour guard, one next to me and the others behind. It would have been tough to make a run for it.

  ‘My name is Ragiul,’ the older kid said as we rounded the corner.

  ‘I’m Santo.’

  ‘If you’re a saint, how come you’re not in heaven?’

  The three laughed. I had already heard all that crap in primary school. The kids even gave me a hard time about my surname. That’s why I changed it to Trafficante. Who knows if anyone remembered anymore? It was better that way.

  The alley was deserted. It was like something out of a Starsky and Hutch episode where the guy tries to escape and starts rolling around the rubbish bins looking for a way out only to discover a wall. In fact, there was a wall.

  A dead end.

  A trap.

  Idiot.

  4

  I straightened up and turned around. The three had calm expressions, hands in their pockets. No razors or chains. Maybe if I broke for it I could make it back to the street before they got me. It was worth a try, or maybe I should just beg? What if they wanted something more than just my money?

  I threw up my arms, ‘OK, let’s talk.’

  ‘About what?’ asked Ragiul. ‘Get in, it’s cold.’

  What? ‘Get in where?’

  ‘There.’

  I followed his finger. He was pointing to a rusty metal door, half-hidden behind sacks of piled-up rubbish. I hadn’t seen it in the dark of the narrow alley.

  ‘Oh sorry. I thought … Ah, nothing.’

  ‘Wait a minute, I get it. You thought we wanted to rob you! Hey, Santo, not every Arab wants to skin the infidels. Usually in this country it’s the other way around.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I’d just made a fool of myself once again. Yet another time wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.

  The door squeaked open. Inside it smelled of mould. I could hear a distant rhythmic choral sound of voices. One of the kids flicked a switch and a light bulb lit up a corridor, cluttered with rotting furniture. There was a flight of stairs in the middle.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It used to be a factory,’ Ragiul said.

  ‘No, a bakery,’ said one the other kids.

  ‘OK, now it’s empty. It’s ours. Salima is upstairs.’

  I had to take two flights of stairs. The walls were covered with Arabic script, but someone had kept the place clean. The broken parts of the handrail had been put together with wire and the splintered wood had been patched up. It was best not to lean on anything, however. As I climbed, the voices grew stronger. I still couldn’t make out the words, but they were brief and tight phrases punctuated with cushioned blows. On the second floor Ragiul passed in front of me and opened the armoured door that looked relatively new. He bowed slightly, letting me in. ‘Safe and sound, you infidel dog,’ he said.

  I walked through the door. The voices were stronger now. Children. I counted about twenty kids between five and ten years old. A single large room was lit up with fluorescent lights that dangled from the centre of the ceiling. Draughts entered from the rotting shutters. The children were training barefoot on a floor covered with multi-coloured wool blankets. Even though the temperature was close to that outside they were only wearing trousers, shirts and socks. They were lined up in five rows like little soldiers. Salima was standing in front of them, wearing a karate suit with a black belt tied around her waist. The somersault that she had made me do at B&M now had an explanation.

  ‘Yi!’ Salima said, raising her right fist; she then bent her arm, ‘Er!’ and then she moved her foot. ‘San!’

  The girls repeated her yells and gestures and seemed totally convinced by what they were doing. The oldest couldn’t have been more than ten years old, the youngest maybe four. They didn’t miss a beat. There weren’t any adults.

  Salima burst her left arm forward with an open palm. ‘Si!’ You could feel the air swoosh from her quick movements. She repeated them three times and then she clapped her hands. ‘Good. Now from the beginning but faster.’ She saw me. ‘Five-minute break. Sit down and do the breathing exercises like I showed you.’

  The children crouched in unison while Salima came in my direction.

  ‘Can we talk before you chop me up?’

  ‘Not here,’ she growled.

  Ragiul and the others fell back, embarrassed. ‘He said that he was your … ’

  ‘Get out of here. I don’t want men here. I’m tired of repeating myself, and I don’t want pimpled boys here either. Get out!’

  ‘And him?’ asked Ragiul pointing at me.

  ‘I’ll deal with him myself.’

  It wasn’t reassuring. The three kids slipped through the door without saying a word.

  ‘You, come with me.’

  Behind the gym was a small room, which Salima probably used for changing. Maybe it had once been an office or a utility room. Now it was empty except for a single chair where she kept her bag and clothes. On a wall was a poster of the human body with words written in Chinese indicating the acupuncture needle points.

  Salima closed the door with a kick then crossed her arms; she must have had a foot as hard as a horse’s hoof. ‘What do you want?’

  Did I have a choice? ‘I had an accident. I lost my memory. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you spat on me. I would like to know why.’ I said it in one breath to avoid her snapping at me.

  With the rhythm of my words a series of expressions flittered across her face: anger, annoyance and sarcasm. At the end she stopped on sceptical. ‘That’s your excuse?’

  I took out a pack of smokes. ‘Can I smoke here?’

  ‘No, you can’t … you smoke?’

  ‘In the last memory that I have, I was putting away two packs a day. Now, I’m holding back. I’ll put them away.’

  She came closer to have a better look at me. The skin of her throat was pearled with sweat and her eyes were two pieces of coal. ‘I don’t believe you.’ Her expression cracked. ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘I have never seen you before. I don’t know who you are.’

  She tightened her lip and then she slapped me. I didn’t react. ‘Tell me who I am.’

  ‘Salima.’

  She slapped me again, harder this time. ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Salima Fares, dammit!’

  Another slap. ‘What’s my name?’

  My ears rang, I blacked out for a second and my head spun.

  Sally.

  ‘Sally?’ I said.

  She took a step back as if she had been hit.

  ‘Is your name Sally?’

  She bent over, coughing. She then pushed me away and shoved a bathroom door open to a rusty squat toilet with no windows. She knelt down and her body heaved and retched while she vomited.

  Sally. Her name came out of nowhere and yet I knew that it was right. I knelt next to her and held her forehead like I did at times for my old man when he came home
drunk, which was all of the time.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m … I’m OK … ’

  Cough. Spit. Retch.

  ‘Indigestion?’

  She pushed me away and got up. She got a towel from her bag and dried her mouth.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Indigestion that’s been going on for three months.’

  ‘You should go to a doctor.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, you dick, and you should know that already!’

  ‘I told you that I don’t remember a damn thing.’

  The sudden realisation was like something that came from the top of my head and shook down to my feet, sliding coldly down my spine. No, Jesus Christ, no! I thought before I asked but I knew that the answer was a yes. ‘Is it … ?’

  ‘Yes it is, it’s your son.’

  I fell on the floor. Shit!

  ‘Is it normal? Is it a boy?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you crazy? Why wouldn’t it be normal?’

  ‘With the kind of luck that I’ve been having recently, I wouldn’t be surprised if the baby had two heads.’

  Her expression was: it could be true. My expression was: I’m going to kill myself.

  ‘This time, I’m going to smoke and you can slam me. I need to.’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘I’m a father.’ I thought that I was too young to be a father, then I put myself up to date. I was almost too old. ‘Excuse me if I ask; do you want to have it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, did you already tell me?’

  ‘Shit, Santo.’ She took a step closer to me. ‘I thought that … I thought that you’d left me.’

  ‘What kind of name is Sally?’ She took another step forward.

  ‘You gave it to me. It was something between us.’

  ‘Your name is the first thing that I have remembered in these three days.’

  Another step. ‘Is that all?’

  A door opened in a part of my brain, and it had closed straight away.

  ‘I think so. How long have we been seeing each other?’

  ‘For about a year.’

  ‘And you already told me about the kid. How did I take it?

  ‘Badly. We argued a lot then you told me that you needed some time. You disappeared. You didn’t answer my calls. I waited for two weeks.’