In a Heartbeat

by Sandrone Dazieri

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘No. He was released two months ago.’

  Max was back in the city just in time to start trouble for the Ad Exec. I could see him showing up randomly and unnoticed at Oreste’s, the Ad Exec not recognising him on account of the years that had gone by. From Oreste he got to Spillo and from Spillo to Roveda; that shouldn’t have taken long. Max’s first move was to tell Roveda that his old friend Trafficante was spying on him. Second move was to help Roveda find something against him. Third move: use the photos of Salima to blackmail me. When the old queen Roveda decided to rebel against Max’s double dealing he compromised the balance between the two blades, and Max killed Roveda. He wanted his piece. That dirty bastard did nothing but cause trouble, but why the hell was he trying to kill me instead of making a run for it with the cash?

  ‘Do you think he’s still in Milan?’ I asked.

  Giovanna moved the mouse and read. ‘I’m positive. He’s out on house arrest. He can’t leave his residence and he has to sign in three times a week at the police station for at least another couple of years.’

  There’s the explanation. Max couldn’t run away, so he had to get rid of the evidence. Now he was scared that I’d tell the cops everything I knew. That would wind him back in prison, where he would spend the rest of his miserable life. Maybe the Ad Exec knew Max was behind all this from the start. Too bad he didn’t write it down somewhere.

  ‘Do you have the new address?’

  ‘Here it says that he’s in a halfway house.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a place where people out of prison or rehab go to if they don’t have family to stay with until they find a job and a place to live.’ She gave me the street address.

  It was outside Milan, near Viale Ortles next to the homeless shelter. That’s why I hadn’t been able to find him on the internet.

  ‘How many years did he do?’

  ‘Four inside and two here with us.’

  ‘That’s not a lot.’

  ‘Manslaughter.’

  ‘The last chemist?’

  ‘Yes. They gave him a lighter sentence because he was strung out just like everyone else who’s here.’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Do you want to see my sheet?’

  ‘No, that’s OK.’

  ‘C’mon, why not? It’ll be fun.’ She clicked then turned the monitor towards me. International narcotics trafficking and aggravated assault. Sentence completed. She was there as a volunteer. Job: teacher.

  ‘Congratulations.’ I said.

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but that’s what I usually ask other people.’

  ‘I’d love to see your bio but it’s not here.’ She smiled licking her lips. ‘Are you happy now? You’ve got a promise to keep. Did you read aggravated assault? You don’t want to upset me.’

  ‘Oh yeah. The pigsties?’

  She pounced on me. ‘There is a cosy place where you don’t smell the stink as much.’

  ‘Never break a promise.’ In the end, willingly or unwillingly, my hormones were leading me.

  She unlocked the door and just as we were leaving a woman in her forties with curly hair came in. The tag on her green jacket read Marta. ‘Signor Denti! Did you come to pay us a visit?’

  ‘Just a quick one. I’m going to walk around and then go home.’

  ‘I’ll take him around.’ Giovanna said.

  Marta nodded. ‘Sure, make yourself at home. If you have time come by for a coffee before you leave.’ Before turning into her office she winked at me.’

  I was taken aback. Hey, Ad Exec, you really couldn’t keep it in, could you?

  ‘Like a bitch in heat,’ Giovanna said, catching the gesture.

  ‘No shame at all.’

  We were on the main path, walking toward the outer circle of the community. Who knows which dormitory Max lived in while he planned his return to greatness?

  ‘What are you thinking about, Signor Denti?’ she asked. ‘Is it what I’m thinking?’

  ‘You bet it is.’

  ‘You seem less horny, if I can be cheeky.’

  ‘You cheeky? When?’

  The pigsties were in sight when my pocket vibrated. The phone display read Serena. Oh no, another lover? I answered only because I saw that it was the third time that she had called in twenty minutes. Strangely, the voice that answered was male. He asked if it was me.

  ‘Depends on who you are.’

  ‘I’m Dr … ’ he said a name that I didn’t catch. ‘From Villa Serena.’

  So Serena was a place.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  It was about my father. He was dying.

  2

  The room stank and I was still in the doorway, unable to make myself go in. I expected to see doctors and nurses yelling and running around. The reality was much worse.

  There was an old skeleton in bed barely breathing with an oxygen mask and two IV lines that dripped into his black veins. The last time that I saw my old man, he’d weighed eighty kilos and could do a hundred push-ups. He wasn’t in a camper van on some trip through Europe, but in room number twelve of the terminal ward in Villa Serena. It was an ugly brown building with a row of drab leafless trees behind it.

  The doctor who met me was pleasant and in a hurry. ‘What would you like me to say? Last night your father almost died.’

  Almost died. It was inevitable considering the pancreatic cancer that had spread. Only one lung worked, and about a fourth of his liver. He was attached to oxygen. His moments of consciousness were rare.

  ‘Can’t you take him to a hospital and operate on him? Can you do anything?’

  ‘You can only wait,’ the doctor said before returning to his rounds.’ He was the only doctor for about a hundred old and dying patients. He was in a hurry.

  I went in. On the nightstand were a pair of sunglasses on top of a dusty magazine, a bottle of water, and an empty glass. In the wardrobe a pair of clean pyjamas lay folded on a shelf and a dressing gown hung from a hook. The face under the mask was a skull with eyes shut and a two-day-old beard. Its hair was like strands of thin cotton and its thin neck disappeared into the pillow. Its lips were gone.

  I took the only chair in the room, and I slid it towards the bed and sat down.

  ‘Hello, Piero,’ I said.

  ‘The skull blinked and moved its mouth. ‘Ssssss.’

  ‘Santo. Yeah, it’s me. Do you want anything? Water?’

  He tried to shake his head.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You … came here to see me.’ He raised his right hand, trying to touch my face. His dry fingers caressed me. ‘My … son … The Director.’

  He pointed to the nightstand. ‘Take it … take it.’

  ‘What, the glass?’ No. ‘The newspaper?’ Yes. ‘You want me to open it? Where?’ There was a bookmark. ‘VIP News.’ One title was Who’s in and Who isn’t? There was a party in Sardinia during the holiday month of August. Whores and dancers. There was a leggy black model and a man with a pimp face and sunglasses. They were arm in arm. Some idiot had stuck his head between them for the picture. It was the Ad Exec with a silly-ass smile.

  ‘You’re … an … important man.’

  ‘It’s not true. Your son isn’t worth a damn, Piero.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘I’m very happy.’

  I placed the magazine near his mask. ‘My name isn’t even in the caption. I just stuck my head in the shot.’

  A nun walked in. ‘How are we doing today? Are you being good?’ She bent down over my father and adjusted his pillow. He pointed to me with his arm punctured with the IV line.

  ‘My … son.’

  ‘I see, your son. He’s very handsome, and every now and then he comes to visit. Did you tell him the prayer?’

  ‘Ye-sss.’

  ‘Good, because the Virgin Mary has to give you lots of strength.’

  ‘The priest is ready,
whenever you are,’ she said to me.

  ‘The priest?’

  ‘To administer the Last Rites,’ she whispered. She took a card out with a sacred image and kissed it, then placed it under my father’s pillow. ‘Please, Lord, give him strength.’

  ‘Get rid of that.’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I got up. ‘You heard me, get that out of here!’ I grabbed the card. The Sacred Heart of Jesus. I ripped it and threw it on the ground. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Get the hell out.’

  She picked up the pieces and left, shaking her head.

  My father was making strange noises. I got scared, but he was only laughing.

  ‘You’ve never liked that nun,’ I said to him.

  He laughed again, sounding like a bag of nuts being shaken. ‘I’m sorry … that I don’t see … you often … I know why … you have … to work.’

  I sat back down. He had a string of drool on his chin and I dried it off with a tissue that I found in the drawer of his nightstand. ‘Piero, I don’t come here because I’m an arsehole. I dumped you here so I could do whatever the hell I wanted.’

  ‘No … it’s not true.’

  ‘It is, but what did you expect? It isn’t like we got along anyway. Remember the arguments?’ Why didn’t we see each other anymore? What had happened to me? ‘I’m sorry anyway, Piero. Really. You lived a crappy life. I wanted for you to get at least one of the things you wanted … the beach house … ’ I dried my tears, hoping he didn’t notice. I coughed to clear my voice. ‘Do you want water?’

  ‘No. Your friend tells me … all the time … that you’re very busy … ’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘He told me … just … this … morning.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Giovanni. No, Franco. No … Marco … ’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Max.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘My father closed his eyes. I shook him. ‘What did you say?’

  He opened his eyes again. ‘Hey … you came.’

  ‘Did you say Max? Did you say Max?’

  ‘Take it … take it … ’ he pointed to the nightstand.

  ‘Enough with the newspaper!’

  ‘You … make me so … proud.’

  I jumped to my feet; I couldn’t breathe. I opened the window and stuck my head outside. It couldn’t be real. My father couldn’t distinguish reality anymore. Who knows where he got that name from, especially that name? The room was on the ground floor in front of the pavement that went around the property and further towards a bare park where an octogenarian was doing light exercises. I lit a cigarette and after two drags, my eyes focused on the street that I had taken to get here from Porta Romana. A police car stopped. Two, then three, as well as an unmarked car with its lights flashing.

  I went back inside and leaned towards my father. ‘I have to go. Try to get some rest.’

  My father gasped and grabbed my wrist. It seemed impossible that a skeleton of a man could have such a steely grip.

  ‘Don’t … leave … me … here.’

  ‘Let go, c’mon.’ I shook my arm but he wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Don’t leave me … ’

  I pulled and he grabbed me with his other hand. It seemed as through all his strength had returned at once. He held on as he sobbed, ‘Don’t … leave … me here.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad.’ I tried to yank him off of me and he slid out of bed, ripping the oxygen mask from his face and knocking the IV stand against the wall. His fingers still gripped onto my wrist like a vice. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Noooo.’

  His legs twitched, his feet crashing into the nightstand as he dragged the sheet from the bed. The catheter bag fell to the floor, splashing urine everywhere.

  ‘Shit!’ I took my free hand and pried his fingers off one by one. He was still on his stomach and tried to grab my ankle. I evaded his grip by a hair’s breadth as I leapt out the window.

  The fall against the cement knocked the wind out of me. I ran towards the park and hopped over a couple of employees playing cards on a step.

  ‘Where are you going?’ one asked.

  I didn’t know, as long as it wasn’t the main entrance. I ran through the bushes until I got to the wall.

  I heard voices in the distance. He went that way. It’s him. Hey you, stop!

  The wall was at least three metres high and made from blocks of reinforced concrete. I put my foot in a crack and was able to climb up and grab the edge. Pull yourself up, you fat old bastard. C’mon! Up! Under normal conditions I would never have been able to do it. But with adrenaline pumping through you, miracles can happen. I put my right elbow over the edge and pushed myself over and fell to the other side. In the comic strips there’s always a bush on the other side to break your fall. I had nothing, just a pavement on a dead-end street. It hurt like hell but I only felt it later. I got up and kept running. My lungs and spleen burned. The tenth time I turned around I almost ran into a couple of carabinieri cars. I flattened myself against the entrance of a shop. It was a butcher’s. Ustoni’s face was smiling from the display: The Ustoni Salami SMS Contest! Win a New Set of Ustoni Kitchen Knives! A look at the prize took what was left of my breath. I went in.

  The butcher looked like a tailor and was dressed just as elegantly. I was the only customer. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like to know more about the prize.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Do you have a better picture of the knives?’

  ‘You’d like to know if they’re worth it? Look behind the window.’

  Between jars of pickled vegetables, there was an open briefcase. Inside was a set of Ustoni knives.

  ‘They gave us a set of demo knives for the customers.’

  I got closer to the glass. The cleaver blade was identical to the one that I had picked up from the street after the biker tried to cut my head off. Same colour. Same metal.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ continued the butcher, ‘but they’re not the best. If I used them they would definitely break but, hey, they’re free; what do you expect? So, you want some Ustoni salami?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  I was dizzy and I began to feel the falls. The same knife, but why? Did Max take it from my house when he put the bomb in my computer? It didn’t make sense.

  The phone vibrated in my pocket. I just threw it against the wall. If they could send me phone ads, then they could certainly trace where I was. The phone broke into two pieces, and I stomped on it until only splinters of plastic remained.

  I started to walk slowly. I was far away from the old folks’ home and the pigs couldn’t seal off the entire neighbourhood. Maybe they were watching me from space by satellite or even sniffing my DNA in the air. In this world everything was under surveillance, spied on and connected to the internet. There was no way to get out.

  I turned onto a street that was full of cars and people. I adjusted my coat and dusted off my trousers. I was one among many anonymous faces. Until my photo was sent to every phone, iPod, plasma-screen TV, and giant TV monitor where Christmas commercials ran alongside news about suicide bombers.

  Get him. Arrest him.

  I got on a tram and then took a bus that went in my direction. In half an hour I got to Viale Ortles and at the first intersection I found the halfway house. It was a four-floor red brick building with a solid polished wood door that stood out from the surrounding desolation. A sign indicated the offices of the Holy Blood Community. The rest of the buzzers were anonymous.

  The offices were on the ground floor and they opened directly onto an inner courtyard typical of old Milan. There were a dried-up fountain and cast-iron benches. Inside a couple of people waited in a queue in front of what seemed to be an office window. I waited for my turn, pretending to be a patient. The guy in front of me was getting his mail and wanted to know if anybody had come looking for him. They were residents w
ho had previously worn coloured jackets. They all came from the Centre, even the guy inside. I saw prison tattoos on his hand.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I told him who I was; he didn’t seem at all impressed. I said I was looking for Max.

  ‘We can’t give that information out,’ he said.

  ‘It’s important that I contact him. I’m with the Founding Committee; my name should be around somewhere. I’m on the website, you can check.’

  ‘Even if you were the president of the Republic, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve got to work here.’

  ‘Do you know Father Zurloni?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Call him and ask him about me. I would do it myself but I forgot my phone at home.’

  ‘I don’t know … ’

  I convinced him. He said who I was and Father Zurloni asked to speak to me.

  ‘Son, what’s going on? The police are looking for you.’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Can you help me with this guy at the halfway house?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Santo, I think that it’s better that you … ’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll tell him myself.’

  ‘Santo … ’

  ‘OK. I’ll tell Monica that you said hello. Thanks again and see you soon.’

  I hung up the phone and leaned against the counter. ‘You see.’ I said to the guy.

  ‘If Father Zurloni says it’s OK … ’ The phone began to ring.

  ‘Please, I’m in a rush, answer later.’

  Ring. Ring. ‘The person that you’re looking for was here for only a few days. He found a job and a place to stay almost immediately.’ He looked at the phone.

  Ring. Ring. I picked up the phone and then hung up. The guy pulled a face. ‘Maybe it was important.’

  ‘Sorry. Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘I can look in the register. It’s usually written here.’ He slid the chair to the computer and tapped on the keyboard. ‘Here it is. He found a job as a doorman.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Corso Vercelli 6.’