He wants it all

by Marilena Barbagallo

“Okay,” I just say.

  The fact that I'm without mask seems to make him nervous. Now he keeps his head bowed, as if he wants to avoid looking at me. His chest pumps due to a breathing, compromised by the things going through his mind. He looks nervous, seems to be exploding. I suppose he is trying to control his anger. I find myself imagining his hands rising and hitting me. He holds his fists tight, it's alarming.

  The boat has already approached the dock, but I'm still standing in front of him waiting for something. He has this effect on me: it's as if he knew I expect something.

  “Go on!” He shouts.

  Okay, he's crazy.

  He first follows me as a stalker, then he says he escorted me because this part of the city is not safe and now he behaves as before, sending me away.

  I don't care. I don't even greet him or thank him. I turn away and I leave, feeling his gaze on my back.

  From the boat, I see he is still there looking at me: hands in his pockets, mask still on his face. I surprise myself imagining how his face is.

  I keep watching him. His image fades away, becomes a dot and then vanishes, like the lights of Venice. With him, the intriguing feeling that has filled me halfway through the evening, also dissolves.

  And suddenly in my mind a figure appears without any reason. And suddenly I feel that feeling.

  Intrusiveness.

  The same intrusiveness I used to feel when I was in front of my kidnapper and I felt again today, but that seems to have materialized in another way.

  It's fear, but it's an intriguing fear, a desire to encounter the fear itself, and no longer a need to escape from it.

  When I walk into the doorway, Irina's pale face worries me. She takes my overcoat and my handbag and tells me to reach mom in the living room.

  Mom is still dressed as I had left her, she didn't even go to sleep. I don't have the time to ask why she has asked me to come back home that the family notary appears behind her.

  “H-honey,” mom moves toward me with open arms. She gently grabs my hand and leads me to the couch. “I'm sorry I worried you.”

  She wants to hide her nervousness, but her fleshy lips, trembling, betray her. I sit down, but I'm stiff and curious. I don't understand what the notary is doing in our house so late at night.

  “Ambra, your mother needs to talk to you about some family issues,” he begins. He looks at my mother and bows his head in a way that wants to convey to her a courage she seems to lack.

  The notary pulls a black envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

  A black envelope? The color already means a lot. Am I in one of those reality shows for wealthy families? Is there a hidden camera? Was I nominated?

  The envelope is handed to me. I turn my face and I see the red wax seal. The unmistakable sign of a star strikes me. It reminds me of the rose of the winds.

  “What is it?” I ask my mother, knowing that the notary could easily answer. Something within me requires explanations directly from her.

  Mum looks down, a rarity. She usually has no problem looking me in the eyes, but something tells me that the problem is serious now.

  “Mom!” I shake her a little and she sighs, always keeping that decorum that characterizes her and that now makes me nervous.

  “Ambra, I don't know how to tell you, I cannot find the right words to explain that…” The notary goes to her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

  “Ambra, maybe you should read the letter. Its content will help you understand.”

  I gaze at that seal, searching for something in my mind that I can identify with a memory, an image, but nothing. It is a rose of the winds and nothing more. On the back of the letter there is nothing written, so I wonder how he can be sure it's a message for me.

  “Who sends it?” I ask.

  Mom seems unable to speak. When she behaves this way, all the nicknames I've made up to insult her come to my mind. The notary, being objective, seems to have a clearer mind , even if his mature look is slightly shaken with concern.

  “Ambra, this envelope was deposited in my studio long ago, in order to be delivered on the due date. Unfortunately, today I was very busy and so I brought it only now.”

  “Okay, but who is sending it?”

  “Open it honey,” mom clutches my hand. “Do you want to stay by yourself?”

  “Why should I stay by myself?”

  “I don't know, I said it, just for…”

  “You're making me nervous, mom, maybe you're right, maybe it's better I read it by myself.”

  I stand up, I feel my mother's hand slipping away from mine. She does nothing to hold me back and this shows me her fear of having disappointed me.

  I go through the living room and pass the hall. It takes me an eternity to reach dad's studio, the only place I can find peace and security.

  I lock the door behind me and go to his desk, where everything has remained unchanged. I flop onto his leather armchair, and the memory of me sitting on his legs as his fingers digit the old calculator reappears upsetting my stomach.

  I turn on the desk lamp and examine the black envelope. I sigh and I hurry to open it, without worrying about ruining the envelope.

  Inside there is a black card, it's empty. I pull it out completely and turn it over.

  A golden writing is evident on the black sheet. I lean on the back of the chair and read it carefully.

  After the due time

  from the death of the member Alberto Livori,

  the direct heir, Ambra Livori,

  is summoned for the generational turn over.

  That's all? Nothing else? What the hell does that mean? I read it again and then stare at the usual star on the bottom right. It may be a kind of brand. These words say nothing. What kind of sane person would give credit to a couple of sentences put together in order to drive one crazy?

  I have no intention of losing sleep over this nonsense. However, if the notary delivered the envelope, it must be authentic, or at least it deserves attention. I should ask him directly. As far as I can understand, it could mean anything, or it may mean nothing.

  With the envelope and the card between my fingers, I rush into the living room to bombard the notary with questions, but when I think I'm ready to show all my curiosity, I see my mother's back. Alone.

  “Where's the notary?”

  Mom turns around, her eyes reddened, she must have cried. That makes me even more nervous.

  “What does it mean?” I shout, waving the card in her eyes.

  “Come with me. Your father will explain it to you.”

  My heart seems to splash, not boom, but just splash. It has plunged into the sea, it's drowning.

  Mommy moves away and gets a new envelope out of a cabinet.

  Are we kidding?

  “Your father's words are the only ones that can tell you the meaning of all this,” she slowly advances to me, her arm flexed, the letter coming towards me.

  My father's words.

  My father left me a letter and I receive it only now?

  I feel wounded. My skin burns out of the anger flowing in my veins. I am furious at my mother, about the situation, with this black card, with myself and perhaps with my father, for writing words on a piece of paper and not having launched them into the air while he was looking into my eyes as he used to do.

  Dad…

  When my father's letter reaches my hands, the anger goes away and the feeling of love that binds me to my blood relative, becomes like a warm hug. I'm not angry with him anymore. I only see his elegant and impeccable handwriting that says: To my daughter.

  My eyes are filled with water, the tears of emotions ready to pour out. I don't have to cry. I don't want that every time I remember dad, I break into tears. The memory of loved ones must be a joy, not always a torment.

  I sit down again and ignore Mom. At the moment I would like to beat her because she has hidden from me what appears to be a revelation.

  I put the black envelope next to me, making
sure it covers the content of the card. Something tells me to keep the content for me or maybe my unconscious just wants to punish Mom, not showing her what it contains.

  I take my dad's letter and, before opening it, bring it to my nostrils, hoping to perceive the family infusion. It's not there. I don't smell his odor, I only notice the aroma of the papyrus and its old age, that essence that reminds us of the objects kept aside for a long time.

  A tear passes through the barrier created by my eyes, I feel it slipping down and reaching my lips, reminding me of the taste of sadness.

  Handling my daddy's paper is even worse than anything else. Mom cannot look at me, she is now in a veil of silent tears. She stands up and flees away, leaving me alone, subtracting her from the moment, as if she knew she didn't have to be part of this intimate "encounter". Mine and Daddy's.

  The sheet trembles between my fingers, tears blur my sight. I take a deep breath and literally devour the words written by my father.

  Love of my life,

  If you are reading this letter, it means that I'm gone, that one year after my death has gone by and you opened the black envelope.

  OMG!

  The shivers don't help to stop the trembling. I swallow and read again.

  Love of my life,

  If you are reading this letter it means that I'm gone, that one year after my death has gone by and you opened the black envelope.

  Don't be afraid, don't be afraid for yourself, welcome the call and follow the instructions. If you do as they say, you will be a free woman. Do you remember when I talked with you about freedom and I told you that it really doesn't exist? You looked at me with your confused eyes and when you said, "Daddy, you think like adults," I smiled and told you it was true and you could think as " little ones" for the rest of your life. Now, my love, I tell you that you have to think "like adults," but not in the way you meant it as a child, but in the same way that I tried to educate you. Think like the Great ones, think Big, be Great. Always try to do what you think is right. Be fair. Let yourself be led by your morals, even when you are required to follow new ones, to be part of a world that doesn't belong to you. Fake it. Pretend to be what they want, don't oppose them. Be witty, Great, be an expert and you will be free. Freedom will be a new concept for you to explore. Conquer your freedom and, unfortunately, honey, be satisfied with what you can get. Forgive me if your origins will chain you to a reality that will perturb you. Forgive me if you now believe that you are the daughter of a man you don't recognize anymore. Forgive me if what I did in my life was ruined by that thirst for power that led me to where you are now going to get to. Forgive me if my words aren't clear enough. Forgive me if I'm making you cry.

  Forgive me!

  Read my words carefully and look for their deeper meaning. Unfortunately, I can add nothing else, if not a new request to forgive my lack of fairness that has characterized the acquisition of our family's power. Not always do you become Great doing great things. Honey, I hope you will be able to do great things, honestly, whether you follow or you don't follow my footsteps. I would like you to accept your fate and adapt it to your vision of the world. Time will teach you how to manage everything, to overcome the hostility for them. Over time, you will be Great in your own way.

  I suppose you miss me, I am already missing you, because I know my words will have buried the esteem you have always nourished for me. I'm sorry if today I'm disappointing you somehow. I'm sorry if our blood tie will give them the right to come and get you.

  I love you with all my soul.

  A big hug,

  Dad.

  After reading the letter again and again, my body reacts.

  I run away.

  I go out into the garden without worrying about the freezing night air, without thinking of my naked back that feels the cold. I'm hot, I'm on fire, I feel my dad's hug protecting me from the cool air, but causing such great anger and pain that I'm forced to let off a liberatory scream.

  I fall onto the lawn and cling to the clumps of wet grass. The letter shrivels under my grip and I panic.

  Dad, whatever you think you did, I forgive you.

  I whisper it to the wind, I whisper it to his soul, which, of course, I know, is around me.

  I don't want to think about the content of the letter. I don't want to ask myself questions that I will not find the answer to. I just want to remember my father's eyes and want to try to reach him with the love I feel, despite everything.

  7

  KRUM

  I don't wait for Oscar, nor for Manuel. I go back to the Temple on my own. When I get there, I don't worry about slamming all the doors I open and, as I go up to my room, I can feel my anger coming on worse than before.

  How could I have talked to her? And then? And even escort her! I should have left her to those drunk guys and let them do the worst things to her.

  I go into my room and get undressed, leaving stuff on the floor. I run into the bathroom and turn on the water in the shower. I turn it to cold, to cool down the temperature of my blood boiling in my contracted body.

  I cannot understand why that woman has me such an effect on me. It makes me nervous, anxious. I completely lose control of myself and the ability to choose what to do.

  Yes: she deprives me of the faculty to choose.

  I'm not free to stay away from her, I'm not free to approach her, I'm not free to push her away, I'm not free to touch her, I'm not free to keep her off my mind or keep her on it.

  I'm not free.

  Mrazya te. I hate you.

  I dive myself in the freezing stream and I don't even shudder: my body is burning. I try to get rid of her. I rub her away, but closing my eyes seems to be a condemnation because I see her.

  Kurva. Whore

  I remember the way she looked at me as I was sucking that woman's nipple. I felt her eyes on me, curious, burning. And then... the image of her out there: she turns, her eyes the color of sand, fine sand, bright golden granules, and that hair... I should have known her by her hair. That damn hair!

  I hit the tiles, the water runs on me, but it doesn't refresh me, it keeps warming me. If I only could do what I have in mind, if I could destroy her and so eliminate her forever from this world and from my mind, I would, damn it. If I could, I would do it!

  I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. Without worrying about wetting the floor, I head into the room, light a cigarette and sit on the window-sill. The only thing that can calm down these unwanted sensations is the memory of her perfume: the smell of fear.

  I clearly read fear in the moment she met my eyes. I had to put on her mask because the loss of control was consuming me. My hands wanted to grab her arms and shove her away, push her away from me.

  Did she recognize me? Did she understand whose eyes were in front of her? Did she realize?

  I have had her in my mind for years. It's a long time that she torments me with those imploring eyes, with that voice begging me, with her hands looking for me, searching for my protection.

  She believed I was a refuge for her, she believed I could save her, I did it, partially, but tonight...

  I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to punish her for being - without any reason - an obsession of mine. I looked at her, I was in front of her, but my mind was caught up in fantasizing perverted actions, violent scenes, images in where she was punished for being my thought.

  I smoke the cigarette until it is completely disintegrated, I put it out in the ashtray and I dry myself fast. I flop naked on the bed, angry because of the absurd coincidence that I have been subjected to.

  I kidnap a girl. When I take her home, I cannot stop thinking about her, I follow her, I get as much information as possible about her, spend months in jail and I don't see her again, except in my fucking brain. I come back to life and the first woman who attracts my attention is... Tya. Her.

  When I'm about to sleep, I realize a year has passed and so I know that my torment has just begun.

  One of the Fa
ther's early teachings comes to mind: never allow anyone to touch you inside or out.

  Dad shouts my name. Dad never looks for me unless he wants to train me. I reach him and he asks me to greet a gentleman. He's tall, he doesn't have a beautiful face. He has cuts on his cheek. Dad is counting money. They paid him. Today he has done well, today he has gained money; we eat today. Today I may have coke.

  “Come on, Krum.” I walk to him and raise my head to the guest. I don't like the way he stares at me, I don't like that he is here. Usually nobody comes home except beautiful women.

  “He's a friend,” dad says.

  The man bends down, kneels to my height, and gazes at my eyes. His lips sigh as if they had something beautiful in front of them. I don't want him to look at me like that. He looks at me as those women with my dad do.

  “How old are you, Krum?” he asks.

  He smiles, looks kind, but I'm still frowning, and I answer pouting.

  “Twelve.”

  The man sighs again and stands up. He puts his hands in his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

  Dad is happy. Maybe I should be happy too, as the gentleman hands him some more money. I cannot imagine how much, but it seems a lot. Maybe I may also have a soccer ball.

  Dad grabs my shoulder and moves me away from the man. He turns me and he leans toward me.

  “Do you remember what that blonde woman did the other day?” I stare, trying to remember. Many women come and go from here and I don't remember the blonde one. “The one who left you candies,” he continues.

  “Yes.” I remember her. A beautiful woman, different from the others. More beautiful.

  “Do you remember what she did to me with her mouth?”

  At that thought I feel hot. The memory is beautiful and I like it. I also wanted to play that game.

  “Well?” he shakes me a little.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good. The gentleman has given us so much money so that you do the same with him. Will you?”

  “No, I won't.”