Rome Noir

by Chiara Stangalino

  Peppe, Francesco, and Cinzia

  It was in the grip of this obsession that Peppe began to look around. And he found Francesco and Cinzia. Almost as if someone on high or down below had heard his prayers. What more could one ask? Two aimless kids hanging around the neighborhood, with an obvious desire (especially the boy) to learn. When Peppe got in touch with him to arrange a quick sale of amphetamines, Francesco let him know immediately how he saw things: It’s better to sell drugs than to use them. Morons use them. If it wasn’t for the morons, there wouldn’t be so much money around. Once the three agreed about the inexorable presence of morons in the world, they became conspiratorial and exchanged confidences. Peppe said that he was about to die, Francesco that he wanted a life different from the one he had lived up to now. Rather than continue like this, he preferred to be like the old residents of the neighborhood—get some money in his pocket and go to a tropical island. They would open a bar, far away from the morons. At least from the ones he knew. And here came Francesco’s bright idea: the gold tokens. An easy job. After listening to Francesco, Peppe agreed. The problem was not so much that of taking the tokens as of converting them to money. Of finding a fence. Peppe knew someone who might be just what they needed: Tonino. Right, said Cinzia.

  Tonino

  Tonino had a problem: He spent everything he had on high-class whores. On Saturdays, on one pretext or another, he headed toward the Marche. He knew certain Ukrainians who worked in private brothels. Fabulous. He took care of everything, even the cocaine. Three hours of luxury. Of unrestrained vice. Then the return home, without a euro in his pocket. Too many gifts, handouts, tips, and little somethings for everyone, whores and friends of the whores. Tonino was old and when he turned sixty he had been seized by this mania: to fuck without limits. For a man like him, shut up in a shop for almost fifty years, there was only one thing to do: spend, throw away money. What use was it to him? His children already had money. They, too, were jewelers. Besides, his children were morons.

  It can be done, Tonino said to Peppe. I know where to sell them; you bring them to me and I’ll pay you half the value. How many can you bring?

  Carlo and Marta

  Although Carlo occasionally worked in television, he didn’t know that the gold tokens awarded as prizes had different values: thirty, fifty, a hundred and fifty, two hundred and fifty, five hundred thousand euros. He discovered it by chance on May 18, 2006, because the mother of Marta (his new girlfriend) had won gold tokens as a prize. A hundred and fifty thousand euros. A twofold fortune. Marta’s mother was up there in years and so, apart from using some of the money to pay her caretaker, she wouldn’t have known what to do with that sum. She had decided to give it to her daughter, and the daughter wanted to divide it equally with Carlo. The two had shared a night on the train, they were in love, and after that night they had to share any fortune that might come to them. Carlo inquired about collecting the prize and found out it was the agency in Pigneto that would deliver the money. So, since Carlo knew the owner by sight, one day he went to see him. When Carlo came in, Matteo was sleeping in a chair (in fact, a prize to be delivered). It was Daniela who shook his hand first and asked him not to make any noise, her husband slept whenever he could, because the child mistook night for day. When Carlo left the agency he knew more about his life: (a) the gold tokens would arrive on May 20 at Matteo and Daniela’s agency, and would be delivered to his house directly; (b) Carlo was so fascinated by the business of the gold tokens that he asked the couple if he could see how the job was carried out, and sooner or later he would find a way to tell their story; and (c) with his portion he would give his children a present, especially his son Francesco. The boy needed a gesture of affection. Maybe a motorcycle.

  Peppe, Francesco, Cinzia, and a Mysterious Man

  Peppe had taken care of all the details of the heist. His brain still functioned, and as long as it functioned (time was running out, another month), he wanted to use it to make the kids happy. For himself he asked nothing—no money, no benefits, no percentages … nothing. What would be the use? To pay for more treatments and live a few more days? All pointless. Better to do something useful for the kids, his two godchildren.

  There would be no bloodshed, no gun or other weapons. The mysterious man would come with them. Actually, his name was Ugo. A stout clerical worker who had two hobbies: he was a practitioner of judo and a fan of bondage. He liked to tie people up and watch their contortions. Some time ago, Ugo had entered the world of clandestine films; in particular, he produced films in which acts of violence were simulated or reenacted. Ugo wouldn’t know anything about the gold tokens; besides, all he cared about was tying people up and filming the scene. The plan, then, was simple. Peppe had persuaded Ugo to set up a real snuff movie, to sell later on the clandestine market. Peppe and Ugo would go into the agency, and tie up Matteo and Daniela. The whole thing would be filmed by a small camera. After that, while Ugo was preparing to film the two of them, bound and gagged, Peppe would hit him on the head, tie him up, grab the gold tokens, and deliver them to the kids. Francesco agreed to everything except one small detail: He wanted to take part in the robbery. Peppe insisted that he shouldn’t. Why take that risk? Francesco was ready for a risk. Francesco trusted Peppe only up to a certain point; he liked him but felt that basically Peppe would always be a piece of shit. Yet Francesco didn’t consider him a moron. Peppe, on the other hand, had understood Francesco’s doubt. More than legitimate. Good sign, Francesco was right not to trust him. Smart, that kid. He would let him come. The robbery couldn’t be fully set up in advance, they would have to act on the moment. When the storefront’s metal shutter had been lowered halfway. There, that was the signal. Ugo would be ready, he lived just across from the place. They would wait at his house for the right moment. There were plenty of films for diversion. Right, said Cinzia.

  Peppe

  On the morning of May 20, shortly before going to Ugo’s house as he had for the previous three days, to check on the activity at the agency, Peppe received a phone call. A kind, solicitous voice told him that he had better sit down. At the end of the call, Peppe said to himself: What do I do now, I don’t have a cent.

  Ugo

  Ugo had all the equipment ready.

  Francesco

  Around 11 in the morning, through a window at Ugo’s house, he thought he saw his father walking around the neighborhood. Odd, he said to himself, this isn’t his day to visit.

  The Agency

  Matteo lowered the shutter halfway down around 3. About a minute earlier two private guards had delivered several bags. Matteo seemed to be asleep on his feet.

  The Architect

  At 3 he had arrived in the neighborhood to begin his exploratory tour.

  Peppe, Francesco, etc., and the Final Unfolding of Events, According to the Police Report

  The three of them, Peppe, Francesco, and Ugo, entered the agency. The plan had been organized this way: Right after the robbery, Peppe and Francesco, on the motorcycle, would head for Tonino’s. The important thing was to deliver the gold tokens, get them to a safe place right away. Peppe and Francesco had discussed who should drive. Francesco wanted to drive, because, as he reminded Peppe, his brain, unfortunately, played nasty tricks. Peppe himself had told Francesco about the time he thought he was braking and accelerated instead. The first terrible symptom of the brain tumor. Peppe, however, insisted on driving: With him driving, they would seem a pair, father and son, and would attract less attention. And after that one day, it had never happened again. When he had to brake he braked, and when he had to accelerate he accelerated. That type of symptom had disappeared. In the end, the older man’s wish was respected.

  Wearing ski masks, the three entered the agency at 3:50 p.m., and the first person they came across was, unexpectedly, Carlo, Francesco’s father. He was trying to take notes, in a notebook. Carlo, seeing the three in their ski masks, and imagining that they were there to grab the gold tokens, did something that he had
never in his life done before and would never repeat: He violently struck the first man he came to—his son Francesco. Who, after the blow, stood absolutely motionless, as if he had received an order to stand at attention. Carlo stopped, in turn, because the blow seemed to have paralyzed his hand. At this point Ugo intervened and, with a handkerchief soaked in chloroform, immobilized Carlo, then knocked him out, while Peppe flung himself on Matteo, using the same approach. It didn’t take much; Matteo was already asleep on his feet and expected it. The only problem was Daniela, who started screaming, but she was immediately restrained. Once this was done, Peppe—while Ugo, already excited, began to tie up the three and film them—glanced at Francesco. The boy was staggering about the room, as if stunned. Peppe immediately grabbed the bags. They were very heavy. He put them in a gym bag, then made a sign to Ugo, who immobilized Francesco too. Francesco put up some weak resistance before the chloroform knocked him out. When he came to, he found himself in an embarrassing position: He was in his underwear, and his legs were tied together with his arms—like a salami. His father was next to him, bound in the same position. For all practical purposes, they were two morons. In front of them was Ugo, tied to a table. The camera was shooting him, half-asleep. Peppe went up to Francesco and said: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go like this. I found out a little while ago about a miracle—they made the wrong diagnosis. I’m not going to die, and that is good news; the bad news is that I didn’t have a cent—I’ve spent everything, and I’m desperate. I need money. I’m taking it all and getting out. When they find you, you’ll be able to say you were the victim of a robbery. Or confess everything, including my name. But don’t do that. First of all, because it will be too late, I’ll already be gone. Second, because if you become known at your young age, then you’re finished in this line of work. And you have the stuff. Don’t waste your talent.

  After which Peppe got on the motorcycle and sped off in great excitement, the wind cooling his sweat.

  It Was an Instant

  The first symptom hinting at a brain tumor had been difficulty walking. Peppe had wanted to accelerate and instead he braked. It was an instant, then he retook control of the situation. When, shortly before the robbery, the doctor, a woman, in tears, apologizing over and over again, explained about the mistake—a simple, stupid, imbecilic mixup of X-rays—Peppe felt as if he had been reborn. And as a result of that sensation, he was like a child who has not yet learned to walk. For long minutes, in fact, he couldn’t remember how to walk. Now, on the motorcycle, with the gold tokens, he felt that he had regained full control of his faculties. He was happy. The horizon was clear.

  He certainly didn’t expect a drunk to cross the street like that. Obviously Peppe tried to brake, but because of a sort of strange, unexpected symptom, he accelerated and hit the man.

  The Architect

  Riccardo came out of the bar and realized that he was about to faint. A classic drop in blood sugar. Riccardo often watched the TV show Paperissima, which featured people caught at embarrassing moments, and laughed heartily when he saw couples passing out at the altar from emotion. He couldn’t understand how it was possible to lose your strength like that, so that you seemed like a sack of potatoes left to itself, or someone who, given a push, staggers slightly, then, taking a dozen steps forward, falls flat on his face, powerless, like a dead man. He had the thought that the neighborhood was in the process of being renovated, before his sight darkened; and in spite of the blackness into which he was plunged, he took five steps, like a drunk, right into the middle of the street, and was violently struck by a motorcycle proceeding at high speed. When, after seventy-two hours, Riccardo finally regained consciousness, he realized, reading the newspaper, that he had been an involuntary hero, one who brings about the arrest of the foolish old protagonist of a comic heist of gold tokens, because, having fainted, he ends up under the motorcycle and flies forward a few meters. Every article he read emphasized the fact that the gold tokens, scattered all over the street, had been set upon by the neighborhood residents. Of every age, old and young, new arrivals and longtime inhabitants.

  SILENCE IS GOLDEN

  BY BOOSTA

  Tangenziale

  Translated by Ann Goldstein

  The sports car speeds along the asphalt ribbon. The last mechanic who worked on it said that a car that low brings bad luck; the mechanic is a Jehovah’s Witness and he’s convinced that the closer you are to the ground the farther you are from the grace of God.

  He drives looking straight ahead, she tilts her head slightly to the right; her forehead, hidden by blond bangs, hits the window at every bump. An almost constant noise, monotonous, grating.

  Jolt.

  Thump.

  Jolt.

  Thump.

  He would like to tell her to move, to pay attention, but all he manages to do is grunt. He opens his mouth as if to speak but remains suspended between the last thought and the first word, in apnea. She won’t help; she watches the unbroken stripe that marks the emergency lane and remains silent. At the interchange for the Castelli Romani he takes the ring road; the car points south.

  Signal, a glance in the rearview mirror, the engine grinds as he slows down and lets himself be swallowed up in the darkness by the broad asphalt ribbon filled with tires and metal plates.

  He’s trying for the fourth time—he’s begun to count the number of times he tries.

  He does it partly to occupy his mind and partly to make sure that everything is really happening and that it’s not the fault of some nausea-inducing systemic bug in the universe that spits us out by the billions onto earth.

  How are you? he manages to say.

  Then, again, there’s that pale forehead knocking against the glass, and the silence.

  For one, three, ten interminable seconds.

  She opens her mouth, parts her crimson-painted lips, and says, in a very distant singsong, Look out, you should be in the right-hand lane.

  Suddenly he feels a crash beneath his breastbone, the collision between a raging and unsustainable irritation and the knowledge that you need patience if you want to be the superman of a woman like this.

  For an instant he hates her.

  For an instant it seems to him that two yellow eyes are approaching in the rearview mirror and he feels like laughing and shouting in fear.

  He doesn’t need a reason to hate her.

  He doesn’t need a motive to kill her.

  He would give an arm to have her again the way she was at the beginning.

  He brings a hand to his heart and feels nothing.

  He lowers the volume on the radio with the index finger of his right hand and sighs loudly.

  Again he tries to say something, I … but she interrupts him.

  Shut up. Shut up. I’ve never seen anyone act as ridiculous as you so many times in a single evening. Why can’t you leave me alone, let me live and breathe? Why are you so incredibly insecure?

  Tonight? he asks as if he hadn’t been aware of a thing.

  Yes, tonight. Always trying to find my hand, hand, hand. As if you were a five-year-old child looking for his mother … Will you get it through your skull that I’m not your mother? I need a man, a real man, who gives me security but doesn’t suffocate me. You suffocate me, you’re like a murderer strangling his victim. I can’t breathe anymore …

  He watches the knuckles of his fingers turn white, he feels the grip of his hands crushing the leather steering wheel. He accelerates, now the car is pressed tight to the road, aggressive and fast.

  She continues, Always whining, demanding. First you don’t want me to talk at all and you’re insulted by everything I say, then I mingle at the party and your eyes are following me like radar. I don’t recognize you anymore …

  She knows that to end the sentence properly she has to take a long pause and say …

  I don’t know.

  He brakes in order to avoid hitting a truck that’s traveling as slowly as an elephant.
/>   He sees himself reflected in the sloping windshield of his car.

  Thin, tan, curly hair mussed, white shirt at least as tired as he is.

  Why do you talk to me like that? he asks, defenseless.

  But he knows perfectly well why she talks like that.

  Because he’s been transformed into a coward.

  Because together they’ve completely destroyed the monument of their story and he can’t bear it.

  For months he’s been crying at night, secretly, drowning his sobs in the pillow and getting up every five minutes.

  He signals right, he needs gas.

  The station is deserted, the self-service pumps work twenty-four hours a day. On the automatic cash register there’s a flyer, the face of a smiling young man in an IP cap. He reads the caption while he inserts twenty euros in the slot. It’s a newspaper clipping.