Suburra

by Giancarlo De Cataldo

  As a lover, Eugenio Brown proved to be the classic individual identified by the abbreviation GFE. That is, the Girlfriend Experience, as described by the phrase current in the escort network. When a male pays good money to fool himself into thinking he’s making love to the girl he’s going to take to the altar. Kiss and penetration, in other words, were taken for granted: after all, it’s never pure chance when you find yourself turning somersaults naked in the cabin of a 79-foot Maestro 82 yacht in the waters off the exclusive marina of Cala Galera. But for everything else, it seemed necessary to ask some sort of special permission.

  “Can I kiss you there? Is it okay with you if we turn over? I’d like to . . . I don’t know if this is something I can ask you . . . But you can always tell me no . . . I mean . . . ”

  Sabrina soon got used to it, alternating sensual languor with simulated embarassment, and only from time to time letting slip tiny hints of the shameless technique that had made her so popular in her field of endeavor.

  It was a good thing she hadn’t inserted her tiny red diamond into the appropriate aperture.

  “All in due time, Euge’, because we’ve got plenty of time ahead of us, don’t we?”

  And it was precisely because she had made up her mind that her affair with Eugenio Brown was going to be a long-term one that she decided to lay out her cards face up, and level with him in full. Over the years she’d been a very busy girl. There was always the risk of being unmasked, as had already happened once with the gay screenwriter. And so, better to be completely transparent. And do it now: a man fully macerated by recently consummated sex is in the right state to take in a moral blow.

  And so, when he returned to the cabin after a short swim, she served him the usual chilled Grechetto, asked him to sit down next to her, and told him: “I’m not who you think I am. My name isn’t Justine, it’s Sabrina. And I make my living as an escort.”

  A phrase that, in the original version she’d formulated, was supposed to ring this way: “Until I met you, I made my living as an escort.” Sabrina had opted for a more unassuming version. She had no idea of how Eugenio Brown might react, so it was probably best to keep a few aces up her sleeve, to be played as needed.

  There was no reaction of any kind.

  Eugenio tossed back a gulp of wine and invited her to continue.

  Sabrina told him about her drunken, abusive father. About her rape at age thirteen at the hands of a classmate. The son of a wealthy family who had arranged to cover up the incident. She said that when her father heard about it, he’d beaten her black and blue.

  She’d run away from home. She’d started to steal, here and there, and she’d been picked up by the cops and returned to her parents. Her father had taken her out of school and sent her to work as a housekeeper. The son of the family where she worked had molested her, and so had the head of the household. The lady of the house had decided that the only thing she could do was fire her. For two years, she’d developed a junk habit. She’d managed to kick it thanks to a kind-hearted nun who had rescued her when she’d been on the verge of jumping off a bridge. At age eighteen, she’d found herself alone, desperate, penniless. She’d started hooking it. Her young life had been one long procession of the wrong men, wasted opportunities, rapes, and filthy mishaps of every sort.

  “Then I met you. And here I am now. Now, you do what you want. I can leave immediately. If that’s what you want.”

  Eugenio Brown took her hand and smiled.

  “I don’t want you to leave. I just want you to stop telling me lies.”

  Sabrina’s feelings were hurt. As she’d been telling her story, she’d gotten so worked up that she’d started to believe it herself, that tissue of horseshit.

  “So you already knew?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you? Was it that faggot Fabio . . . was that who it was?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it was him or someone else, Justine. But you were straight with me. At least in your intentions. And that made me very happy. Only . . . ”

  “Only?”

  “At least pretend that you love me a little, okay?”

  It hit her like a punch to the gut, a smack to the nape of the neck, a gob of spit between the eyes. Hey, no, that’s not the way you do, Eugenio Brown, what the fuck! What’s with all this sweetness? What is “pretend that you love” supposed to mean? Are you surrendering yourself into imprisonment, Euge’? Tied hand and feet to a mistress like me? With her many years of frequenting whoremongers, Sabrina was convinced she’d long ago erased all feelings of tenderness toward men. If she’d paid any credence to the voice that had just insinuated itself into her heart, she would have stood up, gotten dressed, and dumped him then and there. I’m not made for a man like you, Eugenio Brown, find yourself a better woman than me. Why, what the hell kind of . . .

  And yet. And yet no matter what the heart might tell her, it wasn’t easy to give up a penthouse apartment on the Esquiline Hill, an eighty-foot yacht, the weekends of the present and, presumably, of the future. How do you say no to a hunk with the money and the power that Eugenio Brown could boast?

  Sabrina tilted her head to one side, ran her tongue over her lips, sniffed, the way you do if you’re struggling spasmodically to suffocate the tears that are surging up from the center of your chest, but you’re determined not to appear weak, and with a tiny voice that cracked with emotion, she said:

  “So . . . you’re not sending me away?”

  Eugenio Brown delicately set the glass down on the nightstand, lunged at her, and fucked her savagely.

  Afterward, he told her that he’d always call her Justine.

  “Sure, my love, Sabrina sounds a little low-class, doesn’t it?”

  “No, my love, it’s because of the literary origin.”

  “The litera . . . oh, right, that thing about the two Justines . . . the Professor told me the same thing . . . but it’s not like I really understood . . . ”

  They were on the bridge of the yacht, docked. They were watching the evening procession of the beautiful people of Rome up and down the wharf. From time to time someone would exchange a greeting with Eugenio. That’s right, go ahead and look, look and die of envy, you assholes!

  “Now I’ll explain it to you,” Eugenio said as he lit a Cohiba.

  As far as Sabrina was able to piece it out, one of these two Justines was a sort of slave in a series of sadomasochistic games. Sabrina had a friend or two who worked in that line. Girls who were willing to let themselves be tied up and insulted for a thousand euros. Or else they had to dress up as frisky, bare-assed maids and serve their masters topless and wearing stiletto heels. Others, for an extra fee, were willing to let themselves be used as ashtrays, and others still, the most expensive ones on the market, as toilets. Filthy stuff that she’d always steered well clear of. As for the other Justine, she must have been a wealthy lunatic who hopped from one bed to another, and men went crazy over her. So what makes her so special! Ah, and then there was also a writer who killed himself because he couldn’t have her all to himself.

  “He committed suicide? Over a woman? Come on!”

  “Does suicide scare you, Justine?”

  “No. It just seems like a dickhead thing to do, Euge’!”

  Eugenio went on recounting the exploits of these two papier-mâché heroines. He had a nice voice, maybe just a little monotonous. The evening breeze was caressing Sabrina’s naked shoulders, causing a series of pleasurable shivers. She snuggled close in the producer’s arms and shut her eyes. Sleep was about to carry her off. It had been a truly unforgettable day.

  Eugenio gave her a gentle lick on the ear.

  “Still, you know, sweetheart, I really ought to thank the Professor.”

  “For what?”

  “If it hadn’t been for him, we would never have met.”

  “So send him
a bottle.”

  “He wants me to produce a film for him.”

  “And are you going to?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sabrina sat up straight, suddenly alert.

  “Do it. Produce this film. And give me a part. That way I’ll know I really am important to you.”

  Upon their return from the weekend in Argentario, Sabrina moved into the penthouse on the Esquiline Hill. She called Teresa and thanked her for the tip that was promising to change her life.

  “Really? That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you, Sabri’! Hey, now, don’t forget you knew me when, eh . . . because around here, it’s not like things are going all that great . . . ”

  “Don’t worry, Teresa. I know what gratitude is.”

  Oh, sure, of course she did! Just for starters, the first thing to get rid of was her old phone number: if it was going to be a new life, it needed to be new from top to bottom.

  Eugenio obtained an audition for her with the director, Bellini. They costumed her as a maid. Her role was to walk onto the set and say: “Madame, the eggplants are burnt.”

  The director, an old hack worn down by years and years of professional frustrations, threw in the towel.

  “Eugenio, forgive me, but she’s a hopeless case.”

  “Give it another try, you know how much I care about this.”

  “Euge’, when an actress says it four times four different ways: eggsplants eggplant eckplants explant . . . ”

  “Maybe she was just anxious . . . ”

  “Listen, my friend, trust me. She comes from too far away. You’ll never be able to make it work with her.”

  Eugenio decided to give her a personal coach. Carlo was his name, and he tried to teach her the correct pronunciation of the vowels, the correct tone with which to say a line.

  Sabrina put her all into it.

  In the meanwhile, she cleared matters up with Fabio. It turned out that somebody else told Eugenio. She and Fabio became something like friends. Someday, he told her, I’ll have fun narrating this love story of yours.

  “Love story strikes me as excessive, Fabie’.”

  “Then let’s tell him that you’re like Eliza to his Higgins.”

  “What is that, another book?”

  “A play, actually. It’s an updated version of the ancient myth of Pygmalion, in a modern version by the Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw.”

  “You leftists all talk so difficult.”

  “Well, of course you’d think that, considering the fine gentlemen you used to spend your time with.”

  If anyone else had dared to speak to her with that tone of voice, Sabrina would have scratched their face off. But she liked Fabio. So she asked him to tell her the whole story.

  “Pygmalion is a sculptor who carves a statue that is so beautiful that he winds up falling in love with it. So he goes to the goddess Aphrodite and asks her to make the statue human. The goddess agrees, the statue becomes a woman, and they lived happily ever after.”

  “Well, well! And what about the play?”

  “A professor takes in a commoner, educates her, and turns her into a sophisticated lady. Then she marries a lord, and they lived happily ever after.”

  So that’s what Eugenio Brown was doing with her. He’d picked her up off the street, so to speak, to turn her into a fine lady. Sabrina started to feel a certain fondness toward him. Gratitude, perhaps, was the most appropriate word to describe it.

  She redoubled her efforts, subjecting herself with a brave smile to the murderous sessions with Carlo.

  But after even the personal trainer threw in the towel, Eugenio took her out to dinner at Sette, on Via Settembrini, in the Prati quarter, and over a dish of Tagliolini allo Scorzone di Volterra he told her in no uncertain terms that she was never going to become an actress.

  The working-class fury, so long repressed, exploded as she threw a liberatory scene.

  “So what you’re saying is that, as far as you’re concerned, the only thing I’m good for is blowjobs!”

  The couple at the neighboring table turned around, horrified.

  Eugenio tried in vain to placate her.

  “I never thought anything of the sort, my love. It’s just a matter of finding something better suited to your inclinations.”

  “Bullshit! I’m no worse than all those sluts who work for your friends at RAI. I know how these things work. All you’d have to do is pick up the phone and they’d write me a contract!”

  “No, my love.”

  “What do you mean by no? That you don’t want to do it, that’s what you mean. You’re just a piece of shit! And cut it out with all this ‘my love.’”

  “I’m Eugenio Brown. I’ve been fighting those guys who, as you say, just pick up the phone all my life. And that’s why they respect me, do you understand that? In any case, this conversation is over. Now try to calm down.”

  Sabrina threw the half glass of Brunetto, Brunone, whatever the fuck that 100 euro-a-bottle wine is called, right in his face and stormed out.

  Convinced that she’d just lost Eugenio Brown once and for all, she headed back to the Esquiline and started packing her bags.

  It’s better this way, Sabri’.

  Left-wingers. Pieces of shit. Eugenio Brown was no better than all the rest. He’d bought her and paid for her. Just like all the others. But at least those others, once the trick was turned, paid cash, and generously too, and then it was goodnight, been good to know you. All this mental masturbation about the theater, the drama, I’ll turn you into this, I’ll turn you into that, Pygmalion . . . Pygmalion my ass! You want to know the cold, hard truth, Sabri’? Men like Malgradi are happy to have a hot fuck, and that’s fine. But men like Eugenio Brown want to change your soul. But I’m still me.

  As she was filling her suitcase with everything that belonged to her—and also, as a form of reparations, a few little souvenirs, like the Rolex sitting on the bathroom counter and a couple of small paintings, no more than 6” x 12”, which might seem small and insignificant but were worth amazing amounts of money, or so Fabio the faggot had sworn to her—footage of the Sky TV midnight news broadcast was streaming on the HD screen of the immense television set in front of the king-sized bed.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a scene that struck her as somehow familiar. She put down the black cashmere dress that had belonged to the late Lady Brown, picked up the remote, and turned up the volume.

  Horrible discovery in the heart of the Marcigliana nature reserve, just outside of Rome. The corpse of a woman, in an advanced state of decomposition, was found this morning a little after ten o’clock by a citizen who was out walking his dog. The body was partly mutilated, probably by the wild animals that live in the forest . . .

  Vicky.

  They’d found her body.

  What was it that guy had said on the phone? I’ll send you to sleep with your girlfriend . . .

  Eaten by dogs!

  Suddenly, Sabrina turned lucid again.

  She was on the verge of an unforgettable fuckup.

  There are people who can’t afford their pride, Sabri’.

  She furiously unpacked her suitcase.

  Eugenio Brown came back a little past midnight.

  She rushed into his arms.

  “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, I didn’t know what I was doing, forgive me, my love, it will never happen again.”

  Eugenio Brown was stunned.

  Sabrina let the purple La Perla negligee slide to the floor. She stood naked before him. She turned around. For the occasion, she had dusted off the famous red diamond.

  Eugenio Brown forgave her.

  XXII

  The Honorable Pericle Malgradi called Spartaco Liberati and informed him that “a select independent jury of municipal authorities” had name
d him winner of the Golden Pen Award, “which is assigned to the Roman journalist of the year who has most greatly distinguished himself in freely giving voice to the issues and concerns of the city, as well as defending the rights of the citizenry.” Then he cut straight to the chase. He knew perfectly well that with that cynical fraud there was no need for a foolish preamble.

  “No, say it isn’t so, Your Honor. I won? That’s crazy. At last, the reward for a lifetime of sacrifices.”

  “They’re called blowjobs, actually, Liberati. Blowjobs.”

  “If you say so. But you have to admit, Spartaco Liberati, journalist of the year. That’s unbelievable. How does it sound, Your Honor? Do you know how many sponsors we’ll get on the radio, now?”

  “Look, I don’t have a lot of time to waste. I just wanted to tell you a couple of things. First thing. Don’t show up without a jacket and tie, or they won’t even let you in. Much less give you a prize.”

  “Your Honor, don’t worry. I’ll make you proud of me. The only thing is, excuse me, you understand . . . Well, just out of curiosity . . . Would there by any chance be a check that goes with the pen?”

  “What a question, Liberati. Of course there is. What’s a prize without cash? Five thousand. We’re not at some Communist street fair, here.”

  “Of course not. That’s just what I thought.”

  “The second thing. I’m not going to tell you to write a speech, because I don’t even want to try to imagine what would come out of an illiterate like you. I just ask you not to make any gaffes.”

  “What’s one of those?”

  “Winding up with shit on your face, Liberati. Winding up with shit on your face.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Let me say, in reference to blowjobs, that I’d prefer you not come out with the story of the paid interviews with city commissioners or councilmen.”

  “And why should I, Your Honor. Those are private matters, between us.”

  “With you I never know what to expect. And anyway it’s possible that a real journalist attends the awards ceremony. And he might even think of asking you a nice, easy question.”