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To G., killed innocent at age 17.
To N., guilty killer at age 15.
To my land of the killers and the killed.
Don’t turn around, run
Children with guns
Yelling, “This is fun!”
—NTÒ, “IL BALLO DEI MACELLAI” (THE DANCE OF THE BUTCHERS)
The protagonists of this book are imaginary, as are their life stories; therefore, any and all references to people or public establishments that may actually now exist or have once existed and which might be found in the text of this book can only be considered coincidental. Events mentioned in a historical or journalistic context, as well as nicknames that refer to people, trademarks, or companies, are used only to confer plausibility on the narrative, without any pejorative intent or, in any case, any prejudicial meaning for their possessor.
The same disclaimer that appears at the beginning of the movie Hands over the City applies to my novel: The characters and events that appear here are imaginary; what is authentic, on the other hand, is the social and environmental reality that produces them.
CHARACTERS
MARAJA
Nicolas Fiorillo
BRIATO’
Fabio Capasso
TUCANO
Massimo Rea
DENTINO
Giuseppe Izzo
DRAGO’
Luigi Striano
LOLLIPOP
Vincenzo Esposito
PESCE MOSCIO
Ciro Somma
STAVODICENDO
Vincenzo Esposito
DRONE ANTONIO
Starita
BISCOTTINO
Eduardo Cirillo
SUSAMIELLO
Emanuele Russo
RISVOLTINO
Gennaro Scognamiglio
PACHI
Diego D’Angelo
PART ONE
KISSES
When we blow kisses, when we send them in a letter, they always travel in a generic plural, kisses. Lots of kisses. But every kiss is unique unto itself, like a snowflake. It’s not just a matter of how that kiss is given, it’s also how it comes into existence: the underlying intent, the tension accompanying it. And then there’s the way it’s either accepted or rejected, the vibration—cheerful, excited, embarrassed—that buzzes around that reception. A kiss that smacks in silence or amid noisy distractions, bathed in tears or the companion to laughter, tickled by sunshine or in the invisibility of darkness.
Kisses have a precise taxonomy. There are kisses given like a stamp, lips stamping other lips. A passionate kiss, a kiss not yet ripe. An immature game. A shy gift. Then there’s the far end of that spectrum: French kisses. Lips meet only to part: an exchange of papillae and nodes, of humors and caresses with the flesh of the tongue, within the perimeter of the mouth, within the ivory presidio of the teeth. Their opposites are a mother’s kisses. Lips pressing against cheeks. Kisses heralding what will follow soon after: the enveloping hug, the gentle caress, the hand on the forehead feeling for feverish heat. Fatherly kisses graze the cheekbones, they’re whiskery kisses, prickly, fleeting signs of proximity. Then there are kisses of greeting that brush the flesh, and the dirty old man kisses that sneak up on you, little slobbery ambushes that batten off a furtive intimacy.
Savage kisses can’t be classified. They can put a seal upon silence, proclaim promises, pronounce verdicts or declare acquittals. There are the savage kisses that barely reach the gums, and others that practically shove down your throat. But savage kisses always occupy all the space available, they use the mouth as a way in. The mouth is merely the pool into which you wade, to find out if there’s a soul, whether there really is anything else sheathing the body, or not—the ferocious kiss is there to probe, to fathom that unsoundable abyss or to meet a void. The dull, dark void that conceals.
There’s an old story told among neophytes of barbarity, a story that regularly makes the rounds among breeders of fighting dogs: desperate creatures, devotees in spite of themselves of a cause of muscles and death. That legend, devoid of any scientific basis, tells how fighting dogs are selected at birth. The dogfighters scrutinize the litter of puppies with icy intolerance. They’re not interested in choosing dogs that seem powerful, they don’t wish to overlook dogs that look too skinny, they don’t care to favor dogs that push their sisters away from the mother’s teat, they’re not trying to identify dogs that punish brothers for their greed. The test is different: the breeder yanks the puppy away from the nipple, seizing it by the scruff of the neck and pushing the little snout close to his own cheek. Most of the puppies will lick that cheek. But one—practically blind, still toothless, gums accustomed only to the mother’s softness—will try to bite. One wants to know the world, have it between its jaws. And that is the savage kiss. That dog, male or female as it may be, will then be taught to fight.
There are kisses and there are savage kisses. The former remain within the precinct of the flesh; the latter know no limits. They want to be what they kiss.
Savage kisses come not from good nor from evil. They exist, like alliances. And they always leave an aftertaste of blood.
HE’S BORN
“He’s born!”
“What do you mean, he’s born?!”
“That’s right, he’s born.”
On the other end of the line, silence, nothing but breathing crackling over the microphone. Then: “Wait, are you sure?”
He’d been expecting this call for weeks, but now that Tucano was telling him, Nicolas felt the need to hear it again, repeated so he could be convinced that the day had finally come, to savor it well and truly in his head. So he could be ready.
“Right, like I’m kidding around! No, trust me. He was just born, I swear it, adda murì mammà, ’a Koala is practically still in the delivery room … No sign of Dentino, I came straight to the hospital.”
“Sure, no surprise, he doesn’t have the balls to show his face. But who told you the baby was born?”
“A male nurse.”
“And who the fuck is he? Where did this nurse come from?” Nicolas wasn’t about to settle for generic information, this time he wanted the details. He couldn’t afford to improvise, nothing could get screwed up.
“He’s a guy who used to work with Biscottino’s father, Enzuccio Niespolo. I told him that Koala is a friend of ours, and we just wanted to make sure we were the first to know, when the baby came into the world.”
“And how much did you say we’d pay him? You don’t think he’s spouting bullshit just because we haven’t given him a hundred euros yet?”
“No, no, I promised him an iPhone. That guy couldn’t wait for this baby to be born so he could get his hands on a new phone. He was practically bent over with his ear against Koala’s belly.”
“Then let’s do this thing. Tomorrow morning, the minute the sun rises.”
* * *
Dawn found him ready and fully dressed, eager for action. The bed he was sitting upon was barely rumpled, he hadn’t slept in it for even a minute. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled, a flat sharp sound. Day had risen. He needed to keep his mind clear, not let himself be sucked down by memories. He had a mission to perform; after that there’d be plenty of time for everything else.
Tucano’s voice acted like the switch that
opens the electric current. He stuck the Desert Eagle in his jeans and was down in the street quick as a flash.
Tucano had already put on his full-face helmet.
“Do you have the telephone?” Nicolas asked him as he put on his own helmet. “It’s in the original packaging, right?”
“Maraja, everything’s set.”
“Then let’s go buy the flowers.” Nicolas swung his leg over the seat and started off at reduced speed. He felt a sense of calm warm his whole body. An hour from now, the whole matter would be settled. Case closed.
“These fucking assholes…” Tucano said. “They say they’re not making money, but they sleep all day.”
The metal roller blinds on the florist’s shop were pulled down, they had no idea where to find another one, and in any case, they had to move quickly, thought Nicolas. Then he jammed on the brakes and the front of Tucano’s helmet slammed against the back of his.
“Maraja, maronna…”
“That’s right, the Madonna,” said Nicolas, and, pushing the bike backwards with his feet, he rolled back to the mouth of the narrow alley, the vicolo. There, enclosed within a metal cage that glittered like gold set against its shabby, decaying surroundings, a votive shrine was lit by a small spotlight. Photographs of ex votos and holy cards of Padre Pio practically covered the Madonna, but still, she smiled reassuringly, and Nicolas returned the smile. He got off the TMAX, blew a kiss, the way his grandma had taught him to do when he was little, and, standing on tiptoe, slipped a bouquet of white calla lilies out of a vase.
“Isn’t that going to piss off the Madonna?” Tucano asked.
“The Madonna never gets pissed off. That’s why She’s the Madonna,” said Nicolas, pulling down the zipper on his sweat jacket to make room for the lilies. They took off again, engine roaring. At that exact time, as agreed in advance, Pesce Moscio was about to go into action.
* * *
Just inside the gates, the nurse was waiting for them; he was stamping his feet on the asphalt, bundled up in a down jacket. Tucano raised one hand in greeting, and he went on hopping up and down in place, even if what was driving him now was no longer any thought of warding off the bone-chilling cold, as much as the lurking fear that these two new arrivals on a scooter wearing full-face helmets might not be there to repay him for the favor.
“All right, then, take me to pay a surprise call on this baby,” Nicolas began.
The male nurse tried to stall for time, trying to understand the spirit of the visit. He replied that they weren’t relatives, he couldn’t let them in.
“What do you mean, we’re not relatives,” said Nicolas. “It’s not like the only relatives are first cousins. We’re the closest kind of relatives, because we’re friends, we’re real family.”
“Right now he’s in the nursery. Soon they’ll take him to his mother.”
“It’s a boy?”
“Yes.”
“So much the better.”
“Why?” asked the nurse, trying to gain time.
“It’s easier that way…”
“What’s easier?” he insisted. Nicolas ignored the question.
“Easier to bring ’em up, it’s easier if you’re a boy, am I right?” Tucano put in. “Or maybe it’s easier if you’re a girl. At least if you know how to fuck, you can get where you want, right?”
In Nicolas’s silence, the nurse made the assumption that they would wait. He started to throw both arms wide, as if to say, what can you do, these are the rules.
“I want to see this baby before he gets to latch on to his mother’s tits.” The impatient voice, throbbing with rage, slapped him like a whipcrack, and before he could come up with a response, the nurse found himself with his face smeared against the visor of Nicolas’s helmet. “I told you that I want to see him, this baby boy. I even brought flowers for the mother. Now you tell me how to get there.” And with a shove he pushed the nurse back into an upright position.
* * *
The information poured forth with precision, the route was simple. At that point, Tucano grabbed the box containing the iPhone and tossed it into the air, while the nurse, eyes turned skyward to track the box’s trajectory, waved his arms in terror, desperately trying to make sure the cell phone didn’t hit the ground. He was so focused on his technological gem that he entirely overlooked the dense cloud of black smoke that was billowing into the air only yards away, and perhaps he even failed to catch a whiff of the acrid stench of burning tires. Pesce Moscio had been punctual to the split second. Nicolas had asked him to be punctual, indeed he’d ordered him to be. I want plenty of smoke. You have to cover everything up with a smoke screen. He’d told him that he wanted to make sure that the booth where the security guards spent their day was empty, the last thing he needed was a platoon of security guards chasing their scooter. “A diversion, Pescemo’,” and Pesce Moscio had picked a restroom in the Polyclinic near the guards’ booth. He’d stolen the tires from a shop that morning, and with a bottle of kerosene and a lighter, he was going to throw a hell of a party, a celebration of stench and toxic smoke, he’d focus everybody’s attention on that restroom.
In the meantime, the Yamaha TMAX was rolling through the gate at walking speed. Up till that point, the plan had followed a certain logic. Nicolas had worked out a timeline and a series of possible snags, and Tucano himself, diligently playing his part, had felt like a cog in this well-oiled machine. Then Nicolas had twisted the throttle and thrown all logic to the winds. The heavy scooter reared up in a wheelie and roared up the first flight of steps, almost like a horse leaping over a hurdle; bouncing step after step, it climbed the stairs and reached the entrance. The hospital’s automatic front door whisked open and the TMAX plummeted into the lobby.
Indoors, the engine roared like a Boeing turbojet. They still hadn’t encountered anyone, and at that hour of the day the steady stream of appointments and visiting families and friends hadn’t yet started to come in, but their noisy incursion brought hospital staff running, bursting out of the ward and clinic doors in disbelief. Nicolas ignored them. He was looking for the elevator.
* * *
They stormed into the maternity ward, where they were met by silence. No one in the hallways, not a voice or a whimper to point them in the direction of the nursery. The bedlam they’d unleashed downstairs didn’t seem to have ruffled the peace and quiet on this floor.
“What the fuck is this baby’s name?”
“They must have them listed by last names, right?” Tucano replied. He knew Maraja far too well to run the risk of asking him how he thought they were going to exit from the blind alley they’d rushed into. In fact, that was what made Nicolas what he was, his willingness to push you to your limit before you even realized what was happening.
They left the TMAX blocking the corridor. Gleaming and black, the scooter looked like an enormous cockroach between those walls, which were a pale lime green and covered with posters proclaiming the benefits of breastfeeding. They galloped down the corridor in search of the nursery. Tucano went first, helmet still firmly gripping his head, Nicolas right behind him. An enfilade of doors to the right and the left, and the clucking of their soles on the linoleum flooring.
They emerged into a lobby with two empty desks, and beyond that glowed the plate-glass window of the nursery. There they all were, babies freshly delivered into life, lined up, red-faced in their pastel onesies; some slept, others were waving their tiny fists over their heads.
Maraja and Tucano leaned over, like two relatives curious to know whether the baby resembled mother or father more closely.
“Antonello Izzo,” said Tucano. The light blue blanket with the name stitched to the corner was rising and falling almost imperceptibly. “Here he is.” He turned to look at Nicolas, who was standing there, motionless, palms pressed against the plate glass, his head turned toward that newborn, who was smiling, or at least so it seemed to Tucano.
“Maraja…”
Silence.
; “Maraja, now what are we going to do?”
“Come s’accide ’nu criaturo, Tuca’?” How do you kill a baby, Tucano?
“How the fuck do I know, you just thought of that now?”
Nicolas drew the Desert Eagle from the elastic of his boxer shorts and, with his thumb, snapped off the safety.
“If you ask me, it’s just like popping a balloon, isn’t it?” Tucano went on.
Nicolas pushed gently on the door, as if he wanted to be courteous enough to keep from making noise, to avoid waking up the other babies. He went over to Antonello, Dentino’s son, the child of the guy who’d killed his brother, Christian, who’d shot him in the back like the lowest of traitors.
“Christian…” he said, in a whisper. It was the first time he had uttered that name since the day of his brother’s funeral. He looked as if he’d fallen victim to a spell, his dark eyes focused straight ahead of him, but actually fathoming deep into who knows what other reality. Tucano felt like pounding his fists against the glass, shouting at Nicolas to hurry up, shouting that he needed to shoot that son of a traitor right away, immediately: instead Nicolas had placed the barrel of the Desert Eagle on the tiny belly, but the finger on the trigger wasn’t moving. The pistol kept moving up and down, slowly, as if the lungs of that tiny creature really were capable of lifting the four and a half pounds of pistol. Tucano turned to look down at the end of the corridor and realized that in the time Nicolas had hesitated, a nurse had appeared behind them. She was moving rapidly down the corridor toward them, grabbing the pole of an IV stand as if it were a spear: “What are you doing here?” Then she focused on Nicolas and started screaming in dialect: “Stanno arrubbando i criaturi! Stanno arrubbando i criaturi!” They’re stealing the babies! Tucano quickly leveled his Glock at her and the nurse instantly stopped short, with the IV stand held in midair, but that didn’t stop her from continuing to shout.
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