Rome Noir Read online

  PART II

  IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF CAESAR

  DON’T TALK

  TO THE PASSENGER

  BY DIEGO DE SILVA

  Fiumicino

  Translation by Anne Milano Appel

  I get off the plane in enviable physical shape, proud of feeling and above all looking like I’m in sync with the wealth-producing world around me, not at all nostalgic, stylishly dressed, immune to politics, to freedom of the press and freedom of expression in general, to culture, to global warming, to Muslim terrorism, crime reports, the Democratic party, model towns of quiet living where low-level clerks massacre their neighbors and families for no reason, to rampant pedophilia, the never truly ascertained extinction of the first republic, to world championships, soccer bribe scandals, paparazzi who blackmail public figures, to the uncertainty of work, to Family Day, to Rights for Cohabiting Couples and the Catholic Church’s meddling in the political life of the country and the private lives of individuals. I am a man of my time, having achieved a truce with the world. Not that it took that much, a wink was enough to send the signal: You mind your business and I’ll mind mine. We’re all adults, after all.

  In the shuttle that brings us to the terminal, I look around (no one escapes the gaze of others in the airport shuttle: find me another public place where strangers pay so much attention to one another) and declare myself the most attractive man on this flight that just landed in Rome. For a moment I fear competition from a couple of young studs who are flaunting their gym-buffed physiques in tight T-shirts, but seeing that an attractive piece of tail with a child is looking at me and not them, my concern quickly eases.

  We arrived right on time, which reassures me about the little game I intend to play before putting myself in circulation. As usual when I come to Rome, I group my engagements. Not that any one of them preoccupies me very much, but it’s the sum of them that adds up, as the well-known joke says—and though it doesn’t make me laugh, I find myself citing it often, a little like a bad tune that sticks in your head the more you try to forget it.

  I retrieve my suitcase from the carousel (a job I detest, but since the antiterrorism measures have been in force, they make a lot of fuss, even for us) and before the shooting range I go and have a caffè macchiato, because I find the combination of foamy milk and espresso intoxicating. The cashier, a skinny brunette with delicate features, looks at me in an explicitly inviting way when she gives me my change. At first I think it would be fun to tell her that I’d be delighted to pick her up if she tells me what time she gets off, and then not show up, but her soft little face inspires such tenderness that I choose to spare her the humiliation.

  When I finish the coffee I go to the men’s room to complete the job, using for the occasion one of the business cards that I got printed on recycled paper, because it rolls up better. I lay the line I do not have out on the sink counter, prompting the silent disapproval of a family man washing his hands a couple of sinks down. I thin it out with a credit card, I snort noisily with my right nostril, tap my nose with my forefinger, throw my head back, stick my left pinkie in the nostril, then rub the fingertip over the upper gum arch, run my tongue over it, and swallow. The man continues staring at me, mesmerized. He has probably seen that there was nothing on the sink’s marble, but ingenuous as he appears, he must be wondering if maybe they’ve invented some new type of invisible cocaine in the years since he gave up social activity. I can barely keep from laughing in his face. He dries his hands and moves away disgusted. I find myself irresistible, I congratulate myself at length, and finally I go take a leak. While I’m at it, I stop to read the little notes stuck to the outside walls of the urinals, handwritten by a semi-literate homosexual. I find them ridiculous and depressing. I give a little shake, I go wash my hands, I hold them under the jet of hot air from the dryer on the wall, curse the photoelectric cell that doesn’t work, use the other dryer, get bored, finish up, open the suitcase, check that it isn’t missing anything. At first I find myself thinking that I wouldn’t mind strolling around the airport with the handle sticking out of my jacket pocket to cause a little outburst of panic and then apologize to the colleagues who would surround me with their weapons drawn (“Hey, guys, I don’t know what to say, I’m really embarrassed, hasn’t this ever happened to you? After you wash your hands, don’t you sometimes just stick it in your pocket without thinking?”; “Never happened to me”—some idiot itching for a fight would surely respond—“you risk getting yourself killed, doing something stupid like that”; to which I would reply: “It depends on how stupid the one who shoots you is”); but I’m forced to reject the idea because I don’t have much time, so I put it back in the holster, wet the palm of my right hand again, smooth my hair back, and finally get out of there.

  A black attendant with a cart greets me in English, for some reason. I reply, Bonjour, do a little airport shopping not geared toward buying, reach the exit, head over to the taxis. I locate the first free one, signal to the driver, he nods, I open the back door and am about to get in.

  —Excuse me.

  —What?

  —Your suitcase, please.

  I look down at my suitcase.

  —What about it? I ask, confused.

  —Do you mind if I put it in the trunk?

  I shrug.

  —No, I guess not, I reply, still not understanding.

  —Okay, the guy says.

  He gets out of the car. I look him over. Tall, bald, barely fifty, a little overweight, strong jaw, well-shaped goatee, fake Ray-Bans, open-necked shirt, NN jeans, street-market ankle boots. He is chewing gum, a habit that has always annoyed me.

  I hand him the suitcase, he sets it in the trunk, motions for me to get in, gets back in the car, says good day, I reply good day, tell him my destination, and eventually we start off.

  At first I think I will keep my mouth shut, convinced as I am that speaking to taxi drivers means allowing them to talk your head off until the time they let you out, but then I cannot suppress my curiosity.

  —How come you asked me if you could put the suitcase in the trunk?

  He rolls his eyes (I can see him in the rearview mirror) as if to say: I knew you’d ask that.

  —It’s a precautionary regulation, he says defensively; it’s not as if he invented the rule.

  —Precaution against what?

  —Accidents.

  This I didn’t know.

  We take the ring road.

  —And how long has it been in effect, this regulation?

  —For me, since the day a model almost broke her neck in my taxi.

  It’s beginning to get on my nerves, this explanation in bits and pieces.

  —See, he continues, she had a big portfolio, you know those ones you put drawings in, like the kind architects use? She probably kept photographs of herself in it. Such a knockout, I can’t even tell ya. So, she puts it there on the ledge, in back. She says: They won’t run into us, will they? Such a looker, I still remember her. Well, to cut a long story short, the model gets the portfolio right in the back of the neck. Her eyes pop out of her head. Such a blow, I thought for sure she was dead.

  —Wasn’t she wearing a seat belt?

  —The model, yes. The portfolio, no.

  —Oh, I mutter. His eyes search for me in his small mirror, probably expecting me to laugh (I think he had some wisecrack ready); but since I do not give him the satisfaction, he goes on.

  —Well, now I have to deal with a lawsuit, get it?

  Who knows if it’s true.

  —It’s not your fault they ran into you, I comment.

  —Sure. Go tell it to the model’s lawyer.

  Now there’s the kind of answer that makes me see red. A person tells you something distressing, you make a suitable observation showing that you’re on his side, and he answers you as if you were wasting his time. You’re the one who told me all your business, imbecile, what did you expect me to say, It’s your fault, the lawyer was right, let’s hope y
ou lose the case?

  —Do you have the number? I ask, irritated.

  —What number?

  —The lawyer’s. Give it to me, that way I’ll call him and tell him.

  He peers at me in the little mirror.

  —Oh! he says. I guess he didn’t find my joke amusing.

  Score one for me.

  He’s stopped talking. Wonderful.

  —Excuse me, he then says, as if he is reading my mind.

  —Hmm?

  —You have to put the seat belt on.

  I saw a film, as a boy, where Renato Pozzetto played the part of a poor devil who establishes a fetishistic relationship with a taxi. Like before going to bed he checks the car’s water, oil, brakes, and tire pressure, polishes it, caresses it, falls asleep beside it, and when he goes on duty he subjects the passengers to a series of behavioral rules that border on the abusive (obviously, during the course of the film, the taxi falls apart). The fool behind the wheel of this taxi is unfortunately making me think of that character. Among the things I despise are nasty resemblances. I don’t yet know how, but this involuntary superimposition will end up on my driver’s account.

  —The seat belt? I say.

  —Yes, of course, this Font of Knowledge replies self-importantly, it’s compulsory.

  I lean forward so that he can see I’m raking him with my eyes, observing a not so insignificant detail: He isn’t wearing one either.

  —In case they try to hijack us, the jerk says, we have to be able to get out of the car quickly.

  The response of a true bumpkin, more tactless than rude, one that would give me permission to become indignant and burst out with a who-do-you-think-you-are-and-who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to, but at this point I get the urge to have a little fun, so I remain solemnly silent.

  After a while he looks at me once again in the little mirror, ascertaining that I have not put the seat belt on.

  —It’s become very dangerous work, this job of ours …

  The idiot trails off, probably realizing what an ass he’s made of himself.

  —Now, see, since they came up with this disgraceful “pardon,” we taxi drivers have become mobile ATMs for illegal immigrants.

  I don’t say a word, letting him go on destroying himself with his own words.

  —Just think, he resumes heavily after a painful silence, in the span of a week, a couple of Albanians took out seven, that’s seven drivers. A knife to your throat, and you’re done for. One of us reacted. Not that he wanted to be a hero, it’s just that it came to him instinctively. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed.

  I continue to hold my tongue.

  —And to think that these sonsofbitches had their eye on us for two months. The police had reports and more reports, descriptions, all the clues you want. Nearly every day a driver would go to the police station to report another one. I ask you, what does it take to catch them, a couple of shitty Albanians? You think they arrested them? Not a chance! It’s not their problem. We’re the ones out on the street, at the mercy of everything and everybody, what the hell do they care? At the end of the month they collect their paycheck. To cut a long story short: The police are asleep, the judges are busy appearing on TV, let’s not even talk about the politicians. So in the end we gotta organize things ourselves, right?

  He stops a moment to catch his breath. Naturally, so much crap all at once requires a surplus of oxygen. It’s exciting, though, sitting there listening to him try to provoke me.

  From his tone, when he picks up again, I figure my silence is beginning to make him nervous.

  —But things didn’t go so good for one of them. He ran into me.

  I knew it. Go for it, Rambo.

  —When he got in, I knew right away what his intentions were. He had me drive around a bit, Go this way, go that way, he couldn’t make up his mind. I was already losing my patience. At a certain point he goes: Listen, can you take me to Saxa Rubra for five euros? The meter was already showing twelve euros. So I says to him: What the hell, are you kiddin’ me? And he goes: I don’t really give a fuck, you’re the one who’s going to give me money. And I find the knife in front of my eyes.

  But … I think.

  —Well, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I floored the accelerator so hard I still don’t know why we didn’t roll over. Then I jammed on the brakes and made that shitty Albanian go smashing against the window. I got out in a hurry, and grabbed him by the hair: Out, you bastard! And I beat the living daylights out of him, Christ did I give it to him. Lucky for him a police car came by, or else he’d have been pushin’ up daisies instead of sittin’ behind bars. But I left my marks on him, ya know.

  I wonder how he can go on talking, given the fact that I haven’t deigned to say a word since he began his pathetic story.

  —You can’t work anymore. Believe me, it’s become a jungle. If the police won’t protect us, then they should just say so. No problem, we’ll take care of it. At night, instead of staying home, we team up and do justice on our own. After all, we know who the crooks are and where they live, we don’t need no warrant.

  I’m about to say something, but he keeps going.

  —Me, when they tell me to believe in the law, I say: Excuse me, what law? Because I know only one law: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The one that’s written in the courts, the one that’s supposed to be equal for everybody, not even young kids believe in it anymore.

  At this point I interrupt.

  —Listen, speaking frankly: Have you made any raids yet?

  —Any raids?

  —Right. Any … punitive expeditions, let’s say.

  —What d’you think, huh? the idiot replies.

  —Come on, are you serious?

  —What, you think I’m jokin’?

  —How many are you?

  —About twenty, give or take.

  —How does it work? How are you set up?

  —Helmets, chains, iron bars. Sometimes I even use a corkscrew. And then we go lookin’ for ’em one by one. After a while you get a taste for it, ya know?

  —Oh, sure.

  —Yeah. It’s a little like hunting.

  He chuckles.

  I don’t.

  —How come you’re interested? he asks me, bewildered by my icy silence.

  I let a few seconds go by before answering him.

  —Well, it’s nice to know there’s someone who can help you in your work.

  —Come again?

  I shove the badge in front of his eyes. His jaw drops. He turns pale. He actually pivots around to look at me. We swerve (a pickup truck blares its horn), then the imbecile regains control of the car.

  —Watch the road. You’re a cab driver, don’t you know that’s how accidents happen?

  —Look, I’m sorry, I was only kiddin’, I swear.

  —Imagine that. He was only kiddin’.

  —I’ll swear on whatever you want. On my kids. May I drop dead right here in front of you if it isn’t true.

  —So then what you told me was a bunch of crap.

  —Yeah, yeah. All of it.

  —Why should I believe you if up till now all you’ve told me is a bunch of baloney?

  He falls silent, terrorized by his future.

  I take out the gun. I smooth the barrel with the tip of my forefinger. He spots it out of the corner of his eye and begins to sweat. At a rough guess, I’d say that his saliva flow rate has gone from one to thirty.

  —What are you doing, drooling? I say.

  —Please, officer, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll get down on my knees if you want. Should I come back there with you? Huh?

  —Don’t try it or I’ll shoot you right here.

  I mean his right side, into which I’ve just stuck the gun.

  He doesn’t breathe. He’s sweating like a pig now.

  —Jesus, look at you pissing your pants, aren’t you ashamed?

  —Okay, I’m an idiot, a moron, a real shithead, my whole life I’ve been talking bul
lshit, God Almighty should strike me dead for all the crap that comes out of my mouth.

  —There’s no need to trouble God Almighty, I’ll take care of it.

  —Excuse me? What did you say?

  —You heard me.

  —You wouldn’t really shoot me for the few lies I told, would you?

  —Why not?

  —Listen, let’s be reasonable. I haven’t done a thing. I’m a decent working man. There are a ton of unpunished criminals out there, who act like swine whenever it suits them, and you take it out on me for some stupid boasting?

  I shove the gun back in his side.

  —What now, back to badmouthing others? So then it’s not true that you were telling lies.

  —No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right, I didn’t mean to say that … oh, sweet Jesus.

  We remain silent for a while. The imbecile is probably afraid of making the situation worse if he opens his mouth.

  —What’s your name? I ask him at a certain point.

  —Mar … Marcello.

  —Well then, Mar-Marcello, you’re not actually all wrong, since it wouldn’t be very sensible on my part to shoot you. First, because shooting idiots serves no purpose, meaning it’s like shooting mice, and we know that shooting mice doesn’t solve any problem; second, because it would be crazy to risk a charge of willful homicide to knock off a moron who talks just for the sake of talking.

  —Right. Exactly, the idiot says, relieved. The return of hope must have reactivated his blood circulation, since he seems to have regained some color. So I quickly move to throw him back off guard.

  —Unfortunately, however, it’s turned out badly for you, I add, you know why?

  —No, why?

  —Because I hear voices.

  —What?

  —Naturally, I’m a schizophrenic.

  —Excuse me, what does that mean?

  —You don’t know what a schizophrenic is?

  —No.

  —Ignorant too, besides being a jerk.

  He wipes his dripping forehead with his hand. When he puts his palm back on the steering wheel, it leaves greasy marks.

  —Well, let’s simply say that I have a sick mind.

  —Oh, holy Virgin, the imbecile says, as hope once more abandons him.