The Crocodile (World Noir) Read online

  Even though Lojacono himself came from a place whose ways were, at best, difficult to fathom, he wondered exactly where the delicate balance point lay between this city and those entrusted with its governance. He saw his fellow policemen venture out and return, conclude complex operations and undertake others, with no clear objective, while all around them illicit trafficking bubbled along like a stewpot, endlessly. Shaking his head, he told Letizia that it was like a system, a net that had no visible means of support. It wasn’t clear how the thing stood up.

  Letizia smiled and gave a shrug. She replied that perhaps everyone was just doing their best, against impossible odds, to remain standing. And maybe that was all that kept the city upright, because deep down the place was empty, both physically and morally.

  When she said that, he smiled that odd smile of his, that smile she liked so well, and raised a glass to that dark city and to her own luminous laughter.

  CHAPTER 7

  The old man walks along, hugging the wall.

  His feet drag a little, his worn-out shoes grazing the wet and uneven paving stones. He’s cautious, eyes on the ground to make sure he doesn’t trip and fall. Every so often he reaches a hand into his pocket, pulls a tissue out, and dries his left eye, dabbing under the lens of his glasses.

  The old man makes his way slowly. When he comes to a cross street he stops and looks first in one direction, then the other, waiting for howling scooters piled high with people, two or three on each, to zip by.

  The old man walks along, hugging the wall, and no one sees him. He’s like a breath of wind, like a rat in the shadows. Who should bother to glance at him, no different from so many others like him, phantoms that populate the city of shadows?

  Every so often the old man crosses paths with someone: a woman bent double with the burden of years, a black man with a shopping bag on his shoulder, a man whose face bears the marks of the blows fate has dealt him. He turns his gaze away and so do they, because death is ugly to look upon, as is death’s harbinger.

  The old man walks along, hugging the wall, and no one sees him. He passes by the windows of the bassi, the miserable storefront hovel flats, but he doesn’t look inside, he doesn’t glance at the poverty. And the poverty doesn’t look up at him.

  The old man walks and the street rises before him, but despite the climb his pace does not slacken. He knows that if he keeps moving constantly, no one will wonder who he is, the way they would if he were to stop and look up. No one sees those who walk in silence, head down, clearly beset by thoughts and problems; no one wants to run the risk of sharing thoughts and problems, even if it entails nothing more than exchanging a glance.

  The old man walks, bending his back in an effort to look even older. Old age is a heavy burden, and no one wants that burden for themselves. Old age seems like a contagious disease; it prompts disgust, and so others shun it.

  The old man knows how to pass unobserved. In fact, he’s invisible, hugging the wall, diligently yielding to others, careful not to become an obstacle to anything, to anyone. Only a sleeping dog raises its muzzle and twitches an ear at his passage, sensing the whiff of death that wafts around him; but the dog thinks it must be dreaming, and falls back into slumber.

  The old man walks, searching for a specific address. He reaches it and comes to a halt. He looks for the darkest shadows, he studies a main street door. He sees a motor scooter, he compares the license plate with a number in his memory. He withdraws into a corner stinking of stale piss and braces himself to wait. Patiently.

  The old man knows how to wait.

  CHAPTER 8

  Giada is stretched out on the sofa in the living room, talking on the phone with Allegra, as usual. And as usual she still has her shoes on. She’d really catch it if her mother could see her; Mamma would start up with her litany. But Mamma’s not home, so who the hell cares?

  “And what did you tell her?”

  Allegra laughs. She’s sophisticated even when she laughs. That’s the way Allegra is, always perfectly poised, well mannered, meticulous; her delicate features, her neatly coiffed hair, well groomed and well dressed. But Giada knows her well, they’ve been friends forever; she knows what a sewer of filth that pouty pink mouth can turn into.

  “You can probably guess. I told her that if she doesn’t watch out I’ll pop those fake overblown tits of hers, and that if she keeps playing the slut with Christian I’ll tell everyone I know that her mother caught syphilis from the Sri Lankan houseboy they hired.”

  Giada lurches on the couch. “Have you lost your mind? Did her mother really . . . No way!”

  “Of course not. But everyone would believe me; they all know that Marzia’s mother is a slut. And for that matter, like mother, like daughter. Better to be cautious, don’t you think?”

  “Still, if you ask me, you took it too far. Wouldn’t it have been a better idea just to tell Christian that you didn’t like the way the girl was looking at him?”

  Allegra snorts. “Oh, sure, and give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s so important? Darling, you really don’t have a clue how to deal with men. You’re fourteen—when are you going to come to your senses?”

  Giada silently grimaces into the phone; her friend never misses a chance to lord it over her just because she’s a year older.

  “I . . . I don’t feel ready, those hands on my body, those sticky mouths . . . Gross. And after all, you’re into enough filth for the two of us, so in statistical terms we’re right on schedule.”

  Her friend snickers. “You don’t know what you’re missing, girl. There’s nothing like a good healthy fuck to get you over your hang-ups. You think too much, Gia. If I had your blonde hair and blue eyes, I’d be famous all over town. And you don’t even have a father or brothers to answer to: you’ve got a dream situation! By the way, did your dad ever send you your birthday present from the States?”

  There’s nothing on earth that annoys Giada more than talking about her father. Allegra knows that perfectly well, and she prods her intentionally. But Giada decides not to give her the satisfaction, for once.

  “He sent me money, of course. He’s such a pig. Just think, an envelope with a thousand dollars in cash and a note. That asshole doesn’t even realize dollars are worthless these days. It’s been three years since I last talked to him, and I don’t even want to talk to him now.”

  “Sure, I don’t blame you, who cares about him? Still, with that money you could finally get your own scooter, couldn’t you? Without having to say a thing to your mother.”

  At the thought of her mother, Giada instinctively takes her shoes off the sofa. “You know, it’s not a money thing. In fact, my grandparents told me that if I go see them, they’ll give me a thousand euros. I could pay for it no problem. It’s only that my mom’s afraid; she says the streets are full of potholes, people don’t know how to drive. She just doesn’t want me to.”

  Her friend laughs complacently. “Gia, you’re the last woman left on earth who’s afraid to displease her mammina dearest. You know, you need to grow up. At your age, there’s no way you can still be not smoking, not having sex, and doing whatever your mamma tells you. Carry on like this, I’ll be ashamed to be seen with you.”

  Giada joins in the laughter. “If you didn’t have me, who would you boast to about all the crap you pull? You know for sure that sooner or later I’ll make up my mind. Maybe sooner rather than later. But I at least want it to be with a boy I like. Do I have your permission to go with someone I like, at least?”

  “You’re too picky. There’s no one you like, but everyone’s dying to take you out. Gianmarco, for instance—he’s so buff, I’d take him to bed in a minute, except for the fact that he’s best friends with Christian. He’s asked me for your number twice already, and I figure I’m going to go ahead and give it to him, just to get him crossed off the list.”

  Giada objects, “No, oh my god, the last thing I need is a conceited jerk like him. The other day I saw a boy, outside of school . . .
I’ve never seen him before. Maybe if I see him again I’ll give him my number.”

  “There you go, at last! Good girl. You get started and you’ll see how much fun it is; you’ll start trying different flavors, just like ice cream. Which, now that I think about it, is a pretty good metaphor.”

  In spite of herself, Giada bursts out laughing. “You really are an incredible slut. What a pathetic choice I made when I picked you as my best friend!”

  “Oh, come on, without me you’d die of boredom, living your solitary life with Mammina dearest. Oh, go fuck yourself, why don’t you. I’ve got to get dressed; Christian’ll be here any minute. I bought a push-up bra that’s going to drive him out of his mind and forget about that tart’s silicone tits. Of course, if I had your breasts . . .”

  “Well, maybe I’ll lend them to you; you’d make better use of them than I do. Screw you, we’ll talk later on.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sweetheart, my darling,

  I found the boy. It wasn’t hard; the address was correct. First I had a taxi take me past there, then I went back on foot.

  You should have seen what that place looked like. In the middle of the city, one building crammed up against another, without a breath of air. I don’t know how these people live, without even so much as a glimpse of blue sky. Where we’re from it’s different, you remember? Fresh air, the smell of the soil; and then there are the seasons—snow in the winter, red leaves in autumn. In this city, if you ask me, nobody even knows what time of year it is: they go from summer to winter, and that’s all they know. Why you ever chose to leave our town is beyond me.

  Anyway, the location is perfect. There’s a little corner nook, you should see it, like it was custom built for the purpose. I even slipped into it last night. I fit like a glove, you know I’m not big; I’ve even lost weight. In perfect shape, you’d say.

  So, I wedged myself in and waited. I’d identified the scooter, there was no mistaking it, it was the same license plate number. I didn’t even have long to wait: an hour later he came out whistling a tune, unlocked it, unchained it, got on, and took off, without a helmet. Think of that.

  He’s not a bad-looking kid, maybe a bit muscle-bound. He had a funny haircut; maybe that’s why he didn’t wear a helmet. How ridiculous is that, risking your life so you don’t mess up your hair. Of course, how funny is it for me to be saying that, eh?

  Forgive me, my darling, but I feel slightly giddy today. I’ve waited so long, I’ve thought so much about it, and now that I’m here, I can hardly wait.

  I’m taking care of the details. I stopped by one of those African street vendors; he was selling counterfeit designer bags. They spread them out on a white sheet on the sidewalk, and when the police go by you should see them. They grab all four corners with all the merchandise inside and go running down the alleys. But of course you already know all these things. Anyway, as you can imagine I needed a carry bag, something to put the essentials in, something at least a yard long, capable of carrying a couple pounds’ weight, more or less.

  I thought to myself: if I buy a decent quality bag, someone will probably snatch it, and then where will I be? Can you imagine that: a mugger taking everything, after more than ten years of painstaking planning? So I’ll get a cheap, shabby looking bag that’s unlikely to tempt any bag snatchers. I looked and looked and I finally found the perfect one, and I pretended to haggle on the price, just to be inconspicuous, and I even saved five euros. If you’d been there, you would have laughed till tears came to your eyes.

  How I miss you, my darling. At every moment of the day, the only thing that keeps me going is the thought that every step I take brings me a little closer to when I’ll see you again. At last.

  So everything’s ready. Tonight it begins. I’m so excited, I can hardly wait. Tonight it begins at last.

  CHAPTER 10

  Eleonora walks along, hugging the wall, and no one sees her.

  She’s clutching a crumpled ball of paper in her hand and she’s crying. Not sobbing, her face isn’t twisted in a grimace, but tears roll freely down her cheeks.

  Passersby look away in embarrassment. Tears scare people.

  The sun strikes her at intervals, wounding her with its light, and her stomach knots in spasms. Eleonora stops in a corner and struggles to suppress the retching.

  Pregnant, she thinks. It says so right here. I’m pregnant. Of course I would feel like vomiting, wouldn’t I?

  But Eleonora knows it’s not because she’s pregnant that she feels her heart racing crazily in her chest. It’s because she doesn’t know how he’ll react.

  She’s in love, she’s head over heels in love. He’s the man she’s waited for all these years, while her girlfriends were describing the qualities of their boyfriends: the Prince Charming who chose to smile at her, of all the girls. A man to show off to everyone else, a man on whose arm she could feel like a woman, fulfilled, natural. The man she wants with her for the rest of her life.

  Eleonora wipes her mouth with a tissue and looks up in time to catch the disapproving glare of a woman who thinks she must be on drugs.

  Disapproval. How will his family react, when presented with the news? She has no doubts about the strength of his love: he’d never lie to her. But she also knows how he dotes on his father, and how strict the old man can be. They’ve talked about him a thousand times, and a thousand times she has dreamed of the moment when she’d finally meet him. But in those dreams, she was never introduced holding this crumpled ball of paper in her hand.

  Pregnant. Six weeks pregnant. She tries to reckon up time, to remember, but every single instant of love with him is marvelous, every single instant is worthy of being branded into her memory.

  Now what’ll happen, Eleonora wonders. How can I tell him? And what will he say when I do? What will we do, the two of us? We’re still in school, there’s a long road ahead of us. I don’t want to force him to change his plans, his ambitions; and I have dreams of my own. I can’t throw Mamma and Papa’s sacrifices to the wind.

  In front of her eyes float the images of her parents. What will she say to them? Another spasm, another surge of retching.

  Eleonora walks along, hugging the wall, and no one sees her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mirko is happy, or at least he thinks he is. He can’t think of anything that could dim the glow of this moment.

  He spent the evening with his longtime friends, who by now consider him something on the order of a minor god. At a certain point, he even pulled out one of the two fifty-euro bills, with feigned distraction, to make them think that it had plenty of company in his wallet, and said, “Guagliu’, this round is on me. This is for all the times you guys stood me beers, when I didn’t have a cent to my name.” So cool! And a couple of them have even had their hair cut in a Mohawk, just like his. In short, he feels important.

  And Antonio gave him a hug when he brought back the money from selling the baggies. He pinched Mirko on the cheek and told him, “Bravo, guagliuncie’. You did good, believe me.” And he said it right in front of two guys from another neighborhood, guys Mirko knows by sight but understands are in business with Antonio. Those guys looked at him and nodded their heads affirmatively, with serious faces. In other words, the next time they see him, they’ll know him; they might even say hello to him.

  Everything that occurs to him tonight makes him smile. Outside the rich kids’ school that morning he saw the blonde girl again. Always surrounded by her girlfriends. One of them, a cute brunette, even came over to buy a baggie, but he’d already sold everything he had. Too bad, because maybe he would have given it to her and kicked in the ten euros for Antonio himself, in exchange for the blonde girl’s name, or even her cell number.

  He decides that when things start spinning along at full capacity, the first thing he’ll do is trade in his motor scooter and get a real motorcycle instead. He’s seen the blonde taking the bus home from school, or getting in her girlfriend’s micro car, one of those tiny unl
icensed cars. So if he shows up outside the school on a real motorbike, maybe not like the one Antonio rides, but one at least as good as the bikes those idiots he goes to school with ride, then she’d really have no option but to accept a ride home from him. Then he’d know where she lives.

  But first, Mirko thinks as he climbs the road homeward, he’ll need to do something for his mother. A man, if he’s a real man, has to pay his debts before anything else. And his mother brought him up, making sure he had everything he needed. He hadn’t been forced to steal, he’d never pulled any of the bullshit that other kids in the quarter got up to, because his mother, even if she was single, made sure that his every whim was satisfied.

  So now, Mamma, the first lot of money is for you. I’ll take you out to the movies, and then to dinner in a restaurant. And then maybe I’ll get you some new clothes. A flowered dress, like the ones you used to look at wide-eyed in the shop windows on the Via Toledo, when you used to come pick me up from school.

  By now he’s almost home, he’s in the courtyard. He props his motor scooter in its usual place. He looks up: the window is illuminated. Never once has he come home to find her asleep, even if he stays out as late as he has tonight. But tonight is special, Mamma. Because so many different things have happened, all of them wonderful. Now let me lock the chain on the scooter, and I’m hurrying upstairs to tell you all about it.

  Tonight it begins.