Authors: Giorgio Faletti
Vivien lightly touched her niece’s cheek with her hand. She couldn’t help feeling guilty whenever they met. Guilty over all the things she hadn’t done. Guilty over being so busy dealing with people who meant nothing to her that she hadn’t realized that the person who most needed her was the one
closest to her, who, in her way, had asked for help and nobody had listened.
‘Nice to see you again, Sunny. You’re looking very pretty today.’
The girl smiled, with a wicked but not provocative gleam in her eye.
‘You’re
pretty, Vunny. I’m beautiful, you ought to know that.’
It was game they’d played since she was a little girl, when they’d given each other these nicknames as a kind of code. In those days, Vivien would brush her hair and tell her she’d be a great beauty one day. Maybe a model, maybe an actress. And together they would imagine all the things she could be.
All
except
what
she
’d
actually
turned
out
to
be
…
‘What do you say, shall we go?’
‘Sure. I’m ready.’
She picked up the bag, which contained a change of clothes for the days they would be spending together.
‘Did you bring your rock gear?’
‘You bet.’
Vivien had managed to get two tickets for the U2 concert at Madison Square Garden the next day. Sundance was a fan of the band. The concert had been one of the main reasons why she had been granted these two days away from Joy.
‘Let’s go, then.’
They walked back to where John was standing. He was a well-built man of medium height, simply dressed in
sweatshirt
and jeans. He had a frank, open face and a positive air. He looked like a man who thought more about the future than the past.
‘Bye, Sundance. See you on Monday.’
Vivien held out her hand, and he shook it. He had a firm grip.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Thank you. You both enjoy yourselves now. Go on – I’m staying here for a while longer.’
They went out, leaving him in the quiet of the church.
The evening had chased away all trace of natural light, clothing itself artfully in artificial lights. They got in the car and set off for Manhattan. Vivien drove calmly, listening to what her niece was saying, letting her talk about whatever she wanted to talk about.
Neither of them mentioned the girl’s mother, as if there was a tacit agreement between them that all dark thoughts were banned from now on. They weren’t trying to betray or ignore their memories. They both knew, without having to say it, that what they were trying to rebuild wasn’t only for the two of them.
As they drove on, Vivien had the feeling that with every turn of the wheel, every beat of their hearts, they were leaving behind the roles of aunt and niece and becoming more like friends. She felt something inside herself relaxing, as if the image of Greta that tormented her days was fading, along with the image of Sundance naked in the arms of a man older than her father that tormented her nights.
They had left Roosevelt Island behind them and were heading downtown along the East River when it happened. About half a mile ahead of them, on the right, a light suddenly appeared, wiping out all the others. For a moment it was like a distillation of all the lights in the world.
Then the road seemed to tremble under the wheels of the car and through the open windows they heard the hungry roar of an explosion.
Russell Wade had just arrived home when a bright light suddenly and unexpectedly appeared over on the Lower East Side. The big ceiling-to-floor living-room windows framed that light, a light so vivid it seemed like part of a game. But it didn’t go away, and continued to override all the other lights. Through the filter of the unbreakable window panes came the muted sound of a rumble that wasn’t thunder but a destructive human imitation of it. It was followed by a cacophony of alarm systems set off by the blast, hysterical but futile, like little dogs uselessly barking behind an iron fence.
The vibration made him instinctively take a step back. He knew what had happened. He had realized immediately. He had already seen and felt that kind of thing in another place. He knew that glare meant incredulity and surprise, pain and dust, screams, injuries, curses and prayers.
It meant death.
And, in an equally sudden glare, a flash of images and memories.
‘Robert,
please
…’
His
brother
was
anxiously
checking
the
cameras
and
the
lenses
and
making
sure
he
had
enough
rolls
of
film
in
the
pockets
of
his
jacket.
He
wouldn’t
look
him
in
the
face.
Maybe
he
felt
ashamed.
Or
maybe
he
was
already
seeing
in
his
mind’s
eye
the
photographs
he
was
going
to
take.
‘Nothing’s
going
to
happen,
Russell.
You
just
have
to
stay
and
be
quiet.’
‘And
where
will
you
go?
’
Robert
had
smelled
his
fear.
He
was
used
to
that
smell.
The
whole
city
was
imbued
with
it.
You
could
breathe
it
in
the
air.
Like
an
ugly
premonition
that
comes
true,
like
a
nightmare
that
doesn’t
fade
when
you
wake
up,
like
the
screams
of
the
dying
that
don’t
end
once
they’re
dead.
He
looked
at
him
with
eyes
that
might
have
been
seeing
him
for
the
first
time
since
they
had
arrived
in
Pristina.
A
scared
boy
who
shouldn’t
be
there.
‘I
have
to
go
outside.
I
have
to
be
there.’
Russell
realized
that
this
was
the
only
way
it
could
be.
And
at
the
same
time
he
realized
that
he
could
never
be
like
his
brother,
not
even
if
he
lived
a
hundred
lifetimes.
He
went
back
into
the
cellar,
through
the
trapdoor
under
the
old
carpet,
and
Robert
went
out
the
door.
Into
the
sun
and
the
dust
and
the
war.
That
was
the
last
time
he’d
seen
him
alive.
As if reacting to these thoughts he ran into the bedroom, where one of his cameras was lying on the desk. He grabbed it and went back to the window. He switched off all the lights to avoid reflections and took a number of shots of that distant hypnotic glare with its sickly halo. He knew these photographs would never be used, but he did it to punish himself. To remember who he was, what he had done, what he hadn’t done.
Years had gone by since his brother had gone out through that sunstruck doorway and for a few moments the distant bursts of machine-gun fire had grown louder.
Nothing had changed.
Since that day, there hadn’t been a single morning when he hadn’t woken with that image in front of his eyes and that sound in his ears. Since that day, every pointless photograph of his had been merely a new image of his old fear. As he continued clicking the shutter, he started shaking. It was animal rage, silent and instinctual, as if his soul was shuddering inside him and making his body vibrate.
The clicking of the lens became neurotic
click
click
click
click
click
like a homicidal maniac firing into his victim
Robert
all the bullets he has, unable to stop pulling the trigger, continuing as a kind of nervous habit, until all he hears in return is the empty dry snap of the firing pin.
That’s
enough,
dammit!
Punctually, like a set answer to a set question, the shrill urgent sound of sirens came from outside.
Lights without anger.
Lights flashing, good lights, healthy lights, rapid lights. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances.
The city had been hit; the city was wounded; the city was asking for help. And everyone had come running, from all over, with all the speed that compassion and civic feeling gave them.
Russell stopped shooting and, in the light from outside, reached for the TV remote control. He switched it on, and found it automatically tuned to Channel One. The weather
report should have been on about now. The broadcast was interrupted two seconds after the screen lit up. The weatherman and his maps of sun and rain were replaced without warning by Faber Andrews, one of the channel’s anchormen. His voice was deep and his face grave – appropriate to the situation.
‘News just in that a building on the Lower East Side of New York City has been rocked by a powerful explosion. We have no idea yet how many casualties there are, but first reports suggest the number could be high. That’s all we can tell you for now. At the moment we don’t know the causes of this terrible disaster. We should be able to get a better idea soon. What everyone is hoping is that this wasn’t a criminal act. The memory of other tragic events in the recent past is still fresh in our minds. Right now, the whole city, the whole of America, maybe the whole world is watching and waiting. Our reporters are already on their way to the scene, and we should soon be in a position to bring you more up-to-date news. That’s all for now.’
Russell switched to CNN. Here, too, they were announcing what had happened. The faces and words were different, the substance exactly the same. He turned down the sound, letting the images carry the report. He sat there on the couch in front of the TV set, with nothing but the luminous fuzz of the screen to keep him company. The lights of the city beyond the windows seemed to come from the cold and distance of outer space. And in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame was that murderous sunlight devouring all the other stars. When his family had given him the apartment, he had been happy to be on the 29th floor with a fantastic view over the whole of downtown: the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges on the left, the Flatiron on the right and the New York Life Insurance Building just in front of him.
Now that view was only another cause of distress.
It had all happened so quickly since he had been released after his night in the cell. And yet, if he thought about it again, the images in his head moved in slow motion. Every instant was clear, every detail, every colour, every sensation. Like being condemned to relive those moments ad infinitum.
As if it was again, and for ever, Pristina.
The journey home from the police station had begun in silence. And that was how he thought it should have stayed. The lawyer, Corneill Thornton, an old friend of the family, had understood that, and up to a point had complied.
Then the truce had ended and the attack had begun. ‘Your mother is very worried about you.’
Without looking at him, Russell replied with a shrug, ‘My mother’s always worried about something.’
He saw in his mind’s eye the faultless figure and smooth face of Margaret Taylor Wade, a member of the Boston upper classes. Margaret was one of the city’s most
prominent
citizens. Margaret moved with grace and elegance through that world, sweet faced, a woman who did not deserve what life had meted out to her: one son killed reporting on the war in former Yugoslavia and the other living a life that was, if possible, an even greater source of grief.
Maybe she had never got over either of those things. But she had continued her life of distinction and remembrance because it was inseparable from her. As for his father, Russell hadn’t spoken to him since the day after that damned business with the Pulitzer.
From the first, Russell had suspected something about their attitude to him: it was possible that both of them thought the wrong brother had died.
The lawyer continued, and Russell knew perfectly well where it was all leading.
‘I told her you were hurt. She thinks it would be opportune for you to be seen by a doctor.’
Russell felt like smiling.
Opportune …
‘My mother’s perfect. Not only does she always say the right thing at the right time, she always knows how to choose the most elegant word.’
Thornton leaned back in the leather seat. His shoulders relaxed, as if realizing he was dealing with a hopeless situation. ‘Russell, I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Don’t you think—’
‘Counsellor, you’re not here to condemn or absolve. There are judges for that. Or to preach to me. There are priests for that. You just have to get me out of trouble when you’re asked to.’ Russell turned to look at him, with a half-smile on his lips. ‘It seems to me that’s what you’re paid for. Very well paid, with an hourly fee that’s the equivalent of what a factory worker earns in a week.’
‘Get you out of trouble, did you say? That’s what I keep doing. Just lately, it seems to me I’ve had to do it more often than could reasonably be expected.’
The lawyer paused, as if to decide whether to say what he had to say or not.
‘Russell, everyone has the constitutional right to destroy himself as he sees fit. The only thing limiting him is his imagination. And you have an extremely creative imagination when it comes to such things.’ He looked Russell straight in the eyes, no longer a counsel for the defence but a gleeful executioner. ‘From now on, I’ll be happy to give up my fee. I’ll tell your mother to look elsewhere when necessary. And
I’ll sit there with a cigar and a glass of good whisky and watch the spectacle of your ruin.’
Nothing else was said because there was nothing else to say. The limousine dropped him outside his building on 29th Street, between Park and Madison. He got out without saying goodbye and without waiting for the lawyer to say goodbye to him. Not that he would have: his attitude was one of barely concealed human contempt combined with professional indifference. Russell grabbed his keys in passing from the doorman and went up to his apartment. He had just opened the door when the telephone started ringing. Russell was sure he knew who it was. He lifted the receiver and said, ‘Hello?’ expecting to hear a particular voice. And that voice had come.
‘Hi, photographer. Things didn’t work out too well for you yesterday, I hear. The game, the cops.’
Russell had an image in his mind. A big black man with his dark glasses and a double chin that his goatee didn’t do much to conceal, sunk deep in the back seat of his Mercedes, his beringed hand holding a cellphone.
‘LaMarr, I’m not in the mood right now to listen to your bullshit. What do you want?’
‘You know what I want, boy. Money.’
‘Right now I don’t have any.’
‘Then you’d better get some as soon as possible.’
‘What do you plan to do? Shoot me?’
From the other end came a loud, contemptuous laugh. The threat in that laugh was particularly humiliating.
‘That’s very tempting. But I’m not so dumb I’ll put you in a box with the fifty thousand dollars you owe me in your pocket. I’ll just send over a couple of my boys to teach you some of the facts of life. Then I’ll give you time to get over it. And then I’ll send them over again and hope this time
you’ll have my money ready for them. Which by the way will be sixty thousand by then, maybe more, who knows.’
‘You’re a piece of shit, LaMarr.’
‘Yes. And I can’t wait to show you how much of a shit I am. Bye now, asshole. Try going on the Wheel of Fortune – maybe you’ll have better luck.’
Jaws clenched, Russell put down the receiver, silencing the echo of LaMarr’s laughter. LaMarr Monroe was one of the biggest sons of bitches ever to prowl the streets of New York. Unfortunately, Russell knew he wasn’t talking for the sake of talking. He was a guy who kept his promises, and who’d do anything rather than lose face.