Authors: Massimo Russo
“Thanks. Keep the change.”
He went over to the computer, inserted the password and the most famous and powerful research engine in the world bade him welcome. He typed in the words he was looking for: “Instructions for Living – limited edition”. Numerous replies popped up and he scrolled quickly down until his eye was drawn to the one with the date of issue number 100. He clicked the mouse on the icon and the page opened. He began to read: ‘Shanghai, 22
nd
January 2009. The Ryan A. O’Neal Corporation, owners of the rights to the most popular bestseller on earth, announce that no more than five hundred thousand copies will be printed and distributed throughout the world. Its enormous success proves that the manuscript is by far the most extraordinary means of communication ever created in the history of mankind. One single person has been able to glean the emotions of the whole of humanity and transform them into a message of hope and love...’
Norman turned to co-related articles, and one in particular: ‘Seoul, 8
th
October 2004. A murder disrupted the launch of the book that has sold more copies than any other over the last year. The chairman of the Korean publishing house was found dead at his home. The Police have stated that it may have been a crime of passion, probably committed by the victim’s mistress. Allegations that the chairman had financial problems and was involved in illegal money laundering for the Mafia have not yet been confirmed’.
He clicked the mouse onto another article: ‘The largest publishing house in the world is bankrupt. Thanks to a political agreement, it will be taken over by the international, best-selling author, Mr. Ryan A. O’Neal’.
“Fucking bastard! You’ve stolen my glory and my money!”
His fury was outweighed by his desire to find more information. Norman searched for details of the company’s Hollywood office. The swiftness of the reply came as no surprise and as he got up and left the bar, he memorized the number on his mobile and called it.
“Mr. O’Neal Corporation, good morning,” replied a friendly female voice.
“Good morning. I’d like to speak to the President immediately!”
“Mr. O’Neal is out of the office at the moment. Who is speaking, please?”
“My name is Norman Lae. I insist on having his mobile number!”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. If you leave your number and your reason for calling, I’ll put you through to a consultant who can give you all the information and help you need.”
“I don’t need any help! I only want to speak to the bastard who’s robbed me!”
“Please moderate your language, sir, this call is being monitored. If you carry on like this, I’ll be forced to notify the authorities.”
“I couldn’t give a shit about what you’ll be forced to do! Put me through to your boss right now!”
From the dial tone in his ear, it was clear that threats would not obtain the intimidating effect desired. He hung up in annoyance and cursed the woman, comparing her with someone who changes her colors at will. He noticed people watching him with raised eyebrows, but he ignored their curious stares. The phone rang; on the display he saw the word “withheld”, which meant the caller was either averse to being labeled with a nickname or unwilling to be recognized.
“Hello.”
“Café Impero, Ninth Street.”
“What? Who is that?”
“There are four people sitting at a table in front of the counter. One of them is called Daisy. Ask for her, she has something that belongs to you.”
The phone went dead. Norman stared at his mobile like a man begging for answers. All he received in return, with a look as bleak as his own, was the LED fading out. He thought it was probably a wrong number. He refocused on his mission: finding the man who had recycled his ideas and making him cough up, and he swore the bill would be stiff, very stiff. He set off towards the nearest Police Precinct, a few blocks from where he was, if he remembered correctly. He decided to leave the phone on; maybe Julia would call him back, or the chap who had doubtless called the wrong number. If his office rang, he wouldn’t answer; he would tell them later that a mugger had stolen his mobile and he had spent the day at the Precinct. The copy of his statement would prove his case, even if it wasn’t the real reason for his visit. The alibi would save his skin. He had always liked to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.
As he walked along, he looked around him. The city was even more frenetic than usual that morning. Probably because Christmas was coming and the last-minute dash for presents had become a race against time. He no longer noticed that people attached less and less importance to the event itself. Society only cared about remembering to give a friend a gift so as to receive in exchange banal words that alluded to a family unity that had never really existed. Even he had fallen into the trap; when he chatted, he did it through laziness, not desire or interest. He could no longer be bothered to try saving those who didn’t want to be saved. He let everyone think he was like them, but deep down he felt completely different.
He wanted to run away and settle down some place where life had meaning. He did that with his poems. And now, even that had been taken away. It was too much! He turned the corner and his attention was caught by the writing on the wall beside the entrance to the Police Precinct. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was the same billboard he had seen earlier with the photograph of the book he was looking for. However, advertisements had casually been pasted on this one announcing the opening of a new venue which, according to the blurb, was worth visiting: ‘Café Impero, where life has meaning and meaning has its home...’
Disbelief made him reel for a second. How could that be? He looked round wildly, searching for an answer that was not there. He stopped to reflect, but his head pounded with the thought that fortuitous events couldn’t be aware of his thinking process. It took him a minute. He allowed anxiety to follow its instinct and instinct to speak to curiosity. There was no need for him to take note of the address, because he knew that the venue was on a street on the other side of the main road. He set off like a man gripped by the thrill of learning he is about to knock on the door to knowledge.
The neon sign guided him to the entrance. He walked through the foyer; the grandeur and the music dimmed memories of traffic and pettiness. The light transported the senses far from reality. Everything in the place seemed motionless; its sole aim was to make people forget everything. The smell evoked uncharted oases of peace. Although it was early morning, the café was packed with people. Norman glanced around and was immediately struck by the familiarity of the surroundings; he knew it was strange, but he felt at home there, more than anywhere he had ever been, more, even, than the apartment where he had lived for years. He saw strangers everywhere. The bartender stared at him for a moment that seemed an eternity, almost as if he wanted to hug him, like someone who hadn’t seen a dear friend for a long time. As he moved towards the counter, he noticed that there was only one table with four people sitting at it. His indecision gave no sign of abating. He pretended to be thirsty and ordered a gin and tonic with ice. The bartender swiftly served him, as if he had known what he wanted.
“They’re expecting you, friend, looking forward to meeting you.”
“What? But who are you? What is this place?”
“It’s the place you’ve been looking for since for ever.”
“It was you on the phone, right?”
He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Norman whipped round.
“Hello, Norman. Follow me. We have a lot to talk about.”
The man turned away without waiting for an answer. Norman tried to catch the friendly eye of the barman, but he had vanished. There were only two barmaids busy serving customers who were impatient to start drinking.
Once again, his instinct made the decision for him. He stared after the man who had greeted him as he moved further away, leaving behind him an unbelievable whiff of curiosity. Norman walked towards the table he had spotted earlier. Three women and a man were gazing intently at him. He remembered the telephone conversation. “Four people sitting at a table”. He stopped, gave his instinct another minute, and then decided for both of them.
Chapter 3
The light in the room emphasized the shadows of fear. Jonathan stared into space, feeling the sharp edge of the mystery he carried inside him, so dark at times, too profound at others. He wished he could tackle it once and for all, because he needed to find out whether he was capable of filling the void. He wanted more than anything to die, but he lacked the courage to put an end to his woes. He was a coward, he knew that only too well. And, as with all cowards, he ran away from everything he came into contact with every day, whether it was something to safeguard or something to forget. The last time he had felt anything at all was for the cat that had kept him company until the previous summer; but as only time can do, it had taken the cat away, along with the warm days of August and the last emotion that his grieving heart could wring out. Depression was pulling him towards an alien place, far from the vision of the world that he had learned to observe. Every so often, he thought back, feeling shame for every decision he hadn’t dared make, cursing himself for not living his life, until fate had stolen it and deprived him of the only person he had ever really loved.
His glance fell on the photograph on the chest of drawers in the entrance hall. He didn’t recognise the man he used to be, the one he had left behind so long ago. Beside him was the face of an angel who had stopped him from sliding into the pit so many times he was hard put to remember how many, but who had toppled over the edge, trying in vain to fight and win. Time had taken her away as well, too young to enter the world of the dead, but too depressed for her brain to be able to save her. Jonathan had done all he could to help her, but he knew it was a question of “you can’t help those who don’t want to help themselves”. He had tried his best, naturally, but he had never been able to rid himself of guilt. He had taken her to the best doctors in the world, but none had been able to cure what they considered the most insidious strain of cancer. A disease that manifests itself without warning, that encourages fear in order to subjugate the soul, forcing it to look into the darkness without ever being able to see the light again; that leads down a rocky road with no return; that sieves reason until it becomes unrecognizable, until all you want to do is end it.
It was a Sunday. Claudia had chosen the day she most loved and waited to be alone in the house of her dreams; then, as a cry lets out a repressed desire, she went up to the roof and launched herself into the air, savoring the freshness and dreaming for the first time that she was finally cured. The fall did the rest, taking her swiftly to the darkest place ever created by space. She died instantly. From the look on her face, she had found the peace she had hoped for. That was the only thing Jonathan managed to see, and the only life-line he could clutch to carry on and try to give their seven-year-old son the life he deserved, battling against a fate that had decided to show him the most terrible aspect existence can create.
The door opened. The person who entered showed all the signs of fatigue that racing up two floors of stairs brings. His face was covered with mud, but it was obvious from his radiant expression that he had thoroughly enjoyed the whole morning.
“Dad, I’m hungry.”
There was no answer to that; a wish is a command.
“Be with you in a minute, son. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“What were you doing? Talking to Mom?”
“I sure was, she said to say hello to you and to be a good boy. So, run along and wash up before dinner.”
“But is she going to eat with us?”
“She certainly is. She’s always with us. She told me she fancies hamburger and French fries this evening. What do you say?”
“Yeeees! Hooray for Mom!”
Three years had passed; he had tried to explain to his son that his mother was always there with him, even though he couldn’t see her. “But I can see her. She always comes to visit me,” he had replied calmly.
Hope was the only thing Jonathan still believed in. He had no faith; he had sold that to the highest bidder the moment he and his wife had discovered that the child they were expecting had an illness that could only be cured by divine intervention. Claudia had insisted on carrying the pregnancy to term at all costs, even though she already knew that her life would inevitably change. But she was convinced that a mother cannot choose her child, she can only love him. Unconditionally, uncomplainingly and hopefully. So, that was what she had decided to do, against the wishes of her husband, who was equally convinced that a sick child would have neither purpose nor a proper future in a world that ignored what was different. Although he was certain her decision was a mistake, he had supported the woman who showed more courage than he could ever imagine. The boy had a heart malformation that would cut short his life before he reached adulthood. Even simple exhaustion could be fatal and fate would carry him off in the blink of an eye.
After he was born, Claudia’s mood swung from euphoria to despondence, a gift from the various doctors they consulted, who succeeded in destroying all the dreams only a mother can wish for. Until the pain became unbearable, and she begged for salvation one cold winter Sunday morning.
Jonathan walked down the stairs and told his son to sit down. His favorite dish would be ready in just a few minutes.
“Dad, do you miss Mom?”
“Of course I miss her. Why do you ask?”
“Because I feel it, you know? I always know when you’re sad. I wish I could do something to help you. When I’m sad, I think of the day I’ll see her again, so I’m not sad anymore.”
“Well, young man, I know it’ll happen one day, but sometimes we grown-ups don’t know how to be patient.”
“I’m patient though. Mom always said: ‘You have to be a good boy and be patient. You mustn’t tire yourself out.’ You should try it. It works, you know.”