The Goodbye Kiss (15 page)

    After
so many years hanging out with militants and guerrillas, pimps and thieves, I
finally found myself among normal people. People who had an absolutely normal
existence. They moved from school to university, from the start of a career to
marriage. I envied them. This new life dedicated to work was so different from
how I lived till the day I drowned the widow, that my memories grew more and
more confused. I felt calmer, discovered new sensations and began to appreciate
things that had always been uninteresting to me, like music and cinema. I liked
different kinds of women. But I didn't know how to approach them. Blackmail and
bullying wouldn't have worked. They belonged to another world. The rumors about
my past, deliberately fed by Brianese, made the rounds of the city, but I
didn't get wind of any negative comments. Curiosity, yes. Lots of it. Every so
often somebody'd ask me a question about terrorism or jail. All of sudden you
could hear a pin drop, and everybody was staring at me, waiting for the answer.
The lawyer rehearsed me well on the topic, and with a melancholy smile stamped
on my face, I told them what they wanted to hear. That circle included some
former leftists. Often they'd draw close and, with a conspiratorial air,
confide to me they once belonged to some left-wing revolutionary group.
Youthful mistakes. The news of the final verdict in the Calabresi case was
announced at the osteria by a lawyer who'd just returned from the court in
Venezia. It was cocktail hour, and La Nena was packed. The conviction was
greeted by satisfied shouts and even squeals of joy from a couple ladies. Sante
Brianese organized a toast, and suddenly I found everybody's eyes pointed at
me.

    I
understood what was at stake. "It's on me!" I shouted with pleasure,
raising a bottle of prosecco. I searched the crowd for the ex-revolutionaries:
they were all competing to show they'd burnt their bridges with the past. I
smiled, pleased. I was in good company.

    When
I managed to keep the osteria open till one at night, there was a real jump in
quality. I had to hire more personnel, but the stream of customers swelled to a
river. I trusted one of the young guys I just hired to open the place in the
morning: he'd shown himself to be serious and reliable. I arrived about eleven
and took care of the closing. The clientele in the evening was completely
different. Apart from a few people who also appeared during the day, the night
crowd hung out exclusively after dinner. It didn't take me long to see they
were all linked to Brianese. Either professionally or politically. Or both. I
followed the advice of an interior decorator and got rid of the old neon
lights, replacing them with sconces that made the atmosphere more welcoming. At
night, the place entirely lost the look of an osteria. Wise old Minozzi drew up
a menu of elegant drinks that customers were delighted to quaff as they chatted
amiably at the tables. Brianese played the gracious host. He moved from one
table to another, cutting deals and widening the circle of his supporters. His
objectives were clear. Regional councilman for one legislature, then straight
to Palazzo Montecitorio Parliament. I had no doubt about his success, and many
people thought just as I did, judging from the deference they adopted towards
this bigwig. In reality, he didn't give a damn about politics. It was simply a
tool to achieve his goals. Which were illicit, for the most part. His field was
white-collar crime, purely financial. Fact is, thugs tied to drug trafficking
or prostitution never set foot in the osteria. Let alone trash from outside the
European Union. Even honest trash. Brianese had grasped the economic model of
the northeast, the famous "locomotive" as the media called it: the
legal and illegal economies were merged in a single system, offering the
opportunity to grow rich and build a discreet position of power. And he milked
it with intelligence and sound judgment. Business, crime and politics. This new
mafia was blazing the trail.

    Brianese's
closest collaborators included a number of former politicians and public
administrators who got into trouble with the Tangentopoli scandal. There was
also a former commander of the revenue police. He'd just finished serving a
six- year sentence for extortion and bribery. The judges were convinced he
managed to stash away a huge fortune. For a time they even conducted a search
for it abroad, but they were forced to give up. Brianese did an excellent job.
Most of his associates were active in center-right politics: they dreamed of
settling accounts not only with the judges who had them investigated, but with
the political forces that supported the judges' work. Others boasted of
affiliations with the movement for regional autonomy, but aside from some
arguments the ambience was absolutely serene. The only unpleasant episode
occurred, not quite because of politics, but because of music. On the first
anniversary of Lucio Battisti's death, a group of customers, fans of the dead
singer, planned an evening to remember him. They arrived with records and
guitars. There were sing-alongs, some tears and lots of applause. At a certain
point, this joker who spent the night drinking on his own came up to the bar.
I'd never seen him before. He was tall, beefy, had blue eyes. And he was drunk.
He waved me over.

    "Battisti
sang the platitudes of the Italian petty bourgeoisie," he said under his
breath.

    "You're
in the wrong place to make a crack like that," I warned him.

    "The
lyrics are nothing but disgusting banalities, and the melodies-"

    "If
you cut it out, I'll give you a beer on the house."

    "A
toast to Fabrizio De Andre," he boomed.

    Then
all hell broke loose. Battisti's fans started to insult him. Somebody shouted,
"You fucking communist." And everybody wanted me to throw him out of
the place. Signora Cardin, the owner of a beauty salon, tried to go for him. To
settle the matter I had to sock the guy in the belly. Then I grabbed him by the
scruff of the neck and dragged him away. Customers clapped, and I received a
load of compliments and slaps on the back.

    That
night I got laid for the first time in my new life. Gianna, one of the
regulars, had been giving me the eye for a while now. A pretty little brunette,
about forty. According to the line I picked up from friends, her husband was
neglecting her because of work. Officially he was known to be a craftsman in
business for himself. In reality, he was the owner of a genuine firm that
specialized in flooring. Completely unknown to the tax collector. Projects,
resources, personnel were all managed off the books. Business was booming: you
could see it from the jewels and furs the wife flaunted recklessly. She stayed
to chat with me at the bar till closing time. I took her to the storeroom and
slipped a hand under her skirt. She was hot and knew just what to do. It
happened other times, always pleasurable.

    Then
I met Nicoletta. Blond, tall, slim, with huge milky-white tits. A chain smoker
who loved aged reds, she dealt in haute couture and always wore elegant,
expensive clothing. Hermes or Chanel. They formed part of her sample collection.
The merchandise was strictly fake, but for many ladies of high society and a
few shopkeepers, this detail could be overlooked. She'd already gone to court a
few times, and the lawyer was always able to get her out of trouble. There was
no need to lead her to the storeroom. She was separated and lived in a
comfortable house in the suburbs. She'd drop in a couple nights each week, wait
till I lowered the shutters and take me to her place.

    Around
then I decided to move out of the lawyer's love nest. I strolled into a
real-estate agency in the centro, and the mention of La Nena was enough for
security. I rented an apartment near the osteria. Nicoletta helped me furnish
it. For the first time I felt a house belonged to me. Picking out furniture and
other things with her, I got a taste of the pleasure to be had from sharing
something with a woman. I began to desire a lasting relationship. With Gianna
and Nicoletta there was nothing beyond physical attraction and hitting it off
together. But for me it was something new. I felt no need to use them as a
doormat and control their lives, as I did with Flora and the widow. Still, this
didn't mean my sexual preferences had changed. I constantly experienced new
sensations. And I liked that. Maybe this is what it means to turn a new leaf.

    After
exactly a year Brianese came to ask me for his first favor. The pay was tops,
but the thing fell outside the deal we'd struck. A woman who sold housewares in
the area had been swindled by a psychic. Shelled out over twenty-seven grand to
cure her daughter from a serious case of anorexia. The lawyer wanted me to get
it back.

    "I've
turned a new leaf." Full stop.

    "Of
course. And with excellent results. Except you have a wealth of experience that
none of us possesses. It's only right that you enlist it in the service of your
friends. You know quite well that some situations can't be resolved with a
legal intervention."

    "This
means there'll be more favors?"

    "Possibly.
You've had enough time to look around and realize you can make a fortune here,
living happily and calmly with the right sort of contacts. Contacts, however,
must be cultivated-"

    "The
risks?"

    "Minimal.
Besides, this is about small fry. And remember you've got your ass covered."

    "When
you spoke to me about the rehabilitation, you told me to steer clear of certain
circles and keep my conduct irreproachable-"

    The
lawyer cut me off with an impatient wave. "What's the problem?"

    "I
don't want to jeopardize the rehabilitation."

    "It
won't happen. You have my word."

    I
stared at him. I had absolutely no desire to risk everything I'd built with so
much effort. But I owed it all to Sante Brianese, and I had to do what he
wanted. Always. Obey him like a slave. "OK."

    The
lawyer recovered his smile and good humor and, after an anecdote and some witty
remarks, told me about the healer. The con game was simple. Jessica the
fortune-teller publicized her magic powers through a local TV station. The
housewares dealer, desperate because of her daughter's health, set up an
appointment. For a hundred euros Jessica had the mother explain her worries,
promising to consult the mysterious forces of the occult and verify the
potential for solving the problem. She arranged another appointment to take
place ten days later. In the meantime the healer followed her usual practice
and hired a private investigator to gather as much information as he could
about her client, especially her economic prospects. At the next meeting Jessica
looked grim. Without mincing words she told the dealer her daughter was getting
worse by the hour and only an esoteric intervention could save her. And so in
the course of four sessions the client found herself relieved of a tidy sum.
When her husband learned about what happened, he turned to the lawyer.

    Jessica
received her clients in quite a few northeastern towns. I set up an appointment
in Mestre. I'd never been there, and nobody knew me. Some dude who looked like
a disco bouncer showed me into the office. When he opened the door, I hit him
with a sock filled with a few rolls of coins. Before he dropped to the floor, I
pushed him into the room with all my might. He landed on the carpet right in
front of Jessica's desk.

    The
woman jumped to her feet. "My God," she shouted, terrified.

    I
silenced her with a slap. I expected to find some weird chick, but she was just
an overweight woman in a floral dress, about fifty, with teased hair and chubby
hands full of rings. I grabbed her by the throat.

    "You've
got three days to give back the dealer's money."

    She
nodded. I felt I hadn't frightened her enough, so I broke her arm, like the
Romanians did with me. The fortune-teller fainted. I would've threatened her
again, but it was impossible to bring her around. So much the worse for her.
When you go to collect a debt, you need to demonstrate you know no limits to
violence. I punched her several times in the face, flattening her nose
properly. Then I turned to deal with her bodyguard.

    Kicked
him a few times in the mouth and the balls. Neither of them would've talked to
the cops. Jessica made the deadline for the restitution: three days later the
dealer regained possession of her cash.

    Brianese
congratulated me and handed me an envelope with the compensation. I used it for
a down payment on a car. The time had come to scrap the old Panda. I chose
another compact. The pimpmobile was still a long ways off.

    I was
asked for more favors. But the lawyer always respected our agreement: they were
no great shakes.

    "Your
role is to protect our group of friends from external aggression," he once
told me. "To restore legality. Ours, of course."