A Pimp's Notes (14 page)

I put a halt to this headlong race along what appears to be the road to Damascus.

“Does that cabaret artist, Giorgio Fieschi, have anything to do with all this?”

That name falls between us like a bomb devastating its target. Laura sniffs and rummages through her purse for a Kleenex. She blows her nose, which gives her an excuse not to look me in the eye.

“Yes, he does.”

No, please, Laura, I beg of you. Don’t play the role of the whore who’s been seduced and redeemed. Not here, not now …

I keep my thoughts to myself. I wait for the rest. Because the rest is coming without fail.

“I spent last night with him. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. So beautiful and so unexpected, I mean. It made it clear to me that I want to try something different, I want to stop living this way.”

Laura has butterflies wheeling in her eyes.

“Bravo, I think I’m in love.”

I feel like leaping to my feet and screaming.

In order to get a criminal psychotic who was ruining your life off your back, I came this close to being murdered last night. And while I was literally digging my own grave, you were screwing that little punk cabaret artist. And now you tell me that
you think
you’re in love? I’d at least like you to be sure about it, considering what it’s cost me so far …

But I neither leap to my feet nor do I begin shouting or, for that matter, beating her black-and-blue. Instead I remain seated, motionless, and I’m deeply impressed with this display of self-control. It’s not much satisfaction, but it’s the one thing I can cling to in this bleak moment. As I regain control over my temper, I’m surprised to find myself remembering the sound of that young man’s laughter as he left the Ascot last night with his group of friends. They were young and talented, which made them the kings of the world. I look at Laura and I can see she’s lost in her dream, a dream that like all dreams will eventually fade in the light of dawn. Suddenly, everything strikes me as cruel and endearing and ridiculous, all at the same time.

And I see the solution to Lucio’s cryptic clue.

Everyone was in debt—that’s permitted (7)

Allowed …

A smile appears on my lips.

“That’s fine, Laura. Have it your way.”

“What?”

“You heard me loud and clear. Follow the path you’ve chosen. Your life belongs to you and so on and so forth, as they say in the movies.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Would it matter if I was?”

“Bravo, I—”

“I don’t think there’s anything more to say. If you change your mind, you know how to find me. Just try to be happy.”

That’s what they say in the movies, along with all the other clichés. But it strikes me as pointless to emphasize it again. Laura puts her sunglasses back on and stands up. I can hear a note of relief in her voice, relief interwoven with good intentions.

“
Ciao
, Bravo. Thanks.”

“
Ciao
, Laura. Take it easy.”

I watch her as she leaves, and I have plenty of company. At the same time, I flip through my mental Rolodex of all the girls I know, trying to figure out which one would be her ideal replacement for the job at Bonifaci’s house. Once she’s walked out the door, I toss a handful of change on the table—the price of an espresso and a small additional tip. I walk out of the bar and the end of one relationship and into the beauty salon and the beginning of another. I’m not sure what to expect from Carla and what to expect from myself. I’ve always navigated by sight, and once again I’m going to have to rely on my instincts.

When I walk back into Alex’s shop, the young men and women are all busy serving the customers who are occupying the chairs in front of the mirrors. Neither Alex nor Carla are anywhere to be seen in the main area of the salon. I take a seat and wait, smoking cigarettes and leafing through magazines filled with the love affairs of actresses and actors. Some of the faces I see pictured in the magazines belong to people I’ve met in this shop. I know that some of the stories are completely invented. I have my doubts about the others. After about half an hour, Alex’s voice draws me away from an article that was doing its best to palm off a female singer’s comfortable shirt as a maternity smock.

“All done. You be the judge.”

I stand up and turn around.

When I see her, I think to myself that before leaving the shop I really should have said a final farewell to Carla, because I was never going to see her again. The person in front of me is someone entirely different and entirely new, so luminous that she outshines the spotlights that the interior decorator has scattered throughout the salon. Her hair, dyed honey blond and cut short, frames a face that has now become the only possible setting in which to admire those jewel-like eyes. Her gaze makes you yearn to know the magic word that will unlock the world behind those eyes. As I watch her, I’m like a glider launched into flight through a turbulent sky dotted with air pockets. I think too many different things, and all at the same time. I decide to focus my attention on just one thing: the easiest, the most certain, and therefore the most despicable. At once an evasion and a solution to a problem. Now there’s one thing I know for sure: I’ve found the woman who can take Laura’s place at the appointment tomorrow.

9

I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but one thing is certain: I’ve created a memory for myself today. I find myself thinking about it again as we walk out of Bargagli, loaded down with bags and boxes. There’s a glow inside Carla that she shares with the world. She’s filled with a magnificent excitement. That excitement is clearly contagious, to judge from the glances of the people we meet. The eyes of the men, as they mentally strip off all the new clothing I just bought her, are a promising indicator, for now and for the future. The things you can read in men’s eyes, in this kind of situation, are a pretty good thermometer reading of a woman’s potential. I had an excellent confirmation of this approach just a few hours ago, when Laura walked into the bar. I have the same confirmation now with Carla, in case I need it. As for myself, I find myself watching my behavior as if from some external vantage point: observing the way I walk and the things I do. I can see that I’m wary, uncertain about what to expect from this woman who’s walking beside me as we stroll along Corso Vittorio Emanuele, leaving a wake of perfume behind her that erases everything else she’s been in her life. And everything that
I’ve
been in my life up till now.

Carla turns to look at me, with those eyes that are a twin incitement to crime.

“I really feel like Cinderella.”

“Not anymore. You’re going to the Prince’s ball.”

I haven’t explained to her yet that actually the Fairy Godmother is going to be played by a son of a bitch; that Prince Charming’s ball has been canceled, so she’ll be going to a sumptuous villa outside Lesmo to do dances of quite a different sort—not the waltz, anyway. Still, she asked me to make her what she’s going to be and to help her do what she’s going to do, even though I haven’t been able to shake a certain uneasiness ever since she did.

I’m not accustomed to certain complications. I’m more accustomed to clear-cut situations.

This dramatic piece of self-mockery, which would have overjoyed Lucio, makes me smile. Carla assumes that my smile is meant for her. She smiles back at me and catches me off guard.

“You spent a lot of money on all these gifts.”

In order to get us both back home safe and sound, I decide that I should make one thing very clear, so we can both keep our feet on the ground.

“I’m not accustomed to giving gifts. This is just an advance against your future emoluments.”

Carla looks at me in surprise, and then bursts out laughing.

“Emolu … what?”

“It means earnings.”

“Professor, what kind of words do you use? You make me feel like a donkey. Maybe I ought to read some of your books myself.”

I feel like explaining to her that books are a curse, actually. Optimists believe that reading books helps them fight their ignorance, while realists are certain of only one thing, that books give them proof of their ignorance. The measurement of what people don’t know is actually the only true way of telling them apart. Age, money, and appearance mean nothing. The real difference is there.

Life depends on the things you know.

My pager distracts me from my ambitions as a tutor and mentor, alerting me to the fact that I need to make a phone call. I leave Carla to window-shop and I walk over to a phone booth. I drop in a token and I call the switchboard number.

In exchange, I’m given another phone number, without a name to go with it. When I call, the voice that answers is impersonal and detached, and in the background I hear a faint clatter of dishes and the hum of a crowd.

“Bar La Torre.”

“Bravo speaking. I was told to call this number.”

“Hold on.”

The sound of a receiver set down on a counter. The steps of someone approaching. Then a voice I know comes out of the phone.

“Bravo?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Tano.”

I should have guessed that that man would never give me a private number to call. The place he’s talking to me from now must be one of the many public safe houses from which he conducts his business.

“Speak to me.”

“I’ll be ready for that operation we discussed starting tomorrow.”

“Very good. It might be for the day after tomorrow. I’ll talk to the person and let you know.”

“Where are you going to be tonight?”

“I’m having dinner at the Ricovero Attrezzi, a restaurant on Via—”

“Yeah, I know the place. One of my men will get in touch with you to work out the details.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“He’ll recognize you.”

“All right.”

A pause on the other end of the line. Then the tone of voice I know changes almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if it’s done intentionally or not, but it seems just a shade more menacing.

“Bravo, did you hear about Salvo?”

Hear about him? I actually watched as he …

“Yes. Nasty story.”

“Yeah. It really was a nasty story.”

Another pause.

“You don’t have anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

The third pause doesn’t promise anything good. Nor do the words that come after it.

“Okay. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Fine. Whenever you like.”

A click from the other end of the line tells me that the conversation is over for now. When the time comes, however, it’ll resume and I’ll have to explain a thing or two to Tano Casale. From what I know about the way the world works, I doubt that Tulip’s death has chipped away much at Tano’s emotions. But Tulip was one of his men, and according to the rules of a certain milieu, whoever killed Tulip has disrespected Tano. And no boss can afford to put up with that, whatever the motive.

I take advantage of the phone to call Barbara and Cindy and invite them to dinner. I tell them to meet us at the restaurant, and that it’s a special occasion. I do my best to keep my mind off it, but when I get back to Carla the whole thing with Tulip must still be showing on my face.

“Something wrong? Bad news?”

I try to go back to the state of mind I was in just a short while ago. I don’t know how successfully, but that’s the hand I’m playing. Carla understands and agrees to play along.

“Not at all. Now that you’re stunning and enviably elegant, let me show you off a little. I’m going to take you out to dinner with two girls you should get to know.”

“Do they work for you?”

“Yes. Tomorrow they’re going to a party with some very important people.”

I look at her and I wait a beat. Everyone has a right to a drumroll now and then.

“And you’re going with them.”

Carla looks up at me with a jerk.

“Me? Tomorrow?”

Suddenly the smile is gone. Cinderella is going to have to go back to doing work that involves getting her hands dirty. It seems odd to me that someone who agreed to go to bed with Daytona for a few bucks should have a problem with this, but the world is a strange place. And it’s the people in it that make it so strange.

I confirm it.

“Yes, tomorrow. If it matters to you, it’ll put 2.1 million lire in your pocket.”

“Shit.”

In that instinctive exclamation I can hear all the years of ramshackle housing—the truly old houses of old Milan, not the ones that have been renovated to create romantic apartments for the wealthy in the quaint old parts of the city. I can sense a world in which rent and utilities come due every month promptly, while paychecks are far less predictable. Expenses that drive the poor inexorably out of the center of the city and into the outskirts, crossing the boundary between living life and merely scraping by.

I’ve never cared much about all this. But it’s different with Carla. I don’t know why, and I’d just as soon not ask. Maybe I’m just a sick individual and my few emotional attachments suffer from the same sickness.

Lucio, Carla, me.

Three human beings who are going to spend the rest of the time remaining to them destroying and reconstructing themselves, day by day, until one day they find themselves in pieces on the ground, without the strength or the will to put those pieces back together. As we walk to the car, I abandon those thoughts and continue Carla’s education. It’s better for her to know what’s going to be awaiting her and how she’s going to have to behave.

“Tomorrow night you’re going to be in a very delicate situation. There are going to be very important men there, maybe people whose pictures you’ve seen in the newspaper. But as far as you’re concerned, they have to remain perfect strangers, before and after you meet them. Is that clear?”

She nods her head.

“The foundation of my business is the fact that I’ve always been able to guarantee the people who work with me absolute discretion. That means that in a certain milieu, word of mouth brings me customers. Reputation means money. For you and for me.”