A Pimp's Notes (46 page)

Authors: Giorgio Faletti

BOOK: A Pimp's Notes

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I take her face in my hands. I can hear something solid in my voice, something definitive in my words.

“No. I’m not going to leave you for her.”

I take off my shoes. I want to feel the sand under my bare feet too. It’s been far too long since I last did it. I step off the wooden boards of the patio and sink into the sand. I look at the woman who’s lived with me for the past few years. She’s wearing a pair of olive drab shorts and a black T-shirt beneath which her breasts are free to be themselves and allow others to imagine them.

“Come here.”

Pilar walks over and I pull her toward me. I wrap an arm around her shoulders. I feel her skin, soft to my touch.

“Let’s take a walk. You want to?”

We walk off toward Punta de Mangle, without haste or purpose.

Pilar wraps one arm around my waist.

“Didn’t you have a meeting?”

“Didn’t you have a date to go surfing?”

She laughs and her teeth are the white of a young female shark.

“Oh, that boy was so dull, so
barboso
. I have more fun getting bored with you.”

From that moment on, we walk, arms around each other, without speaking, heading somewhere we know perfectly well we’ll never reach. But we feel this progress, this walking together, this new thing pushing us step by step to move beyond our footsteps. We’ll find them there on our way back. If they’re mingled with other footsteps and we’re unable to recognize them, what does it matter? We’re on an island, and everyone here is a survivor in his own way, of one shipwreck or another.

Here the spring lasts a long time and summer, when it comes, doesn’t spoil anything.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel contains the story of a world that no longer exists. It vanished as people went away, as years passed, and as society changed. It faded with the numbers that mark the years of my life, when in the tens column a three replaced the two, and then came a four, followed by a five, and that’s where I stop, because six is Satan’s number.

Milan was not yet a brand you could drink, and the night was still a noble adversary to face in single combat. Sleep was our true enemy, and sunshine at dawn was part of the routine. Indifference was the only sin, unappreciated talent the harsh hair shirt we wore.

In that world and in those years, an adventure began that continues today. I would like to thank all the people who made those years unforgettable, with their kindness or their rejection. Both helped me to become the man I am today, for better or for worse.

But to do this, I’d have to write a hundred pages and mention a thousand names. I’m happy to name just one out of the many: Beefsteak. He left behind a trove of unforgettable, outsized wisecracks, the kind of witticisms that only genius for its own sake could engender. I like to think that I paid him due tribute and endowed him with just a smidgen of the immortality that his creative flair deserved.

Then there are people I should thank for their help in writing and editing this book. They are people who brighten my life with their friendship and esteem, and I return those sentiments in the most complete manner imaginable.

Let me therefore thank:

Claudio Giovannone, who ensured that a person he loves would be transformed into a chief inspector. And he did it in the best possible way: by doing good.

The Lavazza family, who gave me the same opportunity.

Dario Tosetti, for serving as an enthusiastic middleman in this exchange of good wishes.

Dr. Cesare Savina, an outstanding pediatrician, who took a short time off from treating the illnesses of real children to provide me with one for a fictional child.

Dr. Franco Bardari, director of the Department of Urology at the Civic Hospital of Asti, who enlightened me, while I shuddered, on the surgical ordeal that Bravo endured.

La Settimana Enigmistica
, in the person of Alessandro Bartezzaghi, who helped me out with the cryptic clues contained in this novel.

Piero Tallarida, historian of and devoted waiter at the legendary Derby Club, the avowed inspiration for the Ascot Club.

Claudia Zigliotto, an assistant deputy commissioner of police, a dear friend, and at the same time a ruthless protagonist in the battle against crime in the city of Milan.

Andy Surdi, spectacular drummer and vocalist.

Michele del Vecchio and Furio Bozzetti, old friends who have surfaced safe and sound.

Giovanni Bartocci, a young businessman and my companion in New York City nights of revelry. Two different ages, the same blues, the same beer.

Last of all, let me mention the group of people I work with, men and women who are my coworkers and at the same time my friends. And work and friendship have never interfered.

Here are their names:

Alessandro Dalai, the man of the clouds.

Cristina Dalai, the young lady of the clear blue sky.

Lorenza Dalai, my favorite elf.

Antonella Fassi, who has a good word for everyone.

Mara Scanavino, who has a good color for everyone.

Chiara Moscardelli and Elisa Montanucci, who have a good press release for everyone.

Stefano Travagli, who is impervious to the siren song of the lap dance, not something you can say about everyone.

Francesco Colombo, who edits me like no one else can.

Piergiorgio Nicolazzini, who encourages me like no one else can.

Roberta, who does all these things put together and more besides.

If I can consider myself a lucky man, they are all fundamental factors in that good fortune.