When Silence Falls

 

Dust. At first it was matter, hard work, drowned iron, toil. It was the pleasure of gathering around the set table after washing away the sweat. It was dad, friends, neighbors, and mom, who kept busy in the kitchen convinced there was never enough for everyone. Noise. I thought I had learned. I thought my ears were trained to recognize the very essence of noise. From the north, from the south, from the sea. Sometimes they come from the sea, and if the wind feels like playing games, you notice them only when they're already upon you. Tremor. It's what takes you away from the earth, and if the earth is a floor, hell might begin under your feet, your own hell. Sun. That's one thing they haven't learned to take from us yet. True, it hides for a few hours, but when the enemy leaves, it shines again. But who is the enemy? Sometimes shadows cross the city so quickly that if you look at the sky, you risk being blinded and seeing nothing more. The whistle isn't always the same; it changes, updates itself. A free-falling bomb arrives with a sound like wingbeats, and then it depends on how big it is. The small ones, if possible, are even worse. They break through roofs, slip into alleys, roll around, and sometimes don't even explode. They wait for someone to come clear the rubble, make their way through twisted steel, challenge the flames and water that attack you simultaneously, seemingly mocking you. There are shards, pieces of brick, human fragments rendered unrecognizable. If you're lucky, you can take a shovel and dig. In the dust. If you're not lucky, there's a mechanism that triggers when you least expect it. The screams, crying, orders, and frenzy that had formed next to that pile of rubble suddenly cease. Like ants. More help arrives, they rush in like ants following the queen's orders and resume digging. They don't have time to ask who did it. That's what Western newspapers and their television stations are for. They change their version according to convenience, rattle off death counts as if discussing soccer league rankings, listen to witnesses whose makeup has just been retouched by a TV crew. To make them credible, they cover them in dust.

My child grew up like this: he learned to recognize helicopters. He can tell the model by the sound of the blades, anticipates where the strikes will fall based on flying altitude. Planes are harder. They're accomplices of the wind, they fly low, and sometimes disappear after a boom. With missiles, it's impossible. They arrive with a hiss and, if you hear it, you need to know a prayer short enough and be good at reciting it rather quickly. Missiles don't care about prayers, weddings, or funerals. They especially like to arrive when people gather to pray.

This morning I heard they were distributing medicine. You have to cross two neighborhoods and, most importantly, to navigate, you need to remember them as they were before. My child is better at this than I am. He isn't influenced by how the city was before because he's only seen that in photographs. Sometimes he's bewildered by the panorama of white roofs, domes, and endless towers, and by the ancient fortress on the hill that has stayed in place. It seems to have replaced its usual doormat with a worn-out one. He's guided by the skeleton of the traffic light at the corner, by the bare sewage pipe smoking like a big cigar, by the bicycle shop with bikes thrown on top of each other like in the pile of scrap metal in front of the foundry. They no longer have tires, and the pedal reflectors stopped shining long ago. My child navigates by the group of trees fed to the flames where I, as a young girl, had my first kiss. It tasted of cedar on a bed fragrant with red oleander blossoms. A kiss is like wine: it inherits the character of the land around it and, if good, you never forget it. My child has learned to walk fast and to make the most of the half-centimeter of sole that grows thinner each day. My child was born with the war and talks. He talks continuously and doesn't worry about being noticed. I hold his hand while we zigzag between houses reduced to landslides, and he tells me that airplanes and helicopters can't hear, and that the soldiers are so tired they no longer want to lift their rifles. He points to a wall of broken glass that looks like a punched-in set of dentures and announces we're almost there, that after the building, the one with floors laid against it like dog ears, there are medicines. And then, without warning, comes the evil whistle, the one where you must recite prayers. You must do it quickly and hope for forgiveness if you fail to pronounce some words. I feel his hand pull. I feel a first jerk that reaches up to my elbow along with a shock, and then a second even stronger one. I'm paralyzed with fear, and my fingers end up tightening on themselves. I see him slip away and run like the wind. He stumbles, gets up, and ends up taking shelter in the darkness of a garage, with the roller shutter crumpled beside the door. There's noise, there's tremor, there's dust, and there's silence. It's pure silence, coming right after the rain of rocks and bricks and objects and small flames that settle on the ground, continuing to burn. That thing bouncing down there must be a washing machine door, and a roof twists like a worm thrown into fire. Through a window, you can make out a surge of dirty clothes. I don't even try to escape the wall of dense dust that hits me like a train. It's a punch. I manage to cover my face with the scarf and feel my blood. It comes out of my nose and ears and gets messy, forming mud on my face. I don't hear crying, I don't hear anyone calling for mama. Perhaps my ears will never be capable of hearing a sound again. As my breath fills with dust, I realize I'm kneeling on a layer of pebbles. Perhaps my body will never be capable of feeling pain again. There is silence. That thing about sirens sounding a second after tragedy is nonsense. It only happens in movies, where bombs at most mess up your hair. That thing about heart-wrenching screams echoing among the rubble is nonsense. Explosions silence everyone, they undo people and strip them bare. Often there are clothes and bags and suitcases and shoes scattered around, sometimes still with feet inside them. To scream you need air, and here, now, the air has been borrowed by war. I notice my heart alive in my chest but it's mute, like a movie on a broken TV. I notice blood still flowing in my veins but it's poisoned, like a river at the end of its course. I notice that my child has remained hostage to the ruins of that building. I listen. Not a cry, not a moan: only silence. Opening your eyes, even for a second, is like letting an evil sandman throw sand in your face. I stand up. I had read about fog, its mysterious charm and the cold it brings with it. I had read about silence in the morning mist, about that search for solitude with which men at peace try to fight their ghosts. I had read about some who climb mountain peaks to gain silence and others who immerse themselves in sensory deprivation tanks. Amateurs. I had read that silence brings you closer to God. When the city takes a slap it doesn't cry: it withdraws, bows its head, and seeks refuge in silence. That morning, somewhere, a colonel with a hot cup of coffee by his side must have pointed his finger at a map and given the order to fire, in silence. He didn't even speak: he just tapped his fingertip on that intersection of streets and made it clear with a look that he would stay in front of the monitor to see what happens. I take a few steps, delirious in the dense white surrounding me, and feel my cry getting stuck in my throat. I'm a walking plaster statue. I wish I could hear calling, screaming, or crying. I wish I could hear a child's voice begging for help. That missile has laid a tombstone on my life. I push, scratch with my nails, try to move it, but a blindness that accompanies silence leads me to slow, inexorable resignation. But I'm standing. The dust slowly settles and lays yet another white shroud on the miserable remains of this city. I can make out the building with floors laid like dog ears and that other one, which before had only broken windows and now kneels to war, surrendering unconditionally. The roller shutter that was in front of the garage where my child took refuge has flown to the opposite side of the street. It's leaning against the luthier's shop door, and a broken pipe is making it drunk with rusty water. The silence is broken. If you concentrate, you can perceive the sound of iron under the jet. Nothing like the sound of violins that the dear old luthier knew how to build so well, but still music. The building where my child took refuge is still intact. Looking at it carefully, it has perhaps lost a couple of balconies, and a third has remained clinging to the wall like a troubled mountain climber. The black eye of the garage is there waiting for me. It smells of rot and the humid draft carries out the smell of death. I approach with stones under my shoes trying to make their way through the soles. When I finally manage to look inside, I see the ceiling full of holes and electrical cables everywhere, hanging like vines. It drips. On the opposite side, you can make out a crack that crosses the wall diagonally. It lets through a blade of light that draws something on the floor resembling children's scribbles. When they were alive. When they went to school. When they ran after the ball in the street. What I hear is related to friends' voices, in those summer nights that started late and were never cold. They called you through the noise of music at parties, and voices came filtered through thick, substantial cotton wool. Those were the times of butterflies in your stomach, of stolen kisses, of nights spent watching the stars and skies where planes flew without bombs, and we, young girls, had fun guessing where they would go. Those were the times when we looked at the sea, without thinking that the gray color of a ship was synonymous with death. Those were the times when dust was lifted from furniture, noise brought joy, tremor was what took your legs when the most handsome boy in school smiled at you. Those were the times when silence was made out of respect, for the dead or for tired people. What I hear comes from the darkness, cold and dense at the back of the room. They are footsteps, running in a puddle and skillfully avoiding the wounds in the floor. They are echoes, they are breaths, they are tired structures creaking under the weight of a frightened child. The word "mama," I swear to you, is among all the most beautiful to hear.

A Summer's Remembrance...

 

It was the summer of '77, I wasn't even eleven years old and my mother was lecturing me to stay away from everything related to football passion, including bar fights and of course stadiums. She was probably right and had foreseen well, but the desire to kick the ball had manifested itself anyway, with the same punctuality with which pimples would arrive a few years later and then, as Battiato used to say, those stupid senseless infatuations.

It was immediately clear that my forty kilos of skin and bones would never end up in the top scorers' hall of fame, nor would we ever make trips beyond those fifty-three kilometers that separated my town from the provincial capital. But we definitely played football, and when there was no way to put together a couple of teams with at least four players per side, like Brazil-Italy, Brazil-France or Brazil-Real Madrid, we were content to sweat in those fresh laundered shirts with just a few of us, to decree the end of new jeans and to condemn tennis shoes to certain death. Among the most recurring performances - because these were true Actor's Studio interpretations - there was the one where you assumed the identity of a certain, specific football champion, idol of the crowds and unattainable trading card to exchange at school after exhausting negotiations, and you promised - declaring it in advance like calling your shot in a game of pool - to head the ball or volley it or bicycle kick it, the ball that someone would commit to kick roughly in your direction. And if you succeeded, if that scissor kick really came off well or if that header after a five-meter run-up hit the top corner of the goalpost without a net, you had the right to run across the field, celebrate in the manner of the champion you had declared to be, jump until exhaustion and simultaneously improvise the commentary, complete with jubilation, redundant terms and radio interference. If you were good, but really good, you could even imitate the screaming crowd that accompanied the commentator's joy.

They were rare but they happened, those occasions when we remained just two, me and my friend. My friend, I remember, had put the ball on the patch of yellowed grass from where crosses usually started, had looked around and stretched his legs and sought the right concentration after testing the air currents. Before kicking, however, before risking my low esteem for the poor precision of the pass or worse, before running the risk of hitting the thorny bush and prematurely ending the rubber ball's career, he had looked at me worried. He was a precise guy, and I swear, even now he's a real stickler. In that game you couldn't improvise, approximation was banned and lack of seriousness, we were certain, would bring bad luck at least until mid-August.

"Well?" "Well what?" I had asked. "Well, who are you going to be?"

He had every right to ask. I had already played as Causio, Rivera, and Chiarugi. Boninsegna had hit the post at the beginning of the afternoon and Chinaglia, well, I had never liked him. I had a soft spot for Roberto Dinamite, the Brazilian who would launch missiles and torpedoes but I didn't feel up to it, not with my sparrow legs and that shirt that reached my knees.

"Benetti," I had answered.

Not that I understood football. I was interested and felt those itches and knew that soon I would fall in love with it definitively but for the moment, for that summer, I was content to listen to friends' discussions, to follow on Sundays, getting a bit bored, the second half of the match which was the bread to nourish oneself with football for the whole week. And then there remained the marbles and newspaper headlines read for free while dying of boredom in the long blue afternoons. But Benetti had stuck with me, for that face like a bad-tempered Viking, for the pockmarked skin as if a swarm of meteorites had bombarded him without hurting him. For the broad shoulders and for that shark smile that was seen once a year if you were lucky. My friend's objection had been ready:

"But Benetti is a midfielder. If you must, be Zaccarelli."

But my little fan's heart, the one that would soon become an adult heart full of passion, beat for that other side, that of the bad guys/thieves and the fans who were all illiterate and Agnelli family suck-ups and...

"No. I won't be Zaccarelli!"

"Then," he had suggested and already knew he wouldn't be surprised by all my ignorance, "then be Paolo Rossi..."

Caught off guard and fearing a joke, I had asked who this person was, with such a mundane name as to be unoriginal even for a Bruno Bozzetto strip. Paolo Rossi, such a common name, ordinary, predictable. Rossi, I remembered well because the teacher had given us a lesson, was the most common surname along with Bianchi and then Verdi because things were like that, had always been like that. Our country was divided into opposing factions since time immemorial and so what was so special about this Paolo Rossi? My friend, who as I've already told you was a very precise type and I guarantee you that even now... had briefed me. Few but very useful information.

"He's an opportunist..." had been the answer.

"Like... like Cruijff?"

"No way! Cruijff is technical, with golden feet. One who takes you for a ride for half an hour and then, when your tongue is hanging down to your chin, still dribbles past the goalkeeper and puts it in. Like Claudio Sala, the poet of goals."

My verdict had been issued without even examining the evidence - "Then Paolo Rossi is useless!"

He was disappointed. Too little football knowledge chewed and still those tactical gaps that I would have to fill as soon as possible. "Then be Bettega," he had told me, shrugging his shoulders resignedly and now I don't remember anymore. I don't remember if I had managed a header even vaguely similar to those of cabeza blanca or if, simply, I had sent the ball to deflate among the thorns. What I do remember, however, is that from then on I had become interested in that Paolo Rossi: biography, statistics, technical characteristics and then everything else. I had followed the international cups and friendly matches. Sport Sera had become my favorite show and then Domenica Sportiva, but only if I didn't have a test at school the next day. The following summer, just in time for the World Cup, I was already a passionate fan, a full-fledged and dangerous delinquent, carried away by arms from bars on the coast where they showed the first matches in color. My father, embarrassed, would apologize to the patrons for my, let's say, exuberant character and would accompany me to a second bar to watch the second half. He doesn't even know but Argentina - Italy, the one from the colonels' World Cup, broadcast on TV in the middle of the night and where Bettega had hit the posts to the point of headbutting them in desperation, I had eavesdropped from my little room.

So, that's how Paolo Rossi had entered my life and along with him that wonder of a game that is football.

Today Paolo Rossi has left it and I don't know if you, I don't know if among those of my age, among those who spent summers afraid that the ball would end up in the bushes, among those who scraped their knees on the asphalt and who when the shot was high - and the goal was made with jackets - would understand each other with a glance between one team and the other, if there is someone who feels the void that I feel.

Why Do We Write?

 

One writes, among other things, because you have so much inside and need to make space, because your characters desperately need air, because there are worlds you've seen that others haven't noticed.

One writes because that story you caught just with the corner of your eye deserves a sequel, or because you're sitting on a train, and that glimpse of landscape, smudged by the window glass, has connected a couple of rather distant synapses in your mind.

One writes because everyone has already written that story, but in your opinion, that's not how they should have written it, because the world is full of stories just waiting for someone to make them presentable, and because, for once, you want to be the one pulling the strings of destiny. One writes because you want to begin where another would have ended, or because you want to end where another would have begun.

One writes because nobody cares about that thing, but you went down there and saw it up close. What a surprise that commotion was, the dust, the shouts, and that smell of healthy sweat, like a cloud of overexcited kids chasing after a ball.

One writes, I think, because there are many interesting people out there who never existed, like Madame Bovary, Captain Ahab, or Thérèse Raquin. Years go by, and you keep hearing about Renzo and Lucia, José Arcadio Buendía, or Dona Flor with her two husbands. There must be a parallel dimension where they've become immortal, and they don't even age anymore, not beyond that mischievous pen stroke that had drawn a wrinkle on their forehead, a gigantic nose, or a wooden leg. I wonder how Lieutenant Drogo, that Montag, or that Jean-Baptiste Grenouille are doing?

Carol Gerber. I, for instance, would like to meet Carol Gerber, but also Frannie Goldsmith or Beverly Marsh, for that matter. It wouldn't be bad if some of my characters could send me news, bring them my greetings.

One writes because one envies those who get rich by writing. Sure, they use languages different from ours, bouncing from one continent to another, and eventually materializing into images, comics, and songs.

One writes because it's impossible to do without it, and because every time someone starts reading your book or begins your story, the lights come back on in those places and on those characters. The latter wake up, emerge from the suspended animation that had forced them to sleep, stretch out, and begin to recompose the story that concerns them. Each time slightly different, they dress in the clothes that the reader sees fit for them and change their face a little, their height, and the tone of their voice, then they look around and no longer recognize the place, flooded by that ray of sunshine that wasn't there last time, or by that cold breeze that makes you want to cover up.

That's why one writes, because the seed of the world you've buried will germinate each time with a slightly different plant, and the miracle will be performed anew.

Not sure about this - A burning story

 

Not Sure About This

"Shall we light it?"

I remember the question well. It came suddenly, interrupting my train of thought.

I've never been clever enough to feel reasoning flow through my mind like a river in spring flood, but I'm no fool either. On that occasion, the gears of pros and cons suddenly seized up, and that annoying squeak of my conscience fell silent.

"I'm not sure about this," I answered, but I was persuaded by that captivating smile, garnished with the glint of a gold tooth peeking out from the base of his tongue. The money was within reach. One bright flash and it would be mine.

Now I'm enjoying the view.

The wind, blowing from the mountains, has warmed itself against the rocks and its pressure inflates my open jacket. I'm surrounded by a rain of dry leaves. They've surrendered to the approaching winter and are searching for a place to rot. Against a backdrop of interwoven branches, two young deer chase each other. The first jumps over a bush and the second imitates it. The earth kicked up by their hooves translates into many dramatic puffs of dust. My eyes fall for the trick of camouflage, and I only sense the gradually fading vibration of footsteps, or perhaps that's just my imagination.

I'm not sure about this.

Caterina has grown up so fast that I struggle to replace the memory I have of her as a child with that five-foot-eleven of gentle curves and peach-soft skin. At the beginning of winter, she's still tanned and beautiful. She moves like a ballerina, every time she smiles it feels like a celebration, and she never speaks out of turn. The thought fills me with pride.

I'm convinced I've been a good father, and I turn my gaze to the clear sky.

The deep blue shimmers a bit from the effect of a tear, and at that moment a pair of buzzards soars over the woods, describing a series of increasingly tight concentric circles. They must have spotted small prey, probably in trouble near a precipice at the edge of the pine forest.

Caterina plays volleyball. She arrives at the gym first and leaves after everyone else is already in the shower. There isn't a uniform that doesn't suit her perfectly, and when she jumps, she stays suspended in the air for a long time, her shoes with diagonal red stripes a good three feet off the floor. In that instant, you can take perfectly focused photos. When she lands, she makes no sound, not even the usual squeak of soles that sometimes turns into a concert. She wears number sixteen on her fitted lycra tank top, or maybe seventeen.

I'm not sure about this.

If there's one thing I hate about mountains, it's that they're an anachronistic obstacle.

Progress hasn't yet managed to tame them, and sometimes you have to bow to their imposing presence and go around them. You have to endure the shadow that makes the asphalt slick, the darkness made sudden by dense woods, and that cold that clashes with the lukewarm air of the plains. The valley at my feet narrows until it disappears behind a fog-inhabited ridge. A winding road runs through it in a succession of hairpin turns and straightaways, before getting lost in turn. It looks like a drunk painter amused himself by cleaning his gray brush while searching for inspiration.

Grazia is a treasure. There's nothing about her I don't like, and the passing years have transformed her into the pillar of my existence. We met when we were still young, and now, at every moment, with every beat of my heart that adds to our story, I feel I've spent my time well. She loves her job with a reciprocated love, receives recognition, is adored by colleagues, and brings home money and smiles. The last time we went to the restaurant together, she wore a long red dress, perfectly married to the harmonious line of her hips and destined to attract envious glances from diners toward her behind. Matching her black faux leather purse, she stylishly wore heels, fifteen centimeters high, or maybe twelve.

I'm not sure about this.

The concept of pillar, granite, and solidity perfectly matches my surroundings. From the rock wall behind me, which only a few brave shrubs have attempted to conquer, the mossy arrow slits of an abandoned fortress peer out. On the space-starved passage that the walls grant to the precipice, a line of chamois organizes itself to reach the beginning of the woods.

Where the sweating wall begins to jut from the earth, a faint scent of smoke and fog rises to meet the squared stones, and a flock of small birds divides into groups as soon as they reach the sky.

"Shall we light it?"

"Yes," I answered, swallowing saliva that felt like a mouthful of thorns. My hand, cold and contracted with fear, tightened around the wad of banknotes that the man with the captivating smile had spread on the desk. Before withdrawing it, I had time to interpret the flash of satisfaction in his eyes, and the question came along with a corrupt breath.

"So you're sure about this?"

The warm wind hasn't yet given its best. A first and then a second powerful gust arrives, and the uncertain gray of a smoke column takes on increasingly compact shades of black. Soon after, tongues of fire twist around the base.

If I'm not home for dinner, Grazia will judge me badly, and so will Caterina. Perhaps she has volleyball practice this afternoon, or maybe after-school activities.

I'm not sure about this.

Fire isn't silent at all. In lovers' fantasies and romance, it crackles, but when it affects a forest annihilated by months of drought, it screams, and it does so along with thousands of creatures.

The smoke slithers low, slips into burrows and kills small rodents still busy gathering provisions for winter. The fire infiltrates under the leaves, disintegrates insects, and runs in search of its release. When it finds oxygen to feed on, it transforms into an explosion.

"Good, then. The money is yours. Take it..."

And finally, the hand withdrew. I noticed that crumpling banknotes produces a sound very similar to flames devouring a bush. After all, there's a perverse affinity that binds money to all things that burn.

The resin that cooks produces its vapors, and the fire feeds on them.

On its path there are flames thirty meters high and a cemetery of glowing trunks in its wake. Sometimes a tongue of fire comes forward and seems to want to catch me.

The man with the captivating smile made things clear right away.

"You'll have to abandon the area long before the trigger can ignite and expose you... Remember that!"

I crumpled the banknotes to stuff them in my pocket. When those people assign you something, you can't refuse. I stood up and reached the door without turning around.

"Well, thank you..."

The desk drawer closed with a sharp snap. I didn't miss the gun handle placed next to the money box, and the man with the captivating smile noticed that.

"Do you have a family? You know, a loving wife and a beautiful daughter who makes you proud?"

I imagined having them.

I thought of a life different from this cesspool, which I believed I'd left behind simply by dressing myself in good manners. I spread one of the most fake smiles from my repertoire. "Yes, they're two wonderful women!"

I leave when the alarm sirens scream like eagles and people rush to face the fire. There's a coming and going of vehicles and men shouting instructions, running and wearing masks. One of the youngest is seized by panic and remains paralyzed as if in a freeze frame. A wild boar, its fur lit up like a matchstick, darts past him and nearly knocks him over.

"Remember, then. Don't disappoint me and remember. There will be people like you starting fires in other places, and it's important that everyone does their part at the same moment..."

The man with the captivating smile lit a cigar and disappeared behind bluish swirls of smoke. I left the office in its gasoline smell and started repeating like a mantra:

Fire purifies, fire purifies, fire...

Purifies.

And I see a large male deer charging toward me like a train.

A female and three desperate fawns follow him. The last one lags behind, slows down, speeds up, and then changes direction. When the others are already far away, deceived by the yielding ground, it loses its footing and ends up rolling into a stream's gorge.

The flames are surrounding me, and I'm tired.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I would have followed my instructions to the letter and left immediately.

The boy paralyzed by fear has been reassured by his companions and now he's pointing at me, or perhaps he's indicating the infernal blades that have attacked a group of conifers behind me.

The fire roars.

Those who speak of crackling live in a plastic world, as small and predictable as their fireplace burner.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I wouldn't have become a criminal and my life would have been different, or perhaps not.

I'm not sure about this.

The male deer's antlers slide under my ribs.

Rough, I feel them pierce through my lung and end up pushing against the inner wall of my back. The heat surrounding me is so intense that the blood pooling in my throat might start to boil.

The young fawn emerges from the streambed and starts running in zigzags toward the valley.

The boy paralyzed by fear is about to leave with his team, and I hear him shouting without understanding his words.

From reading his lips, I see an encouragement to save myself, or perhaps it's a curse, hurled at me and garnished with a crown of profanities.

I don't know, I'm not sure about this.

. The Party on the Terrace. A Dance of masks and bullets

 

The terrace is tastefully arranged.

Colorful string lights crisscross it in two directions, closed umbrellas stand tall, and flags flutter at the four corners of the railing. The buffet table, made of expensive teak wood, is placed against the back wall and covered with a tablecloth that leaves its natural grain visible. The lights from the penthouse shine through the wide glass windows, framing the studio apartment like a scene in a cinema. The entrance door is visible at the back, along with the bathroom access marked by a heavy cast-metal “toilet” sign and two paintings that would delight many collectors. The city rooftops merge with the night, and the lit windows add a nativity-like charm that warms the heart.

A waiter, hands clasped behind his back and steps soft, tends to final details, checking the freshness of the dishes and straightening a few bottles here and there. The Amarone della Valpolicella stands out, its red embossed label stark against the dark bottle, and three choices of champagne for the appetizers chill near a fragile tower of crystal glasses.

The first guests to arrive are a middle-aged couple. The man, bald, wears a blue jacket with ease, paired with faded jeans and a white shirt hinting at a gym-sculpted chest. The woman, still attractive, wears a light blue dress that shows off her healthy, slender legs. The waiter greets them, collects her handbag, and places it on a long bench near a built-in wardrobe large enough to house an entire boat.

Next, two women enter, smiling generously. They flaunt enviable décolletés and fresh beach tans. True to tradition, one is blonde, the other brunette, making it hard to choose who is more striking. The blonde boasts a contest-worthy figure, while the brunette has enormous, dark eyes. She exudes elegance, albeit betrayed by a touch too much lipstick. Their handbags, too, are entrusted to the diligent waiter.

The terrace starts to come alive: an older woman in a long, glitter-adorned dress; an equally elderly man with white, well-groomed mustache; and a young couple of lovers, slightly awkward. She clutches her bag while he, much taller, wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning comically to kiss her hair. Both are astonished by the lavish menu and the generous offering of fine wines. They peruse the buffet, weave through the chairs, and reach the railing to marvel at the view.

Still no sign of the president.

I had studied the ten photographs provided alongside the €50,000 payment. The client would place a €5,000 bundle on the table, topping it with a photograph.

“Study it carefully,” he instructed. I scrutinized her features, the youthful tautness of her skin, and the sparkle in her eyes. Red lips, toned shoulders. The second photo, paired with the next bundle, showed her in a yellow Brazilian bikini, walking on a deserted beach with her discreet bodyguards in tow. The third captured her at work behind her desk, and the fourth as a speaker at a crowded conference. The prominent microphone didn’t obscure her lovely face, while her hair in a bun and large tortoiseshell glasses transformed her significantly. Nothing was left to chance.

“This will be the only occasion when she’ll appear without security and without any protective protocol. You know you can’t fail,” he emphasized as the fifth installment of my advance appeared on the table, accompanied by yet another photo.

I had memorized her face and delved deeper, searching for videos featuring her.

I’m a professional.

I started shooting during my three-year military stint, where I discovered my talent as a sniper. I had enlisted after my heartbreak with Lara, the most beautiful and important woman of my life. My perfect partner. She left without explanation, without second thoughts. One evening she embodied love itself; the next, she was a bundle of whims and paranoia. The bouquets I left at her door were futile, and in the end, instead of twelve red roses, I grew accustomed to clutching a precision rifle.

Bang, the targets’ heads would burst.

Bang, the heads burst.

They nicknamed me Bang Bang Boy.

This is my fifth assignment, and I’ve never been paid this much. The president is a target worth every euro of the fee, including the rest I’ll collect once the job is done.

It’s not a bad line of work. I never get close to the victims; I watch them fall lifeless through the precise optics of my Sako.

Bang.

It’s a cold sensation, like watching actors die in a movie. Remorse lasts only a second, and let’s be clear—once the bullet is fired, it’s like destiny: there’s no way to change its direction.

“There’s no room for mistakes. We’ve got the right tip-off and the perfect spot. You’ll shoot from up there...” he said, pointing to an old 19th-century building painted in that ubiquitous Torino yellow. It stood four stories tall on the hillside, hollow like a snail shell. Up to the third row of windows, the facade was hidden by the dense foliage of trees.

“The owner is an old woman who lives alone in that barracks of a house. We know she recently had her hip replaced and won’t be leaving the clinic for another three weeks. You won’t have to force the doors—we’ve got a copy of the keys.”

They jingled in front of my face, much like the Mercedes keys the latest guests handed to the obsequious waiter. These were two men who looked like they’d never worked a day in their lives, with faces unmistakably marked by plastic surgery for the trained eye to notice. The taller one walked with a slight limp—I imagined he’d injured himself during a water-skiing session or maybe falling off a horse. The shorter one kept his hands buried in the high pockets of a hooded sweatshirt. I wouldn’t dare show up at such an elegant gathering dressed like that—or with such a vulgar rapper attitude.

I pull my eye away from the scope.

I want to rest for a moment before the president makes her appointment with destiny. I glance around the room.

The space is pitch dark, and the door to the fourth-floor apartment is ajar, opening onto a landing that smells faintly of wax polish. Once the job is done, I’ll shut it behind me and vanish. The windowsill I’ll shoot from is low, perfect for a precise shot without anyone noticing the muzzle flash.

I stretch my legs to keep them from falling asleep, get the blood flowing, then resume my sniper’s stance.

The terrace is more crowded now, a growing hubbub. I scan the interior but still don’t see my target—just the same people as before, with some insignificant extras adding to the commotion.

“No complaints if you have to take down someone who steps into the line of fire or just won’t get out of the way. Clear your path if necessary, but don’t miss. Don’t hold back for that rabble; they wouldn’t hesitate for you. You know the drill—if you miss, one of ours will be waiting downstairs to send you to your maker. Few things are certain in this world, but so far, it’s pretty clear that dead men don’t talk.”

He’d said it, and somehow, I thought of Lara—our years together, our white kitten, Thursday night pizza, movie dates, her smile that healed pain, her flawless body. I remember her green eyes, the small mole beside her lip, and her eyelashes, long as petals. I remember her scent and her skin, smooth as silk.

If I kill today, it’s because she hurt me yesterday.

I scan all the guests with patient precision, sweeping from right to left. I’m 200 meters from the target, but my scope is powerful, revealing every detail. The shy young couple has let someone fill their glasses with something blue. The man with the white mustache chats animatedly with the Mercedes duo, gesturing flamboyantly. Now there are two waiters; a younger one with a conspicuous earpiece has joined, both bustling about, ensuring nothing is amiss. The bald man with enviable pecs nibbles on a caviar tartlet.

The contrary wind carries the music down to the city, but judging by the swaying hips and tapping feet, I guess it’s jazz with a swing rhythm.

I breathe.

It’s good to keep my brain oxygenated, to push back the dull aches and faint cramps.

“You’ll shoot as soon as she steps onto the terrace. She’s authoritative and revered enough that everyone will step aside for her. They’ll make way like for a cow in India, and then it’ll be easy. Place your usual shot to the heart, and another squarely in the forehead. Pack up, leave the room neat, close the window and the door, and disappear. We’ll get the rest of the cash to your house.”

There she is!

The president enters the house. The obsequious waiter clicks his heels together and approaches to take her handbag. With her are a friend whose face is hidden behind a wall of shoulders and applause, and an elderly executive who walks with difficulty. The friend appears to ask about the bathroom and slips behind the door with the heavy plaque.

I could shoot now, make the bullet pierce the glass and hit her, but if the web of cracks spreads too far, it could obscure my view. Better to wait until the target steps onto the terrace. When I see the guests part like the Red Sea, I’ll know the moment has come.

I relax.

Shooting requires the awareness and calm of a Tibetan monk. You must control your breath, dominate your heart, and overcome emotion. No trembling or second thoughts. A good shooter learns quickly to relax his sphincter. It’s funny, but the sniper has to manage his ass better than anyone else.

Applause erupts.

The terrace is lit up brightly, and the guests leave a wide and comfortable path for the guest of honor, his downhill road to hell. To enhance the dramatic effect, the lights inside the house are turned off. The dead woman walking will emerge from the darkness like a great actress taking the stage. And I will take her.

I breathe.

My neck is soft and relaxed, my shoulders light, and everything, from my chest down, stretches as written in the manuals of the seasoned assassin.

“They’ll have the lights in their eyes. No one, really, not even the lucky ones, will understand where the shots came from. You know what I’m telling you? I’ll fill her with money to do it, but almost I could do it on my own,” he had laughed until he felt sick while I waited for the slap on the shoulder that would come soon after. Some people don’t even respect the dead.

My heart slows, my blood slows.

Time slows.

The crosshair of the scope splits the width of the door. The crosshair points where soon there will be a heart to split.

When Lara, my ex-girlfriend, appears first, surprising the guests, I feel a punch in my stomach and I lose my breath, my reason clouds, and the circle of the lens frames a confusion of colors and lights in motion. I struggle with the rifle, overwhelmed by a flood of pain and tension, and my mouth dries as if I had swallowed a hairdryer. My ass clenches, and the world crashes down on me.

The president is behind her. She smiles, offers greetings, jokes, gestures with her hand, and bows proudly. Only, her vital organs, the ones I’m supposed to shatter with a 7.62 Heckler & Koch bullet, are protected by Lara’s body.

I couldn’t have imagined they were friends or lovers or partners, so close. I would have refused the assignment had I known, and I would have run to warn her at the cost of burning my career. Lara is as beautiful as ever, matured, with a gaze full of awareness. She must be rich, and she only moves for a moment when the waiter hands her a glass, and I know I could never take advantage of the opportunity, not even at the peak of concentration.

Now, I’m a hostage of chaos.

There’s an irrefutable mission, a killer waiting for me at the exit, and fifty thousand euros in advance that will do for my funeral. Whoever gave me the assignment couldn’t have known about my love for Lara, and here’s the shipwreck about to happen.

I try to concentrate, wiping the sweat that runs down my forehead, and I try to slow my pulse. There’s too much of it even for watching a game.

Nothing.

The president advances across the terrace, with Lara always one meter ahead. When all the lights go out, the second act of the macabre play begins.

The terrace remains in the dark.

Only the candles shine on the tables, but the rest of the party is a confused, dark mass. No target for pam pam boy.

"You’ve got an excuse, my friend!" I convince myself that the sudden blackout is my grand opportunity to slip away, return to the client, and dismiss it all with a shrug.

"Didn't you know it was a candlelit party? I’m really sorry if you were misinformed, but you should have sent a hitman to the venue, not placed a sniper by the window…”

It works.

I don’t have infrared optics with me, and with every passing minute, I become an easy target. Goodbye, high-profile assassination. I glance once more toward the terrace, but the only lights I see are the usual candles and the red tips of lit cigarettes.

I disassemble the rifle from its mount, place it in its case unhurriedly, and stand up. As I close the window, I see the party continuing under the soft glow of flames. There’s nothing I can do about it. As instructed, I make sure the room is in order, step out onto the landing that smells of wax, and slowly begin to descend the stairs.

The landlady materializes on the landing below, propped up by an orthopedic walker. Her armpits are pinched between its grips and her pajamas, her face of wrinkles and blotches frozen in shock. I notice her fuchsia fur slippers and a curious hairnet that screams “bank heist.”

"Good Lord, who are you?” she stammers, then starts shrieking like a banshee, spitting like a faulty exhaust. She screams, stomps her good leg on the floor. "How the hell did you get in, and what… what’s in that case!" And I get it. I realize she could dictate my description over coffee and that she’s sharp, with perfect eyesight behind those thick, old-lady-teacher glasses. She reeks of disinfectant—fresh from the clinic—and I’m certain she’s as fast on her phone as a gunslinger.

When I see her begin to pivot the walker to retreat into her apartment, I strike her with the edge of the case. She crumples like a can under a wheel and dies. Nobody survives a cracked skull and brains oozing onto the doormat like cheese from a toast onto a napkin. A few nervous spasms of the legs, then stillness. The cloud of white hair trapped by the hairnet absorbs the blood pooling on the floor.

Since things can only get worse, I head back to the top floor to check if the party has resumed under electric light. And yes, damn it, it has. Not the Texan party bulbs from earlier, but spotlights flooding the scene in purple.

I feel like I’m going insane, but what takes my breath away is that all the guests are wearing masks.

And capes. Masks of various designs and black capes dragging on the floor. Some are tall, some short, but they have no gender, no faces, and no one can tell who the target is—or who Lara is.

I take out my phone and snap some photos. I feel genuinely sorry for the old lady, and the client will believe me. No hard feelings. As I focus, the phone vibrates in my hand.

"Yes…"

"We’ve got no choice. Shoot anything that moves!"

"What the hell?"

"One of the waiters is ours. We’ll have him block the door so they can’t leave, and you figure it out. After you drop a couple, they’ll probably take off their masks, and then you’ll get an idea…"

"No, seriously, this is insane. And by the way, I made a bad impression on the landlady—the one you said was at the clinic…”

"We’re mortified. These things happen, but we have to kill that bitch, you understand? Otherwise, the stock crashes, and millions—no, billions—evaporate. And then it’ll be our asses on the line. Crack a few skulls, and let’s see what happens."

I taste overripe fruit in my mouth and see death settle in next to me. The partygoers are either performing a ritual or—more simply—they’re so rich, bored, and drugged that they no longer know how to have fun. Lara is among them. I expected anything from her except becoming part of high society.

I hastily set up the mount, reassemble the rifle and scope, and peer into the deepest purple I’ve ever seen. There are masks, extravagant and gothic; others, baroque and ornate; and some, minimalist and pristine. I recognize the tall guy with the much shorter girlfriend. They’re awkward in a distant corner, holding hands that peek out from under their capes. The Mercedes guy is limping; there he is, wandering among the armchairs. And then there’s the old man with the mustache. I haven’t forgotten his slightly hunched posture.

Lara, where are you?

Madam President, lead like a leader even under the mask. Part the crowd like a plow. Show yourself!

But it’s just back-and-forth through the scope, and frustration mounts. I want a glass of water, a foot soak, and a chance to call my mom.

Denied.

"Hello." Silence.

"Hello…"

"Apparently, the bitch is wearing a mask with lace details and vermilion red lips. That’s all I know, buddy. Good luck."

Vermilion red lips, lace. There are at least ten masks like that, and I fear that Lara, in the name of corporate branding, is hiding behind one of them.

But Lara is tall, so I shoot the shortest one. The bullet strikes her chest; she staggers, grasps for the teak table, clings to the tablecloth, then collapses, pulling everything down with her. Everyone rushes to her; some grab their phones, others clutch their faces. No one removes their mask, so I persist. I put a 7.62 next to the cheekbone of the next tallest. A broad reddish crack forms in the mask as the crystal glass tower explodes in all directions. The stampede toward the house is immediate, as violent as a tidal wave. And I am a dead man. I shoot, then hope, then shoot again. Some trip over the dead, piling up, while the chaos at the blocked door is a chokehold, a gulp of broken glass that won’t go down—my career’s end.

They’ll have to pay me double. Triple. Quadruple, because I just shot through the ribs of a mask that had nothing to do with vermilion lips, lace, or women to eliminate. I see a cape fluttering like in a storm, the body collapsing beneath it.

Reload.

Shoot. Goodbye, old executive.

Reload.

Shoot. Farewell, beautiful brunette; may the earth be light upon you.

I’m so tense I could snap if a canary landed on my back.

I regret hitting the shy girlfriend. I see her clutching her stomach, falling to her knees, bowing her head. She remains kneeling like a devotional figurine, her mask rolling to the ground. Her boyfriend has been dead for a while now.

Ten times as much. They’ll have to pay me ten times as much, and I’ll shoot.

A small table crashes to the ground, candles scattering sparks everywhere, and down goes the blonde with the desirable little derrière.

They topple like bowling pins, and the shot that hits the elderly gentleman—slightly hunched and proud of his mustache—splashes blood, brain, and shards of mask across the glass pane dividing the terrace from the house. And not just that—it cracks an ill-fated spiderweb into the crystal.

I keep shooting until the glass shatters into a cascade of tiny shards. I even shoot those sprawled on the ground, hands crossed over their necks, and the others hiding behind flimsy armchairs, slender tables, and lifeless bodies under a black shroud.

I reload.

I shoot.

Reload. Bang bang, and my shoulder aches.

I fire so much that I make the air in the room unbreathable.

When the last of the targets collapses, a gush of blood spurting from their neck, I realize there are only two left on the terrace. I’m sure one of them is Lara. And the other—it’s her, the millionaire manager who stretched her luck too far.

“Take off the mask, go on,” I demand, but I know it’s a deliberate choice for them.

As blood drips from the terrace, streaking the facade with countless red streams, and a mountain of lifeless flesh presses against the barricaded door, I wait for one of the two women—trembling like leaves in a storm—to slip. I murmur, implore, pray like a man on death row.

“Come on, sweetheart. Take off the mask...”

The phone again.

Through the receiver, I hear the wail of police sirens. My time is running out. Someone in the city must have located the shooter, and the clock is ticking.

“You’ve done thirty, buddy. Come on, make it thirty-one before the cops show up.”

“Take it off, Lara. Take it off, show me your pretty face. Please, don’t disappoint me again!”

I feel my sweaty hands slipping on the rifle, the barrel smelling like an old stove, and I’ve only got one bullet left. I might have even soiled myself by now. I must look like a mess, but I can already hear the sirens for real.

They’re coming.

The two friends know they have no escape. They don’t scream or try to run. In my frenzy, I even shot the obsequious waiter—the only one with an uncovered face—which has dramatically affected my ammo count and will cost me dearly.

Now they’re hugging, waiting. Lara knows the dividends of their reckless stock market schemes will go to her, too, and I have no choice.

I’ll live if I return to base with not a single bullet left—and maybe, so will she.

I’ll live if I become one with the darkness before the police lights blind me.

I control my breathing.

Steady my heart.

Conquer my emotions.

No tremors, no second thoughts. I relax my muscles, aim at the mask on the left, and pull the trigger.

Once the bullet leaves, it’s like fate: there’s no way to change its direction.

In Italy, alas, there are few readers. I tried to classify them into categories, but don’t take me too seriously…

 

Readers in our country are scarce.

It’s not just me saying this; there are some fairly eloquent statistics on the subject. If confirmation were needed, just think about the places where there used to be a bookstore (and now there’s an auto parts shop or a chain lingerie store) and the not-always-smiling faces of the rare booksellers scattered here and there.

At the shopping mall, for example—the one where you have to tailgate the guy with the cart, hoping he’ll surrender his precious parking spot after loading up his car—there’s always a big bookstore from a big publishing house. That’s the only place you can escape the Sunday crowd, the barbarian horde of Christmas shoppers, or the zombie apocalypse. Within the reassuring walls of the bookstore, in an almost bucolic atmosphere, you can find your oasis of peace while the world outside boils like a volcano’s crater.

Even though readers are few, they do exist.

We have photos, videos, and testimonies from real people whose faces have been pixelated, their voices distorted. We even have images of some individuals, caught in the act, clutching bags full of books, cautious and elusive.

As someone who writes and—like any writer—needs to sell as much as possible, I’ve developed a sense of the most recurring types of readers and the quirks that make them so unique.

I’ll try to list them, using a light-hearted tone and, hopefully, not offending anyone (though if I do, let me know, and I’ll apologize):

---

THE ONE-AUTHOR DEVOTEES

They are quite numerous.

They harbor a spontaneous and unshakable passion for one specific author and tend to fill their shelves almost exclusively with their favorite’s works. The Kingites are the most numerous, but you’ll also find Rowling enthusiasts, Sparks fans, and Dean Koontz loyalists. James Patterson’s Facebook page, for instance, has over three and a half million followers.

The one-author devotees are often resistant to other literary offerings and tend to reread the same book over and over. Some have even read it ten times, including the original language version and the quirky edition written in Cyrillic.

They never miss out on the reprint with the new cover, the exorbitantly priced first edition snagged on eBay, or the novel translated by that particular interpreter. I get it, to some extent. I, for example, am obsessed with King, madly love Koontz, and am developing a crush on Lansdale.

But our friends, the ones at the pathological level, aren’t satisfied with even the most prolific one-author catalog. Many tend to buy novels written by the beloved author’s relatives, those cobbled together by four or six hands, or those obviously handed over to uninspired ghostwriters.

---

THE ONE-BOOK BUYERS

I know, I’m twisting the knife in the wound.

I’m sorry to do it, but the subject had to come up sooner or later.

The one-book buyers always show up in the bookstore when you’re in a hurry. They flood in a few days before Christmas and cluster around the pile of books that, a moment ago, had tripped an elderly lady with a cane.

They were heading to the outlet mall, but the line of cars made them postpone. They arrive, debit cards in hand, and make a beeline for the season’s buzzworthy book. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s a good novel that deserved its success. Other times, the mountain of volumes blocking the display window and the afternoon sun is the biography of a footballer nearing retirement or a collection of a trendy comedian’s best jokes.

Then there’s the usual book by the TV host who’s been churning out one annually for at least half a century and the cookbook by a chef, teaching you how to make the same old pasta but in six painstaking hours.

The one-book buyer usually has the purchase gift-wrapped and sometimes browses other books, only to put them back with a promise to return. I won’t be the one to tell you that, most of the time, they forget their shopping intentions within a minute.

---

THE BLURB FOLLOWERS

They’re decent readers but have little confidence in their instincts.

They arrive at the bookstore reasonably prepared, having followed debates and read various reviews of new releases, and they’re willing to spend money, dedicating time to browsing the shelves.

The blurb followers, however, often succumb to laziness and end up buying only books adorned with a promotional band.

The blurb is every writer’s dream. Sometimes it features an excerpt from a famous newspaper’s review, a quote from a celebrity, or a recommendation by a trendy musician. There’s also the boast about the gazillion copies sold and the massive success in the 175 languages the book has allegedly been translated into.

Blurbs are diabolical.

Whatever persuasive tidbit they contain, they manage to capture the blurb followers’ attention and convince them. I’ve fallen for it myself, and I swear, despite the authoritative opinion on that particular blurb, I went home disappointed, unable to find the promised magic in the pages, and lost a bit of respect for the author who approved it.

---

THE BUY-BUT-NEVER-READ TYPES

I think they’re legion, numbering in the hundreds if not thousands.

They buy, download, rush to book fairs, and fill carts.

The “buy-but-never-read” types can accumulate dozens of titles only to abandon them on the shelves. Occasionally, they pass by the ranks of anonymous spines, only to leave with a massive sense of guilt.

These individuals, however, deserve credit for keeping the struggling publishing industry alive, though they’re guilty of letting the characters in those novels languish, desperately clawing at the pages, yearning to be set free.

---

THE CHRONIC BOOK BORROWERS

I like to think they don’t understand how much work goes into publishing, that they’re unaware writers are rarely rich, and that they don’t know how precarious an author’s career can be with low sales.

The chronic borrowers have a trash can for a heart (citation needed) and would probably cheer for a dubious penalty awarded to the opposing team in the 93rd minute of a legendary match (an outburst of rage).

The chronic borrowers likely don’t realize that authors’ royalties are calculated on the cover price, minus bookstore discounts, taxes, distributor fees (which sometimes swallow half the value), and publisher rights. We’re talking about pennies per copy.

Do I like them?

Yes, because many of my readers have candidly admitted it to my face. And no, they weren’t obliged to know how exploitative the publishing world is.

Well, now they know.