Globusz^® Publishing 

He spotted his cousin’s old black Mercedes among the cars that had pulled up at the lights. Urbano was smiling at him, beckoning him over with a wave, but the lights changed to orange and Paul could not move.

“I’ll ring you up,” he shouted.

Urbano gestured backward at the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro further down on the Via Veneto. The lights on his side were now on green and the drivers behind started tooting their horns. “Giulia wants to talk to you—she’s at the bank,” he shouted back as he sped away.

It was twenty to one and Paul brooded over his appointment at George’s in fifty minutes and Lelia’s confession to him earlier in the morning. What she’d told him made a big difference to the story. That was why he badly needed a stroll before showing up at the restaurant. It was still worth buying the Revenue Guard major a lunch at a fancy place—he still meant to gather a picture of Lodiacono’s finances, but he had to reconsider the whole thing, and above all to work out a plausible excuse for backing off. Valdo would be very pissed.

Even so, a few minutes with Giulia would do him good. She’d always been nice to him. Why had he spoken about his problem to a stranger such as Rosanna Veneziani rather than to her? Giulia had known him a long time, and knew Debby as well; she might come up with a neat idea.

He headed for the BNL. The armed Italian policemen stationed in front of the American Embassy on his left glared at him, but not suspiciously. How reassuring—at least they didn’t take him for a terrorist.

As he stepped into the pedestrian crossing at the corner of Via Veneto and Via Bissolati, he saw Giulia leaving the bank and walking up in his direction. Her embroidered aqua cotton shirt was very smart.

They kissed each other on the cheeks. He told her he’d just met Urbano. “I, too, wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I made a point of calling you.”

She chuckled. “Rome is crammed full of people who make a point of calling me.”

“I mean it. Let’s have an aperitif.”

They sat next to each other on a hammock under a parasol at the Caffè delle Nazioni. He ordered two Dubonnet cocktails. The waiter also brought several canapés.

“Giannetto is having a get-together at Sacrofano tomorrow night,” she said. “He only told us yesterday and said would we bring you and Debby along. Would you care to come?”

Paul knew that Giannetto owned half Sacrofano and was selling land to speculators for a huge development of residential houses—for people who would move to the country when they couldn’t even bear the smell of it. He didn’t like the project, nor did Debby. It would spoil the countryside. But she’d been to Giannetto once—and on that occasion enjoyed the party. Or rather, the long night swim in the pool.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Ask Debby.”

“D’you know we’re going back to England?”

“Oh dear. When?”

“In the autumn.”

“You decided to leave Rome and didn’t let me know?”

“If I don’t go, Debby is going alone.”

“Oh dear.”

“I’m not even sure Debby wants me to go with her. I don’t think she loves me any more.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, Giulia. She hates Rome. I’m afraid she hates me, too.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“I shouldn’t tell you, but you see, I’m half-Italian, and she hates the Italians. Giulia, I’m in a mess. I wanna talk to you, but not now—have got to hurry to a working lunch at half past one.”

“Come to Giannetto, bring her along. I’ll sound her out on her anti-Italian feelings.”

“Oh no, don’t. She’ll realize I’ve spoken to you.”

“No, she won’t. I know how to deal with her. She’d already told me she isn’t very happy.”

“When?”

“Two–three months ago, I should think. It’s a long story.”

“Can’t I see you alone tomorrow?”

She hesitated, then said, “Let’s make it later today. Come to me around five. Urbano won’t be in.”

What if he broke the appointment with Rosanna Veneziani? No, he couldn’t do that. “Today I can’t,” he said, lowering his eyes. Why had he been gazing at her bosom? He’d done the same with Rosanna, and barely managed not to do it with Lelia. Did their bosoms really resemble Debby’s, or was the resemblance simply in his mind because he wanted to screw a woman, any woman, just to prove himself?

“Look…” Giulia smiled, as if she’d guessed what he’d been thinking. “Let’s do it like this,” she said after a pause. “I’ll call Debby up to tell her about Giannetto’s invitation—”

“She’ll say no,” he cut in.

“Trust me. I’ve got the feeling she once was hinting that she’d leave Rome immediately if it wasn’t for you. If you’re right, if she doesn’t love you as before, something has changed. I’m confident I can suss her out for you, but it should be done casually. So I’d rather see her at Giannetto’s than turn up at your place. You’re right, it shouldn’t look a deliberate plan—she mustn’t think I’m acting hand in glove with you.”

“But she won’t accept the invitation. She’s in such a mood.”

“I’ll say Urbano has already committed us but I don’t feel like going without you two. I’ll beg her to come as a favour to me.”

* * *

What did Ernesto Lodiacono pass for, a guru of the caring community? A fraud he was—a liar, an exploiter of the sick and the poor, as well as the protector of common law criminals and drug dealers. Paul puffed on his pipe. It would be nice to savour the aroma, it would help to put the Landi case and the San Bernardo financial scam out of his mind for a little while, but he couldn’t…he couldn’t…The thought that he might harm Lelia resurfaced every minute.

It was no joke. He was on the news and couldn’t use it. If Lelia was involved, it was too dangerous to run the story—he should have realized it before making such a fuss at the editorial meeting. He fucked up in this bloody summer, he was in a mess of his own making—could not even expose Lodiacono as a tax dodger on a large scale, regardless of what the Revenue Guard’s file on him contained. The lunch with the major had cost him a fortune…and all for nothing.

He approached the entrance to the Via Ludovisi parking garage—no, he didn’t feel like shutting himself up in the Beetle to end up being stuck in traffic. There were more than two hours before his appointment with Rosanna. To make good use of this time he’d meant to pop over to the Meridiano and say he’d been tragically wrong, but Valdo would ask him a lot of pressing questions. Paul stopped—how should he answer them? He’d think about a fairly convincing explanation tonight; he’d go to the office tomorrow morning. He had to anyway—didn’t give a crap for his designer scam page any more, but was supposed to check its layout.

A group of American tourists were leaving the Eden Hotel on his right. That was what he would do—a long walk about the centre under the “pleasant” July sun, enjoying the stifling smell of polluted Rome, as would those clever Americans in gaudy shirts.

He passed by the entrance of the garage and turned left heading for Via Sistina. Trinità dei Monti would be his next stop. Then he would get down the Spanish Steps to Piazza di Spagna and then to Via Condotti for an espresso at the Caffè Greco.

On the Spanish steps the information he’d gathered from the major came to him again. Lodiacono had been under investigation for a year, on suspicion of a million euro VAT fraud. According to the major, the evidence in the hands of the Revenue Guard was overwhelming. That caring chap had a number of drug addicts register as businessmen under the Valued Added Tax Regulations and, once they’d obtained a code, made them invoice San Bernardo for goods or services that were never, nor could have ever been, supplied. The racket had been going on for several years, enabling him to show both a VAT and a deficit balance in the corporate accounts. Greedy, and cheeky—that was why they’d started the investigation. When Lodiacono claimed a tax refund on behalf of San Bernardo.

By now, Paul was in Via Condotti. He entered the Caffé Greco, and ordered a double espresso at the counter. As he sipped at it, he reflected on Lelia’s position. She had nothing to do with the financial racket, but that didn’t mean a thing—she could be charged with…

* * *

Paul, don’t you realize I could be charged with being an accessory to murder? I didn’t take part in the beating, still less imagined he’d be beaten to death, but I knew Turini would make him pay. It was me who persuaded Nino Landi into leaving the home infirmary with me. He dreaded meeting the butchery people. I told him not to worry. Get out of your bed, let’s go for a walk—we’ll go as far as the clearing and will be back well before supper, I said. Instead I took him to the wooden hut where Turini and his mates were waiting for him.

Paul, be good—don’t ask me the name of Turini’s mates. There were four…As a matter of fact I could tell you their names—you’d find out who they are if you just walked around San Bernardo asking the inmates who work with Fausto Turini at the butchery. You could do that, but remember I’m as guilty as they are.

They, too, didn’t touch Nino—Turini was more than enough for him. Turini punched him, on the nose, on the eye, on the belly; he kicked him on the groin and as Nino bent over, he kneed him on the jaw. Nino fell down, screaming. Turini kept kicking him savagely on the face, on the chest, everywhere. All his mates but one, a man in his late fifties, were shouting, Kick him, kick him, like so, again, again. I stood a couple of yards away, with my back to the door—and did nothing. Didn’t even say, Stop it. I was frightened, and perhaps I also reminded myself that Turini had abused me.

D’you get it now? I needed it…yes sir, the coke, and Nino supplied me with it. That woman, the state attorney, is right. Landi sold powder—brown stuff, polvo blanco, especially crack. He sold it cheaply. Got it from Caramia, who in turn got it from a dope crew. But that woman is also wrong in thinking Landi cheated Caramia. As far as I know, he would pay for the powder. Actually, I doubt whether he made a profit. He certainly didn’t make it with me—gave it me for free. I didn’t have to give him any money, I had to give him something else. D’you understand?

But I’d better go back to my half-thing with Ernesto. He isn’t an attractive man—I didn’t like him physically. I could even tell he was an unscrupulous fraudster who started San Bernardo as a launch pad for himself in the left-wing rat race. All the same, in his own way, which is the way of everybody else in the left, he is prepared to fight for social justice. Having said that, I should add that he is also different from the average left-winger. The average left-winger is keen on society but couldn’t care less about the individual. Ernesto feels for the individual; he really does.

He can be very kind—he’s shown me the compassionate side of his nature. I’m not naïve. Men don’t run after me because they want to help me out of my existential crises, but Ernesto did for me what you, my brother, have never done. He stayed with me, comforting me, reassuring me, kissing me on the cheeks as soon as I quit taking the brown stuff cold turkey, sweating, shivering, crying, vomiting in fits of convulsions. Yes, Paul, you got it—when I went into rehab, I wasn’t coked up; I’d switched to heroin.

Claudia Fossati’s treatment turned out to be a good thing. At first I didn’t believe in her and her cure, also because when the medical treatment began she arranged for a couple of sessions with the house psychologist, who rather than a psychologist was a counsellor—you know, the sort of narrow-minded counsellor only interested in your milieu when I knew explaining how I interact with the environment was a waste of time. My problem has deeper causes. They have to do with the way my mind works, with the fucking conflict between my instincts and accepted moral rules of conduct, with my sense of inadequacy as an artist, my lack of creativity. Anyway, the drugs Claudia gave me were eventually effective. Equally effective, however, had been Ernesto’s affection. I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude, and repaid him in kind.

Both he and Claudia suggested that I should stay in the home for another month. I accepted—and made a terrible blunder. Bonking with Ernesto gave me no satisfaction. I didn’t have a soul to talk to about what I like most—art, novels, the theatre. Ernesto, the only educated human being about, is a very conventional man. His conversation revolves around politics; and to him, politics isn’t how people decide their fates, it’s not even ideology. It’s about who must be in charge of this or that organization, it’s about raising money for the left. Also, I would only see him after supper— during the day he was too busy.

I grew restless. I was determined not to try heroin again, but cocaine was another matter. If only I could take it in moderate quantities, I thought, I’d see everything coming up roses. So I turned to Nino. He said OK, meaning he’d exact the “price” before handing me the coke.

Nino had been through the rehab programme successfully, but he was a tramp without a place to go back to and that was why he’d asked Ernesto to put him up as a parking attendant with the Rome Automobile Club. Ernesto would have none of that; he hired him as a handyman under Turini at the butchery.

Turini and Nino didn’t get along. Nino was lazy. Turini complained. There was no room for shirkers at the butchery, he said. Nino approached Caramia and began to push inside the home. Turini smelled a rat. Nino disappeared from the butchery for a whole day. The following morning Turini punched him on the face. Nino got hysterical and was taken to the infirmary.

By then I hated Nino. He didn’t wash, didn’t shave, didn’t change. He stank like carrion. And that was not all. After the first two or three times we’d had sex, he kept slapping me and calling me a whore and other names. In addition, he demanded that I should walk naked up and down in front of him. So, when Turini came to me asking if I was aware that he pushed heroin and cocaine, I told him the truth. Turini didn’t look surprised. He remained silent for a while, then said bluntly, D’you know what you’ve done? He is HIV positive. I was motionless, struck dumb with fright. Turini patted my shoulder. Get him out of the infirmary with an excuse, he said. Take him to the wooden hut—I’ll teach the bastard a lesson. I nodded. I knew Turini was a fucking thug, but didn’t care.

Now I know I didn’t get infected, but then I didn’t know and decided to tell Ernesto what had happened. He didn’t lose his temper. He hugged me, calmed me down, said I should go back to Calcata and take an HIV test as soon as possible. He begged me to keep my mouth shut—he’d lend me some money and see to it that things wouldn’t get any worse for San Bernardo as well as for me.

* * *

A beggar, a burly man who looked like a highway robber, appeared before him on the pavement by the Pantheon. “Omaggi, dottore,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Paul pretended not to notice him and crossed the square. The beggar tailed after him, laughing—a loud, cocky, aggressive laugh. Other beggars joined him. He led off with the song Arrivederci Roma and at once they all chanted at the tops of their voices.

As Paul entered Via degli Orfani, they stopped. The burly man gave another laugh. “Omaggi, dottore,” he repeated, then shouted. “Grazie, dottore bello.”

Paul didn’t turn. It was five to six but Rosanna, almost unrecognizable in mufti, was already in front of the Tazza d’Oro. Was her attire supposed to be gypsy-style with a designer logo? She wore a long broderie anglaise ochre brown skirt with a shaped hem and a stretch white cotton V-neck with a ribbon and crochet trim. Quite impressive but too off-the-peg pretentious—the taste of the voguish Italian woman, whose look was planned in fastidious detail.

They shook hands. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he said.

She had a set smile on her face. “I’m sorry I can’t stay long.”

“It’s all right. Would you care for an ice cream? We can go to Giolitti’s al Vicario. They only have coffee granita here—it’s delicious, but they serve it at the counter.”

They headed for Via Uffici del Vicario in silence. Would he have tried to get a woman like her into bed as a bachelor years ago? Probably yes, following a fortuitous combination of circumstances, and just to satisfy his sex drive. Strange to say, maybe Debby reckoned her attitude to Italy was at odds with his, although he shared most of her points, purely because he was born in Rome to an Italian mother. If Debby were here, she wouldn’t take into account that in his eyes, as in hers, Rosanna’s allure was irreparably Italian. Today she had a load of make-up and a Fendi purse. Surely, she’d also tart herself up for a picnic.

As they got to Giolitti’s he felt at peace with himself even less than earlier on. Lelia hadn’t asked him to bury his story, and yet he forgot about the ordeal his sister had been through, nor had he until now been moved by her generosity toward him. He only thought about his own disappointment, just as a moment ago he reflected, critically, on Rosanna’s Italian dress sense, forgetting she was with him to talk about his impotence.

Rosanna was smiling at him—it was a friendly smile this time. Only one of the few tables outside was free. They sat down, although it wasn’t very comfortable; the old streets of Rome were too narrow for so many passers-by. He wondered if he’d be able, in this noisy place, to speak to an attractive woman about such a delicate matter as his erection difficulty.

* * *

“Are you sure it isn’t the other way round?” asked Rosanna.

“What d’you mean?” he queried.

“That it’s you who feels animosity toward her.”

“I don’t.” He could do with another glass of vodka, but she’d already declined the offer of another coppa giolitti—it was embarrassing for him to order something only for himself. “I do love her,” he said, sensing that she didn’t believe him.

“Love and animosity may go together.”

And if she’d guessed right? He’d given a rather sketchy description of Debby’s moody temperament, but mentioned she always grumbled about something or other—if it wasn’t too hot in the restaurant, it was too crowded. Was it possible that her grumbling had put him off? Possible but unlikely. “I don’t think they do in my case,” he said. “I love Debby. She’d never thought I owed her security and the comforts of life, and in the past had also been prepared to sacrifice her career for mine.”

“You should get another woman into bed. It’ll be the easiest answer to your problem.”

He was taken by surprise. “I vaguely thought of it myself,” he whispered after a pause.

“I genuinely believe you should be seeing another woman,” she continued. “You’re a healthy man. Consult a urologist if you first want to clear any doubt.”

“A urologist would make me take a number of tests.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be having any.”

“OK, then have a go at another woman.”

He stared at her in wonder, fiddling with his hands.

She grinned. “Don’t misunderstand me…actually, I’d better lay my cards on the table. I’m not in a mood for an affair. I’m here, I accepted your proposal, because you gave me the impression of a man in despair. I thought, This man is a reporter, a well-known reporter, who’s come to speak to a cardiologist about an investigation for his magazine, a well-known magazine—he is unlikely to resort to a stupid trick to sleep with me, so he must be in despair. I’d been in despair for a similar reason myself, and decided to try and help you.”

He would like to ask why her despair had been similar to his present one, but was afraid of sounding nosy.

She gave him a long look, and went on, “Two years ago I would have a severe headache, involving the tightening of my facial and neck muscles, every time I made love with my husband. I had myself screened for each probable disease—also had my brain X-rayed. The results were each of them normal. What was wrong with me? I loved my husband, and it goes without saying that I loved my son dearly. There was a big but, though. I resented living with my in-laws. I resented my mother-in-law interfering in the upbringing of my son, the cohabitation with two pedantic old twits, and my husband’s complacency about that unhappy arrangement because it allowed us to save the money for two cars and a trip abroad every year, because it allowed him to eat the delicacies cooked by his mother every day. A doctor used to chat me up. Once he invited me out. I said yes, and fell in love with him. Haven’t had a headache ever since.”

“I see, but I don’t contemplate falling in love with another woman.”

“Listen to me, Paul. Either you will, and your crisis will be one of those that come good, or you won’t—as you wish—and you’ll be on a sound footing anyway. You’ll know it’s the animosity you feel for your wife that caused your problem. Once you know why you had trouble with your sexual performance, you can conquer it. You may well end up saying to yourself, Look, this is Debby’s nature—sometimes she grumbles, sometimes she turns nasty. All right, I love her, I should learn to live with it, even if this means loving her on her own terms. I’m physically capable of making love; I’ll enjoy it, period.”

“I think it’s easier said than done.”

She looked at her wristwatch. “It’s a bit late for me. Afraid I must go.”

“My car is parked at the Ludovisi garage. I’ll take you home by taxi.”

“Oh no, I live in this area.” She jotted something on a piece of paper, and handed it over to him. “My telephone number. Don’t hesitate to call me if you think I can help.”

They both got up. She touched him on the arm. “I’ll see you again. Take it easy, Paul.”