I retrieve my suitcase from the carousel (a job I detest, but since the antiterrorism measures have been in force, they make a lot of fuss, even for us) and before the shooting range I go and have a caffè macchiato, because I find the combination of foamy milk and espresso intoxicating. The cashier, a skinny brunette with delicate features, looks at me in an explicitly inviting way when she gives me my change. At first I think it would be fun to tell her that I’d be delighted to pick her up if she tells me what time she gets off, and then not show up, but her soft little face inspires such tenderness that I choose to spare her the humiliation.
When I finish the coffee I go to the men’s room to complete the job, using for the occasion one of the business cards that I got printed on recycled paper, because it rolls up better. I lay the line I do not have out on the sink counter, prompting the silent disapproval of a family man washing his hands a couple of sinks down. I thin it out with a credit card, I snort noisily with my right nostril, tap my nose with my forefinger, throw my head back, stick my left pinkie in the nostril, then rub the fingertip over the upper gum arch, run my tongue over it, and swallow. The man continues staring at me, mesmerized. He has probably seen that there was nothing on the sink’s marble, but ingenuous as he appears, he must be wondering if maybe they’ve invented some new type of invisible cocaine in the years since he gave up social activity. I can barely keep from laughing in his face. He dries his hands and moves away disgusted. I find myself irresistible, I congratulate myself at length, and finally I go take a leak. While I’m at it, I stop to read the little notes stuck to the outside walls of the urinals, handwritten by a semi-literate homosexual. I find them ridiculous and depressing. I give a little shake, I go wash my hands, I hold them under the jet of hot air from the dryer on the wall, curse the photoelectric cell that doesn’t work, use the other dryer, get bored, finish up, open the suitcase, check that it isn’t missing anything. At first I find myself thinking that I wouldn’t mind strolling around the airport with the handle sticking out of my jacket pocket to cause a little outburst of panic and then apologize to the colleagues who would surround me with their weapons drawn (“Hey, guys, I don’t know what to say, I’m really embarrassed, hasn’t this ever happened to you? After you wash your hands, don’t you sometimes just stick it in your pocket without thinking?”; “Never happened to me” — some idiot itching for a fight would surely respond — “you risk getting yourself killed, doing something stupid like that”; to which I would reply: “It depends on how stupid the one who shoots you is”); but I’m forced to reject the idea because I don’t have much time, so I put it back in the holster, wet the palm of my right hand again, smooth my hair back, and finally get out of there.
A black attendant with a cart greets me in English, for some reason. I reply, Bonjour, do a little airport shopping not geared toward buying, reach the exit, head over to the taxis. I locate the first free one, signal to the driver, he nods, I open the back door and am about to get in.
— Excuse me.
— What?
— Your suitcase, please.
I look down at my suitcase.
— What about it? I ask, confused.
— Do you mind if I put it in the trunk?
I shrug.
— No, I guess not, I reply, still not understanding.
— Okay, the guy says.
He gets out of the car. I look him over. Tall, bald, barely fifty, a little overweight, strong jaw, well-shaped goatee, fake Ray-Bans, open-necked shirt, NN jeans, street-market ankle boots. He is chewing gum, a habit that has always annoyed me.
I hand him the suitcase, he sets it in the trunk, motions for me to get in, gets back in the car, says good day, I reply good day, tell him my destination, and eventually we start off.
At first I think I will keep my mouth shut, convinced as I am that speaking to taxi drivers means allowing them to talk your head off until the time they let you out, but then I cannot suppress my curiosity.
— How come you asked me if you could put the suitcase in the trunk?
He rolls his eyes (I can see him in the rearview mirror) as if to say: I knew you’d ask that.
— It’s a precautionary regulation, he says defensively; it’s not as if he invented the rule.
— Precaution against what?
— Accidents.
This I didn’t know.
We take the ring road.
— And how long has it been in effect, this regulation?
— For me, since the day a model almost broke her neck in my taxi.
It’s beginning to get on my nerves, this explanation in bits and pieces.
— See, he continues, she had a big portfolio, you know those ones you put drawings in, like the kind architects use? She probably kept photographs of herself in it. Such a knockout, I can’t even tell ya. So, she puts it there on the ledge, in back. She says: They won’t run into us, will they? Such a looker, I still remember her. Well, to cut a long story short, the model gets the portfolio right in the back of the neck. Her eyes pop out of her head. Such a blow, I thought for sure she was dead.
— Wasn’t she wearing a seat belt?
— The model, yes. The portfolio, no.
— Oh, I mutter. His eyes search for me in his small mirror, probably expecting me to laugh (I think he had some wisecrack ready); but since I do not give him the satisfaction, he goes on.
— Well, now I have to deal with a lawsuit, get it?
Who knows if it’s true.
— It’s not your fault they ran into you, I comment.
— Sure. Go tell it to the model’s lawyer.
Now there’s the kind of answer that makes me see red. A person tells you something distressing, you make a suitable observation showing that you’re on his side, and he answers you as if you were wasting his time. You’re the one who told me all your business, imbecile, what did you expect me to say, It’s your fault, the lawyer was right, let’s hope you lose the case?
— Do you have the number? I ask, irritated.
— What number?
— The lawyer’s. Give it to me, that way I’ll call him and tell him.
He peers at me in the little mirror.
— Oh! he says. I guess he didn’t find my joke amusing.
Score one for me.
He’s stopped talking. Wonderful.
— Excuse me, he then says, as if he is reading my mind.
— Hmm?
— You have to put the seat belt on.
I saw a film, as a boy, where Renato Pozzetto played the part of a poor devil who establishes a fetishistic relationship with a taxi. Like before going to bed he checks the car’s water, oil, brakes, and tire pressure, polishes it, caresses it, falls asleep beside it, and when he goes on duty he subjects the passengers to a series of behavioral rules that border on the abusive (obviously, during the course of the film, the taxi falls apart). The fool behind the wheel of this taxi is unfortunately making me think of that character. Among the things I despise are nasty resemblances. I don’t yet know how, but this involuntary superimposition will end up on my driver’s account.
— The seat belt? I say.
— Yes, of course, this Font of Knowledge replies self-importantly, it’s compulsory.
I lean forward so that he can see I’m raking him with my eyes, observing a not so insignificant detaiclass="underline" He isn’t wearing one either.