“Look at the tracks when evening comes, this station seems different, there are souls walking on the platforms, dragging themselves, look at them, fragments that have survived, lives torn to pieces and then put back together, like mine, look at the scene, it’s changed suddenly, what a strange effect, the platform must be very slippery, an intercity train just came through, some others should be arriving soon and then your cousin’s.”
“More wine?”
“Sure, sister, let’s have more wine, basically you’re set and so am I. I should be fine, no? And there’s no risk, right? I’ll listen to you, I’ll lie low, hole up in my house and put those things in a safe place, and they’ll say it was a robbery by those disgusting Romanians... Those disgusting Romanians... People like when they make headlines in the TV news, the talk about the safety of the citizens in the balance, about the dangers of immigration. Aaah ahhaha! I mean, immigration is a horror and it’s dangerous too, and those people, look, right there” — she points like a lunatic at a group of women and children getting on a bus — “are criminals, but let’s say that in this case they’ve got nothing to do with it, but who cares, no? One more, one less... Heavens, I’m only forty-two, maybe with the jewelry, the gold coins I took — oh, your grandfather cared about them, they were carefully hidden — maybe with all those things I can reconstruct a scrap of a decent life for myself, get out of this wretched poverty.”
She’s wearing a low-cut gray sweater. Under it you can see a dirty, threadbare flesh-colored bra. A thickset man with a mustache enters the bar, in a horrible brown-checked shirt, a type of man you never see even by mistake in the places I usually frequent, art openings, sushi bars, exclusive parties — a man who must have short, dirty nails and bread crumbs in his mustache, I don’t see them but I’m sure they’re there — passes by, looks at her, ONLY at her, and this causes me, in spite of my horror at this man, a strange pang of jealousy; he stops a moment, casting his eyes on her décolleté, they linger there, bovine eyes the color of eggs fried too long, observing her abundant flesh; I can read in his expression a pleasant excitement, but how is it possible to be excited looking at this wreck? This human refuse that thinks about rebuilding a life when she’ll never have a life, when her life will be so brief she can’t imagine it. Here’s some more wine, she must be drunk, or at least tipsy.
“You want some, dear? It’s good, this wine, I like sparkling white wine, one of my two husbands — wait, ever since they beat me up outside Tiburtina, trying to steal a necklace, I’ve lost my memory. I was three months recovering, you know, I didn’t lose my memory completely, but I have trouble remembering — one, maybe it wasn’t even one of my husbands but a man I was with for a while, told me I didn’t know shit about wine and had a typical woman’s tastes, stupid tastes. Well, I don’t give a fuck and I’ve always, and only, drunk sparkling white wine like this — it’s very good. I was telling you. I could clean myself up, find a job, eh, what do you say, maybe with all those things it might be time for life to smile on me, to start going well, it never has, I’ve always been so unlucky. So unlucky.”
She’s crying. Well, it means she’s getting drunk. I don’t say anything; I’ve noticed that she doesn’t like to be touched, she hates caresses, sudden physical contact, she’s terrified when anyone — man or woman, doesn’t matter — she’s terrified when anyone touches her, she gets defensive, and it’s no good if she loses her total trust right now. Other people’s hands scare her, and it’s understandable, poor thing — if anything about her worthless life can ever be understood — she was badly beaten up years ago. Maybe even as a girl, she took a violent beating on the street, she mumbled something like this the day I met her. Then there were the husbands and various boyfriends, the violence that she doesn’t even count, but they worked her over, they reduced her brain to mush, her whole face is a scar, but all you want to do is hit her, she is so irritating, I’m sure that waitress would happily hit her, me too. And yet I needed a drifter with a residue of innocence. I came here many times, to the Tiburtina station, a neighborhood far away from the one where the “operation” was going to take place. I couldn’t find anyone for my purpose in the wealthy neighborhoods, those chic, fashionable neighborhoods that my family liked, where I grew up protected by a ring of private schools, by the sharp vigilance of governesses, restrained by the paralyzing block of solitude whose echo I heard, room after room, in that labyrinthine house where, as a child, I lost the map of doors, verandas, windows. I was looking for someone suitable to do the dirty work and I found the right person, I was really very clever about it, she was perfect, my grandfather’s house is full of her fingerprints, her traces, I wore gloves and didn’t touch anything. She didn’t ask me why, she didn’t even notice, she carried out my orders with her bare hands, like an idiot. At last I’ll be able to pay back the person who provides the coke, those types don’t have much patience — first they give you the top-quality stuff without a fuss, you spoil your lover, your friends, you all snort it with that marvelous Dolce & Gabbana exclusive designer straw that’s only sold abroad, and not everywhere (I found them in Ibiza during a quick trip for a party, and I bought ten to give to certain friends), they arrive punctually with the white powder, and your parties become the most sought after, your invitations the most in demand; the only thing is, then they present the bill, it’s okay to make them wait a little, then give them a down payment, a diamond necklace, another small down payment, and meanwhile they continue to supply you and your lovers and friends, and then the debt goes up, it rises, that old bastard couldn’t understand how much I NEEDED to have MORE money available, he took the liberty of prying into my finances to make a point about how my lifestyle seemed excessive to him. Come on, excessive? I have friends who go around with Arab millionaires, you have no idea the life they lead, I’m like a bum compared to them, I told him, but he wouldn’t listen, he muttered moralistic tirades about good sense, ethics, growing up, once he even talked to me about a JOB. I started laughing and walked out, but is this really funny? Anyway, now the problem is solved. Good, first the debts, then I’ll be able to buy that splendid apartment the filthy old man wouldn’t give me for Christmas; he wanted to enjoy his money, he wanted to spend his last years in peace, but how the fuck was I supposed to manage? As soon as I saw that apartment I let it be known among the “rich people” that they’d better keep their clutches off it, that it would be mine. Well, I can’t care too much about my reputation now. Even Sandro said he was going to leave. He’s used to spending time in the gym, snorting the high-quality stuff whenever he wants, free access to the joint account, restaurants every night, and I began to find myself in serious trouble — that stubborn old man, all his fault. Really, you could say he asked for it.
“I might try to see my children again, I know it’s not right to go and look for them when they’ve been adopted, it’s not right to disturb the equilibrium of young kids, but they might have the desire too, might like to know me, to understand that I wasn’t in any condition to take care of them when they were born, that I had big problems, and the new families might have a bit of compassion and decide at least to let me see them, to find out if they’re well. We’re waiting for your cousin, right? There’s not much time left, it’s rushing by. I understand, seeing what happened. On the telephone she believed it about the robbery, right?”