Джанрико Карофильо - Rome Noir

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 detail: He isn’t wearing one either.

— In case they try to hijack us, the jerk says, we have to be able to get out of the car quickly.

The response of a true bumpkin, more tactless than rude, one that would give me permission to become indignant and burst out with a who-do-you-think-you-are-and-who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to, but at this point I get the urge to have a little fun, so I remain solemnly silent.

After a while he looks at me once again in the little mirror, ascertaining that I have not put the seat belt on.

— It’s become very dangerous work, this job of ours...

The idiot trails off, probably realizing what an ass he’s made of himself.

— Now, see, since they came up with this disgraceful “pardon,” we taxi drivers have become mobile ATMs for illegal immigrants.

I don’t say a word, letting him go on destroying himself with his own words.

— Just think, he resumes heavily after a painful silence, in the span of a week, a couple of Albanians took out seven, that’s seven drivers. A knife to your throat, and you’re done for. One of us reacted. Not that he wanted to be a hero, it’s just that it came to him instinctively. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed.

I continue to hold my tongue.

— And to think that these sonsofbitches had their eye on us for two months. The police had reports and more reports, descriptions, all the clues you want. Nearly every day a driver would go to the police station to report another one. I ask you, what does it take to catch them, a couple of shitty Albanians? You think they arrested them? Not a chance! It’s not their problem. We’re the ones out on the street, at the mercy of everything and everybody, what the hell do they care? At the end of the month they collect their paycheck. To cut a long story short: The police are asleep, the judges are busy appearing on TV, let’s not even talk about the politicians. So in the end we gotta organize things ourselves, right?

He stops a moment to catch his breath. Naturally, so much crap all at once requires a surplus of oxygen. It’s exciting, though, sitting there listening to him try to provoke me.

From his tone, when he picks up again, I figure my silence is beginning to make him nervous.

— But things didn’t go so good for one of them. He ran into me.

I knew it. Go for it, Rambo.

— When he got in, I knew right away what his intentions were. He had me drive around a bit, Go this way, go that way, he couldn’t make up his mind. I was already losing my patience. At a certain point he goes: Listen, can you take me to Saxa Rubra for five euros? The meter was already showing twelve euros. So I says to him: What the hell, are you kiddin’ me? And he goes: I don’t really give a fuck, you’re the one who’s going to give me money. And I find the knife in front of my eyes.

But ... I think.

— Well, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I floored the accelerator so hard I still don’t know why we didn’t roll over. Then I jammed on the brakes and made that shitty Albanian go smashing against the window. I got out in a hurry, and grabbed him by the hair: Out, you bastard! And I beat the living daylights out of him, Christ did I give it to him. Lucky for him a police car came by, or else he’d have been pushin’ up daisies instead of sittin’ behind bars. But I left my marks on him, ya know.