Джанрико Карофильо - Rome Noir

I wonder how he can go on talking, given the fact that I haven’t deigned to say a word since he began his pathetic story.

— You can’t work anymore. Believe me, it’s become a jungle. If the police won’t protect us, then they should just say so. No problem, we’ll take care of it. At night, instead of staying home, we team up and do justice on our own. After all, we know who the crooks are and where they live, we don’t need no warrant.

I’m about to say something, but he keeps going.

— Me, when they tell me to believe in the law, I say: Excuse me, what law? Because I know only one law: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The one that’s written in the courts, the one that’s supposed to be equal for everybody, not even young kids believe in it anymore.

At this point I interrupt.

— Listen, speaking frankly: Have you made any raids yet?

— Any raids?

— Right. Any... punitive expeditions, let’s say.

— What d’you think, huh? the idiot replies.

— Come on, are you serious?

— What, you think I’m jokin’?

— How many are you?

— About twenty, give or take.

— How does it work? How are you set up?

— Helmets, chains, iron bars. Sometimes I even use a corkscrew. And then we go lookin’ for ’em one by one. After a while you get a taste for it, ya know?

— Oh, sure.

— Yeah. It’s a little like hunting.

He chuckles.

I don’t.

— How come you’re interested? he asks me, bewildered by my icy silence.

I let a few seconds go by before answering him.

— Well, it’s nice to know there’s someone who can help you in your work.

— Come again?

I shove the badge in front of his eyes. His jaw drops. He turns pale. He actually pivots around to look at me. We swerve (a pickup truck blares its horn), then the imbecile regains control of the car.

— Watch the road. You’re a cab driver, don’t you know that’s how accidents happen?

— Look, I’m sorry, I was only kiddin’, I swear.

— Imagine that. He was only kiddin’.

— I’ll swear on whatever you want. On my kids. May I drop dead right here in front of you if it isn’t true.

— So then what you told me was a bunch of crap.

— Yeah, yeah. All of it.

— Why should I believe you if up till now all you’ve told me is a bunch of baloney?

He falls silent, terrorized by his future.

I take out the gun. I smooth the barrel with the tip of my forefinger. He spots it out of the corner of his eye and begins to sweat. At a rough guess, I’d say that his saliva flow rate has gone from one to thirty.

— What are you doing, drooling? I say.

— Please, officer, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll get down on my knees if you want. Should I come back there with you? Huh?

— Don’t try it or I’ll shoot you right here.

I mean his right side, into which I’ve just stuck the gun.

He doesn’t breathe. He’s sweating like a pig now.

— Jesus, look at you pissing your pants, aren’t you ashamed?

— Okay, I’m an idiot, a moron, a real shithead, my whole life I’ve been talking bullshit, God Almighty should strike me dead for all the crap that comes out of my mouth.

— There’s no need to trouble God Almighty, I’ll take care of it.

— Excuse me? What did you say?

— You heard me.

— You wouldn’t really shoot me for the few lies I told, would you?

— Why not?

— Listen, let’s be reasonable. I haven’t done a thing. I’m a decent working man. There are a ton of unpunished criminals out there, who act like swine whenever it suits them, and you take it out on me for some stupid boasting?

I shove the gun back in his side.

— What now, back to badmouthing others? So then it’s not true that you were telling lies.

— No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right, I didn’t mean to say that... oh, sweet Jesus.

We remain silent for a while. The imbecile is probably afraid of making the situation worse if he opens his mouth.

— What’s your name? I ask him at a certain point.

— Mar... Marcello.

— Well then, Mar-Marcello, you’re not actually all wrong, since it wouldn’t be very sensible on my part to shoot you. First, because shooting idiots serves no purpose, meaning it’s like shooting mice, and we know that shooting mice doesn’t solve any problem; second, because it would be crazy to risk a charge of willful homicide to knock off a moron who talks just for the sake of talking.

— Right. Exactly, the idiot says, relieved. The return of hope must have reactivated his blood circulation, since he seems to have regained some color. So I quickly move to throw him back off guard.

— Unfortunately, however, it’s turned out badly for you, I add, you know why?

— No, why?

— Because I hear voices.

— What?

— Naturally, I’m a schizophrenic.

— Excuse me, what does that mean?

— You don’t know what a schizophrenic is?

— No.

— Ignorant too, besides being a jerk.

He wipes his dripping forehead with his hand. When he puts his palm back on the steering wheel, it leaves greasy marks.

— Well, let’s simply say that I have a sick mind.

— Oh, holy Virgin, the imbecile says, as hope once more abandons him.

— So, I continue, if the voices I hear give me an order, I have to obey, you see how it works?

He thinks it over a bit, the poor devil.

— And you... can’t you talk to them, to these voices?

— Talk to the voices? That’s a good one.

— Why? Can’t you try?

— No, of course you can’t talk to the voices.

— I see a lot of people in the streets talking to themselves.

— Those people are not schizophrenics. And even if I could, what am I supposed to say to the voices?

— What you told me before about how it isn’t worth it to shoot me. I mean, there’s no reason to shoot morons.

— In other words, you want me to put in a good word for you.

— Right.

I consider this. And I think that I can indeed pretend to give him a shred of hope.

— So you think that if I tell them, I can convince them?

— Yes! Yes! Definitely! In fact, I’m sure you can!

— Could be. Maybe you’re right. Wait, I’ll give it a try.

I wrinkle my forehead, squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, forcing myself to appear as absorbed as possible. Out of the corner of my eye I see the imbecile watching me in the little mirror, full of expectation. I let the operation go on until I see the sign for the exit Campo Nomadi, a local gypsy camp.

What fucking luck, I think.

I come out of my trance. I open my eyes.

— I’m really very sorry, Marcè, I tell him with a heavy voice, but your request was turned down.

— What do you mean, turned down? Why was it turned down?

— I don’t know why. It’s a surprise that they even answered me. That’s never happened before. In a certain sense I’m grateful to you, I didn’t know I could do it.

He turns around. He looks at me, desperate. We’re about to swerve again.

— Do you mind watching the road, dickhead? I scold him, even raising my voice a little, I must admit.

— Sorry.

— Don’t worry about it. Drive, go on.

— Please, officer, don’t hurt me, I got a family.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

— No way, Marcè. I have to shoot you in the ear, they tell me.

He instinctively covers the part in question with his right hand, and begins crying like a baby.

— Hey, look, I can shoot you in the ear even through your hand, you know. It doesn’t change much.

But I don’t know if he even hears me, he’s so disconsolate.