Джанрико Карофильо - Rome Noir

Now, Francesco thought, the day he went to the stadium on the motorbike, is it possible that a person never learns from his mistakes? Because his father was like that, someone who never learns. Even when Francesco was caught with the stolen motorbike and all hell broke loose, and he was taken to the police station in handcuffs, even then, when his father came to get him, the first thing he did was hug him, tight. In front of the cops, who looked on in embarrassment. They all expected his father to slug him, kick him in the ass or whatever, whereas he, on the contrary, in front of the cops, had hugged his son. Then, as if that were not enough, he said to the police captain: When your son steals something, it’s the time to give him a present. Like a moron, no? A father who quotes an old Zen saying, a saying that among other things he was using in a TV script. He says it in front of everyone. To explain that a son who steals is only asking for attention and affection, that’s why it’s a good time to give him a present. The captain had run his hands through his hair and said under his breath, How will we go on like this...

The Father... and His Lover

One morning, early, Mario Cirillo, motorman on the Metro, found a person locked in a car. There’s another one, he thought. He didn’t expect that there would be any further surprises. It can happen that a passenger doesn’t get out at the last stop. And then gets stuck. The train, at the end of its run, is taken to the local yards. The doors are closed, the electricity is turned off, and the train is abandoned. And then generally the locked-in passenger begins to yell like a madman and the motorman, hearing these shouts, thinks: There’s another one. Every year, at least one passenger, for one reason or another, forgets to get out at the last stop and finds himself alone, on the point of tears, on the edge of a panic attack, stuck in the car.

That morning, it happened that Mario Cirillo had found not one but two people locked in the train. A sign, said the motorman, that those two not only hadn’t realized that they were at the last stop; they hadn’t even noticed that the train was heading for the yards. They hadn’t realized anything, they hadn’t shouted, or begged, or stamped their feet. Nothing. Or maybe they had, but it was too late, the train had already been sitting for a while.

Francesco’s father, Carlo Chirico, was one of the two locked in the car. There’s another one, thought the motorman, not suspecting that there was a second person with him. A woman, Marta della Rosa. Two morons, the motorman had remarked to his friends while they were having coffee. Today I found not one but two morons.

At the beginning of that adventure, Carlo was in the next-to-last car, Marta in the last. Both were reading books: Carlo Asylum , and Marta Ocean Sea . In the grip of literature they hadn’t been aware of anything. Then, trying to get out, they had come face to face. Both were frightened, and screamed as if they’d seen a ghost.

What morons, Carlo said to Marta later, how could they not have noticed anything? For Carlo it was his first experience, so to speak, of being possessed by reading. In Marta’s case, on the other hand, it often happened that she didn’t get off at her stop. Now they were both locked in the metro. They couldn’t even inform the emergency services, there was no way. They spent the night together somewhat fearfully, they talked to each other about many things, and when, early in the morning, the motorman got them out, they began to laugh. The sort of laughter that covers embarrassment: at having been a bit foolish but, at the same time, at having said some important things. At having bared themselves, so to speak, in front of one another. An inversion: They had been underground together, and had been so comfortable that when the morning light illuminated them they were pained, as if they had been hurled out of the earthly paradise, which this time, however, was down below.

What a moron, Liliana, Carlo’s wife, said to him, when she saw him again. I’m here in this place working all night and you’re in a train reading Asylum . Practically the same thing that Liliana said again when, a few months later, she discovered that her husband not only was fucking Marta but was in love with her. Really, his wife said to him. In love? What a moron... I’m here in this...

Francesco and Cinzia

The boy had noticed awhile ago that there was something odd. If there was any value in what he did — that is, almost nothing, from morning to night — it was that he could look around. And looking around, Francesco had noticed the storefront. He had his girlfriend look, too, saying to her, There’s something odd. To this observation his girl, Cinzia, had replied: Right. A word that she repeated often, especially when Francesco commented on something he saw: Right.

Cinzia adored Francesco. She saw in him everything she didn’t see in her other contemporaries and schoolmates. Francesco was someone who got respect. He used his fists. That was how he resolved things, with his fists. And he was successful. He wasn’t like her classmates, all very polite and very fake, according to Cinzia. Francesco and Cinzia went to the French school, a private school. They were in the same class. What am I supposed to do? My father is a moron, he enrolled me in this school, so in his view I’m learning important things and hanging out with fancy people. But what can I learn from some filthy rich morons?

Right, Cinzia answered. She found herself in the same situation. Her father and mother had a lot of money and could afford to have all sorts of luxuries. And they had them. And in having them, according to Cinzia, they contributed to the devastation of the world. Cinzia detested people who were devastating the world. They got on her nerves. She bought clothes from street vendors without worrying about the label or the quality. She didn’t even worry when her mother borrowed her clothes. Cinzia’s mother, in fact, considered her daughter a born style-maker. Someone who wherever she shopped would buy the right thing. In fact, Cinzia created trends. So her mother said. Right, Cinzia commented, my mother doesn’t understand shit about anything. You should see my father, Francesco added. As a matter of fact, the two had become acquainted talking about their fathers and mothers. Then they had gotten together when, during a discussion about pacifism, the girl had seemed to go crazy because her interlocutor, according to her, not only underestimated the problem of imperialism but also made some out-of-place remarks, partly to undercut Cinzia, the style-maker, and partly to tease her. The discussion ended when Francesco got involved and started punching the boy. Every time he hit him he said: What’s the matter? You’re not laughing anymore.

Right, said Cinzia, some time later, when they kissed for the first time. From then on no one wanted to have a discussion with Cinzia the pacifist or her warrior companion, Francesco. And the two formed a close, intimate couple. But isolated.

Now, this storefront which had something odd about it was actually a warehouse: Twice a week a van arrived and unloaded refrigerators, dishwashers, washing machines. And on an almost daily basis, these household appliances, one by one, left the place. The operations occurred in a regular, straightforward fashion. Matteo Cosentino, the owner, waited in the doorway of the store for the arrival of the van and helped unload it. His wife, Daniela Lo Prete, came out and handed over the receipt. The business was repeated in the opposite direction immediately afterward, in the sense that Matteo loaded into his minivan, a Fiat Ducato, a television, a refrigerator, but also a chair, a lamp. His wife gave him a packing list, and then every other time, according to her mood, she said goodbye to her husband, who, every other time, according to his mood, departed saying goodbye to his wife with a wave of his left hand.