Giorgio Faletti: I'm God

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Giorgio Faletti I'm God
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    I'm God
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    Триллер / на английском языке
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    Английский
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I'm God: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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A serial killer holds New York in his grip. He does not choose his victims. Nor does he watch them die. But then there are too many of them for that. The explosion of a twenty-two storey building, followed by the casual discovery of a letter, lead the police to face up to a dreadful reality: some of New York's buildings were mined at the time of their construction. But which ones? And how many? A young female detective hiding her personal demons behind a tough appearance, and a former press photographer with a past he'd rather forget, and for which he still seeks forgiveness, are the only hope of stopping this psychopath. A man who does not even claim responsibility for his actions. A man who believes himself to be God. Praise for the Giorgio Faletti: "In my neck of the woods, people like Faletti are called larger than life, living legends". (Jeffery Deaver). "Publishing sensation". ("Financial Times"). "I Kill is one of those bestsellers that proceeds at a cracking pace and presses all the right buttons with clinical efficiency. Giorgio Faletti's thriller is set in Monte Carlo, home to so many obnoxious millionaires and their trophy girlfriends that what the city really needs is a serial killer. Enter just such a killer… The writing has no great literary pretentions, but then it does not have to. The plot is the thing". ("Sunday Telegraph). "The best selling first novel by Giorgio Faletti…has been defined as a masterpiece and Faletti himself as the best living Italian writer." (Corriere della Sera).

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Giorgio Faletti


I'm God

Copyright © Giorgio Faletti, 2009

English language translation © Howard Curtis, 2011

To Mauro, for the rest of the journey

I feel like a hitchhiker caught in a hailstorm on a Texas highway.

I cant run.

I cant hide.

And I cant make it stop.

Lyndon B. Johnson

President of the United States


EIGHT MINUTES

I start walking.

I walk slowly because I don’t need to run. I walk slowly because I don’t want to run. Everything is planned, down to the time it’ll take me to walk that distance. According to my calculations, I only need eight minutes. I have a cheap watch on my wrist and a weight in the pocket of my jacket. It’s a green cotton jacket, and on the little pocket at the front, over the heart, there used to be a sewed-on strip bearing a name and a rank. The memory of the person it belonged to has faded, as if that memory was given to a senile old man for safekeeping. All that remains of that strip is a slightly lighter patch, like a small bruise on the material, which had already survived a thousand washes when someone

who?

why?

tore off that thin strip and transferred the name, first on to a gravestone and then into oblivion.

Now it’s a jacket and that’s it.

My jacket.

I’ve decided I’ll put it on every time I go out for my little eight-minute walk. My steps will be lost like whispers in the roar of millions of other steps walked every day in this city. The minutes will merge into one another.

I have to walk eight minutes at a regular pace to be sure that the radio signal is sufficiently strong to carry out its task.

I read somewhere that if the sun suddenly went out, its light would continue to reach the earth for another eight minutes before plunging everything into the dark and cold of farewell.

All at once, I remember that and start to laugh. Alone, in the middle of the people and the traffic, my head raised to the sky, my mouth wide open on a New York sidewalk as if surprised by a satellite in space, I start laughing. People move around me and look at this guy laughing like a crazy man.

Some may be thinking I really am crazy.

One joins in with my laughter for a few moments, then realizes he’s laughing without knowing why. I laugh until I weep at the incredible, contemptuous meanness of fate. Men have lived to think, and others haven’t been able to because they’ve been forced merely to survive.

And others to die.

An anxiety without remission, a breathless wheezing, a question mark to be carried on their backs like the weight of a cross, because that uphill climb is an illness that never ends. Nobody has found a remedy, for the simple reason that there is no remedy.

Mine is just a suggestion: eight minutes.

None of the human beings bustling around me has any idea when those last eight minutes will begin.

But I do.

I hold the sun in my hands, and I can blot it out whenever I want. I reach the point that, for my steps and my stopwatch, represents the word ‘here’. I put my hand in my pocket and my fingers close around a small, solid, familiar object.

My skin on the plastic is a reliable guide, a path to be travelled, an ever-watchful memory.

I find a button and press it gently.

And another.

And then one more.

A moment or a thousand years later, the explosion is like thunder without a storm, the earth greeting the sky, a moment of liberation.

Then the screams and the dust and the sound of cars crashing, and the sirens tell me that for many people behind me the eight minutes are over.

This is my power.

This is my duty.

This is my will.

I am God.

Too Many Years Earlier

CHAPTER 1

The ceiling was white, but for the man lying on the couch it was full of images and mirrors. The images were the same ones that had been haunting him every night for months. The mirrors were those of reality and memory, in which he continued to see his face reflected.

The face he had now, the face he used to have.

Two different faces, the tragic spell of a transformation, two pawns that in their journey had marked the beginning and end of that long parlour game called war. Many people had played that one, too many. Some had had to stay out of the game for one turn, others for ever.

Nobody had won. Nobody, on either side.

But in spite of everything, he had made it back. He had kept his life and the ability to look, but had lost for ever the desire to be looked at. Now, for him, the world didn’t go beyond the limits of his own shadow.

Behind him, Colonel Lensky, the army psychiatrist, was seated in a leather armchair, a friendly presence in a defensive position. It had been months, maybe years, in fact centuries, that they had been meeting in this room that couldn’t erase from the air the slight smell of rust you always found on military premises. Even though this wasn’t a barracks, but a hospital.

The colonel was a man with sparse brown hair and a calm voice. At first sight, you’d think he was a chaplain rather than a soldier. Sometimes he was in uniform, but mostly he wore civilian clothes. Quiet clothes in neutral colours. A nondescript face, one of those people who you meet and immediately forget.

Who want to be immediately forgotten.

But in all that time, he had listened to his voice more than he had looked at his face.

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