Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

His friendship with and hero-worship of Jean-Loup had opened that door wide. Now it was slowly closing and his mother was afraid that if it shut completely, he would never be able to find his way into the world.

It was impossible to know what he was thinking. Yet if she had been able to read his thoughts, she would have been astonished by what was going through his mind. Everyone thought that he was submerged in sorrow and silence because he had discovered that his friend was really a bad man, as he said – the man who called the radio station with the voice of the Devil. Perhaps his simple soul had reacted the way it did because he had been forced to realize that he had placed his trust in someone who was undeserving.

But that was not the case. Pierrot’s faith in and friendship with Jean-Loup had not been diminished in the least by recent events and the revelations about his idol. He knew him well. He had been in his home and they had eaten crêpes with Nutella together and Jean-Loup had even given him a glass of delicious Italian wine called Moscato. It was sweet and cool and had made his head spin a little. They had listened to music and Jean-Loup had even lent him some records, the black ones, the valuable ones, so that he could listen to them at home. He had burned his favourite CDs for him, like Jefferson Airplane and Jeff Beck with the guitar on the bridge, and the last two by Nirvana.

He had never, in all the time they had spent together, heard Jean-Loup speak with the voice of the Devil. On the contrary… Jean-Loup had always told him that they were friends for life, and he had always shown that to be the truth. So, if Jean-Loup always told him the truth, that meant only one thing: the others were lying.

Everyone kept asking what was wrong and trying to make him talk. He didn’t want to tell anyone why he was sad, not even his mother: the main reason was that, since everything had happened, he hadn’t been able to see Jean-Loup. And he didn’t know how to help his friend. Maybe Jean-Loup was hiding somewhere, hungry and thirsty, and there was no one to bring him anything, not even bread and Nutella.

Pierrot knew that the policemen were looking for him and that if they caught him they would put him in jail. He didn’t really know what jail was. He only knew that it was where they put people who did bad things and that they didn’t let them out. And if they didn’t let the people who were inside go out, that meant that people outside couldn’t go in either and he would never see Jean-Loup again.

Maybe policemen could go in and see the people in jail. He used to be a policeman, an honourable policeman. The inspector had told him so, the one with the nice face who didn’t come any more. Someone said he was dead. But now, after the mess he had made, maybe he was no longer an honourable policeman and maybe he would have to stay outside the jail like everyone else, without being able to see Jean-Loup.

Pierrot turned his head and saw Barbara walking towards the director’s booth. He looked at her dark red hair that swayed as she walked, as if it were dancing on her black dress. He liked Barbara. Not the way he liked Jean-Loup. When Jean-Loup’s friend spoke to him or put a hand on his shoulder, it was like that warmth that rose from the pit of his stomach as if he’d drunk a cup of hot tea in one gulp. With Barbara it was different; he didn’t know why, but he loved her. One day, he had secretly given her a tiny flower to tell her. He had even hoped at one point that she and Jean-Loup would get married so that he could see both of them when he went to visit his friend.

Pierrot picked up the pile of CDs and headed towards the door. Raquel clicked the lock open as she usually did when she saw his hands were full. Pierrot went out on to the landing and pressed the lift button with his nose. The others would laugh at him if they saw, but since his nose was doing nothing, it might as well be useful when he had both hands full.

With his elbow he pushed open the lift door and closed it the same way. Inside, he couldn’t use his nose because the buttons were different. He was forced to juggle things, pressing the stack of CDs against his chin so that he could reach the button with his finger.

The lift started to descend. Pierrot’s mind descended as well, following a logic that was linear in its own way. He had reached a definite conclusion. If Jean-Loup couldn’t come to him, then he would go to Jean-Loup.

He had been to visit his friend many times. Jean-Loup had told him that he kept an extra key to the house in a secret place and from then on, only the two of them would know about it. He had told him that the key was stuck with silicone underneath the mailbox inside the gate. Pierrot didn’t understand the word silicone, but he knew what a mailbox was. He and his mother had one at their house in Menton, and their house wasn’t as nice as Jean-Loup’s. He would recognize it when he saw it.

Downstairs, in the room, he had his Invicta backpack that Jean-Loup had given him. Inside it was some bread and ajar of Nutella that he had taken that morning from the kitchen shelf. He didn’t have any Moscato at home, but he had taken a can of Coke and a can of Schweppes and thought that would be okay. If his friend was hiding somewhere at home, he would certainly hear him call and would come out. Where else could he be? They were the only ones who knew about the secret key.

They could sit together and eat chocolate and drink Coke and this time he would say things to make Jean-Loup laugh.

And if Jean-Loup wasn’t there, he would take care of his records, the black vinyl ones. He would clean them, make sure that the covers didn’t get damp and line them up in the right direction to keep them from getting warped. If he didn’t, they would all be ruined when Jean-Loup came home. He had to take care of his friend’s things. Otherwise what kind of friend was he?

When the lift reached the bottom floor, Pierrot was smiling.

Libaud, a mechanic for the motorboat showroom on the floor below the radio station, was waiting for the lift and opened the door. He saw Pierrot inside, his tousled hair sticking up over the pile of CDs. Seeing his smile, he smiled too.

‘Hi there, Pierrot. You look like the busiest person in Monte Carlo. I’d ask for a pay rise if I were you.’

The boy did not have the slightest idea of how to ask for a pay rise. And anyway, that was the last thing that interested him right now.

‘Yes, I will tomorrow,’ he answered evasively.

Before stepping into the lift, Libaud opened the door on the left that led down to the archives. ‘Watch your step,’ he said, as he turned on the light.

Pierrot gave one of his standard nods and started going down. When he reached the archive, he leaned the CDs on the table near the wall, in front of rows of shelves full of records and CDs. For the first time since he had started working for Radio Monte Carlo, he didn’t put away the CDs he had brought down. Instead, he took his backpack and put it on his shoulders, like his friend Jean-Loup had taught him, then turned off the light and locked the door as he did every evening before he went home. Except that now he was not going home. He climbed back up the stairs and found himself in the lobby, the large hallway that ended at the glass doors. Beyond those doors lay the harbour, the city and the world. And hidden there somewhere was the friend who needed him.

Pierrot did something he had never done before in all his life. He pushed open the door, took a step and went out to face the world all by himself.

Frank waited for Morelli in his Mégane at the construction site outside Jean-Loup Verdier’s house. It was a hot day and he kept the engine running so that he could retain the benefit of the air-conditioning. He kept glancing at his watch as he waited for Morelli and Roncaille’s men.