Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

He stopped in front of a surface of curved briarwood. When he pushed a button on the right, the surface slid into the wall, revealing steps leading downstairs. He walked down impatiently. He had a new video to watch that had been delivered the day before. This was his first chance to do so comfortably, sitting in his projection room with his flat screen, enjoying every minute, with a glass of chilled champagne.

When he had let Billy La Ruelle fall off the roof, Allen Yoshida not only became one of the richest men in the world, but he had discovered something else that would change his life. Seeing his friend’s widened eyes and terrified face as he fell through the air, hearing the desperation in his voice as he’d pleaded, had given him pleasure. He had only realized later, at home, when he had undressed to take a shower and discovered that his pants were soiled with semen.

Ever since then, since the very moment of his discovery, he had attained pleasure without hesitation, just as he had attained riches without regret. He smiled. That smile was like a luminous cobweb on an indecipherable face. Money did buy everything. Complicity, silence, crime, life and death. For money, men were willing to kill, and to give and receive suffering. He knew that well, every time he added a new video to his collection and paid an exorbitant price for it.

He had films of real torture and killings, of men, women and sometimes children. They were taken from the street to secure places and then filmed as they were subjected to every type of torture and rape before being burned alive. A black man was flayed until he literally became a red mass of blood. The screams of pain were music to his ears as he sipped the chilled wine and waited for the conclusion of his pleasure.

And it was all real.

A large, illuminated room lay at the bottom of the stairs. On the right were two Hermelin billiard tables, one traditional and one American, built especially for him and imported from Italy. The cues and everything else needed for the game were hanging from the wall. There were armchairs and couches around a bar, one of many scattered throughout the house.

Passing the billiard room he stopped. To his right, on a wooden pedestal about four feet high, was a marble statue of Venus playing with Eros, from the Hellenic period. It was lit by halogen from the ceiling. He didn’t stop to gaze at the delicacy of the work, or the tension between the two figures that the sculptor had artfully depicted. Instead, he put his hands on the base of the statue and pushed. The wooden lid turned on itself, revealing the hollow centre of the base. On the bottom was the dial of an electronic combination lock.

Yoshida punched out the code that only he knew and the wall slid noiselessly aside, disappearing into the wall on the left. This was his realm. Pleasure awaited him, in secret, as absolute pleasure always did.

He was about to cross the threshold when he felt a violent blow between his shoulders, the flash of a sharp pain and the immediate chill of darkness.

When Allen Yoshida comes to, his vision is hazy and his head hurts. He tries to move his arms, but he cannot. He squints to regain his focus. Finally, he opens his eyes and discovers that he is in an armchair in the middle of the room. His hands and legs are tied with wire, his mouth covered by a tape.

In front of him, sitting on a chair, a man is staring at him in silence. The man is wearing what seems to be an ordinary black canvas work shirt, at least four or five sizes too large. His face is covered with a black ski mask and the upper part of his face around the eyes is protected by large dark glasses with reflective lenses. He is wearing a black hat with the brim pulled down. His hands are covered with large gloves, also black.

Yoshida’s terrified gaze looks up and down the figure. Under the long coat, his black trousers are of the same fabric as the shirt, and again oversized. The loose trouser bottoms rest on his canvas shoes. Yoshida notices something strange. There are protrusions at the man’s knees and elbows that hold the material of his clothes, as if the person in front of him had extensions on his arms and legs.

They sit in silence for what seems an eternity. One man who has decided not to speak and one who cannot.

How did the intruder get in? Even though Yoshida was alone in the house, the villa was surrounded by impenetrable security, consisting of armed men, guard dogs and cameras. How did he bypass all that? And most of all, what did he want from him? Money? If that is the problem, he can give him all he wants. He can give him anything he wants. There is nothing that money cannot buy. Nothing. If only he could speak…

The man continues to look at him in silence, sitting on the chair.

Yoshida makes a faint moan, muffled by the tape on his mouth. The man’s voice finally comes out of that dark blotch of his body.

‘Hello, Mr Yoshida.’

The voice is warm and resonant, but strangely enough, to the man tied to the chair, it sounds harder and sharper than the wire cutting into his arms and legs.

He widens his eyes and moans again.

‘Don’t try to answer. I can’t understand you. And in any case, I’m not remotely interested in what you have to say.’

The man gets up from the chair, moving unnaturally because of the oversized clothes and the extensions on his arms and legs. He goes behind Yoshida, who tries to turn his head to keep him in sight. He hears the voice again, coming from somewhere behind his back.

‘You’ve got yourself a wonderful place here. A discreet place for your little private joys. Some pleasures in life are hard to share. I understand you, Mr Yoshida. I don’t think anyone can understand you better than I…’

As he speaks, the man returns to face him. He gestures at the room around them, rectangular and windowless. There is a ventilation system with air nozzles set in the walls just below the ceiling. Against one wall is a bed with silk sheets. There is a painting over the bed, the only lapse in the room’s monastic simplicity. The two longer walls are almost entirely covered in mirrors, the optical illusion of a larger room to eliminate the sense of claustrophobia.

In front of the bed is a series of flat screens connected to a group of VHS and DVD players. When a movie is shown, you can feel surrounded by images and be at their centre. There are also cameras that can shoot any point of the room with no corner overlooked. The cameras are also connected to the home movie system.

‘Is this where you relax, Mr Yoshida? Is this where you forget about the world when you want the world to forget about you?’

The man’s warm voice transmits cold. Yoshida feels it climb up his arms and legs that are growing numb as the wire cuts his circulation. He feels the wire ripping into his flesh, just like that voice digging into his brain.

With his artificial movements, the man bends over a canvas bag on the floor next to the chair. He takes out a record, an old LP with the sleeve protected by a plastic cover.

‘Do you like music, Mr Yoshida? This is heavenly, believe me. Something for a real connoisseur. Which, of course, is what you are.’ He goes over to the stereo and looks at it. He turns back to face Yoshida and the light in the room is a brief flash reflected in his glasses. ‘My compliments. You’ve forgotten nothing. I was prepared for an alternative, in case you didn’t have a record player, but I see you’re well equipped.’

He turns on the system and puts the record on the turntable after slipping it carefully out of its sleeve. He places the needle on the LP and the mournful notes of a trumpet emanate from the speakers and spread through the room. It is sorrowful music, intended to evoke a melancholy that leaves you breathless; the sounds of grief, demanding only to be forgotten. For a moment, the man stands motionless, listening. Yoshida imagines him with his eyes half closed behind the dark glasses. Then he snaps back.