Giorgio Faletti: I Kill

Bikjalo waved his hand in a vague gesture of modesty that didn’t suit him at all. He was referring to his very astute managerial instincts. The show’s strengths and the bilingual talents of its host convinced him to try a move that he had devised with the sense of a born diplomat. Encouraged by the ratings and the enthusiasm, he’d created a sort of joint venture with Europe 21, a French station with an editorial line very similar to that of Radio Monte Carlo. It broadcast from Paris. The result was that now Voices could be heard in most of Italy and France.

Robert Bikjalo put his feet up on the desk and blew cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. Jean-Loup thought it a very official and symbolic pose. The president, if he’d been there to see, probably wouldn’t have agreed. With a triumphant voice, Bikjalo continued.

‘The Music Awards are at the end of June, beginning of July. I’ve heard rumours that they want you to emcee. And then there’s the Film and Television Festival. You’re going full speed, Jean-Loup. Others like you have had trouble moving up to television. You’ve got looks, and if you play your cards right, I’m afraid you’ll be the cause of a brutal tug-of-war between TV and radio.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Jean-Loup, standing and looking at his watch, ‘that Laurent is having a tug of war with his liver. We still haven’t talked and we need a schedule for tonight’s show.’

‘Tell that has-been writer-director that he’ll be thrown out in the street, just like you.’

Jean-Loup headed towards the door. As he was leaving, Bikjalo stopped him. ‘Jean-Loup?’

He turned. Bikjalo was sitting in his chair, rocking back and forth with the expression of the cat that finally ate the canary. ‘What?’

‘Needless to say, if all that TV business works out, I’m your manager…’

Jean-Loup decided that his price would be very high.

‘I’ve suffered through a percentage of your cigarette smoke. You’ll have to suffer just as much for a percentage of my money.’

As he closed the door, Robert Bikjalo was gazing up at the ceiling with a dreamy stare. Jean-Loup knew that the director was already counting the money he had yet to earn.

Jean-Loup was looking out at the city through the large control-room window, observing the play of lights reflected on the still water of the harbour. High above, cloaked in darkness, the mast stood on the peak of Mount Agel, visible only by its series of red lights. It was this mast that enabled the radio signal to reach all of Italy.

‘Break over,’ came Laurent’s voice over the intercom. ‘Back to work.’

Without bothering to answer, the deejay moved away from the window and went back to his place. He put on his headphones and sat down at the microphone. In the control room, Laurent flashed an open hand to show five seconds to the end of the commercial break.

Laurent played the brief Voices theme that meant the broadcast was starting again. Before the break, the programme had been fairly laid-back, light-hearted even, without the tone of despair they sometimes had to deal with.

‘Back to Jean-Loup Verdier, with Voices from Radio Monte Carlo. We hope nobody needs our help on this lovely May evening – only our music. Oh, I’ve just been told there’s a phone call.’

The red light on the wall lit up and Laurent was pointing at him with his right hand to show there was a call waiting. Jean-Loup leaned his elbows on the table and turned to the mike in front of him.

‘Hello?’

There was some static and then silence. Jean-Loup looked up and raised his eyebrows at Laurent. The director shrugged to show that the problem wasn’t at their end.

‘Yes, hello?’

Finally, an answer came through and was transmitted live on air to every listener. It had a presence in the minds and lives of all who heard it. From that moment on, and for a long time to come, the darkness would be a little darker.

‘Hello, Jean-Loup .’

There was something unnatural in the sound of the voice. It was muffled and strangely flat, devoid of expression. The words had a muted echo like the sound of a plane taking off far away. Again, Jean-Loup glanced up questioningly at Laurent, who pointed, drawing circles in the air to mean that the distortion was on the caller’s line.

‘Hi. Who is this?’

There was a moment of hesitation. Then came the muffled answer with its unnatural echo.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m someone and no one.’

‘It’s – it’s not a great line. Where are you calling from?’

Silence. The vapour trail of a plane wafting midair in some unknown place.

The speaker continued. ‘That doesn’t matter, either. The only thing that counts is that the time has come to speak out, even if afterwards neither of us will be the same.’

‘How so?’

‘Soon I’ll be a hunted man and you’ll be one of the bloodhounds sniffing in the dark. And that’s a shame, because right now, at this very moment, you and I are no different. We’re the same’

‘How are we the same?’

‘We’re both faceless, and people listen to us with their eyes closed, imagining. There are millions of people out there who want only to get themselves a face they can show with pride, to create one that’s different from all the others. That’s all they worry about. Now is the time to find out what’s behind the face .’

‘I don’t understand.’

Silence again, long enough to make Jean-Loup think they had been cut off. Then the voice came back and some listeners thought they could hear a hint of a smile.

‘You’ll understand, in time .’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

There was a slight pause, as if the man on the other end of the line was weighing his words.

‘Don’t worry. Sometimes it’s hard for me, too.’

‘Then why did you call? Why are you talking to me?’

‘Because I’m alone.’

Jean-Loup bent his head and gripped the table with his hand.

‘You’re talking like someone who’s in prison.’

‘We’re all in prison. I built mine myself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get out .’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. It doesn’t sound like you like people very much.’

‘Do you?’

‘Not always. Sometimes I try to understand them and when I can’t, I try at least not to judge them.’

‘We’re the same that way too. The only difference is that when you’re finished talking to them, you’re able to feel tired. You can go home and turn off your mind and its troubles. I can’t. I can’t sleep at night, because my troubles never rest .’

‘So what do you do at night to stop it?’

Jean-Loup was egging him on slightly. The answer was slow to come, as though it were wrapped in layers of paper being opened one by one.

‘ I kill …’

‘What does that-’

Jean-Loup’s voice was interrupted by music coming from the speakers. It was a light plaintive song with a pretty melody, but after those two words it spread through the air like a threat. It lasted about ten seconds and then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone.

In the heavy silence that followed, the click of the call being cut off was heard by one and all. Jean-Loup looked around at his colleagues. The air-conditioning was on high, but suddenly everyone could feel the scorching flames of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Someone managed to drag the rest of the programme out to its closing song. No more phone calls came in. That is to say, the switchboard was flooded after the strange call, but no more callers were allowed on air.

Jean-Loup took off his headphones and laid them on the table next to the mike. He realized that his hair was soaked with sweat, in spite of the air-conditioning.