Giorgio Faletti: I Kill

Neither of us will ever be the same.

He played only music for the remainder of the show. He tried to demonstrate what he considered a strange similarity between Tom Waits and the Italian musician Paolo Conte, who were very different as singers, but both major songwriters. He translated the words of two of their songs and pointed out how important they were. Luckily, he had several such expedients in case of emergency, and this moment definitely qualified. There were some reserve phone numbers to use when the show just wouldn’t come together. They’d call some singers or writers they knew, begging them to join in. Then they’d use up fifteen minutes on some poetry and the humour of Francis Cabrel.

‘Jean-Loup?’ The door to the control room opened and Laurent’s head poked in. ‘You okay?’

Jean-Loup glanced over without looking at him. ‘Yeah, fine.’

They left the studio together, exchanging puzzled, somewhat evasive glances with Barbara and Jacques, the sound technicians. Barbara was wearing a blue shirt and Jean-Loup noticed that there were large patches of sweat under her arms.

‘There were dozens of calls. Two people asked if it was a mystery story and a bunch of people were furious at what they saw as a cheap way to try and increase the ratings. The boss called, too, and swooped down like a hawk. He fell for it and asked if we had gone nuts. Apparently, one of the sponsors had called him immediately, and I don’t think it was to offer a pat on the back.’

Jean-Loup was imagining the president’s room, more smoke-filled than earlier, if that were possible.

‘Why didn’t the switchboard filter that call?’

‘I don’t know what the hell happened. Raquel says the call didn’t go through her. Somehow – she has no idea how – it went right into the studio line. There must have been a short or something. As far as I’m concerned, that new electronic switchboard has a mind of its own. We’ll all be fighting with machines one day, like in Terminator. You’ll see.’

They left the studio and walked side by side to Bikjalo’s office without daring to look at one another. Those two words had left a small, hollow space between them. I kill … The awful sound of that voice was still hovering in the air.

‘And that music at the end? It sounded familiar.’

‘I thought so, too. It was a soundtrack, I think. A Man and a Woman, an old Lelouch film. From 1966 or something like that.’

‘And what does it mean?’

‘You’re asking me?’

Jean-Loup was astonished. He was facing something entirely new, something he had never experienced before on the radio. On an emotional level more than anything else. ‘What do you think?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ Laurent pronounced these words with a careless wave of his hand, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

‘Really?’

‘Sure. Aside from the switchboard problem, I think it was just some jerk’s really bad idea of a joke.’

They stopped in front of Bikjalo’s door and Jean-Loup turned the knob. They finally looked each other in the eye.

‘It’s just a weird story to tell at the gym and laugh about,’ said Laurent, thinking out loud. But he didn’t look at all convinced.

Jean-Loup pushed open the door. As he walked into the manager’s office, he wondered whether that phone call was a promise or a bet.

Jochen Welder pressed the remote control of the electric windlass and held it down to lower the anchor and enough chain to hold the Forever. When he was sure of the anchorage, he turned off the engine. The magnificent twin-engine yacht, designed by his friend Mike Farr and built especially for him by the Beneteau shipyards, started turning slowly. Pushed by a light landward breeze, it followed the current with its prow facing out to the open sea. Arianna, still standing and watching the anchor descend, turned to him and walked easily across the deck, occasionally leaning against the lifeline to compensate for the gentle rolling of the waves. Jochen watched her, his eyes half closed, and admired once again her supple, athletic, somewhat androgynous figure. He took in her firm body and the grace of her movements with a sense of muted arousal. He felt his desire well up like an ache and he gave thanks to the kind fates for making a woman who could not have been more perfect if he had designed her himself.

He still didn’t dare tell her that he loved her.

She joined him at the helm, threw her arms around his neck, and placed her mouth on his cheek in a soft kiss. Jochen felt the warmth of her breath and the natural scent of her body. Her skin smelled of the sea and of things to discover, slowly, unhurriedly. Arianna’s smile sparkled against the light of the sunset and Jochen imagined rather than saw the reflection shining in her eyes.

‘I think I’ll go down and shower. You can too, later on, if you want. And if you decide to shave as well, I’d probably accept anything you have to offer after dinner.’

Jochen returned her intimate smile and ran his hand over his two-day beard. ‘I thought women liked a man with stubble.’ And imitating the voice of a 1950s movie trailer, he said, ‘Someone who holds you around the waist with one arm and steers his ship into the sunset with the other.’

Withdrawing from his embrace as she headed below decks like a silent film star, Arianna answered, ‘I can easily imagine myself heading off into the sunset with you, my hero, but does my face have to get all scratched up?’ And with that she disappeared.

‘Arianna Parker,’ he called after her, ‘your enemies think you’re a chess player, but I’m the only one who knows what you really are.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked, peeking her head back through the door, curious.

‘The loveliest joker I’ve ever met.’

‘Exactly! That’s why I’m so good at chess. I don’t take it seriously.’ And she disappeared again.

Jochen watched the reflection of the light on the deck as he heard the splash of the shower. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

He’d met Arianna a few months earlier during the Brazilian Grand Prix, at a reception organized by one of the team’s sponsors, a sportswear manufacturer. He generally tried to avoid those kinds of parties, especially just before a race, but this time it was a UNICEF benefit and he couldn’t refuse.

He had wandered through the rooms full of people, feeling uncomfortably elegant in a tuxedo so perfect you couldn’t tell it was just rented for the occasion. He was carrying a glass of champagne that he couldn’t drink, with an expression of boredom that he couldn’t hide.

‘Do you always have so much fun, or are you exerting yourself?’

He had turned at the sound of the voice and found himself looking into Arianna’s green eyes. She was wearing a man’s tuxedo with the shirt open and no tie. There were white sneakers on her feet. With her short dark hair she looked like an elegant Peter Pan. He’d seen her picture in the paper several times and immediately recognized Arianna Parker, the eccentric girl from Boston who became famous by wiping the floor with the world’s greatest chess players. She had spoken to him in German and Jochen answered in the same language.

‘They offered to put me in front of a firing squad, but I had plans for the weekend so I chose this instead.’

He had nodded towards the room full of people. The girl’s smile widened and her amused look made Jochen feel like he’d just passed a test. She had held out her hand. ‘Arianna Parker.’

‘Jochen Welder.’

He had wrapped his hand around hers and had known that the gesture had special meaning, that there was already something being said in the look they were exchanging. Only later would it be explained in words. They were now outside on the large terrace, suspended over the quiet pulse of the Brazilian night.