Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘No, Paso. I’ve slept enough for now. These days I have a lot to do. I’ll have time to rest afterwards.’

He did not add the rest of his thought: when it’s all over.

The man has no illusions. He knows that the end will come, sooner or later. Every human endeavour has an end, just as it had a beginning. But for now, everything is still open and he cannot deny the corpse in the coffin the sensation of a new face, and himself the satisfaction of a promise kept.

There was a broken hourglass in the fog of his sleep, time buried in the sand that spread through his memory. Here, in real time, the hourglass continues to turn on its axis and no one will ever break it. Illusions would be shattered, as they always are, but not that unbreakable hourglass. It will go on forever, even when there is no one left to contemplate the time it marks.

The man feels that the hour has come. He gets out of bed and begins to dress.

What are you doing?

‘I have to go out.’

Will you belong?

‘I don’t know. All day, probably. And maybe tomorrow.’

Don’t make me worry, Vibo. You know I’m anxious when you’re not here.

The man goes to the crystal cabinet and smiles affectionately at the mummy inside.

‘I’ll leave the light on. Do you like your present?’

He reaches for the mirror and holds it over the face in the coffin so that it can see its reflection. ‘Look…’

Oh, it’s magnificent. Is that me? Vibo, I’m gorgeous! Even more handsome than before!

‘Of course you are, Paso. And it will get better and better.’ There is a moment of silence, a silence of inner emotion that cannot be expressed.

‘I have to go now, Paso. It’s very important.’

The man turns his back on the body and goes to the door. As he leaves, he repeats, perhaps only to himself: ‘Yes, it is very important.’

And the hunt begins again.

Nicolas Hulot took a right at the sign for the exit to Aix-en-Provence. He drove slowly down the sliproad, behind an articulated lorry with Spanish plates and TRANSPORTES FERNÁNDEZ written on the side. The truck pulled over in the layby and the inspector passed by and stopped in front of the information booth. He pulled the map of the city from the glove compartment and opened it across the steering wheel.

Hulot checked the map where he had already marked Cours Mirabeau the night before. All told, the city was not very complicated and the street he was looking for was right in the centre.

He restarted the Peugeot and continued driving. He reached a roundabout and followed the signs that said CENTRE VILLE. As he drove along the hilly road with regularly placed speed bumps, Hulot noticed that the city was clean and active. The streets were full of people, mostly young people, and he remembered that Aix was a university town and that there was also a spa going back to Roman times. That explained why there were more than the usual summer tourists milling around.

He made a few wrong turns, passing several times in front of a row of hotels and restaurants. Finally, he found Place du Général de Gaulle, the beginning of Cours Mirabeau. He put money in the parking meter and stood for an instant, admiring the large fountain in the middle of the plaza. A sign bore its official name, FONTAINE DE LA ROTONDE. As always, the sound of the falling water made him want to pee.

He walked over to Cours Mirabeau looking for a cafe, thinking it was funny how a full bladder could make you want a cup of coffee.

He crossed the avenue where there was construction and repaving going on. A worker in a yellow helmet was talking to the site manager about some missing materials, insisting that he was not responsible, that it was the fault of a certain Engineer Dufour. Under a plane tree typical of Provence, two alley cats were eyeing each other with stiffened tails, deciding whether they should start a fight or opt for a tactical retreat to save their dignity. Hulot decided that he was the darker cat and the other one was Roncaille. Leaving the animals to their battle, he went inside and ordered a café au lait then went to the bathroom.

The coffee was waiting for him when he got back. As he unwrapped two cubes of sugar, he called the waiter over, a young man who was chatting with two girls drinking white wine at a nearby table.

‘Could you give me some information, please?’

‘Sure, I’ll try.’ If the young man had been reluctant to leave the two girls, he didn’t show it.

‘Do you know if there is, or was, a record shop called Disque à Risque here on Cours Mirabeau?’

‘I don’t think I ever heard that name, but I haven’t been in Aix very long,’ said the young man, who had short fair hair and a thin, pale, pimply face. ‘I’m a student at the university,’ he added. The boy obviously wanted people to know that he wasn’t planning on being a waiter for ever, but that sooner or later he would fulfil much loftier goals. ‘But there’s a news-stand further up on this side of the street. Tattoo might seem a little strange, but he’s been there for forty years and he can tell you anything you want to know about this town.’

Hulot thanked him with a nod and started drinking his coffee. The boy felt dismissed and went back to his interrupted conversation. Hulot paid and left the change on the marble counter. When he went out, he saw that the Hulot-cat was no longer there and the Roncaille-cat was sitting peacefully under the plane tree, watching the world go by.

He walked down the shady avenue paved with large stone slabs and lined by tall plane trees on either side. There was an endless series of cafes, shops and booksellers.

A hundred yards further down, he found Tattoo’s news-stand, the one the waiter had told him about, next to a shop selling antiquarian books. On the street, two men were playing chess at a table, sitting on folding chairs in front of the open door of the bookshop.

Hulot went over to the news-stand and spoke to the man inside, surrounded by magazines, books and comics. He was around seventy, with deep-set eyes and unkempt hair, and looked as though he’d been dragged off the set of a John Ford western.

‘Good morning. Are you Tattoo?’

‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

Nicolas noticed that he had a couple of teeth missing. His voice was in keeping with his appearance. He had it all – a shame that he was stuck in a news-stand in Aix-en-Provence instead of on a Wells Fargo stagecoach heading towards Tombstone.

‘I need some information. I’m looking for a record shop called Disque à Risque.’

‘You’re a few years too late. Not there any more.’

Hulot barely restrained a grimace of irritation. Tattoo lit a Gauloise and immediately started coughing. Judging from his convulsive hack, his battle with cigarettes had been going on for quite some time. It was clear who the eventual winner would be, but for the moment the man was sticking it out. He waved towards the street.

‘It was on the other side of Mirabeau, 200 yards up, on the right. Now it’s a bistro.’

‘Do you remember the owner’s name?’

‘No, but his son owns the bistro. Talk to him and he’ll tell you all you need to know. Café des Arts et des Artistes.’

‘Thanks, Tattoo. Don’t smoke too much.’

He would never know if that last coughing fit was Tattoo’s thanks for his advice or a phlegmy invitation to go to hell.

Thank God the lead was still going somewhere. The information they had was so flimsy that Tattoo’s cigarette smoke felt more tangible. At the very least, he had to avoid any more delays. Morelli could have probably traced the store owner through the Chamber of Commerce but that would have taken time, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.