Nicola Rocca - Death Brings Gold

“What did you say, mum?” he repeated, placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her lightly, but the woman’s head was now dangling again.

He stood there looking at the bed sheets moving slowly with the rhythm of his mother’s weak breathing.

Then, Carolina’s silhouette had peeked into the room.

“What’s going on?” she had asked. “I heard you shouting.”

He didn’t think it necessary to tell her what had happened. That was the last dialogue between mother and son and, even though he hadn’t understood some words, certainly he was not going to ask advice of others. He was convinced that his mother had woken up – with the help of some kind of divine intervention – in that precise moment, because they were alone in that room. And because he was going to be the only recipient of those words.

At that point he had brought his mother’s gaunt hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he had stood up from the bed and gone into the living room. He had taken a biro and written those last words his mother had reserved for him on a post-it note. He was convinced that they meant something important. Not so much because they were her last words, but mainly because saying them had been so extremely hard for her.

When he came back from that memory, he realised that he was almost near the Metro station. He slowed down and felt his trousers back pocket. Touching his wallet reminded him of the treasure inside it. He felt some kind of relief and lit that cigarette, now soaked in saliva. He inhaled the smoke, kept it in his lungs for a moment and finally let it out to mix with the icy-cold air.

When his mother was still alive not a single day would pass without her telling him to ‘stop with those damned cigarettes’. And then, on her deathbed, she had told him the exact opposite. Who knows why.

He wondered if one day he was going to be able to decipher her last words. Since then almost five years had passed and he hadn’t succeeded yet.

He took his last drag of “poison” then, flicking the cigarette butt with his two fingers, he tossed it away. He took the stairs leading to the Metro Red Line. When he arrived at the platform, he saw the train leaving. He stood and watched it until it was swallowed by the dark tunnel.

He looked around and realized that he was alone. A lonely man.

That thought provoked in him a smile, but, at the same time, a sense of emptiness. For the first time in his life he was afraid. Not for what might have happened to him. But for what he was.

A lonely man.

CHAPTER 3

The man saw the girl with the apron approaching. He stood and stared at her, while he was enjoying the alcohol flowing in every nook and cranny of his brain.

“Your whisky, sir,” said the waitress, placing the glass on the small table.

Raffaele Ghezzi thanked her with the wave of a hand, but didn’t bother to waste a single word. He sat and looked at the blonde’s curvy body leaving with an empty tray in her hand.

Then, with his gaze still fixed on her round butt, he grasped with ostentatious confidence the half-empty glass and gulped down its content.

He gritted his teeth and grimaced instinctively for the burning sensation of the liquor in his throat.

He wiped his mouth with his hand. He grasped the glass that had just been delivered to him and toyed with it, spinning it slowly. He liked the clinking sound of the ice cubes against the glass. It had been a while since he had allowed himself a heavy drinking session like this one.

These recent months had been difficult ones; during which he had had to be financially responsible for the running of a house, while supporting both himself and a wife he no longer got along with. A wife that no longer loved him. And a wife who was cheating on him with another man.

His reason for hiring that Formenti guy, a private investigator specialising in marital infidelity cases was a gnawing suspicion that he had for some time. And the bill he’d had to pay – in instalments – was filed under unforeseen expenses. Another heading of the family budget, he thought, noticing the irony of it.

In the end it had been worth it-because exactly one week earlier -Formenti had brandished – right in his face - pictures of his wife with a mystery man. In the car, exchanging displays of affection-canoodling disgustingly like teenagers- in a park and even at both the entrance and exit of a motel parking lot.

That was the reason why, after a long time, Raffaele was indulging in one of those hangovers that would go down in the annals of betrayed men seeking revenge.

For some time Martina, the bitch, had been asking for a separation and was exploiting any little thing she could to blame him for their crisis.

Him! –When the only thing he did was work hard to earn their daily bread.

And now, with this compelling evidence obtained by Formenti, he could with certainty separate from that slut, and without owing her any kind of financial support. So long as the Italian justice system didn’t pull any fast ones, because – as it is widely known –in the case of a failed marriage, men are always the ones who pay. That was the question. Any run of the mill Martina type can come along, screw around on her husband and then ask for a separation, settlement and alimony.

Yes, that’s how it goes in the vast majority of cases, Raffaele said to himself, savouring the intense taste of his whisky.

But he was smarter than other men. He wasn’t going to be fooled. He had proof. He was going to nail the bitch.

He had already given her a taste of his forthcoming triumph. A few days before Formenti had given him the pictures, he had promised her that he was going to catch her dicking around. Yes, yes, that’s exactly what he said to her “ dicking around ”. How he’d enjoyed saying that!

Martina hadn’t believed him. She’d scoffed at him and gone on her way.

“The way of the whores,” said Raffaele, in a whisper, despite himself.

Then, with his head spinning, he observed the space around him. The pub was semi-deserted, there were only three other people there. At a table to his right, there was a couple of sweethearts; while at the bar, perched on one of the fake-leather stools, there was a guy - he must have been about the same age as Raffaele - getting plastered all by himself.

Ghezzi wondered if he too had something to celebrate. He took a sip of whisky and thought about that for a moment, while savouring the strong taste of the alcohol.

At the exact moment he swallowed, the answer came to him unexpectedly. Perhaps the man was getting drunk to celebrate some success of his own, though it could never compare to his success, he thought. No, because he was Raffaele Ghezzi, the smartest of the smart, the one who had not allowed himself to be fooled by a wife who fucked around on him. He had caught her dicking around and couldn’t wait to nail her for it.

He smiled, grabbed the glass and, in one gulp, he finished the last of the whisky.

He was so drunk that even walking was a struggle.

He told himself that taking his car to the mechanic had been a great idea. If he’d had to drive in that state, he would have crashed into the first wall available.

“Into the first wall,” he mumbled, sniggering.

He was even having trouble seeing the footpath now. Thank god his house was close by. He decided to walk close to the wall of the block of flats, to avoid losing his sense of direction and his balance. And who cared if he scratched his jacket a bit, he said to himself. With the good fortune that would come with being rid of an unfaithful wife – with the money he would save from the financial support that he would never give her – he could even afford to buy himself a new one. Perhaps even a jacket by one of those famous Italian fashion designers that he liked so much.