Wu Ming - 54

Chapter 11

Rome, 9 May

The television didn’t work even if you slapped it, but now he didn’t give a damn.

Now. At first he had been annoyed. He had immediately called Frosinone to tell them that either they were to give him back his money, all of it, or they were to find a way of fixing the television.

As predicted, they had let themselves off the hook. It wasn’t the fault of the television, which was American and first-rate, checked by the only person in the whole of Naples who knew anything about it, and it was ok, as though it was fresh out of the factory.

Bollocks.

But wait a second, did he have an aerial? Did he have a subscription? Then of course he couldn’t see anything. You couldn’t pick up images just like that, and until half-past five in the afternoon there was nothing, there weren’t even any programmes. Before saying that the TV didn’t work, he would have to be sure, check that the aerial was properly connected, that the subscription was in order, that his district was covered by the signal and the broadcasts had already begun. Just wait for a month, and meanwhile the opportunity, that prodigious American-brand television, with a naturally luminous seventeen-inch screen, would have passed. He’d be better off keeping it, listen to the advice he was being given, and if at the end the set proved to be defective, they would give him back all his money with interest.

‘Interest, yes, but sparing myself any further bother would be quite enough,’ Carmine had thought.

As he hung up, the idea flashed through his mind.

Whether the television worked or not, it was no longer a problem.

*

He went to wait for her at the school gates. Cleaned and polished as though for an evening in a nightclub. Halfway through each cigarette his comb passed carefully over his temples, which gleamed with brilliantine. He would offer her a lift on his scooter and set the plan in motion.

He glanced around, to be sure that that poor character Nosé was nowhere around. He wasn’t. He would think about him later on.

Giuseppe Orlandi, known as Nosé, was a piece of crap, a porter in an apartment block in Garbatella, always badly dressed, battered hat in the winter, patched cloth shoes in the summer. He didn’t have a penny, he didn’t wash much, and yet Marisa thought very highly of him because he was an ‘existentialist’, he spent hours at the little table in the Bar Le Rose pretending to meditate and read. In fact the level of the wine bottle went down before your eyes, while the book, always the same one, never seemed to come to an end. It was called La Nosé by Jonpolsart, as he put it, but the cover said Nausea , and that was probably what it provoked.

Marisa’s parents were nice people, sure, her father never let the women in his life go short of anything, and her mother was a great housewife. They knew Carmine, and they were nice to him. But they also knew that stupid Nosé, and although they knew he was penniless, they let their daughter go out with him a lot, much more than with Carmine. Her mother thought he was a ‘harmless’ boy, while her father suspected he had tons of money stashed away somewhere. The fact was that going out with Carmine, getting on to his 1100, having your ticket to the ballroom bought for you, were proper things for a signorina , a gold-digging slut excited by the size of a man’s wallet. Forbidden. And she would be thinking of wallets when it was time for marriage. Having an ice-cream with Nosé and his lousy friends, going to the Villa Borghese to look at the stars, going up to his place to give him back the latest book by the latest wanker, that was all fine, as long as she tidied up her lipstick before she came home and never tried to suggest that pauper as a future son-in-law. That guy Carmine, on the other hand, so fashionable.

Bollocks to marriage and the senator who wanted to close down the brothels.

The school caretaker opened the gate. Carmine threw his cigarette a long way off, straightened his tie, and repeated the deadly words through half-closed lips.

Her parents gave their blessing.

Nosé was astonished by the invitation.

She happily accepted.

After dinner at Carmine’s to watch Just Say It, Please . A few friends, the right music, Nosé to pick up Marisa, Nosé to take her home.

Carmine’s plan provided champagne and tobacco for the existentialist. Three or four glasses. Smaller doses for Marisa: he wanted her to be responsive. The guests, all friends, ready to slope off at the right moment or watch discreetly. That useless wanker out of action within an hour. He tries to get the television working. A brilliant phrase to test the lie of the land: ‘Marisa, don’t pull that face, didn’t I invite you to watch television? There it is, watch it for as long as you like, you can’t say I don’t keep my word, heh, heh.’ A suggestive phrase in preparation for the attack: ‘What rotten luck, I thought things were going so well this afternoon. Ok, then, Marisa, let’s not get depressed about it; we don’t want this horrible contraption to ruin our evening.’

All calculated. Couldn’t fail.

And, before bringing the set back to Frosinone, he would give it to his sister to humiliate that starving husband of hers. And if the tosser started causing problems, he really would put him to shame. Have you got an aerial? Have you paid your subscription? Did you switch it on after half-past five? Have you checked that there’s a signal? And you claim it’s working? Only a Zulu would think you just had to plug the thing in.

The jerk would be offended and give back the present. Then he would take it back to Frosinone and get the money back. His sister would realise for the umpteenth time what kind of a shithead she had married.

And all without spending a lira.

Chapter 12

Bologna, Villa Azzurra, 16 May

‘Your friend Teresa didn’t come today, either,’ Ferruccio said reproachfully.

He was sitting on the bed, his back leaning against two cushions, and wearing the blue pyjamas she had given him for Christmas

Angela smoothed his ruffled hair. ‘She may not be coming for a while.’

He frowned, and a barely perceptible tic ran across his neck.

‘Have you had a row?’

‘No, Fefe, don’t worry, she’s just been busy.’

‘And what about you, what are you doing? You’re on your own.’

‘I came to see you.’

He shook his head hard. ‘No, no, you’re on your own.’

Angela smiled at him, stroking him again. Ferruccio had worked out that something had happened between her and Pierre, and he couldn’t get used to the idea.’

‘No, Fefe, I’m not on my own. I’ve got you and Odoacre. And you love me.’

Ferruccio sighed, looked around, then turned to stare at her.

‘No, no.’

‘No what? Don’t you love me?’

‘I do,’ said her brother curtly.

‘So does Odoacre. And he loves you too. When you were ill he came rushing back from Rome, because he was worried. He got a real scare, did you know that? He’ll always be near us.’

Ferruccio clamped his jaw and clenched his fists around his sheet.

‘Why didn’t Teresa come?’

Odoacre said not to let Ferruccio brood on things too much, it made him ill, he became obsessive.

‘Listen, how are things going with the new medication? You seem better to me.’

‘It gives me bad breath.’

‘And you’ve got to brush your teeth, how many times do I have to tell you you’ve got to brush your teeth, because dentists cost an arm and a leg.’

Ferruccio nodded, looking elsewhere.

‘It scares me. The monsters come out of my mouth.’

Angela hugged him. ‘What’s that? You’re always going on about monsters!’