There is something wrong with him. I get the feeling that something is missing up there. A few brain cells that are missing or have become warped. The pretence that he is somebody that he isn’t. The more he boasts about money and his wonderful life, the more I sympathise with him. He has the desire to be liked but cannot see that his way won’t work.
“I once met Neil Tennant in a bar,” said the stranger, “and I swear that he was wearing Primark jeans.” Why would this guy think that I might be interested in what Neil Tennant had been wearing? “Did you speak to him?” I asked.“ ”I did, but he ignored me, and I made a point of telling him that I was wearing Gucci jeans.”
“My great grandfather was good friends with Fellini,” said Aurelio who looked at the books I had bought. “They both came from Rimini. If you needed to know anything about Fellini, then Gio Carmello, with the tattoo of a boy on a dolphin, was the person to see.
“It is said that my grandfather was called Federico after his childhood friend.
“And now, you have bought a book about Fellini which makes me sad because I think of my family.
“But, if I am honest, I have never liked Fellini, because he came from an older generation, with primitive movies, and an Italy that was black and white and different to the one that I know.”
The barman poured vodka from one bottle into another. It was a soft pour, and he did it expertly. I told him that I was impressed with the accuracy at how he did it. “Easy,” he said, “I imagine that I’m pissing into your mouth.” Up to this point his face had suggested that I wasn’t there. Everything I’d said to him had bounced back with indifference. Now he had said something shocking and was calm enough not to look for a reaction. Instead, he concentrated on pouring from one bottle to the other and was satisfied that he had stopped me talking.
Hey, Super Star Destroyer. If we knew back then what we know now. The year of discovery. Friends for life and all that shit. A touch of flesh was all it would have needed, but the Angel of Grief spat from a big height.
The grey gloom of a rainy afternoon and the empty alleyway is depressing. Only the yellowish headlamp of an ancient Vespa ridden by Salvo the old greengrocer suggests that colour exists in monochrome surroundings. He drives through puddles and looks at us suspiciously.
Marco stands on the step and stares at nothing, because there is nothing there, but his face suggests something different.
“What do you see?”
“What do YOU see?” he challenges. I shrug my shoulders.
“I see sunshine and shadows,” he says. “The heat of a lazy afternoon. Tables and chairs. Miniature olive trees in pots. Young men and women sitting and talking.” He moves his gaze to the crumbling stucco wall. “There is a woman wearing sunglasses who holds a pen in her right hand with a notebook in front of her. There is something in the bag at her feet that holds a dark secret. But she doesn’t want to tell me anything. I want to tell her that from where I stand she is now dead.”
“What else can you see?” I ask.
“The woman opposite her, an old lady now, is reading the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova. The men wear sports jackets and baggy trousers and talk amongst themselves about football and fast cars – Alfa Romeos and Lancias – and the women they want to flirt with.
“Salvo the greengrocer is a young man, and he leans back on his chair, a Corriere della Sera sticking out of his pocket, and he is talking to a slender woman with long black hair and stiletto heels. She is ignoring him because she senses something but doesn’t know what it is.”
“Who is she?”
“This is your great grandmother and she is looking towards where you stand, but you are invisible to her because you haven’t been born. But she is troubled because something lies in wait that will cause distress to her family. She doesn’t know it yet, but your great grandfather, who sits before her, a philosopher amongst friends, with a violent temper, will kill the man he is talking to. Just like you did, Nido – her great grandson. It is the curse of your family. The curse of the Lombardos.”
“I have a new favourite,” you said. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. “Are you talking about me?” I asked. It was a leading question, and one way or another, the answer would end years of torment. The pause was longer than necessary, and I took this as a good sign. Might this be the moment that we’d both been waiting for? But then you bottled it. “No, you’ve never been a favourite and won’t ever be.”
There was a big bottle of Malibu next to a picture of the Virgin Mary. I stared at them both. I wasn’t sure which was the most threatening. “What are you thinking?” I ignored him and looked at the mess of the room instead.
Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.
Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?
In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.
Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?
There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?
Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?
They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.
Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.
The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 