My Mother-in-Law Drinks (27 page)

“
Porn?
” asks Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo, aghast.

The collapse of my television quotes hits me like a cement pour.

At this point I have nothing left to do but bluff.

Which is what I do.

“Ah, you don't know
what
I'm talking about, do you?”

Note the filigree of sarcasm that I inserted into my question.

“No, I most certainly do not.”

I'll bet he doesn't, and why should he? He hasn't heard my little treatise on reality shows that I jotted down mentally in the interval.

I counterattack, hoping to recover a bit of sense along the way. This time I do my best to remain lucid.

“I'm talking about the conceptual foundations of the format that you've created, that's what I'm talking about. I'm talking about television aesthetics, and the kinds of contrived emotions that should never be aroused on a reality show. I'm talking about controlling the contents of a program. The writing and the direction. I'm telling you that you can't sentence a defendant who's handcuffed and pissing his pants. If you'd taken him to your home, you could have done whatever what you wanted. But you put him on television, and here you have to watch out for sentimentality, because sentimentality tends to tear to shreds the finest intentions. I'm telling you that Cordiale's, or Caldore's, or whatever his name is's little potty accident here has practically disarmed you, and if at this point you shoot him you're handing him the audience on a silver platter: in other words, you're going to make him win the episode.”

I instinctively shoot a glance at Matrix (what the fuck was his real last name? I still can't remember it), and he looks pretty bewildered, uncertain whether the bullshit that I'm spewing will lead to his ruin or to his salvation (which, I realize, must be one of the more unsettling dilemmas a person can encounter).

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo remains confusedly interested for a few seconds, then he reorganizes his thoughts and answers me with the detachment of a driving instructor.

“Interesting analysis, Counselor. Truly refined. The only problem is I'm not here to win an Emmy, so your critique of my media presence leaves me entirely indifferent.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughs Mary Stracqua, spraying saliva in all directions through her ramshackle dentures.

No way! I can take anything, but to have that imbecile laugh at me is a step too far.

“Okay,” I retort with mounting indignation, “then you need to stop wasting everybody's time with this charade of a television trial and your radical critique of the Italian judicial system. As far as I'm concerned, I'm sick and tired of standing around and being your stooge. Go ahead and pull that trigger, then we can all go home.”

Matrix snaps his head in my direction, horrified at my provocation, which, however, as I'd hoped, causes Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo to immediately stop aiming his pistol at him and focus on answering me instead.

“I'm beginning to find this sarcasm of yours offensive, Counselor.”

I can't believe that he said it. I don't think he's ever played the judge up to this point. Evidently there are forms of language that automatically snap into place once you take on a certain title and role, however arbitrarily.

“Hey, did you know you're starting to talk just like a prosecuting magistrate in court? What are you planning to do now, hold me in contempt of court?”

He pulls his head back slightly.

“If this is the best you can do on behalf of your client, I have to guess you're going to lose your case, Counselor Malinconico.”

Matrix looks at me with understandable anguish, but I have no ambitions to introduce him into my meager portfolio of clients.

“And if you think you've done your son's cause a great deal of good, you're completely wrong,” I retort.

“What did you just say?”

“You haven't done much for him, believe me. Except for making him famous, of course,” and I gesture in the direction of the television monitors, dismissing their importance, “which doesn't strike me as much of an achievement, if you care to know what I think.”

His eyes grow wide, betraying the sudden (and, to him, worrisome) suspicion that he may agree with me.

Let's see if I can persuade him entirely, in that case.

“This whole contrivance proves nothing. It doesn't prove that this man is guilty, nor that your son was innocent. We have no reason to believe you.”

I hear another “Waahh,” but this one drops a couple of octaves.

“Massimiliano was in no way at fault,” he replies, with a perceptible crack in his voice, “he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Just like you are right now.”

“What?”

“So you wanted television coverage? Well, fine, you got it. When you leave here, provided they don't take you straight to jail, you'll be giving interviews one after another. You'll receive a string of offers of free legal services from famous lawyers who will be so excited to sit at your side on
Porta a Porta
, where you'll certainly be invited to appear as a guest. They'll probably make a TV drama about this too. Tomorrow morning people having their morning espressos in cafés across Italy will trade their opinions,” and I pronounce the word “opinions”
 
with a dismissive emphasis, “about your son's innocence. They'll turn him into little more than a subject of gossip. They'll be moved by your tragedy as a father or they'll condemn what you've done with a shrug of their shoulders.”

I take a moment to catch my breath, though this time I'm in no hurry, because I feel as if I know what I'm saying. And I think he knows too, judging from the silence in which he listens to me.

He's so attentive that he hasn't noticed that Mulder has vanished from the monitors.

A moment later I catch sight of Mulder in the monitor that alternates between views of the various aisles: he's sneaking along the shelves where the cookies are, like a large sewer rat on the prowl.

I pray that both Mary Stracqua's cameraman and the one from RAI keep their video cameras off that monitor and focus just on the three of us, because right now all it would take is for one hyena to sound the alarm to ruin everything.

I'm having heart palpitations, but I do my best to keep from giving away the game, and I go on talking quickly.

“But all of this adds up to nothing, Engineer. It doesn't prove that things went the way you say they did. It doesn't tell us anything beyond what we already knew about your son's murder. You wanted to simulate a trial, but all you've sent over the airwaves is your own despair. And you need to get it into your head that your despair is not a right. It doesn't give you any power (because that's what rights are: conditions of power), and certainly not the right to hand down a death sentence. You're just like a murderer shooting into a crowd. Except that instead of firing at those people you're throwing a corpse at them. And you expect gratitude in return. It's the worst contribution you could have made to preserving the memory of your son.”

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo's lips are quivering in agitation. His gaze is lost in the middle distance; I'd swear that what caught him off guard was that image of the corpse. He's stopped checking the monitor. Mulder was particularly cunning in choosing the moment to make his move. I wonder how far he's gotten by now.

You can't begin to imagine how hard it is to keep my eyes off the monitors.

The only thing to do now is to carry on with my
j'accuse
.

“You can tell us that you sent a message, that you set an example, if you like. But the problem with setting an example is that it doesn't prove anything. It's an end in itself. It demands a logic that it has no other way of attaining. It's pure ferocity. In even the best of circumstances, it leaves the question unresolved.”

Have you ever seen someone's face, maybe in a movie, when he realizes that he's gotten everything wrong? Well, that's exactly the face I'm looking at right now.

I wish I could say something else to cap off this intolerable waiting game, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing at all.

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo shakes his head as if to ward off a sense of dizziness, then he looks up at the monitor and sees Mulder, who at that exact moment is emerging from the aisle behind him.

He nods as he sees the game I've been playing.

He looks me right in the eye, disappointed and admiring at the same time: that is, if it's possible for those two feelings to coexist.

“Well played, Counselor.”

He grips the butt of his pistol.

I recoil, imagining the executive session of the bar association voting to fund a handsome marble plaque with a phrase engraved on it, something along the lines of:

 

TO OUR COLLEAGUE MALINCONICO

WHO BRAVELY WORE HIS NOBLE ROBES OF THE LAW

EVEN OUTSIDE THE HALLS OF JUSTICE

TESTIFYING WITH HIS LAST LIVING BREATH

TO THE HIGHEST CIVIC VALUES

OF THE LEGAL PROFESSION

 

Oh go fuck yourself, I think.

“Drop the gun!” shouts Mulder, no more than ten or fifteen feet away from us.

I notice that he's spread his legs in a wide stance and is gripping his pistol with both hands.

A position of optimal balance when it comes to taking aim, probably.

You see the kinds of things that can pop into a person's mind at certain times?

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo turns around, aiming the pistol right back at him.

Practically speaking, this has turned into a western.

“That's not a good idea, Engineer, believe me,” Mulder advises him, with the confidence of an experienced sharpshooter. Which whether it produces an intimidatory effect on Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo I can't say, but it certainly makes me feel paranoid as hell, considering that I'm in the same line of fire.

I take one step to the side, unsure if it will even do me any good.

“I've come this far. I have no intention of stopping now,” Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo replies.

Matrix curls up into himself and draws his head down between his shoulders.

“Put down the gun, Engineer,” Mulder slowly enunciates, taking a step forward. “I'm not going to say it again.”

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo lets out a sigh and stretches his lips out into a smile of defeat.

First he lowers the gun, and then bows his head.

“Good,” says Mulder. “Now get down on your knees and put it on the floor. Slowly.”

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo hesitates, his head still lowered.

“Engineer,” Mulder calls out, implicitly repeating his order.

He lifts his gaze, looks at him, then suddenly rotates his wrist upward so that he's aiming the pistol at his own face.

Mulder leaps back.

We all watch, petrified.

Even Matrix seems alarmed.

“No!” shouts Mulder.

Then he lunges forward, but too late.

 

Truly, this was something none of us was expecting.

I
t's not easy to shoot yourself. Otherwise there'd be no explaining why so many people try and fail. Who survive, let some time go by, and try again. And maybe fail again. Or do themselves permanent damage but still don't die.

Maybe it's because the close proximity complicates things. Maybe because the hand trembles. Maybe because when the time comes to pull the trigger, a part of us disapproves of the plan and does everything it can to sabotage it. Maybe because you have to be very accurate in choosing where you shoot yourself.

I wonder how the engineer is now. We were there, but it's not as if we really saw what happened.

And I have only the most muddled of memories from the moment of the gunshot to when I left the supermarket (receiving—this is a detail I can't leave out—an absurd burst of applause worthy of a TV star, which whether it woke me up or sunk me even deeper into my stupor, I can't say). A chaotic series of fragmentary scenes and more or less clear stills that surface of their own accord, sometimes fitting together, other times clashing, like morning dreams that to some extent seem to have a mind of their own but to another extent are clearly of your own invention.

The hooded members of the special operations team (the ones dressed like the comic-book antihero Diabolik if he had to leave the house in a hurry and didn't have time to put on his body stocking) bursting in a second after Mulder launches himself onto the inert body of Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo.

Me saying: “Already here?” but so softly that they won't hear me.

Matrix mumbling loudly as if his mouth were duct-taped shut. Maybe he's getting ready to fake an epilectic fit.

Two Diaboliks hurtling at him: whether to immobilize him or free him, it's unclear.

Him crying out that they're hurting him.

Me thinking to myself: Oh go fuck yourself.

One of the Diaboliks telling him to shut up.

And me thinking to myself: That's right, thank you.

Mulder holding Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo in his arms, propping his head up, his uniform smeared with blood, shouting something I can't hear—because suddenly everything's gone all muffled and my vision is even a little blurry—but I make it out (or at least I think I do) by reading his lips.

“He's still breathing,” I think he's said.

Four paramedics, with all the latest equipment, super-synchronized.

Emergency resuscitation techniques.

Oxygen.

Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo lying on a modular four-piece metal stretcher that the paramedics have placed under his back and then reassembled so as to move the body as little as possible.

The monitors all suddenly switched off.

Matrix being led away in a different set of handcuffs.