The Day I Killed My Father (10 page)

‘Well …?'

‘Well, what?'

‘What are the qualities that make me different from other women?'

‘These here …'

‘Ah, you're tickling me, you clown.'

‘Kiki, what do you know about Hemistich's events that I don't?'

‘I'm sick of talking about that. Let's make love again.'

‘Either you tell me or we're finished.'

‘Do you think Hemistich tells me anything? I know what everyone else involved knows: once a week, he transforms the restaurant into what you saw, and it becomes the venue for an orgy.'

‘That's all?'

‘That's all … Well, come to think of it, there has been the odd event outside the restaurant.'

‘Outside the restaurant, where?'

‘In this huge country house about forty minutes out of town.'

‘Hemistich never told me there were events in a country house.'

‘You should've seen them! They'd go on for two whole days; total madness. I'd come back a wreck. The upside is that I got paid double to participate.'

‘Do you know when the next one is?'

‘No, I don't. I think they've been on hold ever since Augusto died.'

‘The Augusto that killed his wife and committed suicide?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Did you know him?'

‘Of course I did. But don't worry. He wasn't as good as you, darling.'

‘You're so irritating! I'm not worried about that, you idiot.'

‘Me, an idiot? I'm not telling you anything else. You've hurt my feelings.'

‘I'm sorry, Kiki, it's just that I really want to know more about Augusto. We were friends for a while.'

‘OK, I forgive you. Augusto participated in Hemistich's events.'

‘Right, so Augusto commits this incredible act of violence, and there hasn't been an event outside the restaurant since. What's the connection?'

‘And I'm supposed to be the idiot! Augusto did what he did at one of these events.'

‘I'm shocked. Hemistich didn't tell me any of this.'

‘Do you think he'd go around blabbing about it?'

‘Did you see them die?'

‘I'm not saying anything else.'

‘Do you or don't you want to keep seeing me?'

‘Promise you won't tell anyone?'

‘I promise.'

‘Do you swear on your mother's life?'

‘My mother's dead.'

‘Swear on your dad's life.'

‘He's not worth it.'

‘Then swear on your mother's grave.'

‘I swear, I swear. What a drag, Kiki …'

‘I didn't see them die … It's hard for me to talk about these things.'

‘Make an effort.'

‘Augusto used to show up alone, but that night he brought his wife. I remember she was really impressed by the décor of the house. The candles everywhere, the same figures as in the restaurant on the walls … Satyrs and nymphs — that's what they're called, isn't it? I've never been good at mythology.'

‘So what do you think you saw?'

‘Well, when things had really heated up — people fucking, left, right, and centre — I decided to play a game with two hot guys who were dying to do me. I told them that if they really wanted me they'd have to catch me. I took off running, and they came after me. We ended up heading away from the halls and down a winding corridor that went underground. This corridor seemed to go on forever, and other corridors ran off it as if it were all part of a labyrinth. I think it was a labyrinth. Because I was really wasted (Hemistich's wine must be laced with some kind of drug), it took me a while to realise the guys weren't behind me any more. When it dawned on me that I was alone, I was scared — especially because, by that time, there was no light. I froze, panting, for several minutes. I was dizzy, freaked out, and really needed to go to the toilet.

After taking several deep breaths, I started to head back. I went slowly, because each step took so much energy. I was in a really bad way, and lost. I'd gone about thirty metres, when I heard a horrible scream. My heart started racing faster than ever, and I felt as if I was about to faint. I tried to cry for help, but my voice stuck in my throat, like in a nightmare. I was scared stiff, but this time I didn't freeze. It was the fainting feeling that pushed me forward — if I was going to faint, I wanted to be in the light, and with other people. Feeling my way along the walls, I went a little further, until I noticed a sliver of light at ground level at the end of one of the corridors.
It's coming from under a door. It might be a shortcut back to the halls
, I thought. So I headed for the door. Behind it, two men were talking. I pressed my ear to the door and … Oh, that's enough. I'm going to get myself into trouble.'

‘You pressed your ear to the door and …'

‘One of the voices was Hemistich's.'

‘What was he saying?'

‘ “It's over.” I wanted to open the door to get out of that dark corridor, but those words made me hesitate. I don't know why, but I imagined that the scream I'd heard had come from there.'

‘Well, had it?'

‘I think so. What do you think?'

‘How am I supposed to know? What did you do next?'

‘I got out of there as fast as possible, because I was afraid they'd see me. I found my way back quickly, thank God.'

‘What Hemistich said, was that the only thing you heard?'

‘No, I also heard the other man's answer.'

‘Let's have it, Kiki.'

‘ “Nothing's over. This is just the beginning for us.” '

‘That's it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you recognise the voice?'

‘I recognised it an hour later, when Hemistich interrupted the event to say Augusto had killed his wife and committed suicide.'

‘The voice belonged to one of the guests.'

‘No, it was the priest who Hemistich had just called.'

‘Farfarello.'

‘Farfarello, that's it. How do you know?'

‘Let's see if I've got this right: Hemistich told everyone he'd just called Farfarello, but you say you heard his voice an hour earlier.'

‘That's right.'

‘And what did Hemistich say to justify Farfarello's presence?'

‘He said he'd called the priest to provide spiritual assistance.'

‘For the dead.'

‘For the dead.'

‘Spiritual assistance for the dead. Didn't anyone find this nonsense suspicious?'

‘It's not nonsense. He prayed for the salvation of Augusto and his wife. It was quite touching.'

‘Kiki, can't you see that Farfarello probably helped Hemistich kill them?'

‘They wouldn't kill anyone, Antonym. The police conducted a thorough investigation. They took statements from everyone, examined the crime scene, and concluded that it was a homicide followed by a suicide.'

‘And was the crime scene the room behind that door?'

‘Everything seems to point to it.'

‘Did the police take a statement from Farfarello?'

‘No, because he wasn't one of the guests. He wasn't there when it all happened. I mean …'

‘You mean in spite of all their care, it was possible to trick the police.'

‘I didn't trick anyone. The detective didn't ask me anything about a priest.'

‘Did he ask you where you were at the time of the deaths?'

‘He did, and I told him I was in the wood next to the house with the guys who'd chased me — which they confirmed without me even asking. I didn't want any hassles. Not with the police, or Hemistich.'

‘So you lied to the police.'

‘I lied a little, so what?'

‘So, just as you lied to the police, you might be lying to me.'

‘Where are you going with this?'

‘How do I know you didn't take part in the crime?'

‘You're crazy!'

‘How do I know you didn't see the crime?'

‘I swear I didn't see it, and I didn't do anything. I've told you the whole truth. And now you have to swear again that you won't tell anyone anything. Do you swear?'

‘I've already sworn.'

‘Swear again.'

XI

It was already dawn when Antonym parked his car near the beach he used to go to when he was first married. He walked a hundred metres along a narrow path down to the sand. Perfume from the flowers leaning over the walls of the houses was gradually replaced with the smell of the sea air that hinted at the infinite horizon. Gazing at the sea as it recovered its blue hues in the morning light, Antonym was hoping to recover something as well — something of his own essence. But it wasn't long before this hope evaporated. For a few minutes he watched the birth and death of the waves, noticing those that interrupted their brief existence on the rocks, and scrutinised the hills framing the small bay. Nothing. Then a poem that Eugenio Montale had dedicated to the Mediterranean came into his head:

Antico, sono ubriacato dalla voce
che esce dalle tue bocche quando si schiudono
come verdi campane e si ributtano
indietro e si disciolgono.
La casa delle mie estati lontane
t'era accanto, lo sai,
là nel paese dove il sole cuoce
e annuvolano l'aria le zanzare.
Come allora oggi in tua presenza impietro,
mare, ma non più degno
mi credo del solenne ammonimento
del tuo respiro. Tu m'hai detto primo
che il piccino fermento
del mio cuore non era che un momento
del tuo; che mi era in fondo
la tua legge rischiosa: esser vasto e diverso
e insieme fisso:
e svuotarmi così d'ogni lordura
come tu fai che sbatti sulle sponde
tra sugheri alghe asterie
le inutili macerie del tuo abisso.*

[* I'm drunk with that voice, archaic sea / pouring from your mouths when they gape / like green bells and are shocked / back and dissolved. / The house of my distant summers, / as you know, belonged to you / there in that country of scorching suns / and low air fogged with midges. / Stunned now, as I once was, in your presence / I no longer believe myself worth / the solemn exhortation of your breath. / It was you who first taught me / my heart's puny tumult / was only a moment of yours —/ that at bottom I kept your hazardous / law: to be vast and various / yet steady: / and so to purge myself of rubbish / as you do, hurling on the beaches / among starfish corks seaweed / the waste of your abyss. (‘Antico', English translation by Sonia Raiziss and Alfredo de Palchi, Selected Poems, New Directions, 1975.)]

Antonym recited the poem to himself. Ten years before, it had moved him. Now, it was like repeating a shopping list. Montale was still grand, but he, Antonym, had lost his connection with poetry. Perhaps because poetry, deep down, is a highly personal experience, of which one can only grasp the surface at best. And this surface ended up losing its meaning, like a postcard landscape admired to exhaustion. Antonym stared at the sea, but didn't see anything beyond the vulgar beauty that so charmed tourists. A wry smile spread across his face; attributing transcendence to it all seemed pathetically trite. Maybe Montale was just an idiot, trying to give meaning to that which had none. Maybe there was no depth whatsoever in poetry and it was just surface.

Now he was numb. ‘
Il mare è di tutti quelli che lo stanno ad ascoltare,' ‘Il mare è di …' Who'd said that? The Sicilian writer Giovanni Verga, perhaps … Yes, it was Verga.
Why he had once read Verga he could no longer fathom. Verga's Aci Trezza, where Ulysses had visited, seemed so far away … Now Ulysses was a man with somewhere to return to. The world is less threatening when you have somewhere to return to, or was it the opposite? And this question … How many useless questions do we ask ourselves in the course of a lifetime? Was this a measure of our own utter insignificance? Maybe he should staple his fingers, as Hemistich had done, to at least feel pain — in the hope that waiting for the pain to cease would give meaning, even if only ephemeral, to some minuscule fleck of his existence. The meaning of life: how many jokes had been made about such nonsense? But was it really nonsense? Maybe he should have a child (Bernadette was having one, wasn't she?) to resuscitate some kind of emotion. But what woman would want to bear his child? Antonym laughed again. A child … Not even with Bernadette. He'd been lying when he proposed they have one, and deep down Bernadette knew it. A child who was a failure or who outshone him — either outcome would be unbearable.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe he should kill himself, as Augusto had done. It wasn't the first time he'd considered suicide, but the truth was that he'd never felt his existence was tragic enough to take this path of no return. Not even now, come to think of it. One had to take oneself really seriously, which he was incapable of doing — although, granted, he didn't like the idea of being supplanted or disappointed by a child. Even in his moments of desperation, he often allowed himself to drift into banal thoughts. Was he less human because of it? Or more human? After all, wasn't being human contenting oneself with surface? There was surface again. The problem was that he was unable to be entirely superficial or entirely profound. Augusto hadn't struck him as terribly profound either, although he had left that poem. But if poetry is surface …