In the stories, you know, everything has a beginning.
The following script, one of my memories, explains how I am familiar with the case.
In those days I did not give due weight to things. If I had known
do it, maybe now I would not be in this sistuazione.
E 'of vital importance to know to live in a lucid, recognize the right weight of things.
We must try to locate the hinges, to tap in our favor. I do not
badavo these things, I had one of my arrogant indifference that made me take everything with a laugh.
I thought it was all light.
a stranger, a story of murder.
I did not give due weight to the thing.
FROM MY MEMORIES, February 2007
Two weeks and still think about it. I think that night
surreal and intimate.
I think I did not understand anything but that something I stayed inside.
I do not even know his name, fuck, but you can?
I think I might even be in love, absurd.
So absurd for absurdity, I try to root out the night of my head convincing myself that it is only the fruit of a dream vision caused by the gin. That shit
, gin.
However, in some ways the butterflies go away from the belly.
do: I put the shoulder strap, plug in all I have to connect and position the gain knob to "hell". I
The sound explodes over her face and a fist. Start
a kind of mantra violent and expanded, taking all my time.
Here's how to cast out demons, burn them with the distortion, the damned.
keep pushing, with the pen and scratch the black body of the guitar.
Godo. I feel
knuckles scratched against the ropes, while Stone too bad press on the handle.
thoughts fly away, away. I went into limbo
my golden for a moment I can isolate myself from everything.
continue for about ten minutes, maybe more, until an annoying sound familiar but I awaken the thoughts, returning to reality.
Puff, is the bell.
support the Telecaster on the couch, and while I hear the trill repetition nervous, I headed to the door.
turn the handle and open it.
My heart goes back to the chest and sticking in the throat. She
.
hardly believe it, I'm thinking this is kind of a joke.
Lower your eyelids. The
reopen.
She is still here in front of me. In the second half
analyze from head to foot: it is further elaborates wet. Outside it's raining
the wrath of the gods, in fact. He
wet hair plastered to his face, is beautiful, with shining eyes when I saw how the club.
The shoulder bag has the typical color of wet cardboard, while the fibers of his jeans, the capillary has allowed the water to go back almost to the knee.
then, just when I'm thinking of wearing Vans very nice, his voice breaks my lightning analysis.
"Do not I knew where to go, "he says with a worried voice. I
I can come in and tell you that it can dry in the bathroom, the towels I have, maybe even a hair dryer.
you not listen to me either, looks down and crosses the threshold of entry.
Walk towards the center of the room at each step of forming puddles as big as lakes.
Then he turns to me. His face gives me a deep anxiety, it seems frightened.
But I, for a change, I'm confused.
I am reminded that for two weeks I thought about this stranger met by chance on a cold night surreal.
realize that we have stayed together, I not know her name, her without my knowledge.
Now I think it is legitimate - if not right - present, use good manners, as you would in everyday life.
I introduce myself and then trying to take it a bit 'by surprise: "Oh, I'm *** anyway."
She responds as if I said anything.
not tell me his name.
No. I talk about other things, strange things.
says that I must help her, which could be in danger because he found the narratives about murders actually committed. Then
portrayed, at least in part, saying that maybe it's just one of the stories to be the guide of a real crime.
I believe almost anything, in fact. I'm beginning to think that the girl, the one with the most beautiful eyes of the world, that of which we do not know the name and standing in front of me dripping rain on my floor, has the mind on another planet.
I would ask you to calm down, to catch my breath.
still insist it dry.
But she shakes her head, looks at me with that beautiful face and says "please ...."
At these words, spoken with one voice, can not resist.
I feel like an idiot, but I decided to listen and do at least pretend to believe what he says.
So he began to tell things the right way, in detail.
For the first time heard about the "file". Not even remotely imagine what that word will bring torment.
basically tells me I found this file in his home, where he lives with what apparently is her boyfriend.
I say apparently because she describes the relationship with a certain detachment, wraps it in the fog, never say the words "boyfriend", "husband".
He calls it instead "the guy with whom I live," or, more simply, Romeo.
He tells me to be upset, because it is within that file with the cover of dark velvet that found the ghostly tales.
begin to understand something.
Romeo is - perhaps - her boyfriend is a writer, lives with her and keeps a file of stories.
"It seems very strange is a writer, it should be normal to find the house of his writings, "I say.
She says, terrified that in these stories is precisely describes the murder of an acquaintance.
I remain incredulous, on my own, but I'm beginning to tremble.
I do not explain why.
I feel to be quiet, but slowly, or become bothersome.
's not so much for the stories, history tells me that macabre or fear it's all true. It is rather for its expression. Is devastated. He seems to have just seen a ghost terrifying.
Then he begins to tell the story of her friend Anna.
About six months ago, during the summer of 2006, there was a big party to celebrate the graduation of some friends.
From what I understand had to be something quite big, in a nightclub, with at least 200 guests. Overnight
apparently delirious, with vomiting and revelers celebrated that they do worse.
At the end of the night but nobody finds Anna. The free phone is ringing but no trace of her.
friends start asking each other where he is, then expand the investigation to people less intimate, to ask anyone who is still in the room.
They worry because Anna is not girl to disappear without warning. Even if he decided to return home alone, would certainly warned.
between despair and drunkenness, almost all return to their homes.
remains is the small group of close friends of the girl.
Dawn breaks and still nothing.
They decide to call the family to know if Anna is at home.
No trace.
notified the police, spend a few hours of "settlement" and begin the investigation.
Well, Anna was found the next day.
His body is swollen but there are signs of beatings.
No sexual violence.
She died of strangulation, apparently without having fought.
not have bruises or broken nails and apparently has been used a belt or a band of fabric to block the flow of blood and air. The body of Anna
was found by officers at the station in front of the local aqueduct. From what I understand is a kind of water distribution station, there are pumps and tanks. Clearly, it is completely isolated by a metal fence, but there is no night service that ensures non-violation of the limit.
The only safety measure is a camera, but is fixed at the pump is used only to monitor the proper functioning of the system.
also because it is difficult for someone to come sneaking in a water distribution station, I think. What can be done in such a place?
Maybe I'm not considering the possibility of strangling a girl with a strip of fabric.
From the analysis does not appear that Anna was drugged, drank, yes, but was conscious.
Probably the murderess has attracted the victim in that secluded place and then strangled her, perhaps for a refusal to face sexual advances.
In any case, investigations are still open and any potential suspect has been identified.
discomfort and pain from friends, anger and dismay by families who can not understand who could have done such a horrible act, without a specific motive, without a logical explanation.
The story ends with a long silence.
I am more than embarrassed because she seems even more upset than before.
eyes are swollen from crying and her voice is trembling, choking.
"What has this to do with the file that you are getting?" I will ask my mysterious visitor.
She gets even more obscure in the face and tells me that the file found three or four scripts, short stories that speak of first hand experience of a murderess.
At these tales do not impress, because they think they are scattered notes of his friend-boyfriend.
Then comes the last sheet.
The story about the murder of Anna in detail.
does not leave room for imagination, the author, Romeo, claims to be the murderess.
accurately describes all stages of the evening, the party until the strangulation of the girl.
"It 's all so real," he says, "There are also I in that story, we all of us who were at that party ... I seem to recognize the speech, phrases, things that we said."
then explodes into tears, I approach and our embrace.
I try to calm her, and not without difficulty, I can not.
Then I explain that I work for a publisher and I often deal with writers (or assumed).
often use real stories that affect them, to turn everything into stories, novels or poems.
tried to explain that the smartest thing is to talk with him, with Romeo.
She interrupts me and tells me he has already spoken and that is why she ran away and joined me at home.
He saw her, coming into the house, read the stories of the file.
She tells of how he tried to ask for explanations about these writings, to Anna.
He went on a rampage, has snatched the paper and asked to leave the house.
At this point a question seems obvious: "Why do not you go to the police?".
She said it was not safe, maybe that is exaggerating, after all, is really a writer, might be only ideas, notes, and then "how do I go to the police for the stories found in one who works as a writer? "he says.
Maybe I'm beginning to reason with her, perhaps even shocked by the death of her friend and find that story may have altered a bit 'his perception of things.
I ask what he's going to do.
says she wants to go home, to take the matter to steal it, take it away. So would
way to read it slowly and maybe go to the police with an actual test.
He asks me to accompany her.
I, not knowing to take the first step toward oblivion, I agree.
For your own safety, I can not let her go alone.
And then, I am her "knight" what the casino has ripped from that night, a couple of weeks ago. I can not refuse.
also because she has a kind of magnet, magic and mystery, fascinates me making me miss the references to what is real and what is not.
The car trip to Romeo's house is hell on the streets of the city, the rain and rush hour.
However, unlike the first night, this time we speak.
The story of my work, that is a sort of aide-rounder of a publisher, and often I am in charge of artistic selection.
this is a funny coincidence.
The story revolves around a writer, I might even know him and have him met.
is also quite likely, given that what runs in the city at 99% pass at our desks (in fact, from my own, only a few that come to the big boss).
Maybe I've read his stories, his stories.
Maybe the trash and I have passed into oblivion, perhaps.
Strange though that this Romeo can not remember. Usually I tend to remember all the names of writers, it is useful.
Then he tells me that here in the city still has no contacts with publishers and that the only thing that has finished a novel called "Nemesis", written under a pseudonym, and that is being published by a publisher Florentine.
currently not investigating further, I do not ask what was the name used. Even the publisher does not elaborate Florentine (Naxos editions will be, I tell myself).
I ask instead of the evening where we met and she told me about it quietly, even if a bit 'rough.
I discover, at the time no great surprise that the guy who had hit on the nose was Romeo.
I do not remember anything of his face, I can think of only wearing a dark coat, possibly gray.
naive and stupid, we laugh even over.
I think it's funny to go to steal the stories of this writer to whom I have taken away one night she thanked him with a punch on the nose.
not imagine even a distant one is going to happen, the world of madness in which I am about to enter.
I should refuse to go with it, throw it out of the house, that crazy.
Indeed, I would just have to know that sad night.
am a dickhead because I'm not in my place?
Why I returned to the room, after that there were already gone?
I could dodge this whole thing.
But I did not.
arrive in front of an old palace, are exactly between Romulus and Porta Genova.
I leave the car in a double line with arrows on and get out.
you have your house keys.
We enter the gate and pass the entrance hall that divides two large scales.
Let the inner courtyard and head to the right side.
I look up, is an old railing, a little 'shabby but overall nice.
She stops in front of a ramp leading into a basement.
put the key into the lock a door that closes with the dark paint and makes me nod. We enter
floor, with the fear of being able to find the writer, maybe murderess, I have beaten two weeks ago.
There is none.
She turns on the light before my eyes I see a very large room, with peeling of the columns in the middle. Once it was definitely a factory, maybe one of those full of tables and banquets, with women more or less concentrated in the sewing machine, large quantities of tissue.
What I see is the result of adaptation of the old workshop.
A large studio, with the bed in the middle and many books on the shelves of large wood in the rough.
The environment is moist and certainly illegal, but I like it, it's nice, it transmits a nice feeling.
I could live very well in a place like this, because my house is not much different. As soon as we get closer to the shelf
bigger, my companion in adventure begins searching among the books messy.
not find anything, no trace of the file.
He asks me to help her search for documents in this dark velvet and I try to please her even though I spend most of the time to groom I find the books thrown on the boards of the shelves.
Bergson, Bukowski, Celine, Cervantes, Defoe.
good, I think. There are all classics, even the most neglected by academia.
starting to think that this might be a good writer Romeo.
However, my research does not last long.
She is convinced that the file is no longer there, and tells me that probably took him away he has hidden or made to disappear, to leave no traces and tests.
We decide to leave, after checking the room for about fifteen minutes.
She takes the clothes from a closet, then the laundry.
shoves all in a bag is not very big, then take the money from a drawer and documents from another.
turns out the light and we're out.
back to my home, this time we take less time, traffic is already waning and it does not rain anymore.
We are rather uncertain about what to do.
I can tell you that stay with me as you will, that there is no problem.
She assures me that it is only for one night, because tomorrow is going to leave the city.
says he will reach a friend in Lisbon: "I want to go, I have to change the air, I do not want to know anything about this story."
I feel vibrate the left thigh, midway between the hip and testes.
is the telephone phone.
answer.
other side of the phone there is a great leader, who with her deep voice of opera singer tells me to go to get the first copies of "Spring sterile," the latest book published by us-indeed, his- beloved source of incredible literary talents.
"Ok, great leader," I reply.
notice then the girl that I absolutely have to get out but I tell her that she can stay home, take a shower, dry off and get comfortable.
Perhaps there is also beer somewhere.
She nods and smiles, it seems more relaxed.
agreed to stay at my house, because he still wearing those clothes umidissimi and I think a hot shower at this point is an obvious choice.
The tense atmosphere of the day is about to give way to a strange peace, a kind of feeling peaceful and pleasant than a little out of place with the disturbing story in which we find ourselves, or rather, in which (for now) is her. An happiness
stupid me back from the stomach to see her a bit 'more relaxed and notice that his face also other expressions of anguish over.
How beautiful, I think, then I turn around and handle.
"We put a half hour, maybe step to get something to eat. Would you like sushi? "
" sushi is fine, thanks. "
"All right then. See you later. "
I'm going to close the door when I can still hear his voice
"Cristina. My name is Cristina. "
I smile at her and go home.
In twenty minutes I removed the box with the first copies of "Spring sterile" and headed to the supermarket.
Once inside the store fast food I head to the bar fridge, take two boats of sushi, then head off to pick a few beers, a bottle of Coca-Cola and the way to the last case remained open.
A warm and gentle female voice from the speaker tells me that the supermarket is closing.
Pago, envelopes and returned to the parking lot. Ten more minutes
and I'm home.
The feeling of happiness that comes from having stupid Cristina at home exceeds that of fear and concern about the story of Romeo.
could be the former girlfriend of Hannibal Lecter, nothing that I care anyway.
I open the door and smiling like a stupid salute the lady of the third floor that leads out of the dog.
I climb the stairs three at a time, at the risk of falling and impair our dinner.
Arrival at the door, open it and quickly into the house.
"Here I am ... all right?" I say to Cristina warn of my presence. I do not feel
response.
Across the room and go downstairs to the kitchen.
Nothing.
date back to the bathroom and feel. On the floor
and the marks on the mirror in the shower. Also known
a folded towel a bit 'in a hurry.
Just do not find Cristina.
There are his clothes, is not his bag.
She's gone again.
And this time I left tickets.
"But Holy shit," I say aloud, with a resigned tone, "this is crazy."
to spend the evening with gobbling maki soaked soy sauce, while a couple of liters of beer to help swallow all that raw fish.
I feel like an idiot.
Then I smile and say to myself: "At least now I know your name, Cristina."
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