said coldly. ‘I felt terrible about what happened, and I only thought about you. I wanted to meet you. I don’t know, I wanted to make up, but you told me to screw myself, remember?’
‘You should have insisted!’
‘I called you ten times, even while I was in the bathroom with the cops waiting for me in my sitting room. What else could I do? Tell me!’
‘Right, I’m screwed. My fault.’ I got up and started to walk furiously around the room. ‘I don’t have an alibi, I have a motive … and … ’
The phone records, Spillo.
‘And what?’
‘Nothing.’
I leaned against the wall right under the crucifix. I half-hoped that it would fall and kill me on the spot, saving me from all this torture.
‘ If you’re not guilty, you don’t have anything to worry about.’
‘Really? The jails are full of stupid arseholes who felt the same way.’
I walked over to the table; the bottle of whisky was empty. I peeled the wax off of the top of a cognac bottle that must have been a thousand years old. I poured a full glass and I put in a few ice cubes that I took from the hidden mini fridge.
‘You know that you don’t put ice in cognac,’ she said.
‘Ah … that’s something really important to know right now. What else? I shouldn’t wipe my mouth with the tablecloth? No red wine with fish?’
‘The Santo that I dated would know this. Don’t you see that that’s the problem?’
I finished the glass in two gulps. Jesus Christ! I really needed something more, something that would help me think a bit better. Maybe a little coke, some speed …
‘No, I don’t understand, how is that the problem?’
‘I’ll explain. There’s no helping who you are now. Whatever you say or do will make you more suspect. You disappeared from work, you talk and act like a damn truck driver!’
‘And so?’
‘And so you have to get help. You have to go back to who you were.’
‘Oh yeah, I have to go back to who I was?’
I shattered the glass against the wall and then took another one and aimed for the television. The screen exploded. The Ad Exec would return, and I’d disappear. I didn’t want to leave him anything. I wanted to take every damn thing with me. Then I grabbed a chair, ready to break it as she caught me from behind.
‘That’s enough, Saint, please.’
‘Monica, I don’t want to die.’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t die. I’m here for you.’
‘That’s not true.’ I put down the chair. ‘You’d be happy, wouldn’t you? That way you’d have your fat piece of shit boyfriend back!’
‘I only want you to get better.’
‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’
Monica embraced me tightly. I let her do it. It felt strange to me, but it did give me some comfort.
‘And what if I’m guilty? What if I killed him?’
She didn’t respond, and five minutes later she called my doctor.
6
The last time that I remembered going to the doctor was when I wanted to find out if I had AIDS or not. It was the disease that was in fashion at the time. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to me to get checked even after half the people I knew were dropping like flies. Maybe because I thought that it would never happen to me. Anyway, I finally made the decision to go. It was after a sore throat that I’d had a few months before I found myself in this new life. I kept feeling my armpits, looking for any weird swellings. I was checking my temperature three times a day. The week before I got the results was the worst week of my life. I was sure that I was HIV-positive thanks to some whore or a dirty glass. They said that you couldn’t get AIDS from saliva, but how could you really be sure? I was completely wasted while I waited in the queue at the clinic for the results. They told me that I was negative, and for a second I thought that I had AIDS. I mean ‘negative’ is a negative word, isn’t it? Anyway, I was OK.
My present social position, however, permitted me to avoid the wait. I was
‘You should have insisted!’
‘I called you ten times, even while I was in the bathroom with the cops waiting for me in my sitting room. What else could I do? Tell me!’
‘Right, I’m screwed. My fault.’ I got up and started to walk furiously around the room. ‘I don’t have an alibi, I have a motive … and … ’
The phone records, Spillo.
‘And what?’
‘Nothing.’
I leaned against the wall right under the crucifix. I half-hoped that it would fall and kill me on the spot, saving me from all this torture.
‘ If you’re not guilty, you don’t have anything to worry about.’
‘Really? The jails are full of stupid arseholes who felt the same way.’
I walked over to the table; the bottle of whisky was empty. I peeled the wax off of the top of a cognac bottle that must have been a thousand years old. I poured a full glass and I put in a few ice cubes that I took from the hidden mini fridge.
‘You know that you don’t put ice in cognac,’ she said.
‘Ah … that’s something really important to know right now. What else? I shouldn’t wipe my mouth with the tablecloth? No red wine with fish?’
‘The Santo that I dated would know this. Don’t you see that that’s the problem?’
I finished the glass in two gulps. Jesus Christ! I really needed something more, something that would help me think a bit better. Maybe a little coke, some speed …
‘No, I don’t understand, how is that the problem?’
‘I’ll explain. There’s no helping who you are now. Whatever you say or do will make you more suspect. You disappeared from work, you talk and act like a damn truck driver!’
‘And so?’
‘And so you have to get help. You have to go back to who you were.’
‘Oh yeah, I have to go back to who I was?’
I shattered the glass against the wall and then took another one and aimed for the television. The screen exploded. The Ad Exec would return, and I’d disappear. I didn’t want to leave him anything. I wanted to take every damn thing with me. Then I grabbed a chair, ready to break it as she caught me from behind.
‘That’s enough, Saint, please.’
‘Monica, I don’t want to die.’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t die. I’m here for you.’
‘That’s not true.’ I put down the chair. ‘You’d be happy, wouldn’t you? That way you’d have your fat piece of shit boyfriend back!’
‘I only want you to get better.’
‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’
Monica embraced me tightly. I let her do it. It felt strange to me, but it did give me some comfort.
‘And what if I’m guilty? What if I killed him?’
She didn’t respond, and five minutes later she called my doctor.
6
The last time that I remembered going to the doctor was when I wanted to find out if I had AIDS or not. It was the disease that was in fashion at the time. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to me to get checked even after half the people I knew were dropping like flies. Maybe because I thought that it would never happen to me. Anyway, I finally made the decision to go. It was after a sore throat that I’d had a few months before I found myself in this new life. I kept feeling my armpits, looking for any weird swellings. I was checking my temperature three times a day. The week before I got the results was the worst week of my life. I was sure that I was HIV-positive thanks to some whore or a dirty glass. They said that you couldn’t get AIDS from saliva, but how could you really be sure? I was completely wasted while I waited in the queue at the clinic for the results. They told me that I was negative, and for a second I thought that I had AIDS. I mean ‘negative’ is a negative word, isn’t it? Anyway, I was OK.
My present social position, however, permitted me to avoid the wait. I was
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