He realised that he could reach out his hand, and he did so. He should have found himself in a pool of blood, but there wasn’t one. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t.
First of all, the name.
‘My name is Marcus,’ he told himself.
At that moment, reality attacked him, reminding him of the reasons why he was still alive. And of the fact that he was in Rome, in the place where he lived, lying on his own bed and that, until a few moments earlier, he had been asleep. His heartbeat had accelerated and refused to slow down. He was bathed in sweat and was breathing with difficulty.
But once again he had survived the dream.
To avoid the sense of panic, he usually kept the light on. But this time he had forgotten. Sleep must have taken him by surprise: he was still fully dressed. He switched on the light and checked the time. He had slept barely twenty-five minutes.
They had been sufficient.
He picked up the felt-tip pen he kept next to the pillow, and wrote on the wall:
Shattered windows
.
The white wall next to the camp bed was his diary. Around him, a bare room. This attic in the Via dei Serpenti was the place without memory in which he had chosen to live in order to be able to remember. Two rooms. No furniture, apart from the bed and a lamp. His clothes in a suitcase on the floor.
Every time he re-emerged from sleep he brought something with him. An image, a word, a sound. This time it was the noise of a window smashing.
But what window?
Still images of a scene, always the same one. He wrote everything on the wall. Over the past year he had put together a few details, but they still weren’t enough for him to reconstruct what had happened in that hotel room.
He knew for certain that he had been there and that Devok, his best friend, the person who would have done anything for him, had been there, too. Devok had struck him as afraid and confused. He could not have said why, but it must have been something pretty dire. He remembered a sense of danger. Perhaps Devok had been trying to warn him.
But they had not been alone. There was a third person with them.
He was still an indistinct shadow. The threat came from him. It was a man, of that he was certain. But Marcus did not know who he was. Why was he there? He had a gun with him, and at a certain point he had taken it out and opened fire.
Devok had been hit. He had fallen, in slow motion. The eyes that had stared at him during the fall were already empty. His hands pressed to his chest, at the level of his heart. Gouts of black blood between his fingers.
There had been a second shot. And almost simultaneously, he had seen a flash. The bullet had hit him. He had distinctly felt the crack, the bone shattering, that foreign body penetrating his brain like a finger, the blood oozing, hot and oily, from the wound.
That black hole in his head had sucked everything out. His past, his identity, his best friend. But above all, his enemy’s face.
Because what really tormented Marcus was his inability to remember the appearance of the person who had shot him.
Paradoxically, if he wanted to find him he had to avoid looking for him, because in order to see that justice was done it was necessary for him to go back to being the Marcus he once was. And, to succeed in that, he couldn’t allow himself to think of what had happened to Devok. He had to start over from the beginning, and find himself again.
And the only way was to find Lara.
Shattered windows
. He set aside the information and thought again about Clemente’s last words. ‘From now on, you’re on your own.’ There were occasions when he doubted that there was anyone else apart from the two of them. When Clemente had found him in that hospital bed – half dead and deprived of memory – and had revealed to him who he was, he hadn’t believed him. It had taken time to get used to the idea.
‘Dogs are colour blind,’ he repeated, to convince himself that it was all true. Then he picked up the file
First of all, the name.
‘My name is Marcus,’ he told himself.
At that moment, reality attacked him, reminding him of the reasons why he was still alive. And of the fact that he was in Rome, in the place where he lived, lying on his own bed and that, until a few moments earlier, he had been asleep. His heartbeat had accelerated and refused to slow down. He was bathed in sweat and was breathing with difficulty.
But once again he had survived the dream.
To avoid the sense of panic, he usually kept the light on. But this time he had forgotten. Sleep must have taken him by surprise: he was still fully dressed. He switched on the light and checked the time. He had slept barely twenty-five minutes.
They had been sufficient.
He picked up the felt-tip pen he kept next to the pillow, and wrote on the wall:
Shattered windows
.
The white wall next to the camp bed was his diary. Around him, a bare room. This attic in the Via dei Serpenti was the place without memory in which he had chosen to live in order to be able to remember. Two rooms. No furniture, apart from the bed and a lamp. His clothes in a suitcase on the floor.
Every time he re-emerged from sleep he brought something with him. An image, a word, a sound. This time it was the noise of a window smashing.
But what window?
Still images of a scene, always the same one. He wrote everything on the wall. Over the past year he had put together a few details, but they still weren’t enough for him to reconstruct what had happened in that hotel room.
He knew for certain that he had been there and that Devok, his best friend, the person who would have done anything for him, had been there, too. Devok had struck him as afraid and confused. He could not have said why, but it must have been something pretty dire. He remembered a sense of danger. Perhaps Devok had been trying to warn him.
But they had not been alone. There was a third person with them.
He was still an indistinct shadow. The threat came from him. It was a man, of that he was certain. But Marcus did not know who he was. Why was he there? He had a gun with him, and at a certain point he had taken it out and opened fire.
Devok had been hit. He had fallen, in slow motion. The eyes that had stared at him during the fall were already empty. His hands pressed to his chest, at the level of his heart. Gouts of black blood between his fingers.
There had been a second shot. And almost simultaneously, he had seen a flash. The bullet had hit him. He had distinctly felt the crack, the bone shattering, that foreign body penetrating his brain like a finger, the blood oozing, hot and oily, from the wound.
That black hole in his head had sucked everything out. His past, his identity, his best friend. But above all, his enemy’s face.
Because what really tormented Marcus was his inability to remember the appearance of the person who had shot him.
Paradoxically, if he wanted to find him he had to avoid looking for him, because in order to see that justice was done it was necessary for him to go back to being the Marcus he once was. And, to succeed in that, he couldn’t allow himself to think of what had happened to Devok. He had to start over from the beginning, and find himself again.
And the only way was to find Lara.
Shattered windows
. He set aside the information and thought again about Clemente’s last words. ‘From now on, you’re on your own.’ There were occasions when he doubted that there was anyone else apart from the two of them. When Clemente had found him in that hospital bed – half dead and deprived of memory – and had revealed to him who he was, he hadn’t believed him. It had taken time to get used to the idea.
‘Dogs are colour blind,’ he repeated, to convince himself that it was all true. Then he picked up the file
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