laboratory—that was what it was called on the little sign outside—a few hours later, Roberto had a strong burning sensation in his shoulder, forearm, and calf, which was where the acronym about cops being bastards had ended up. Now he was ready to enter his second life, which would soon become his first life.
The Colombians liked him: he was down-to-earth, professional, friendly, and spoke excellent Spanish with a vaguely Mexican accent.
Jaguar invested all his savings in the operation, dreaming about the tropical island he’d buy with the proceeds of this new activity.
But there were to be no tropical islands or even any proceeds for Jaguar, or for his men, or for the Colombian envoys who had come to Italy to follow the final phase of the operation and collect the agreed payment. After six months of negotiations, inspections, andjourneys back and forth, they were all arrested, and a ship, its hold stuffed with several billion lire worth of cocaine, was confiscated in the port of Gioia Tauro.
Roberto’s first operation as an undercover agent. The beginning, as they say, of a brilliant career. A few months later they offered him the chance to join ROS at their headquarters in Rome.
ROS is the Carabinieri’s special operations group, dealing mainly with organized crime and terrorism. The aristocracy of detectives, the highest a young officer who likes investigative work can aspire to. Roberto naturally accepted, was transferred, and soon afterward was sent to the United States to take an FBI course for undercover agents.
After he came back, he would rarely wear his uniform again, and then only to receive commendations.
* * *
“I’d noticed the tattoo on your forearm, but I would never have imagined the reason you had it done.”
“It was a bit difficult to imagine.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of having them removed?”
“At first, yes. I thought that as soon as I finished working undercover—I took it for granted it would only be temporary—I’d have them removed. Then time passed, I kept doing undercover work, and I actually grew fond of the tattoos. Even the ACAB, which after all is true in a way.”
The doctor made no comment and looked at his watch.
“Have we finished?” Roberto asked.
“We still have a few minutes.”
“I have the impression that everything is moving around me.”
“And before?”
“Before, everything seemed still.”
“I’d say that’s good news.”
Roberto would have liked to ask why it was good news. But he didn’t do so. Instead, his gaze wandered around the room and came to rest on the poster of Louis Armstrong.
He realized why it was best not to ask: if you need to have something important explained to you, you will probably never understand it.
Giacomo
For a week, I was in bed with flu. I don’t mind being ill, because then I don’t go to school and I can read as much as I like, without worrying about homework.
Reading is probably the thing I like the most, and if I’m really forced to answer the question about what I’d like to be when I grow up, I’d say I want to be a writer. Or rather, to tell the truth, I’d like to be a writer even before I grow up. My model is Christopher Paolini, who started writing his first novel—
Eragon
, which I’ve read twice—at the age of fifteen.
Anyway, I was saying I’d been at home ill. I don’t remember what I dreamed during that week, but I definitely didn’t go to the park and that worried me a bit.
When I got back to school, however, a surprise was waiting for me: Ginevra had noticed my absence. When we met in class, before the first lesson, she said, “Oh, you’re back at last.” I searched for a witty reply, butcouldn’t think of anything better than: “I had the flu, but I’m completely over it.”
That made me a bit nervous, but I was very pleased, because she’d noticed my absence and had spoken to me before I could speak to her. Immediately after that, though, Cantoni welcomed me
The Colombians liked him: he was down-to-earth, professional, friendly, and spoke excellent Spanish with a vaguely Mexican accent.
Jaguar invested all his savings in the operation, dreaming about the tropical island he’d buy with the proceeds of this new activity.
But there were to be no tropical islands or even any proceeds for Jaguar, or for his men, or for the Colombian envoys who had come to Italy to follow the final phase of the operation and collect the agreed payment. After six months of negotiations, inspections, andjourneys back and forth, they were all arrested, and a ship, its hold stuffed with several billion lire worth of cocaine, was confiscated in the port of Gioia Tauro.
Roberto’s first operation as an undercover agent. The beginning, as they say, of a brilliant career. A few months later they offered him the chance to join ROS at their headquarters in Rome.
ROS is the Carabinieri’s special operations group, dealing mainly with organized crime and terrorism. The aristocracy of detectives, the highest a young officer who likes investigative work can aspire to. Roberto naturally accepted, was transferred, and soon afterward was sent to the United States to take an FBI course for undercover agents.
After he came back, he would rarely wear his uniform again, and then only to receive commendations.
* * *
“I’d noticed the tattoo on your forearm, but I would never have imagined the reason you had it done.”
“It was a bit difficult to imagine.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of having them removed?”
“At first, yes. I thought that as soon as I finished working undercover—I took it for granted it would only be temporary—I’d have them removed. Then time passed, I kept doing undercover work, and I actually grew fond of the tattoos. Even the ACAB, which after all is true in a way.”
The doctor made no comment and looked at his watch.
“Have we finished?” Roberto asked.
“We still have a few minutes.”
“I have the impression that everything is moving around me.”
“And before?”
“Before, everything seemed still.”
“I’d say that’s good news.”
Roberto would have liked to ask why it was good news. But he didn’t do so. Instead, his gaze wandered around the room and came to rest on the poster of Louis Armstrong.
He realized why it was best not to ask: if you need to have something important explained to you, you will probably never understand it.
Giacomo
For a week, I was in bed with flu. I don’t mind being ill, because then I don’t go to school and I can read as much as I like, without worrying about homework.
Reading is probably the thing I like the most, and if I’m really forced to answer the question about what I’d like to be when I grow up, I’d say I want to be a writer. Or rather, to tell the truth, I’d like to be a writer even before I grow up. My model is Christopher Paolini, who started writing his first novel—
Eragon
, which I’ve read twice—at the age of fifteen.
Anyway, I was saying I’d been at home ill. I don’t remember what I dreamed during that week, but I definitely didn’t go to the park and that worried me a bit.
When I got back to school, however, a surprise was waiting for me: Ginevra had noticed my absence. When we met in class, before the first lesson, she said, “Oh, you’re back at last.” I searched for a witty reply, butcouldn’t think of anything better than: “I had the flu, but I’m completely over it.”
That made me a bit nervous, but I was very pleased, because she’d noticed my absence and had spoken to me before I could speak to her. Immediately after that, though, Cantoni welcomed me
Similar Books
