Authors: Sandrone Dazieri
Zero? I couldn’t believe it! My favourite team hadn’t won a championship in fourteen years. Not a moment of joy, dammit! I forgot that all the commands were on the computer screen, so I knelt under the desk looking for the off button.
It was the move that’d saved me.
The screen exploded.
Day Three
1
Monica heard the explosion from the first floor. She ran upstairs wearing a bathrobe; her hair was still wet. I brushed off fragments of plastic and glass.
‘What did you do?’
‘Me?’ With my hand trembling I pointed to a shard of iron stuck in the French door. It had shot though the air like a piece of shrapnel at just about the height of my head. The rest of the computer was scattered around the room like a melon fallen from the fifth floor. The only things left on the desk were an aluminium pedestal and a power cable attached to nothing.
Monica touched the shard; it shifted without coming out. ‘Maybe it was a short-circuit.’
‘Another one? Did I join the club today?’
I got closer for a better look. The shard was rusted and slightly pointed. I burst into a cold sweat as I imagined it passing through me. It looked like the end of a prison shank made from a piece of metal bunk bed ready to settle a score. I examined it closely. It could’ve ripped through anyone in its way.
‘Doesn’t it seem strange?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not an expert on the latest computer models, but where did this come from? Rusted metal, it doesn’t connect with the rest.’ I used my shirt to remove the shard from the wall. It was stuck a few centimetres in and came out with some dry plaster.
‘Look at this,’ I said to Monica. ‘It’s pointed. And do you smell that?’
‘It smells like fireworks,’ she said.
‘Gunpowder from what I can tell. If the computer was still there, I’d show you on the internet what gunpowder’s used for.’
She turned white. ‘A bomb?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You have to call the police.’
‘Do you have any other intelligent suggestions?’
‘Saint, they tried to kill you. How can you be so calm?’
‘Calm, who the hell is calm?’ My legs were limp. ‘How are we going to explain this?’
‘Do you think that it might’ve been you who put it there?’
‘You’re asking me? Yeah sure, maybe I wanted to kill myself. Even if it wasn’t me the police would suspect me anyway.’
I dropped the shard on the floor. ‘Who else has the keys to the house?’
‘Only Rosario as far as I know.’
‘As far as you know.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Believe me, the door wasn’t forced open. I would have noticed it; I have an eye for these things. Maybe from the window … ’ I looked outside; my apartment had a balcony that wrapped around the perimeter.
The Ad Exec grew a seemingly infinite series of plants: cacti, climbing plants, a lemon tree. A drainpipe went up from the courtyard and passed close to the railing. It seemed robust enough to handle a man’s weight. In the old days I used drainpipes to slip into people’s apartments, but I wouldn’t think about doing that now with this fat body.
I went back inside.
‘Forget about it, let’s stick to the programme. I’m going to take a shower.’
Monica grabbed my arm. ‘Wait, what if there are more in the house?’
Another chill. A horrendous thought. ‘What bathroom did you use?’ I asked her when my voice came back.
‘The one on the first floor.’
‘Don’t touch anything until I get back.’
The bathroom downstairs looked like it was Monica’s. There were loads of creams and perfumes and another bathrobe that seemed too feminine to be mine. As I stepped towards the plain crystal cabin shower, without all the frills and contraptions of the one upstairs, I stepped on a black cord.
I stopped. I was assailed by images from war films. A soldier walks through the jungle; he steps across a taut wire, click and then … boom. The legless soldier rolls across the grass, blood spurting everywhere. ‘Help me, oh, God, please save me!’ The sergeant says, ‘Goddammit, Charlie, sorry son, there’s nothing more that we can do for you.’
I gently moved my foot, and something fell onto the tiled floor. It was a hairdryer that Monica had left on the linen basket. ‘Goddammit!’
The water jets ripped me from my stupor. I went to my room, wrapped myself in a towel, and stopped in front of my wardrobe. My suits hung there menacingly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Monica asked, spying me from the door.
‘Nothing. Wait.’ I took a slipper from under the bed, and I lobbed it at the clothes, throwing myself face down on the rug. Monica screamed. Nothing happened.
‘You scared me,’ she said.
‘I scared you?’
Grrrr.
I took the other slipper and did the same thing wherever I went. Nothing. I ran out of projectiles, leaving a trail of sweat as I crawled to a black suit. I took it from the hanger and ran outside. No explosion, not this time.
‘You also have to get a shirt.’
I looked at the dresser.
‘I’m not opening any drawers.’
‘I saw one downstairs hanging in the laundry room. I was there before and nothing exploded. I can get it.’
‘Bring me some underwear and socks, please.’
In the end I dressed in a wrinkled shirt and damp underwear. Wonderful.
‘What about a tie?’ Monica asked.
‘It’s out of fashion; I read it on the internet.’
‘You have to shave.’
‘I almost had my head cut off; that’s enough for today.’
We walked cautiously down to the front door. I had opened it a few hours before without incident. What if there was a timer? After all, the computer didn’t explode immediately. I took ten minutes just to turn the doorknob. No boom, almost clear. I slowly moved a foot to step outside.
‘The doormat!’ Monica yelled.
I leapt back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, but maybe something’s hidden underneath … ’
‘You’re right.’
I jumped over the mat and she did the same. We looked ridiculous.
‘We’ll take your car,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust mine. Maybe someone messed with it last night.’
‘They could also have done something to mine.’
‘OK, so … taxi.’
We relaxed once we’d got in the taxi.
‘You have to tell Rosario and his wife.’ Monica said.
‘You do it; they only speak English.’
‘And you don’t anymore?’
‘I can just get by.’
‘And badly. You had a conference call with London last week.’
‘Forget it.’ She got out her phone and called Rosario; they’d get paid anyway.
The taxi left us in front of the company’s headquarters. There was a lot of movement at the entrance, small groups of employees or whatever they were stopping and talking with hushed tones and serious faces. The news of Roveda’s death was on everybody’s lips. A Chinese courier whistled as he approached the entrance but stopped when a woman in a fur collar scowled at him. I looked up at the building’s five floors. There were twenty windows on each floor. I was losing my cocky attitude.
‘How many people work at B&M?’
‘About a hundred.’
A hundred strangers who knew me and who were watching my every move.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Monica. I can’t go through with this.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘I want to go back home.’
‘You can’t. The bombs, remember?’
I sighed. ‘What do you expect me to do inside?’
‘Your job, but don’t worry, you can take it easy today. You’re not under supervision.’
‘Good news. Do we use first names?’
‘It depends.’
‘Let’s do this. You are not leaving my sight, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘If someone comes close to me and I have to say ‘Hey,’ just touch your nose. Touch your ear if I have to say ‘Hello.’ That way I’ll be able to tell if I have to be formal or not.’
‘They’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Better you than me.’
We walked at a snail’s pace towards the entrance. Somebody waved at us and I waved back. Inside it was like a metro station.
‘You have to use your magnetic card to get in.’
‘OK.’
‘Remember to speak properly. Don’t use foul language. You rarely did before. Maybe everybody else does, but you don’t, do you understand?’
‘OK.’
‘And one more thing. Don’t be too familiar with me at work. Our colleagues know that we’re seeing each other, but at the office we act like there’s nothing going on.’
‘Are you afraid that I’ll feel you up in the hallway?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
The atrium was modern and functional. Red and blue, the elegant company colours. There was a glass security booth with three turnstiles; two lifts with sliding steel doors were behind them. The visitors queuing had to have their IDs photocopied. One of the guards standing behind one of the turnstiles wore a rent-a-cop uniform. He nodded at me.
‘Good morning, Signor Denti. It’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, poor Mariano.’
Monica coughed. ‘Of course, poor Signor Roveda.’
I slipped in my ID card and nothing happened. I tried the other side. Nothing. I looked at Monica and after a second she understood that she had to make a move.
‘Um, strange! Signor Denti’s card must have been demagnetised.’
She was worse than me at acting.
Monica took my card with her moist hands and slipped it in another turnstile. The gate buzzed and a green light turned on; I pushed and went through. I waited for Monica to show me the way. She walked decisively to the lifts. Three men of different ages and builds were waiting.
‘Hey Franz, Riccardino, Giuseppe,’ Monica said as she scratched her nose.
I also said
hey
and was received with a reception worthy of the creative director that I was. We got in the lift. Monica pushed a button and we moved.
‘What a story, huh?’ Franz said. He was a small man with Armani glasses and a fluorescent tie.
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you read my email?’ Riccardino asked anxiously. His fat belly was poking out of his blue suit. I could have seen my reflection in his shoes. ‘Because they’re pressing us.’
‘We didn’t have time,’ Monica answered.
Email,
means electronic mail. ‘I wanted to read it but my computer broke down.’
‘Yeah,’ she laughed hysterically. ‘It broke all right.’
‘We’ll talk today at the meeting,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s confirmed though, even after what’s happened?’
The lift doors opened and I was about to rush out but Monica held me back. ‘We’re not on the
fourth
floor yet.’ A uniformed messenger came in with a trolley full of gift-wrapped packages in gold paper. Santa, what are you bringing me this year? (
Handcuffs
.)
‘Sorry, I was distracted.’
‘So, is the meeting confirmed?’ the fat guy asked.
Shit.
‘Is it confirmed?’ I repeated.
‘You’ve got to tell me,’ he said.
‘It’s confirmed!’ Monica screamed. ‘I wrote it in your diary, Santo.’
‘Oh, good.’
We finally got to the floor. I had to pretend that I knew it well but I was dumbfounded at the sight. (Learn:
Open Space.
Learn
Badge.
Learn:
Restoration Area.
) I expected a series of doors but instead there was a single corridor about fifty yards long with low green cubicles. Everyone could see everyone. Zero privacy.
About ten people were walking around with coffee cups and water bottles in their hands. A couple of women were reading sheets of paper that they carried; one was walking with a cocker spaniel on a leash. People either side.
Someone turned to say hello to me, and I responded with a vague nod. I was about to walk in the wrong direction when Monica grabbed me by the arm, directing me towards my office.
In the corner were two large windows covered with white curtains. A sign above them read
Creative Direction
. A small woman, fifty-ish with grey curly hair, sat at a desk. When she saw me come in she stood up.
‘Signor Denti, what a tragedy,’ she said, almost crying.
‘Hello, Rina, it’s awful,’ Monica said tugging her ear.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Signor Denti, there are a few calls for you. I left the messages on your desk.’
‘Thank you … Rina.’
Rina lowered her voice. ‘The police want to talk to you.’