La Superba (38 page)

“But all of a sudden he did dare.”

“Exactly. It could only lead to that. He said he'd asked his parents' permission.”

“Really?”

“He was only saying that, of course. It became kissing and stroking. I gave him a good blowjob. But he wanted more. He felt between my legs.”

“And then he found…”

“This.” He pushed aside his lacey panties. “And I was harder than I am now. Really hard. Can you imagine?”

“Make it really hard.”

“For you, Giulia? Do you want that? Will you help me?”

“No.”

“Do I have to do it all on my own? You're a cruel girl.”

“I'm not a girl. I just want to see what a one-legged transvestite looks like jerking off. I'm interested in a journalistic way.”

“In a journalistic way? Are you writing a comparative analysis for a consumer guide? Well? What do you think? Am I doing it well? How many stars do I get?”

“Tell me about your leg.”

“He turned up with friends with knives.”

“And then?”

“He had a knife, too.”

“And then?”

“Then he wanted to cut it off.”

“Your cock?”

“Yep.”

“And then?”

“And then I said, please, cut off my cock. I want to be a girl.”

“You were hoping he wouldn't do it, then.”

“He didn't do it. He paused and reflected for a moment and then said he'd only be doing me a favor by cutting off my dick. Then I'd really be a girl. He didn't want to grant me the pleasure.”

“And then…”

“And then he took my left leg.”

“Have you come?”

“Sorry. Do you want to lick it up?”

“No, thank you.”

“It's free.”

“That's very kind of you, but no thanks.”

20.

“This didn't happen.”

“Of course it didn't,” I said.

“It's a strange night. I can hear the griffins screeching. Could you pass me a tissue? Thanks. I was lucky. As a matter of fact, I was lying there bleeding to death. But someone saw me and called an ambulance. Code red in the hospital. I can still remember it. I was more or less conscious. They asked for my papers. I didn't have them. They asked who I was. I gave my tranny name. They asked whether I was allergic to antibiotics. Not a clue. They asked so many things. And after that the
carabinieri
came and asked even more. As soon as the wound was a bit better, I left through the back door using two stolen crutches. These two. I still have them.”

“Did you press charges?”

“Why kind of funny question is that? Are you a foreigner or something? This is Italy.”

“Sorry. It's just I thought…”

“You think too much. That's your problem. Shall I get you off real quick before you go?”

“That's a generous offer. But no thanks. And you're right, it is time I went.”

“I feel like licking your little cunt, Giulia.”

“They all say that.” It was definitely time to go. “One last question.”

“Where my leg is?”

“Yes.”

“If only I knew.”

“Here in the Ghetto?”

He kicked my stomach. “Here?” He laughed loudly. “We rule the Ghetto. A Moroccan with a knife doesn't stand a chance here. We once even went to war against the US Marines. And we won. Have you ever heard that story?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you don't know?”

“I don't know.”

“I do. I know how it works. When my sweet Moroccan fiancé turned up with his pals to settle scores, it wasn't here. They'd never dare. Too many stiletto heels. Too much gravity. Too many alleyways that change direction from one second to the next. Moroccans know that. They're stupid but not backwards. They pick their moments and their strategy. You mustn't underestimate them, Giulia.”

“What do you mean?”

“They waited for me in some club, a long way away, under Via San Bernado, the gutter of the night.”

“I know the place.”

“Of course. I worked there as a tranny under various different names. I also went there to enjoy myself. Under other names.”

“Which names?”

“Too many to list. And they grabbed me in the alleyway and mutilated me. On the corner of Via San Bernardo and another alley.”

“Vico Vegetti.”

“Could be. And you know the strange thing, Giulia? A few weeks later, they found my leg in the burning woods above Arenzano. That's quite bizarre, isn't it? There was an item about it in the paper.”

“In
Il Secolo XIX
.”

“I've never understood how it got there.”

“What was your name again?”

“Ornella. Why?”

21.

Outside, I took a deep breath. It was vertiginous. I had to get out of there as fast as possible. I took the closest exit out of the Ghetto, to Via Lomellini. It felt like returning to the city after a long period in the wilderness—like I was being embraced by civilization. It was already light. The shops and bars were already open. Delivery boys were already pushing handcarts filled with crates of fruits and vegetables. There was a line at the fishmonger's. He was shouting out that morning's special offers in Genoese dialect. The magistrates of Genoa were on their way upwards, to Via Cairoli and Via Garibaldi, to the ancient palazzi of their power. They acted as if they had no knowledge of the dark jungle to their left. The poultryman on Piazza Fossatello was singing as he plucked chickens. Clean laundry fluttered on lines strung across the alleyways. I took another deep breath. The fresh air did me some good.

I went to the historical Bar Cavo on the corner of Via Lomellini, Piazza Fossatello, and Via San Luca for a cup of coffee. Seven
carabinieri
were standing at the bar. I squeezed between them and ordered a coffee. Their uniforms were spotless, I could verify that from close up. All their buttons were gleaming. I've rarely felt so safe drinking my morning coffee.

And in the long, narrow shopping street of San Luca, where it's always busy, it was evidently busy even at this early hour. All the colors and scents, all the bustle, all the excited voices felt like
a soothing shower after my nocturnal adventure. The excess of clear normality worked like an antidote to the black syrup of madness that had rendered my thoughts ever stickier. I slowly managed to see the truth without getting into a panic.

It was almost laughable. There was no longer a shadow of a doubt. It was completely clear to me. That woman's leg—which I had passionately stroked, adored, kissed, and adored—had been a man's leg. Simply because of the sexy stocking, I'd imagined the woman of my dreams attached to it. And the truth, the solution to the conundrum, everything the leg had been lacking, everything I'd lustfully added on in my thoughts, had been sitting next to me that night on a rickety stretcher bed in a garage in the Ghetto with cotton wool in his bra. Although you always realize that in some ways you are living in your fantasies, that realization becomes rather more acute when you get a retrospective glimpse into reality. It doesn't happen often. Luckily.

Street musicians played the usual evergreens from the Balkans on their oh so authentically false accordions. “Maestro.” It was Salvatore. He whispered in my ear, “Will you promise me to never give them a penny? They aren't really Romanians. They're gypsies. They're richer than you and me put together. They give honest people like me a bad name.” I looked at him in astonishment but he didn't return my gaze. He'd already hopped along further on his one good and one supposedly bad leg.

And that the leg—after all my clumsiness with the stocking, the shower, the garbage bag, and the scouring pad I had thrown into the sea at Nervi—had been scooped up by a firefighting plane and found again in the burned out woods above Arenzano is, my
friend—I swear to you—a plot twist I never would have come up with myself. It's really too cheap, too improbable, and it doesn't add anything. I mean, you don't really believe it, do you? That, as chance would have it, this actually happened doesn't affect your sense of disbelief? If I were to rework these notes into a novel, it would be the first thing I'd have to scrap, even though it really happened. I can link those thoughts on fantasy to the theme, but that fire plane is too much. It's really not possible.

But how can I get back to establishing that the leg had belonged to Ornella? It's completely dependent on that newspaper item in
Il Secolo XIX
that I chanced upon, since the name Ornella was mentioned there. And that's what really happened last night: when Ornella told me it had happened in a side alley off Via San Bernardo, I'd had strong suspicions, of course, even though I couldn't confirm that Vico Vegetti was actually the alley where I found it. Via San Bernardo has dozens of side alleys. Naturally, they aren't all scattered with amputated legs every day, that's true—that would have been one way of looking at it. But I hadn't. You mustn't forget that until just a short time ago, I'd been convinced that it was a woman's leg and that I would have repressed any association with the handicap of the man sitting beside me. I hadn't known for sure until Ornella said it had been found in the burned woods above Arenzano. That was when everything fell into place. It was all such a unique combination of circumstances that the possibility there were two separate legs could be statistically ruled out.

Perhaps I'd be able to do something with that in terms of the theme: the contrast between a bizarre fantasy and a reality that gained its credibility from the fact that it was so bizarre nobody
could have made it up. The alternative would be to come up with a completely different story. But that's easier said than done. That whole leg has to be cut out, you're right. It's all too complicated and, more than that, too unsavory. Instead of that, I'll write something about the famous aquarium and the wonderfully restored museums. It'll cause less trouble with my Genoese friends, too, should my hypothetical novel ever be written and translated. I might even get a certificate from the tourist office.

When I got home, I found an alarming-looking letter. That was all I needed. But first—an hour's sleep.

22.

I could almost forgive Walter for running away, the cowardly weasel. They really are doing it. But I won't let them drive me away. This city is mine as much as it is theirs by now. What are they thinking? That I was going to surrender fearfully to their southern dirty tricks like a pale mollusk from the flabby north? I can see their big brown hook-noses being seriously put out of joint. What's all this? I will fight. I will crush them.

Sorry, my friend, I'll try to explain the situation to you calmly. The letter I found yesterday at home was an official missive from Antonio Bentivoglio. He's a famous lawyer in this city, as he never fails to impress on everyone. I've googled him now. It's true. It's even an understatement. He is the most expensive, most successful lawyer in Genoa. He is famous for the scale of his network and his unconventional, aggressive methods. In the forty years he's been in the profession, he has practically never lost a case.
And there are a few big scandalous cases among them.

Antonio Bentivoglio wrote to me on behalf of his clients Abramo and Pierluigi Parodi. The first one must be the father. I had to read the letter five times before I understood it. I needed a dictionary. It's not written in Italian but in Legalese, the official jargon of bureaucracy, which even native Italian speakers have trouble with. In the end I managed to decipher about ninety percent, enough to understand that he wanted me to believe I was in deep shit.

On behalf of his clients he was seeking two hundred and twenty thousand euros for the breach of a verbal purchase agreement, an amount that would be increased in accordance with interest rates and with two or three offsets. Aside from this he was also demanding more or less the same amount for the fact that I'd leaked confidential information to their business partner. The total reparation would come out to just over six hundred thousand euros, including costs and legal aid fees. On behalf of his client, he suggested a settlement of four and a half within two weeks of the date of this letter. In the case of a failure on my part, a hearing date had been set shortly after that, at which my presence would be very much appreciated.

See. Of course it's just cheap scaremongering. I'm no legal expert but I know enough about the law to see that his claim doesn't stand a chance. I don't know anything about Italian law, but I've enough confidence in the universal principles of law to believe that no judge would find it reasonable for me to have to pay twice for the same theater, one I didn't buy and which therefore isn't in my possession. I mean, let's face it, my friend, even in Italy they couldn't do that. And if they did, I'd go to the
European Court in Strasbourg. And their so-called verbal purchase agreement is nonexistent. But that's their word against mine, it's true. But even if it did exist, there are conditions of termination. Then I might owe them a percentage, but certainly not the entire amount. Let alone twice the entire purchase price.

In short, you don't have to worry, my good friend. We're certain to win this case. I'm worried about just one thing, and that's Antonio Bentivoglio. The two of us on our own can hardly go up against a man of such stature. We don't speak his language. Quick as a flash, he'd have us caught up in some kind of procedural trap. We shouldn't be stupid, my dear friend. We need to get hold of a good lawyer. I know I still owe you money. You'll get it back as soon as possible. But if you could just send me another couple of thousand, I'll get us a good man. And I guarantee you'll get that money back within two weeks, as soon as we've won and they have to pay the litigation costs. Perhaps we'll even be able to get some juicy compensation out of it. See it as an investment, my dear friend.