The Crossroads (8 page)

But he knew that it wouldn't be enough.

When he opened his eyes again he noticed that the list was signed at the bottom by Massimiliano Marchetta.

He smiled.

Max Marchetta was sitting at his desk and talking on his mobile phone, arguing with the Vodafone call centre.

He was having trouble in expressing his dissatisfaction owing to the AZ Whitestrips which he had applied to his teeth and which had to be left on for at least twenty minutes. ‘I just don't undershtand … I keyed in the code but I got a different ringtone. And ish awful …'

He was a large young man of about thirty, with a dark complexion and small, turquoise eyes. Beneath his strawberry-shaped nose he had grown an impeccable D'Artagnan-style moustache, and under his fleshy lips he had a goatee beard. His black hair was slicked back with gel and reflected the neon lights on the ceiling. His hands were freshly manicured.

Max Marchetta was particular about his appearance.

‘A businessman must always be elegant, because elegance is synonymous with efficiency and reliability.'

He couldn't remember whether this was a saying of some important person or a slogan from an advert. It didn't matter. They were words of wisdom.

Usually he wore a tailor-made pinstriped suit with matching waistcoat. That day, however, for a change, he was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and a blue-and-white striped shirt with a high, three-buttoned collar sealed by a dark tie with a knot as big as your fist.

The operator's voice, in a strong Sardinian accent, asked him which ringtone he wanted to download.

‘“Toxic”. By Britney Shpearsh. The one that goes …' and he made an attempt at humming the refrain.

The operator interrupted him. ‘No, I mean which code?'

Max Marchetta picked up the magazine and checked. ‘Four three four one shix.'

There was a moment's silence and then: ‘Number 43416 corresponds to “Era del cinghiale bianco”, by Franco Battiato.'

‘What do you mean? Why does it shay in this magazhine that “Toxic” is four three four one shix, then? Why does it shay that?'

‘I don't know … Maybe the magazine got it wrong …'

‘Oh, they got it wrong, did they? And who's going to give me back my three euros? Vodafone?' As he talked he sprayed out little drops of foam.

The operator was caught off guard. ‘I hardly think it's Vodafone's fault if the magazine printed the code wrongly.'

‘It's eashy to go around blaming other people! It's the Italiansh' national shport, isn't it? What do you people care if your clients loshe their money? And your tone ish very offensive.' Max picked up his pen and held it against his diary. ‘What'sh your …'

He was on the point of demanding the operator's name to scare the shit out of him, but suddenly he found himself up in the air. The next moment he flew over the desk and crashed into a wall covered with framed photographs. A second later a copy of his degree certificate in Economics and Business Studies fell on his head.

Max thought the gas tank must have exploded and that the shock wave had hurled him out of his chair, but then he saw two paint-spattered boots, and at that very moment two burly arms covered with ugly tattoos lifted him up by his lapels and pinned him against the wall like a poster.

He spat out all the air that he had in his body and, with his diaphragm contracted, tried to breathe in but without succeeding, and made a sound like the gurgle of a blocked drain.

‘You're short of air. A horrible feeling, isn't it? It's like the feeling you get when you reach the end of the month and don't know where the fuck you're going to find the money to pay your bills.'

Max couldn't hear the voice. A jet engine was roaring in his ears and all he could see was some streaks of light criss-crossing in front of his eyes. Like when he had been small and there had been a firework display at Ferragosto. His mouth was open and a whitening strip hung from his upper teeth.

If I don't breathe I'm going to die
. That was the only thought his brain was capable of formulating.

‘Calm down. The more you struggle the less you'll breathe. Don't be frightened, you're not going to die,' the voice now advised him.

At last the contraction of his diaphragm eased, Max's rib cage opened and a stream of air flowed down his windpipe and into his lungs.

He brayed like a donkey on heat and gradually started breathing again. And as his purple face returned to its natural colour he noticed that about twenty centimetres from his nose there was the smiling face of a skinhead.

Then he recognised it. His anal sphincter contracted to the diameter of a stick of macaroni.

It was Zena.

Rino Zena.

Rino Zena examined the terrified face of that pansy Max Marchetta. His moustaches had gone limp and looked like two rats' tails, his glistening, greasy quiff hung down over his forehead like a shed roof.

Rino couldn't make out what that piece of cellophane was that was hanging from his teeth.

He continued to hold him pinned to the wall with his left arm.

‘Please … Please … I haven't done anything to you …' whimpered Marchetta desperately, waving his arms like a disco dancer.

‘Well, I'm going to do something to you.' Rino raised his right arm and closed his fist. He took aim at the nose, anticipating the pleasure of hearing the septal cartilage crunch under his knuckles. But his fist remained suspended in the air.

Right next to that terror-stricken face hung a photograph. It had been taken in open country, on a windy day. The reeds with their plumes were bent over to one side. The sky was streaked with wispy clouds. In the centre was old Marchetta, in his younger days. He was short and round-faced. He was wearing a heavy, ankle-length overcoat, and holding his cloth cap down on his head with one hand and clasping his walking stick in the other. Around him stood five workmen in blue overalls. In a corner, slightly to one side, was Rino, sitting on the wheel of a tractor. He was thin and gaunt. At his feet sat Ritz, Marchetta's fox terrier. A thick pipe came out of the ground and ran across the field. Everyone was looking at the camera lens with very solemn expressions on their faces. Including the dog.

Still holding Max Marchetta fast, Rino grasped the picture and lifted it off its hook.

In one corner was the date ‘1988'. Nearly twenty years had passed.

Such a long time
.

Then Rino looked again at the young businessman who stood there motionless, with his eyes screwed up and his arms in front of his face, whispering: ‘Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.'

So this was the new owner of Euroedil. A guy who spent his days waxing his chest and looking at himself in the mirror at the gym
and who as soon as anyone raised their fists started begging for mercy.

He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him on the sofa.

Max Marchetta opened his eyes slowly, with the expression of a lobster that has been dangled over a cauldron of boiling water and then, by some inscrutable decree of fate, put back in the fishtank.

In the chair, on the other side of the desk, sat Rino. He had lit a cigarette and was looking straight through him as though he was facing a ghost. He was holding the photo. A very, very unpleasant feeling was forming inside Max Marchetta. He was going to remember this day for a long time, if he was still capable of remembering.

Zena had gone mad and was dangerous. How often had he read in the news about workers running amok and murdering their bosses? A few months earlier near Cuneo some workers had set fire to a young textile entrepreneur in the car park of his factory.

He peeked at the cigarette in Zena's mouth.

I don't want to be burned to death
.

‘Look at this photograph.' The psychopath tossed the plexiglass frame over to him. Max caught it. He looked at it and then sat motionless.

Rino Zena leaned back in his chair and focused on a corner of the ceiling. ‘Eighteen years ago. A fucking eternity. I'm the thin one on the right. Sitting on the tractor. I still had a good head of hair then. Do you know how long it took us to build that water pipe? Three weeks. It was my first real job. One of those where you turn up at five in the morning and go home at dusk. On the twenty-eighth
we'd get our pay cheque. Your father would hand one to each worker and every time he'd crack the same old joke: ‘I'm paying you this month; I don't know if I will next month.' In hindsight it wasn't so very funny. But you could bet your life he would say those words. Just as you could bet your life you'd get your money on the twenty-eighth, even if the Third World War had broken out that very same day. Do you see that workman there, the shortest one? His name was Enrico Sartoretti; he died ten years ago. Lung cancer. Two months and he was gone. It was him who introduced me to your father. In those days there was only the shed where the changing rooms are now. And your father worked in a sort of glass booth. But you must remember that. I used to see you sometimes. You used to turn up in a red sports car. We must be about the same age, you and me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, your father took me on on trial the very day they started building the pipe that took the water out of the river and carried it to the power station. Twenty days to finish it. And there were six of us. In all my life I don't think I've ever worked so hard as I did in those three weeks. On the last day we worked till four in the morning. And fuck me if we didn't finish on time.'

What the hell has got into me?
Rino asked himself. Why was he telling that son of a bitch all these things? And yet he felt that it was doing him good. He picked up a paperweight made from an old brick faced with a brass plaque, and turned it over in his hands.

‘Your father cared about his workers. I don't mean he was like a father to us or any of that crap. If you didn't do your job properly you were out on your ear. No two ways about it. But if you didn't complain and you worked hard he respected you. If there was work, you could be sure he'd call you.

‘One Christmas he turned up with panettoni and bottles of spumante and gave one to every other workman but none to me. I was upset. Then I thought I must have fucked something up and that he was angry with me. That job was important; if he sacked me I was in the shit. He called me into his office and said: “Did you see that? No panettone for you.” I asked him if I'd done something wrong and he looked at me and said yes I bloody well had – I'd brought a son into the world without having the wherewithal
to give him a decent life. I told him it was none of his business. He was beginning to piss me off. Who did he think he was to pass judgement on my life?

‘But he burst out laughing. “Are you planning to bring him up in some ramshackle hut? The first thing is a house; everything else comes afterwards.” And he told me to look out of the window. Well, there was nothing outside but a truck loaded with bricks. I didn't understand. “You see those bricks?” he said “They're for you. They were left over from the last job. If you use them sparingly you might even get two floors out of them.” And using those bricks, working at weekends, I built my house.' Rino continued to turn the brick over in his hands. ‘They were just like this one here. I don't expect your father has ever told you that story; he's not the type. And when the phone calls started getting less frequent I realised Euroedil must be in trouble. There are more building firms around now than there are dog turds. The last time I saw him was about six months ago, in the little park near Corso Vittorio. He was on a bench. His head was nodding and his hands were shaking. There was a Filipino who treated him like a baby. He didn't recognise me. I had to repeat my name three times. But in the end he understood. He smiled. And do you know what he said to me? He said there was no need to worry, you were there now. And Euroedil was in good hands. Can you believe that? In good hands.'

Rino slammed the brick on the table, splitting it in two, and Max Marchetta shrank even further back into the huge black leather armchair.

‘You're a lucky man, you know. If I hadn't seen that photograph you'd be in an ambulance by this time, believe you me. But you got away with it, as you always will, because the world is made for people like you.' Rino smiled. ‘The world is made to measure for nonentities. You're clever. You take the black slaves and those bastards from the East and you pay them peanuts. And they put up with it. Hunger's an ugly beast. And what about the guys who've worked their arses off for this firm? Sod them. You don't even waste a phone call on them. The truth is, you've got no respect for those sons of bitches who come to steal the bread from our mouths, or for us, or even for yourself. Look at you, you're a clown … A clown dressed up as a manager. If I'm not going to break every bone
in your body it's only out of respect for your father. In the end, you see, it all comes down to respect.'

Rino got up from the chair, opened the door and left the office.

It took Max Marchetta about two minutes to get over the fright. His behaviour in such situations was much the same as that of a pilchard. After an attack, if it manages to survive, a pilchard starts swimming around again just as energetically as before.

Max stood up, smoothed down his suit with his fingers and straightened his hair. His hands were still shaking and his armpits felt as cold as if they had ice cubes under them.

He took a deep breath and wondered if the whitening strip he had swallowed when he had been rammed against the wall would be bad for his stomach. Should he ring his dentist? Or a gastroenterologist?

How on earth had his father been able to stand working with such people? That psychopathic Nazi, along with all those other layabouts, had nearly been the ruin of Euroedil.

The niggers were different: they had respect. And he thanked his father's arteriosclerosis for enabling him to take up his rightful position and steer the ship back into safer waters where he could repair the leaks and drive out the parasites that had been infesting it.