Five Urban Stories Read online

  Then she kissed me and let me out. This very original ending surprised me, and driving towards my appointment, I felt quite satisfied.

  This time, I could say that my free choice with that girl had been a success.

  *

  Christmas was near, and I met Paloma twice again before the two days off that I took to go home and stay with my family.

  Everything went the same, but, with the confidence of repetition, the pleasure improved.

  She insisted on the apartment problem, and I promised I would find a solution. Maybe, I said, I could rent another flat for her. But I needed time, and I told her we would talk about it after Christmas.

  She seemed slightly disappointed, but she said nothing and accepted the little cash I offered her. I also gave her a Christmas gift, Givenchy perfume I’d noticed she liked.

  To be sincere, with the declining business of that period I didn’t really want to commit to an extra monthly expense.

  By that time, I was still trying to sell a small apartment I owned in town, but the real estate agent hadn’t found the right client yet. If I sold it, I could expect, in the worst case, a gain of at least thirty-thousand Euros.

  With that money, I could well spend something to give her a real help for five to six months. Then I only could hope that the national economy would improve, eventually.

  My life had always been like this: on the razor’s edge, without a reliable certainty. My family wasn’t wealthy, and all that I had, I’d bought it with my earnings.

  But my earnings strictly depended on sales, and my working contract granted no safety in case the business went bad. If I had failed my sales target for two quarters in a row, I would find myself on the street. And missing a yearly goal would have yielded the same result.

  Also, if the company hadn’t performed well overall, there wouldn’t be any chance for the workers, whichever their individual performance.

  Everything had worked fine so far, but I never felt sure enough to make long-term plans. Because of that, I guess, I never felt ready to commit to a serious relationship.

  Once I had been in love with one girl, Anna.

  She was beautiful, and we had a good time when we were together, but she was carrying on another, troubling relationship with a man much older than she was. He was a wealthy, reliable person.

  She used me as a distraction, and I never wanted to pull her into something serious. I felt it meant fooling her and myself, and I didn’t want the weight of that responsibility on my shoulders.

  After two years, Anna had married the older man, and we stopped meeting. I always knew that our story was doomed to a similar ending, so, when she told me that our meetings had to stop after her marriage, it wasn’t a surprise.

  Yet, the night after that last date I hardly slept.

  In the morning I looked at my face in the bathroom’s mirror: for first time in my life, I saw the signs of aging, highlighted by the lack of sleep.

  A thousand small wrinkles crumpled my skin under the eyes and at mouth’s corners.

  It was worthless thinking I shouldn’t and couldn’t take it the wrong way since I had always expected that outcome.

  I had to stop fooling myself. I was suffering from a severe and painful loss. In fact, after some days, I had to admit that I felt like shit, and I slumped into a deep depression so deep that I fell sick, like a nasty case of the flu.

  I couldn’t believe it was happening to me, but it was precisely so. I recovered only after two dreadful months that exhausted me. Meanwhile, I’d conceived a new strategy.

  I took up the habit of looking for distraction and relief among easy girls.

  I looked for them in the places where it was likely to find sex gamblers but avoiding those who were dangerous money seekers. It wasn’t the most straightforward hunt, because the lust for money was always lurking there. But I’d found my way.

  Since then, I’d managed my own relationships inside that artificial comfort zone. In there, it was easy finding and replacing my partners when they bothered me, without ever approaching the border of passion but also avoiding any stinging disappointment.

  I accepted that old saying: the lowest fruits are the easiest to reach, but you can’t pretend they are the most delightful too.

  Now, Paloma seemed an exception to the rule.

  *

  During the days after Christmas, the year-end rush at work swamped me, and I didn’t call Paloma.

  To the delight of most Tuscia’s dwellers—except the arthritic ones—the typical wintery weather of the region had settled. Its dry, northern wind kept blowing through the streets of the regional capital, straight from Bolsena’s lake.

  It turned the sky to the brightest blue and cleaned almost everybody’s mind—except the dirtiest ones—while every water puddle along the streets’ curbs—no matter how filthy—woke up as a dignified ice mirror at dawn.

  I called the real-estate agent to learn about the house sale, and they gave me the good news that a very interested customer had promised to make a decision before the year’s end.

  So, I waited for the last days of the year before calling Paloma, because I didn’t want to face the apartment issue before having any real opportunity to help her.

  Unfortunately, the confirmation from that client never arrived. He told the agency he preferred another solution.

  I called Paloma the day before New Year’s Eve to wish her a Happy New Year, but her phone was switched off. Maybe she had gone home for the year’s end.

  More likely, somebody else, possibly much less elegant and passionate than me but with the pockets full of bucks to spend, had offered her a vacation.

  I had to wait for the second week of the New Year before she finally answered one of my calls. When we met, she said she had been in the north, to visit a friend in Torino.

  The city’s monument, La Mole, had impressed her, and she had enjoyed excellent food in top class restaurants.

  We talked about the typical cart of boiled meats that they served there in good restaurants, with a complete assortment of boiled beef cuts and a wide choice of sauces and dressings, to satisfy every taste.

  That day, she seemed even more passionate than usual, and when we made love, she clutched me tightly and whispered into my ear, “Do me how you want, my love! Please, Sandro, do me…”

  While we were getting dressed, she said that she’d gotten an extension of one month for the apartment. I felt relieved, and I told her to not worry because I was already looking for another apartment and, in a month, I would solve the issue for sure.

  I was lying, but either she didn't notice, or she didn't show to have noticed it.

  When she took me to the door, instead of kissing me, she gave me a friendly pat on the bottom, saying, “Ciao bello!”

  I felt glad for the moment. But, although things were looking better, one thing drove me crazy: I’d found a dream girl to spend my time with, and right now I was short of money. If I wanted to be safe, I couldn't but wait before doing anything for her. My common sense was keeping me on the straight and narrow.

  *

  Some days later I called her, but while her phone hadn’t been switched off, this time, a recording said, “The number you have reached is not available at the moment. Please try later.”

  I tried again many times, that day and the following day, with the same result.

  Maybe she’d removed the SIM card from the phone.

  The third day, I resolved to go straight to the apartment and ring the bell. When I arrived at the building door, I found it open, and I entered, heading directly to the apartment door.

  Before ringing, I heard a man talking loud from inside. He seemed to be on the phone, cursing and complaining because of the girl who had just disappeared without notice.

  I stayed near the door listening.

  “And you can’t imagine,” the man continued, “what that asshole of a bitch has been capable of doing! With the excuse of being forced to leave this flat
and find another one, she fooled a lot of idiots, receiving from them the money to give as a deposit in her name to several real-estate agencies. Five hundred, one thousand Euros from each of them.

  “Then she invented a bunch of lies to withdraw all that cash from the agencies before disappearing. There’s a sequence of angry idiots who come at the door and ring, thinking to find her and beat her up. I have to stay here to keep them quiet, or I risk that some of them may smash down the door!”

  Then, after lowering his voice, he said, answering a question, “Yes, she took with her all the documents, the Spanish ones, and the others. I don’t think she’s already back to Santo Domingo. Probably she’s somewhere else working on her own, with the help of a client. Anyway, stop talking on the phone. Ask your friends over there in Santo to check. Then we’ll meet and talk face to face.”

  I went out in the street.

  I smiled in silence, thinking of how she had lovingly pruned a full lot of people.

  Me, I’d been luckier, and Paloma had only greeted me with a pat on the ass.

  *

  After dinner, I sat in the parlor, and instead of switching on the television, I reflected on what had happened.

  I realized I’d lost my lucky discovery without a chance to recover it. If she’d thought our story deserved something more, she would have found the way to warn me. Or, at least, she would have told me to be patient and wait for a call.

  I analyzed the facts, questioning myself if I could have avoided that ending. Now, the whole story seemed to be an idiotic endeavor.

  I had decided to be cautious, refusing to put at risk my scarce money pool of the moment to rent her a flat as Paloma had asked me.

  But if I had accepted the gamble, betting on her and giving her the timely help that she wanted, could the story have gone a different way?

  I couldn’t be sure of anything—another drawback of the relationships with sex gamblers. Most likely, I’d have lost my money just like the other jerks she had hooked.

  But what if, after giving her that money, I’d hugged her tightly and sworn I wanted to make a serious try with her?

  At that thought, the memory of Anna came back abruptly under the form of a biting question. Why, in her case, had I never wondered if things could have gone differently? Not once during those months of suffering!

  While now, I was wondering what I could have done to save the story with a charming swindler.

  When Anna told me about her decision to get married, I hadn’t even examined the option of telling her I cared. Or to beg her to stop her relationship with the other man.

  From my present perspective, I tend to think that Anna may even have accepted to marry me and to try our chances together.

  But back then, I felt inadequate, and the mere option of asking that question had unleashed such a profound, horrifying fear that my mind had blocked it before it could even emerge consciously.

  Having the occasion when you didn’t have the means, and having the means when you didn’t have the occasion was one of the most frequent pranks of life—so I’d thought.

  Now, I feared I might face another period of regret because of Paloma's loss. To chase away that haunting perspective, I took a sleeping pill and I went to bed.

  I sat on the bed and checked the phone. I had left it on the side table, and I noticed a message from an unknown sender. It had come while I was in the parlor.

  “Hi, Alessandro. It’s Paloma. I had to leave in a hurry because of a serious family problem. I have also lost my old phone. Now, everything is fine and I’m in Torino. Call me when you have time for a visit. Cheers.”

  “Hmm…serious family problem…lost phone…A bunch of lies,”—I snapped.

  Anyway, she didn’t want let me go. Perhaps, only because she hadn’t yet squeezed my wallet.

  That unexpected message had a miraculous mending effect on my self-esteem. After all, I wasn’t just a Mr. Nobody. Whichever real goal she was pursuing, she valued me worthwhile enough to keep me in her agenda.

  Then, I made a mistake of thinking more, and I plunged headlong into the evil part of it all.

  She was in Torino. For sure, she was with that friend who had already invited her at year’s end. And yet, it wasn’t enough for her. She still wanted to manipulate me. And who knows how many else?

  Now, with that in mind, reaching her in Torino for a short vacation of sex and good food didn’t make sense, not after the long-term plans that I’d already conceived about her, before she vanished.

  The enchantment was broken, the story was over, and she couldn’t pretend to continue using me like a toy in her hands.

  From the initial relief, I reached a condition of anger and resentment, without any clue of the initial depression, otherwise with a weird sense of excitement, a longing for revenge.

  My salesman’s attitude took control, telling me that, thanks to that message, I had in my hands a piece of information that could have value for somebody.

  If the man I’d heard shouting in Paloma’s apartment had got this information, he could likely reach her and give her the lesson that she deserved for disappearing.

  The idea of this indirect revenge pleased me and cuddled me gently towards the sleep. Surely, they’d give her a tougher punishment than the one I could afford without breaching the law.

  A final bothersome thought came to disturb my brain before the sleeping pill eventually switched it off.

  I didn’t want to get in direct touch with that kind of criminal and offer them Paloma. I needed an intermediary…someone who could talk on my behalf, without fearing to spoil his reputation. And one who seemed accountable to them, not a potential threat.

  I woke up early feeling refreshed, thanks to a good night’s sleep. Reaching the bathroom, I recalled my last thoughts before surrendering to my chemical sleep.

  As for magic, the face of the right person emerged suddenly to my memory, together with his foreign name—Rako!

  He was somebody I’d met at a disco some months before, more precisely at the entrance of a disco.

  One Saturday night of bad luck had pushed me to drink too much, making me feel keen to smash the face of somebody who had provoked me. Someone who turned out to be an almost professional boxer, to my disgrace.

  But that human mountain—Rako—had saved me from being the winner of a weekly stay at the maxillofacial department of the hospital. After collecting myself, grateful for his intervention, I tipped him well, and we talked for a while.

  Rako was a sinister guy, but he behaved as a good man overall.

  He was an Albanian, and he’d served two years in jail for drug smuggling and violence, as I’d heard it happened to many of his compatriots.

  Now, he was making an honest living as a security guard, freezing his buttocks all night long at the entrance of dancing halls or clubs. He said that he was waiting for a better chance—an unlikely event, I thought, but I liked the man.

  Meanwhile, he explained to me, he was always ready to accept extra jobs for easy, quick money. Meaning tasks suitable to someone of his size and peculiar skills.

  I promised him to keep it in mind, and he gave me his business card—Rako something, Security Services—followed by an unregistered cellphone number.

  On the following Sunday morning, when I woke up late and discovered with satisfaction to be still unbroken, I filed his business card on my address book instead of the dustbin.

  Now, under the shower, I thought I should call Rako in the afternoon when he was most likely to be up, and then meet him that night at his job.

  Also, I thought I should call my friend, Matteo, and organize another tour together at the Brazilian bar because Paloma’s chapter was closed.

  Then, I dressed up and rushed to work.

  At midday, I had an appointment in Rome at the headquarters of my most important Key Account, a big Energy Company.

  It was a critical meeting because I had to seamlessly spoil the reputation of a competitor. But up to one month
before it had been a partner of my company, and my most valuable subcontractor.

  Yes, it was a shitty situation. Admittedly, moving around that kind of shit-trap was the core of my business. A shit business, in conclusion.

  The Sales Manager of our ex-partner, a friendly, good-looking man named Delrosso, had taken advantage of my benevolence. Some months ago, I’d introduced him to the Chief of the Purchase Department of my client. Now, he had set a private appointment with him.

  Luckily, the client’s manager was an affectionate customer of mine since when he was a mid-level executive of the Accounting Department, five years ago. He’d informed me of his appointment with my present competitor, that he still considered my partner.

  The official subject of my midday visit was the new special discounts for the Key Accounts on a vast category of services. My real goal was to avoid getting ripped off by my ex-partner.

  At the end of our meeting, while the manager was walking me peacefully towards the lift in the hall of his floor, I let fall the most nonchalant statement of, “Well, and are you still meeting Delrosso next week?”

  “Yes. And, actually, as I told you, I was a bit surprised by his request to meet me without you. But he pressed me so much that I didn’t want appear too rude refusing.”

  “Yes, I understand, and I can explain to you what’s going on. My company had to discontinue the partnership with them. That’s why Delrosso is in such a hurry to meet you alone. They’ll continue to offer the same category of services independently. But we offer a lot more, as you know.”

  “So, you’re competitors now? And, can I ask you why have you closed the cooperation?”

  “We are no longer considering them accountable enough. I can’t tell you everything in clear. You know, in case of partnership interruption there is a series of legal caveats to respect, or we risk to be sued for unfair competition practices.