He lies on the Jester's cart - 20
The sun is setting.
I’m lying on the bed, listening to the sounds of the house. I’m tired. I haven’t done anything since lunch. The dishes are still dirty on the table. My head rests on the pillow. I take deep breaths at regular intervals. The window is closed, through which the muffled sounds of the city below filter in. The high walls are draped in slowly creeping shadows. There’s no direct light, only the cold beam of a distant streetlamp pointing somewhere else, but not here. Not where we are.
I’m waiting. Waiting for the night to come. For the day to pass. I glance at the time on the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. It’s pink, with a liquid crystal display and solar sensors on top. A little cat sits on top, white and round, with its right paw raised as if waving to me. If there were enough light or sun, it would rock back and forth, cheerfully greeting me, its smile painted on the plastic, its eyes large and black. He gave it to me, as a gift, after a trip to Japan. “It’s beautiful”, I said. “It’s so sweet. Thank you.” I hugged him and held him close. We stayed on the bed, talking for hours.
A wave of warmth washes over my chest, and once again, I find myself in love with you. That sweet feeling again, the tenderness of your skin when I touched it. The thought, the sense of belonging that kept us silently together during the night. Eyes closed and hands clasped under the same blankets. Sharing breaths without even thinking about it anymore.
The twilight is colorless tonight. I realize there’s no more light in the room. My eyes have drifted deep into memories, and now I’m back here.
It hits me like a flash.
It’s his face that appears before my eyes and then disappears. The memory of last night. His cruel hands on me. His malicious intent to invade me, possess me, infest me.
My chest feels heavy, and I don’t want to sleep here tonight. I don’t want to sleep at all tonight. I can’t stand the thought of being alone here in this bed tonight. To be a helpless prey. He wants me, trying to sneak in and conquer me. Marzio is his Trojan horse. I don’t know what his goal is—if it’s simply evil creeping in, if it’s a restless spirit, or if it’s a demon that latched onto Marzio’s soul and, after consuming it, still wants more. And Marzio. You. What pact did you make with this demon? How much did it cost you to return here?
This process must be completed. The ritual must be fulfilled. We must be diligent. That’s what she told me over the phone. I want to understand who she is, what ties she has to you. Why you were with her, with Cardia. At her house. Her hand on yours.
How many things did you hide from me? How many things are you revealing to me now? I want to believe that you had a plan and that it all went wrong. That you really wanted to live your life with me. And that you’re here to help me understand that it’s true.
Don’t leave me now, Marzio. I depend on you at this moment. I chose to be yours even after you were gone. I could have tried to forget you. To be myself, alone, in the world, and find my own path. But we’re together. Even now. I’m trusting you just as you chose to trust me.
It’s truly dark now. The glow from the streetlights filters into the room. The orange tint casts a halo on the ceiling.
I can’t stay here. No, I really can’t. Forgive me, but I can’t. I rub my hands on my legs; I’m still wearing jeans. I get up. I’ll go out to eat, go be somewhere else for a while. I grab the scooter keys from the desk and head for the front door. Everything feels so fast. I’m in a rush, anxious. I grab the waterproof jacket from the back of the chair, put it on, zip it up to my neck, then grab my helmet, open the door, and slip my hands into the jacket pockets to find my house keys. They’re not there. Where did I put them? I exhale a sigh of frustration. I just want to leave. I retrace my steps, back into the bedroom. The keys aren’t on the desk. I move the laptop—still no keys. I check the bed, thinking they might have fallen out of my pocket while I slept, but they’re not there. I head to the kitchen, walking faster and faster. I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that if I don’t leave now, something bad will happen. I look on the kitchen counters, the shelves, the stovetop, the table with the dishes. No keys. I could leave the door ajar and just go. I just need to get out now. I’m back in the bedroom. I scan it carefully. There’s the bed. The slippers on the floor at its foot. I should look under the bed. There could be anything under there. I can’t form the thought. I collapse under the weight of my own body. I put my hand on the floor. Close my eyes. And lower my head.
Please let them be here.
Alone.
I exhale.
The floor is covered in a layer of dust. There are some crumpled pieces of paper. A pen. I see the feet of the nightstand to the right. The keys are right next to it.
I get up with a start and take two wide steps toward them, picking them up. There, done. I have them, and I’m leaving. I walk quickly to the door.
The white stairs are lit by a neon light at the bottom of the rectangular landing. The other two doors facing the landing are closed. I step out and pull the door shut. I keep my head down, not looking inside—I don’t want to. I just want to get out. As the door closes, I catch a glimpse inside.
The demon is there. His left hand is raised, and his malicious grin is fixed on his face. He’s waving with those thin fingers. His head is tilted, and his wide eyes watch me.
I yank the door shut with force and gasp loudly. The sound of the door closing blends with my gasp, creating a noise that echoes like thunder up the stairs.
It’s as if I can hear his footsteps approaching the door.
- Are you leaving? - The voice from the door sounds like it’s right in my ears, hammering against my eardrums. - Don’t you want to play with me? I want to play with you. - he continues in his shrill voice. - It’s nice here. It’s warm. Comfortable. We don’t want to leave. We want to stay here with you.
I run away from the door. I run away from my house. The stairs are steep, and my legs feel like melted wax. I slam into the aluminum door that leads to the street. I open it and step outside to breathe. Four floors in—I don’t know how long, but not long. Not long at all. That demon is stealing my life. He’s tearing it from my hands. I feel the urge to cry. I lean against a linden tree growing out of a small square of dirt between asphalt and basalt. Its trunk is soft and flexible, welcoming my despair. I give myself ten seconds. I count them slowly. I force my heart to slow down, my breathing to become steady. My scooter is there. I even forgot to lock it to the pole with the chain. I insert the key and start it. I put on my helmet and mount the scooter. I start driving, feeling the wind on my face. It’s better now. The traffic is gone. There are only a few cars left. This Friday night hasn’t started yet. I find myself floating in the limbo of rest, just entering the dinner hours. If I look up, I see the windows glowing like incandescent lightbulbs, decorating the concrete facades. They’re like fireflies in the night. So many homes, so many tables. So many families. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going—not here. I don’t want to stay here. The asphalt is wet, and it won’t dry overnight. I feel the moisture in the air slapping my face, cold. It feels good, distracting me, almost invigorating me. I think. Little by little, my mind clears of all the useless thoughts. There’s an automatic feeling that takes me away from myself and onto the road—a liberating sensation. The road rolls beneath the wheels on its own. Light.
I’m already downtown. A sandwich, a slice of pizza—anything will do. I stop in front of a diner. From the illuminated counter, trays of pizza with colorful, imaginative toppings emerge, thick and enticing. I take off my helmet and hang it on the hook under the handlebars. I step off and prop the scooter on its stand. I grab a slice of margherita—two euros—and a bottle of water. The napkin is greasy with oil. I take it and head to a nearby bench. I bite into it. It’s warm and soft. Good. How will I spend the evening? I could call someone, hang out, spend some time at a bar—something like that. I could. There aren’t many cars around, and they’re driving fast. The sound of tires on the cobblestones is louder than the engines hidden under the hoods. I hear them coming from far away, before the curve that leads down here. Across the street is a low wall, beyond which you can see the sea and the gulf. I feel like looking at it. Ten steps, and I’m there. I cross the street without looking. I sit on the black, rounded stone that forms the edge of the wall. I cross my legs and take another bite of pizza. Below me is a drop of about fifty meters, I think. Then there are some apartment buildings further down as the hill slopes away. Beyond that, the slope becomes gentler, and at the bottom is the sea, with the lights along the shore encircling it like a crown of pearls. I watch it, and I see the peace of the sea. I feel calm. I breathe slowly. I imagine the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, breaking against the rocks. I follow the rhythm, and my eyes almost close, and I smile.
The clouds above me have a reddish tint from the city lights. I don’t know if it will rain again.
The pizza is finished. I wipe my mouth with the greasy napkin I was holding, crumple it up, and toss it into the void. It falls in an arc, disappearing into the darkness. I follow it with my eyes as long as I can, then just sit there. Your name comes to mind. Never has a name been less appropriate for a person. You’re probably with me now, too. If I turned around, I’d find you behind me. Maybe you’re right in the center of my gaze now, in the heart of Piazza Vittoria. Down there. A microscopic dot in my eyes. Piazza Vittoria. The Riviera di Chiaia. Wherever I look in the city, you’re there. You’re there. And I know it. Piazza San Pasquale. Via Carducci.
Via Carducci.
I open the bottle and take a sip. My eyes are fixed on the street where you live. Number 10. I feel the urge to see your building. Your home. I want to understand where it is, what it looks like, what color it is. I want to do it. I want to understand why you never took me there.
I hop on the scooter, fasten my helmet, and start. The road slopes downhill, full of curves. It’s paved now, making it easier to drive. I think maybe I shouldn’t rush. Time always passes at the same speed, and the night will have to go by entirely. But the scooter descends, taking the curves, leaning into each turn. Thinking too much leads to the same end as thinking too little. That was one of your sayings. It came back to me silently, but I remember your lips saying it. I’ve reached Piazza Amedeo. Almost there. I round the circle and turn left onto Via Vittoria Colonna. I go straight, passing Via San Pasquale. There’s a bus lane, but I don’t care. I take it and turn right. This is Via Carducci. I slow down and look at the house numbers. On the right, I see 45, then 43—all odd numbers. The number I’m looking for is even. I look to the left—24. I keep going, pass the Umberto high school. Sixteen. There it is—I see it. Number 10. I squeeze between two cars parked in a herringbone pattern, leaving just enough space for my scooter. I climb onto the sidewalk and turn off the engine. I take off my helmet and place it under the seat. I approach the door. There’s a wide, well-lit entrance hall, empty. At the back are the stairs and the elevator. To the right is the intercom panel. I scan the names, looking for Marzio’s. They’re divided into two columns, one on each side of the keypad. There’s no Solimena in either column. But on the right, there’s a listing with just the initials S.M., and the number 510. I try the intercom. I knock. No one answers.
The door opens beside me. I jump but try to hide my surprise as I turn around. A guy with a helmet in hand is rushing out.
- Should I leave it open?
- Yes. - I nod, embarrassed.
He doesn’t even notice and is already off to his night out. I hold the door open with my hand. I step inside. To my left are the mailboxes—there are ten of them. I search for the one labeled “S.M.” It’s the last one. There are letters inside. I pull them out. Ads, bank letters, more ads. I hold onto them and head for the elevator. It’s already on the ground floor. I step in and press the button for the fifth floor, the last one. The elevator moves swiftly, reaching normal speed quickly. The ride is short—the elevator slows, and a bell announces the stop at the floor. The sliding doors open, and I step onto the landing. To my right is apartment number nine. The number is written above the door frame. I turn left and find number ten. No nameplate. Nothing. I stop in front of the oak-paneled door.
- Here I am, Marzio. - I say, addressing him.
Copyright © The MaDMan, 2013. All rights reserved.
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She's making new discoveries. I like it. And that Jester is going to pop out again anytime. I can feel him smirking in the shadows. The intensity is really cranking up.