IMAGO MORTIS

by Samuel Marolla

CHAPTER 1

WHEN YOU’RE STRANGE

Milan – January 2017.

The sky hung low over the city, bloated and sodden like a rag wiped over a filthy floor. The appointment was in two hours and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I drove around for a while. With the massive housing complexes under construction, the working at a standstill for years due to the infiltration of the ‘ndrangheta or because the money had run out – it all looked like the ruins of an alien society without a hint of good taste that fled the planet right before the apocalypse. Black water dripped on dead trees planted beyond the fences and barbed wire, brown puddles connected in gurgling trickles, trade union banners on the grey walls of closed-down factories bellowed in the bitter breeze; chimneypots belched out black smoke on a coral reef of satellite dishes, the pretty red-tile roofs of the old Milan were ravaged by the infestation of new and unsold attic rooms, the walls resembling asbestos painted dung.

I passed San Vittore and headed for the Darsena, the old dock, which had grown so dry and stinking it resembled a titanic toilet dumped in a field, abandoned railways glittered along the banks, while the evening shadows were closing in along Via Washington and Corso Vercelli, seeping in between the buildings as the setting sun beckoned the night life to kick in, the roads in the early sunset were filling with cars and I got caught in the middle, mobile phones rang and rang, laughter burst out but I couldn’t hear what had triggered it, the red circles of cigarettes being smoked in the passenger compartments drew odd figures, the fluorescent neon lights of the clubs along the Navigli flickered on like Christmas lights, the air smelt of rust and wet asphalt and the electricity of the trams’ sparkling cables, the rain pattered away on the windshield.

It was still Milan – to hell with it – it was Milan in a storm and I had got lost in it again, like a senseless old habit you just can’t shake off.

Topaz lived in a penthouse in the new Santa Giulia neighbourhood; it was in a building that had been confiscated due to bankruptcy. I got there as the rain subsided. The area looked like Fukushima after the tsunami and the nuclear plant disaster. The cookie-cutter white buildings under the street-lights appeared to be made of plywood. In the middle, a huge rectangular field resembled a meteor crater; a black, foaming pond had formed due to toxic waste seeping into the water-bearing stratum. It’d take decades, I thought, to dig up all the shit they’d buried there. Meanwhile the night air was already poisoned with the chemical stench of tires set on fire by the gypsies, the black smoke spiralling over the two nomad camps on Via San Dionigi.

I parked, rang the doorbell and climbed to the top floor. The flat was nice and neat, as usual, as if someone tidied it up by magic every morning to make it safe again, or so I reckoned, given that Topaz was a sort of a coke-snuffing Willy Wonka gone psycho.

There was always this soft light coming from the colour-glass lamps. The furniture was all ethnic – from China or Tibet – and bought at Cargo shop. A glass display cabinet contained a small shark in formalin. Topaz sat in a cream-colour leather sofa. Behind him stood the liqueur cabinet and on the wall hung a modern art painting that looked like some drunkard had puked on a canvas. The air was stuffy, with a lingering odour of eau de cologne and the sweetish smell of heated coke. There was a silver tray with a rolled-up banknote and the remains of the lines he’d snuffed. He looked at me through those white, softish, octopus-like eyes of his, with that gaze of a person who’d figured something out through and through and, in any case, had definitely figured it out better than you.

“Hi Ghites, hi dude. Come on in, have a seat. I won’t have them bring you anything ‘cause I know you don’t like it.”

“Thanks anyway,” I replied as I sat down in front of him and lit a cigarette. “So, what’s up?”

Topaz shrugged. His forehead beaded with sweat and he kept chortling like he was having convulsions. He was watching the massive plasma screen in front of him, the sound turned off, the channel was tuned in to Red Bull TV, airing extreme sports clips non-stop. A car drove by outside honking like there was no tomorrow. “You have no idea. I’m so pissed off. The other day the cops were up my ass just because I went for a Cuba. I mean half an hour, man – that’s how long it takes for a drink with some friends, half an hour at the most,” he said through his teeth as they ground away like a snare. “The real problem isn’t the cops, though. It’s the Romanians.”

“What Romanians? What do you mean?”

“I owe fifty thousand neuros to a band of Romanian Roma.”

“And what wonderful things did you do to earn this debt?”

“Poker. Texas Hold’em, man. I love that shit. The guys from Naples cut my credit line so I went to the Roma’s gambling den on Via Idro. You know how it works.”

Yeah, I knew how Topaz worked.

“Hey, your place isn’t bugged, is it?” I asked suddenly. Jesus, sometimes I go completely paranoid.

“Bugged? No way man, relax. I have the place cleaned out every three months and I’m here all the time anyway, so when the hell would they break in? I found the stuff you wanted.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“It was a mess. I’ll give you the low-down. There’s these two friends, no, these two guys from Naples I told you about; they’re staying at my place and…”

“Hold it,” I said, raising the hand with the cigarette. I puffed out a cream-coloured cloud of smoke. “Tell me some other time, outside. You never know.”

“I told you the place is clean. What”

“You never know” I said again. God, I really hated this stuff. It was my only indulgence in the illegal and immoral and I didn’t want to get caught like a dunce, like the big brainless mafia bosses that get caught because they make calls with their own mobile phones and mutter: “So, d’you whack the guy like I ordered?” That kind of stuff drove me crazy.

By this point the chortler was dying to talk to someone; he was so full of coconut that he would’ve even talked to the Chinese furniture – and maybe that was what he’d been doing before I got there. But I wasn’t his padre – in fact, I wasn’t even his friend, or at least I hadn’t been since high school, good God, I just wanted my stuff so I could go off somewhere and snuff it. Public relations – twenty more minutes of public relations and I’d be free. But public relations were probably what I hated the most in the world. “There’s something I just don’t get. Why do you keep the house in Lanzarote when you can’t go there anymore?”

He took a cigarette from my packet on the Tibetan table, lit it and sucked on it like a straw, he burnt half of it away with a single drag.

“It’s reassuring. One day I’m gonna let go of all this and retire there. Anyway, it’s not exactly in Lanzarote – it’s almost in the Timanfaya, the national park, the volcanic one. Kick-ass stuff, man. You can see the craters from the main bedroom’s balcony.”

“I thought building in a national park was forbidden.”

“Yeah, it’s been seized and they’re planning to knock it down. I had it built ten years ago by a Medellin drug dealer who got whacked out in the Mexican desert, then it ended up in my hands. I’ll tell you how it all worked out.”

“Forget it. What about your dad?”

“He’s still pumping dough my way but he’s up my ass – he says I have to deal with his business down there. You know my dad’s got those two resorts in the Canaries and I have to see Samsara.”

“He’s right.”

“I know he’s right. She’s my daughter. I’m such a fucker,” he said clasping his hands to his face. His voice broke. “I’m such a fucker – I left my daughter at the Canaries and got caught like some lame-ass loser in Italy with a briefcase full of fake fucking cash.” I had to switch topic somehow or he’d keep me there all night busting my balls about his sucker life as a failed and out-of-time Great Gatsby.

“Come on now. Man up, Mario. Your daughter needs you. How long’s it been since you last saw her?”

“Two years, man. She’s already five.”

“When does your house arrest end?”

“Eight months with pardon.”

“Eight months are nothing. Once they’re up you go back to Lanzarote, see Samsara, spend a year there and keep your dad happy. Then you go back to doing whatever it is you like – but first get that stuff sorted out.”

“Great idea. You’re right. You’re always right, Ghites. You know why I really like talking to you? ‘Cause you always know the right thing to do. Seriously.”

Sure, the story of my life. “Can I have my stuff, Topaz?”

“Great idea,” he said again. He went into another room. I heard him open a cabinet.

I stared at the swastikas carved into the Tibetan wood table, as my cigarette smoke swirled around it. Topaz was back in an instant. He handed me an Asian casket the size of a tuna tin.

“Here you go. Straight from the Père-Lachaise, man. What a sick story, though. You’ve gotta tell me what went down. Promise – you’ve gotta tell me. It’s keeping me awake at night.”

“I’ll tell you at Timanfaya – when you make up your mind and invite me over.”

“No fucking sweat, man, you’re at the top of the list if you want to come.”

“I hope not, because if you mean the list you’re forced to write by your friends at police headquarters, I’ll end up in no time at San Vitùr a ciapà i bott,” I said, sing-songing the last few words.

Topaz laughed. I laughed, too, but I realised things were getting slippery and my good old comrade of nights gone by – ‘friend’ is a different word, and I don’t use it lightly – could easily lose it and land me in no end of trouble if pressured. But where else could I find someone in the scene whom I trusted, with the right connections, and able to find the stuff I was after?

I took an envelope from my coat pocket and handed it to him. “Thanks, really. Count it, please – I shoved it in this morning in a hurry,” I said, to save us both any embarrassment.

Topaz started counting. “Just ‘cause you asked me to, man,” he said. And when he got to the last five hundred euro bill – there were thirty in all – he slipped them back into the envelope and placed it nonchalantly on the Tibetan table.

“Fifteen thousand sweet little neuros,” he said. “What a dick I am – I haven’t asked you if you want a drink. Do you?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour,” I lied.

Topaz saw me out. The cold, livid light on the landing reminded me of those nights as a youth when I’d come home wasted and the condo light always seemed to foreshadow some terrible reckoning, a Kafkian court waiting for me at the end of the blinding whiteness, axe-wielding judges waiting beyond that whiteness to behead me.

“You know what I really miss?” said Topaz on the doorstep. “I’ve been under house arrest for a year now and you know what I really miss, Ghites?”

“What?” I asked, and immediately bit my tongue.

“Going with the boys to San Siro to see the match. Jesus Christ, I really miss chugging down Negroni before the match and going to the stadium all tanked up to join the chants and then going to feast on oysters and vodka at the Strip Tease on Via Padova and fucking all night long. You have no idea what I’d give for a Sunday like that,” he said. The tattoo spelling “SAMSARA” and her birthday in small print on the inside of his forearm suddenly reminded me of the writings of the deported in the Nazi concentration camps, in that light that seemed to magnify the scars left on our tense faces by our worst sins.

It was raining again and my only appointment was with my little old and immoral passion. I went back to my office on Viale Monza; it was two at night and Loreto square as still belching out cars that honked and braked and sped along; I looked at the girls in the passenger compartments and fixed my gaze on one who was queuing up alongside me and I thought about lowering my window in the rain, buttonholing her and getting her to pull over, then buying her a beer, having a chat, with her saying, “Oh, so you’re a private investigator! I’ve been doing jazz dance since I was twelve,” and then I’d ask her about jazz dancing even if I couldn’t give a rat’s ass, but would pretend I was really into it and eventually we’d go to her place and end up in bed together, then the light went green, a group of doped-up kids behind me in one of their dad’s BMW honked so I stepped on it and never saw the blonde dancer again.

I parked on Via Beroldo. By then, the Latin American disco had kicked out a few wasted Peruvians; blasphemy in Spanish echoed in the rain; two men were puking a few feet away, back to back, and their syncopated retching reminded me of the call of some weird primitive creatures speaking a guttural language. I walked to the office and locked myself in.

From the shutters of the only window came the orange light of the lamp post outside, pelted by the rain. It was four and fewer and fewer cars passed. There was a nice noise. I sat at my desk in the dark and opened the casket Topaz had given me. Inside was a magic dust – fine grey sand with an unmistakeable texture. I took a pinch, rubbed it and smelled it.

There was no mistaking it.

It was the ashes of a dead person.

The real question now was this – were they the ashes of the right dead person? Topaz had good informers and knew how to move around; he didn’t make mistakes. But if I wanted to be sure, there was only one thing I could do, and I was dying to do it – snuff the ashes.

My mouth was dry. I cursed myself mentally. I was acting like the worst of junkies. Relax, dude – you’re not hooked. You can do without it. The truth is much more down to earth – the truth is that you like doing it, and your sorry-ass life is screwed up enough for you to indulge in this small, harmless and amoral leisure. I rummaged through the files and newspapers on my desk and found a pizza box I’d forgotten to throw out. It was clean enough. I poured out a line of ash, took my blocked credit card from my wallet, cut the dust real thin, patted it into a nice tidy line and, with a tightly rolled ten-euro bill, snuffed the lot. My head shot up. The ashes of the dead shot down my throat, I could feel the sour, smoky taste and in my mouth I perceived the usual metallic mush that foreshadowed the trip. It was done. The games were done, rien ne va plus, buckle up, we’re off to the Acheron river, Hades, Tartarus, Valhalla, and now let’s see if my Virgil – or Charon, depending on the case – is the right one or not…

“Topaz, if you or your crazy-ass helpers have screwed up then it’s time to lay down the cards and…”

People are strange, when you’re a stranger, I heard humming in the air, while the room transfigured and the half-light of a squalid two-roomed flat of a tenement flat on Viale Monza teeming with all sorts of crooks and Brazilian trannies was lit up by a warm yellow light and turned into Venice Beach from the Sixties, as my mind hummed when you’re strange, faces come out of the rain…

Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger were sitting on the sand and playing guitar and bass, and then the shadow of the Lizard King rose behind me, I saw it looming on the foreshore with its long hair and beard, leaning slightly on one side.

No one remembers your name… when you’re strange…

The California sand glittered under the sun and bikini-clad girls passed by smiling at me, their nice long thighs glistening with lotion, the air smelling of cocktails and cigars and coconut oil, of corn cooked at the Soul Food restaurant, Mr Mojo came and sat in front of me and read a poem of his, he spoke in English but I heard him in Italian – a poem that told of me and my life and what I’d done so far and most of all what I couldn’t do anymore, I half-closed my eyes and slumped into my office armchair while the Lizard King smiled at me as if he were about to tell me a secret I’d forget once I woke up.

When the music’s over, kill the lights.

When you’re strange… when you’re strange… when you’re strange…

CHAPTER 4

THE UNHUMAN

I went back to my office, got all the stuff ready and snuffed a line of the ashes of the late Rosa Colombo, better known as Nanà.

It was a small dose because crossing over to someone who’d been killed was always a leap into the unknown. I waited in the half-light. My eyes started to slip shut and when I opened them I could feel piercing cold coming from a corner of my office. I could see my own breath cloud up each time I exhaled. The cold from outside had wormed its way into the house, even though the windows were shut. Here we go, I thought.

“Rosa?”

The figure took a step forward. She was once a beautiful girl and had probably been so until a moment before her death, but now half her face was missing, the left side a mess of red, throbbing, mangled flesh with an eyeball sticking out, like a glowing light in the dark. Blond hair caked in blood and scattered with skull fragments covered the other side of her face. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, a bright scarlet sash. One of her arms had been cut off at the elbow and, among the torn flesh, the grey bone shone through.

She raised her good arm and moved her hand. It looked like a white shellfish swimming through dark water. She seemed to be trying to write in the air.

I looked for a pen and paper. The cold was biting even more, making my skin almost burn. I looked at her again. I realised she had no depth. She was two-dimensional, a sort of low relief jutting from that dark corner of my office.

“I want to help you.” I whispered. “Just let me help you.”

She moaned. My hand started writing on the piece of paper without me even realising it. Jesus Christ, they’d really made a mess of her.

The ghost of Rosa Colombo, better known as Nanà, scribbled on the paper using my hand and I thought she moved her mouth at the same time. I tried to read her lips as my hand wrote on its own. I closed my eyes for a millisecond, but when I opened them again she was gone, my digital clock told me it was two hours later, the ghost had vanished without a trace but on the paper, in handwriting that was not mine, the following words had been penned:

THE UNHUMAN

Someone rang the intercom.

I strode to the receiver. “Who’s there?”

“I want the money,” said an electronic voice, with an Eastern European accent.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Give me fifty thousand neuros or we kill you.”

I hung up. I looked out the window. It was five in the morning and three thugs were waiting at the main entrance.

My mobile rang. Unknown caller. It was the same voice. “Come down, give me the money.”

“What money? What are you on about?”

“Topaz’s money. Topaz’s debt is now your debt. Give me the money.”

Shit, Topaz had really screwed me over. “It was Topaz’s debt, not mine.”

“The debt is now yours,” said the thug. “Give me the money or I burn your house.”

“Eat shit and die.” I replied and hung up. Then, I called the police and told them three assholes were trying to force the entrance door. Ten minutes later, the police got there, but my new friends had sensed what was going on and left. I got a text: Give me money tomorrow or your family killed.

Christmas was coming. It was always good to have friends remember you in the holiday season.