He wants it all Read online

  Table of Contents

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  Acknowledgments

  Marilena Barbagallo

  Original title: Lui vuole tutto

  Copyright © 2016 by Marilena Barbagallo

  All rights reserved. No part of this pubblication may be reproduced, distributed or trasmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  English edition: He wants it all

  Copyright © 2017 by Marilena Barbagallo

  Cover model: Joseph Cannata

  Cover designer and interior formatting: Marilena Barbagallo

  Translated from Italian to English by

  Annette and Joshua Gullotta.

  HE WANTS IT ALL

  You will learn - at your own expense - that, everyday, you will meet millions of masks but very few faces along your way.

  Luigi Pirandello

  1

  KRUM

  Six thousands Bulgarian lev. It's the exact amount of money Mr. X needed to buy my life and sell it to Mr. Y who gave me to the Father. As a product to be exported, at the age of twelve, I was packed up in a fur coat and landed at the port of Venice.

  Should I be disturbed?

  Not at all.

  But those six thousand Bulgarian lev keep floating in the air of my thoughts, like a reminder that mirrors the little value of my life. Just a bit over three thousand euros to buy the property of a human being. If you could give value to life, what would it be?

  I don't know any form of value. The values I have been taught, were totally exasperated by the Father's vision. The Father taught me everything. I have to thank the Father for my rebirth. If he bought me, it was just to create a wonderful creature. That is what he said at our first meeting.

  I am ready to give my life for the Father. For the Father I have done so much. For the Father I did a year in prison, three hundred and sixty-five days, eightythousand-sevenhundred-sixty hours in jail and I could do much more, because I am faithful.

  Faith.

  The only value I know.

  To be honest, I have not yet completed the day three hundred and sixty-five. I still have the springs of the bunk beds over me. I gaze at them with the reassuring awareness that it is the last time I have to look at those rusty interlaces.

  I consider my stay at San Vittore in Milan as a relaxing holiday. I don't understand why people complain about being in jail. Out there everything is so... complicated. Here you have nothing to think about, nothing to take care of, no days of the week. It's as if there was an eighth day after Sunday, called nothing, and every day was exactly nothing. No Monday or Saturday, just nothing.

  And I like this nothing; it is not challenging; no people are there; it assures you total loneliness. Yes, I'm a loner, I love to be alone, I love not having people around. For me nothing always ends up being filled with thoughts.

  My thoughts. Totally mine.

  Thoughts are the only private thing we own, the only mirror of ourselves.

  But in these years something has contaminated them, like a slow and lethal poison.

  Sometimes I think of her, sometimes I see her again. She was young, helpless and trembling. She was so young. A taboo. Who knows how she is today! I wonder if my eyes torment her in her nightmares. Surely, I'm her worst nightmare.

  The cot creaks. These beds are just enough to hold my body. If Tommaso tosses again, I’ll get up on his bed, and beat him up. I should have forced him to give me the bed above.

  Now he is snoring. I want to suffocate him.

  I put my hands on my face; I rediscovered the pleasure of having a long beard. I decide to get up for Tommaso's well-being, but also for mine; I don't want to risk my release. I just give a look at the face of my cell-mate sleeping peacefully, and the memory of the time I put his head down in the pot makes me smile. Since then he has not dared to ask any questions about my life. Over time, we have become cellmates. Not friends.

  In my life there are only extra acquaintances.

  As I have done for a year, I lay on the floor and start my push up session. Jail molds men, it is true, especially their body. Not having a fuck to do every damn day, I decided to give my body a grueling workout. Physical activity helps to turn off brain activity.

  Ten, twenty, thirty, fifty...

  At one hundred, I’ll stop.

  But I cannot. I go over.

  My eyes are taken by the white wall in front of me, so sterile and full of nothing, while drops of sweat tickle my forehead and eyelids, falling into my dark orbits.

  I feel my muscles pumping, my arms suffering the weight of my structure. My body becomes heavy and my chest burns. I relax on the floor, I turn over and now I see the ceiling. White.

  It's as if I felt the need to fill the void of something, to give a meaning to the nothing of my days.

  On these occasions I get pissed off because I think I have to fill my thoughts, I feel they are no longer intimate and personal, but open to that particular figure.

  Always her.

  I met her once, after so many years, after what had happened. Oddly, for reasons I have never understood, I had felt the need to see how she had changed, what she had become. I wanted to look at her face and look for the signs I had left on her. I needed to know if I had remained in her to the point to be mirrored in her eyes.

  I wanted to know if she was still thinking of me.

  I followed her once. I know all about her; I know where she lives and I also know the grades of her university exams. Today she should have graduated. Definitely.

  I turn over again and start a new push up session. I want to exaggerate.

  Here she is again, her image, that memory.

  She was having a coffee in St. Mark's Square, in Venice, with one of her colleagues, a daddy’s boy. It was easy to get information about him, I deduced he was a jerk. That day I realized that I was still in her thoughts. She hadn’t forgotten me. The memory of my eyes had become a constant in her life. I read in her eyes the fear of a touch, just when the asshole was touching her ash blond hair. She had refused him, turning away indignantly. She had removed her sunglasses and her gold-colored eyes were so dull. Watching her was stimulating. She was still afraid of me, of what I had been for her. I was inside of her and I would have been there forever.

  Fear.

  She would always be afraid of me.

  She would always be afraid of men.

  She would have been of all the men in her life.

  When I had metabolized it all, I found myself running away in a fury. Going on looking at her caused me very exasperating emotions. That day I decided not to look for her ever again and so I didn’t. After that time and this one, I haven't seen her anymore, except in my head, where she has become a constant thought, a fascinating and incomprehensible curiosity.r />
  One hundred and twenty, one hundred and forty and... I collapse.

  I fall back on the floor and still gaze at that ceiling. Her.

  She is such a bad whore.

  I don’t want her in my head.

  I don't want her now more than ever because I know that once I leave this place, the first thing I have to do is to stay far away from the places where I know she could be.

  Delete her.

  I should kill her, dig a ditch and bury her in it. Only then I could

  avoid looking for her again. If I wanted to see her again, I would unbury her to find her body in a rotten cluster. Yes, this could wipe out her beauty; this could make me give up the desire… to think of her

  I get ready for the third session of push-ups, but after the fourth flexion I hear the fist of the guard knocking on the iron door.

  “Botev, get ready!”

  Venting. It's my turn. I'm leaving the relaxing one year vacation and return to reality.

  Shower, bag and a "goodbye, Tom" to my cell mate. Suddenly, I'm out walking the corridors of San Vittore’s, escorted by two guards who make joke of me. I tighten my fists and let my anger converge to the whitening knuckles. I certainly cannot punch the face of the two guards while I'm leaving the jail. I'm violent, but not stupid.

  I'm wearing the same clothes I had when I came here a year ago: faded jeans, a black t-shirt, my black leather jacket and heavy boots. They gave my sunglasses and my watch back to me, one of the Father's gifts. Walking fast by the cells of the other prisoners is exciting. I can see envy on their faces, hear their best wishes and their insults. I'm quiet, let's say I heard nothing except for the screams of some prisoners knocking pots on the cell bars and chanting my nickname "Led, Led, Led". Ice. They call me this because of my total disinterest towards human beings.

  I come to the border between the cells and the outside atrium, I'm not out yet, but I can smell the powerful scent of freedom. I didn't think I would feel free again.

  “Botev, what is the first thing you'll do getting out of jail?” asked that butthead of the guard.

  “I am going to fuck your wife.” I'm not kidding. I will really find her.

  “You were looking for it,” the other guard commented.

  “And maybe I'll call yours too,” I teased him.

  The two guards become pale, but they don't have time to reply because one of their colleagues takes me by arm and drags me away towards his section.

  A new corridor, a renewed sense of freedom.

  Even the light is different. It seems more real. There are not the usual neons flashing intermittently in the bare atriums, but large windows from where you can see outside.

  Life begins to appear.

  Just before the exit, I see one of the guards who felt my fists. I am almost sorry, he looks like a good guy. But no, I'm not sorry at all! I take a couple of steps and stop, waiting for the big door to open.

  “Get the hell out of here, Botev.”

  He doesn't have a good memory of me. I smile mischievously and I do the military salute.

  I hear the noise of the door opening and the afternoon sun light beats on my brown hair.

  Free.

  I step out and the air smells of hope, but it is dense in darkness. I don't expect something or somebody, but then I hear the rumble of Oscar's Maserati.

  I cannot help but feel my lips smirk a sort of smile. Kind of.

  The bag slips from my shoulder and I put my hands in my pocket waiting for my brother to move toward me.

  “Dobre doshŭl otnovo.” Welcome back. He honors me in my language: Bulgarian.

  “Blagodarya, brat.” Thank you, brother.

  He hugs my body and I keep my hands in my pockets. Although I'm glad to see him again, it doesn’t mean that I should show useless expressions of affection. They are not part of me, at any time.

  He feels it, but it doesn't matter, he knows how I am. He moves back and gives me a slap on my shoulder.

  “Does the Father still have the courage to give you the Maserati?” I remark.

  “The Ferrari was too much, don’t you think?”

  “I don't think you know the meaning of the word “too much”.”

  “You know me very well. I missed you, fucker.”

  I didn't miss anything.

  I start to the door and sit on the leather seats. Oscar is excited. I believe even more because of the endless series of welcome back parties to which I will be submitted. I don't mind if there are women and rivers of vodka just for me.

  As soon as the engine turns on, the air is filled with the penetrating voice of Marilyn Manson. Oscar lowers the volume and, changing gears, begins to show off his enigmatic smile. His hair is longer than the last time I met him. He is the exact opposite of me: blond, blue eyes, big smile, nice, friendly, while I have dark eyes, dark hair, a smile. Well, let's say I consider the smile an involuntary movement of the facial muscles and, usually, I don’t do anything involuntarily, so smiling is difficult for me. Nice? They call me Led, ice, why should I be nice?

  “You have no idea what we have organized with the brothers for your welcome home party.”

  “I hope it's in the perfect style of the Sect.”

  “Oh, it is! You know the Father cannot wait to see and hug you again. For him you are…”

  “Krum!” I stop him.

  I don't like being called son. I have never been a son and I never will be.

  “You don't mind if I'll use one of your gifts tonight, do you?”

  I turn to him, I let the sunglasses slide down my nose and show my eyes.

  “Tonight is all mine, Oscar.”

  “Not even one?”

  “Not even half.”

  “Fuck off! You always want everything.”

  A smile of victory comes across my face. In these cases I like to smile, but it is more a way to say I always win.

  “Something new is going on in the Temple.”

  “We'll talk later.”

  I don't want to discuss about work right now, so I turn up the volume of Sweet Dreams, making Oscar shut up instantly.

  The guitars fill the cockpit, I keep turning up the volume. I want to get lost in that music and enjoy these precarious hours of freedom. I know that when I will be back in the Temple, it will be like crossing the threshold of another jail.

  My prison-paradise.

  But it's a prison I chose and I don’t regret it. I live well this way, I'm grateful for what I have and, I must admit, I have a lot. Much. All.

  Oscar pushes on the accelerator, the Maserati shows up in the streets of Milan. My head is elsewhere. I don't know where. I don't want to follow my thoughts. I just think of the drummer, of Manson's voice that penetrates my head, of the woman I am gonna fuck tonight, the one who is going to suck it while I am helping another one to come on my fingers. Not two, not three, I want four.

  We take the highway and, before I realize it, I see the green sign with "Venice" written on it.

  Italy is not my country, but it's the only place where I feel at home. I have never returned to Bulgaria and I don’t know if I ever will. Certainly, I’ll return to my native land only when the anger I feel for my origins becomes clear.

  I'll drop that word.

  You have no origins anymore.

  A man who feels the son of no-one is a man who lives halfway between an unknown identity and an excessively real one. For now, I feel to be what I have been told to be; I don't dare to admit what I am.

  These feelings are upsetting me. I have always followed the philosophy of life given to me, and I don't really understand why it is time for me to ask myself some questions.

  Fuck off Krum!

  “Here we are,” Oscar says.

  Home.

  Well, more than home, I call it paradise.

  At the mouth of Naviglio del Brenta, in Mira, in the province of Venice, rises the Temple of the Father. We call it Temple because it has the same architectural structure as the Greek temple
s. This place is heavenly. I still remember when I came here the first time and I was enchanted by the silence broken by the fauna in the area. The branches just wavered, like now, triggering the mix of smells that remind me of the refuge, the safe place, my place.

  I close my eyes and I am a curious baby, as I am amazed by the noise of the waters, those waters that lead straight to Venice.

  Everything is the same, unchanged, I'm home.

  The Maserati runs along the tree-lined road, the wheels rumbling on the white pebbles. Weeping willows align the cobblestone road, gardeners are at work, always. The beauty of the Temple has no equal. The peace breathed here is impossible to be found elsewhere. And then, here's the house. It stands on a tall stone base, it looks like it rises triumphant on a podium. The main facade is facing the water, where I can see new ships moored. We get out of the car and Oscar hands the keys of the Maserati to the staff. I raise my eyes to the structure and I take a breath of relief. Eight columns shoot upward, passing through gives a feeling of power. I understand perfectly why the Father bought this villa, he feels like a god. All of us must feel like gods.

  This is our Olympus.

  2

  AMBRA

  It's my first time, but it's not how I imagined it. The room is colorful, there are pop art paintings, fantasy sofas, books, mess and various items that distract me. I thought it was like in the movies where you are in a totally plain environment, where the minimalistic style suggests you to fill it with words, thoughts, confessions.

  I imagined the psychologist as a cold man, of a certain age, with a notebook in his hands and the pen beating on the sheet to be filled with people's torments. No, it was different.

  I am in this office that communicates everything except depression. Everything around me is stimulating and I would almost like to be the one asking the questions to the eccentric woman who is looking at me down her nose from the edge of her terrible glasses. She wears a long black skirt, transparent from the knees down, and a very colored shirt. Her wavy hot-red hair makes her look like an older Jessica Rabbit. Not too old.