He wants it all Read online

  I'm not surprised she is a dear friend of my mother.

  She lights up a cigarette and gazes at me as if she was ready to tell me some gossip.

  “Do you want one?” Even the lighter is eccentric: pink, with silver-plated rhinestones.

  “No, thanks, I don't smoke.”

  I sit comfortably, not on a classic chaise longue that makes you look like a tourist on the beach, but on a beautiful couch filled with Arabian pillows. If the office of a psychologist should make you comfortable, I must admit, I really feel like I am in my family room.

  “Whenever you want, dear.”

  She puffs a cloud of smoke and looks at me with those particular eyes, they look… purple. Could they be purple?

  “Umh, I don't know, you should ask me some questions.”

  That's how it works. The psychologist asks the questions, right?

  “You are the one who came here, dear.”

  She smiles, showing a friendly air. Even though her tones might seem hostile, she doesn't look like that, at all.

  “Give me an input.”

  I know what I would like to talk about, but I need something to unlock my sudden inability to open up. I usually talk, talk and talk, but now - I don't know - maybe I'm just conditioned by the fact that I don't usually talk about the real reasons I'm here.

  “What is the thing you hate the most?”

  Oh.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I asked the question, what came to your mind," she snaps her fingers, "instantly?”

  I have an endless list of things I hate.

  “I hate…” I bring a wavy lock of hair behind my ear and I notice the doctor's eyes staring at my fingers. Well, she's observing me. Who knows what my gesture means?

  Nervousness.

  “Come on, dear, it's not difficult. I hate remade tits, with all respect for your mother…”

  I hate them too. With all my respect for my mother.

  “I hate… being forced. Not having a possibility to choose, being manipulated, conditioned, trapped…”

  “Fantastic!”

  Fantastic?

  I look at her with a confused expression. She smiles. She's really strange. She gets up from her armchair and disappears behind my shoulders, returning with a pack of popcorn.

  I cannot believe it.

  She puts out the cigarette in the ashtray, pulls the hand sanitizer out of her pocket, pours it on her palms and rubs them together. Then she empties the white flakes into a glass bowl.

  “Eat!”

  I take a handful of pop-corn and munch on it. Is it her way to make me feel comfortable?

  “What was fantastic in my words?”

  “Even if you were hesitant in your answer, you pulled out the core of the problem. Many patients need different sessions before they reveal what their fears are.”

  “You asked what I hate.” I'm puzzled. “The question wasn't about my fears.”

  “What you hate corresponds to your fear. We hate fear, but there are those who learn to turn it into something you can… control.”

  “Could you teach me to control fear?”

  “You said they are the things you hate.”

  But what the fuck....

  She's confusing me. Maybe they are just shrink's manipulations!

  “Okay, I understand!” I take a breath and exhale slowly.

  I have to be careful, this woman knows her business.

  I realize that I am here because she can help me and certainly not because I must invent a defense strategy.

  “What did you understand, dear?”

  “That, involuntarily, I spoke of my fears, because these are THE problem.”

  “Bingo!” She yells. She takes a handful of pop-corn and, with a full mouth, continues the session. “Dreams?”

  “Yes, but I never remember what I dream. Usually…” Are we already getting into the core of the problem? “I usually only remember one thing.”

  “Tell me.” She crosses her legs, as if I was about to tell about a boy I picked up at a party.

  “His eyes,” I whisper.

  “Uhum.”

  “I only see his eyes. I remember them perfectly.”

  “Only his eyes?”

  “He had a ski mask that covered his face, so I only remember his eyes and… his smell.”

  “Did he stink?” She has a funny grin. I cannot believe I'm talking about my experience in such a superficial way.

  “No. He smelled good.”

  “What does he do in your dream?”

  “He stares at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he controls me.”

  “And this is something I hate.”

  “And that scares me.” I take another breath. Just remembering him gives me goose bumps and I feel the hair of my arms rising. It is not a pleasant feeling.

  “Would you be afraid even if there was another person in his place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you went out with another man, a scented man, and he would stare at you for hours, would you be afraid?”

  I get it. She wants to know if my story has had repercussions in my daily life, in particular, with other men.

  “No, I wouldn't be scared, but it would bother me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would remind me of Him?”

  “No,” she grabs another handful of popcorn and stabs me, saying, “you would be annoyed because it wouldn't be him.”

  God! She's crazy.

  “W-what? No, no… I would…”

  “Were you afraid of him?” she insists.

  “Yes, no, I…”

  “Were you scared or not?”

  She bends her bust towards me and stares at me with demanding eyes.

  “No, I would…”

  “You were not afraid of him, but of the other and of the situation. You feared for your fate, for your body, for your life, for your mental health, for your equilibrium, for…”

  “Okay!” I interrupt her. It is too much for me. I wave my hands in the air, searching for words to grab onto. I thought that coming here, I would have put order in my head. Instead I'm just falling into a chaos I had not expected. “Don't tell me that I have that thing you call syndrome of… of…”

  “Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “That!”

  “No, dear, you are not at that stage.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Encouraged, I sink down into the sofa. It would have been ignoble to accept such a thing. Ignoble. I rub my forehead with my fingers. The doctor continues to observe all my movements, but I feel the lump in my stomach getting lighter, even though I still feel that sense of perennial nausea. “Do you think I cannot forget about the experience because of the way he treated me?”

  “Your mother told me about the event, asking me not to go too deep. So we won't talk about that other thing because I understand that for the moment you have removed it. I'm trying to overlook many details and I want to focus on what I think is the core of the problem: him. Clara told me you often dream of him, that you did some research on him, that you tried to contact him and that you often go to the police to ask if they have anything on him.” Now her expression worries me. “I think your curiosity about your kidnapper is…”

  “Unhealthy.”

  “No, no, I don't mean this. But it's important to understand why you want, at all costs, to know who the man in the ski mask was.”

  I stare into space and I pray that she doesn't ask me the question that has been tormenting me for all these years. I seek for a bubble to explode in the darkness of my thoughts, so all my torments from over the years may leave my head. But just as I try to elaborate my defense strategy, the doctor devastates me with that question.

  “If you ever met him again, would you thank him or would you scream in his face all your disdain?”

  My lips open, my heart pounds at an excessive rate, I feel the palms of my hands sweat and I tighten my fists, to avoi
d touching those damned light locks that slide into my face. But even the gesture to trap my fingers in the palm of my hand says more than a thousand words.

  My head tells me to reason, to avoid losing control of my emotions, but my heart feels heavy and needs to vent, to blabber out its thoughts, to spit them out to expel the poison of which it is full of. Keeping fixed on a strange object - I think of a statuette that reminds me of a Kamasutra position - I start to pull out a mass of words that I read in my heart. I don't want to have to control anything anymore. I feel I can say what I want freely and, trembling, sighing, batting my eyes, I open up.

  “I would thank him for having avoided the worst, but then I would fill him with kicks, scratch him, bite him, I would punch him, I would push him so hard to see him lose his balance from my blows. I would like to throw him down on the ground, to crush him with my feet, as one does with slimy insects and then... then I would look at him with disdain, trying to reach his soul and tarnish it with my hatred. I would like him to feel like I felt. I would like him to see the darkness I feel penetrating me every day. I wish he would have my own fear and fear every hour of his life that someone would take him out of the ordinary. I wish that…”

  “All right, dear.”

  I feel the doctor's hands take my wrists. I didn't realize she approached me and kneeled down on the carpet. She massages the back of my hands and I feel the trembling of my body fade away. I am sweating. Thinking of him, remembering him and seeing him in my head is something that causes excessive, uncontrolled body changes. I can never control myself in any way. He kidnaps me in my mind again. After years, I feel kidnapped and held by him. I am hostage of his eyes, stuck in the grip of memory.

  “I'm afraid I will never forget it.” My words come out as a whisper, as my eyes turn to the purple of the doctor's eyes.

  “You don't have to forget it, you have to deal with it. You cannot erase a memory, the memories remain, but the images can be seen quietly if you look at them from another perspective. We will try to give you a new disguise, a new way to see your memories. Now, my dear, I must ask you!”

  She gets up and goes back to her seat. The heart resumed to beat naturally, but I feel anxious. I know she is going to ask me an even more destabilizing question than the others.

  “You don't have to answer if you don't want to. it is enough to tell yourself. I don't need to hear it.”

  Of course not, she would understand me from my motions.

  “Tell me.” I swallow hard. I'm ready.

  “You were only sixteen, right?”

  “Yup.”

  She taps her chin, looking down, but then turns her expert eyes on me and, frankly, she says:

  “Have you ever had sexual desire for your kidnapper?”

  Heat.

  My blood is boiling.

  My head is spinning.

  I swallow again and... I answer.

  “Yup.”

  ***

  Seven years earlier

  Luckily I convinced my dad to give me a day off. Gerardo is a nice person, I have no problem with him, except that I am not forced to see him every day outside the school. Some of my classmates find it exclusive to have a driver. Not me! It's something that annoys me. So! I'm privileged, okay, but could I take advantage of my privileges as I want? For example, going to school by a nice scooter and, above all, on my own!

  I would love to have a chat with Marco, in absolute peace and privacy. But no, there must always be Gerard, that idiot.

  Today I can enjoy my freedom. Dad said to me: “Let's see how able you are in a normal student's shoes.”

  Ten minutes to the sound of the bell, so I write a message to Marco and ask him to meet. Maybe he'll take me home. Or maybe better not. If he sees where I live, he could like me just for… well, I don't want to repeat the same mistake I made with Fabio. He totally used to ignore me. Then - when he found out who I was - and especially when he saw Dad returning home by helicopter - he swore eternal love.

  Sometimes I should listen to my mother's advice. “Men will want your wallet, not your heart.”

  She keeps repeating it and I always ask her: “Did you want daddy's heart?” Once I got slapped in the face and I was forced to apologize in five different languages, but I did it just because I really had hurt her. She loves my dad, I know. Although her silicone tits and her lifestyle can make it seem like she has chosen the wallet.

  The bell rings and I rush into the corridor. I bump some students while reading Marco's message in the confusion. “I'm going back home with Elisa.” I am stunned. Maybe I should say I have a nice outdoor pool and another indoors.

  I return to reality and I realize that nobody really likes who I am. But I keep following my mother's advice and keep trying to make myself known for who I am and not for what I have. On my only free day I'm forced to go home - oh my gosh - by bus.

  I have never taken it, I don't even know where to buy the ticket. I miss Gerardo and the sedan with the leather-colored seats. What was I thinking!

  Elisa? who the hell is she?

  Marco, If only you knew what you are missing!

  I walk to the exit. I greet my schoolmates and envy their scooters. I could have one hundred, but Dad has no intention of buying one. His protective nature is my sentence. Sentence, yes, I'm sentenced to being the daughter of Alberto Livori, a businessman of everything and more. There is no sector in which my family has not laid their hands. Anyone would give his soul to be in my place, but I always feel like I have to live a life, too heavy for me, overwhelming. Simple things are impossible for me, like now, that I have no idea where the bus stop is. I wait a bit outside the school; I can't stand walking in the middle of the wave of students. I wait for the crowd to ease up. In these cases I may be called a snob. But, who cares?!

  I wait as I play with my phone. I decide to send a message to Emma, my best friend, who unfortunately doesn't attend the same high school as me. I tell her about Marco and the mysterious Elisa. She replies that I have to let him go and, in the meantime, I realize that the school yard has completely emptied. There are no more students on the sidewalk and for a moment I feel abandoned. Shit! Where could the bus stop be? I take the road following my instinct, but I soon realize that a bus stop can never be on such a narrow street where a car can barely go down.

  You are so spoiled!

  I have no intention of calling Gerardo. It would be a defeat, and I don't have the courage to call Dad. He would laugh at me and my total inability to survive. But I've got money in my pocket, ha! So I decide to call a taxi when…

  I feel somebody pull me from behind.

  An arm grabs my chest.

  A hand covers my mouth.

  A damp cloth... A strong smell...

  Drowsiness.

  3

  KRUM

  Elegant, mighty, dressed in power. This is how the Father appears to anyone who looks at his charismatic figure. He is turned around, overlooking the garden beyond the large window of his office. He doesn't need to turn around to know he's in company. He feels every presence around him. Always.

  With his hands behind his back, without turning, he fills the silence with his reassuring, low, calming voice.

  “My guardian is back.” And turns, slowly.

  He has a shaved beard thick lips, eyes of an immobilizing blue, a stern look.

  I stiffen up, not because I'm nervous, rather as a form of respect I have for this man.

  Decorum is one of the things that he's taught me.

  “I'm happy to have satisfied you,” I reply.

  He smiles at me, his face animated by a wave of contentment becomes my welcome. He comes around the big desk and he shakes my hand. I'm glad to see that he won't shake me as all the people I've seen so far. He is glacial, just like me. His affection is in his gestures, actions, solidarity and not in silly contact.

  “Sit down, Krum.” He points to the armchair and I follow him as he unbuttons his jacket and sits on his throne.

 
He opens his wooden box and offers one of his Cuban cigars. The air is filled with the intense smell of lit cigars. We look at each other in silence while he tries to decipher my thoughts.

  This is something I detest.

  If there is a person in the world who can read my thoughts, that is Leonardo Andolfi, the Father.

  “Whatever you need, from now on, you just have to ask.”

  “I never ask.”

  “That's why you're my favorite. Whatever you want, you always get it, without asking.”

  In fact, my ways of doing reflect perfectly the spirit of the Sect.

  Having everything, without ever asking.

  I relax on the armchair and bring the cigar to my mouth. The taste is not the best, but it is relaxing to feel the flow of smoke in my throat and then go out in a whitish cloud.

  “Has your sacrifice brought its fruit?”

  “It was exactly what we thought. Your rival's campaign is supported by the mafia.”

  He smiles. He is happy to know it.

  “Proof, Krum. We need evidence to prove it. For the moment I don't want to take advantage of your availability. You have already done enough. We'll talk about it again another time. Now I'm interested in expressing my gratitude to you. I don't think there would be any other person who would accept to spend a year in jail just to please me.”

  “My obedience to you is only a small part of what I am willing to do for the good of the Sect.” His eyes light up with pride. “Your candidacy as a mayor of Venice is a serious matter and I am firmly convinced that there is no better person than you to fill that role.”

  “Your loyalty moves me. You are an example for the Sect. I'd love to…”

  “It would be against the rules,” I interrupt, sure of what he is going to say.

  “Krum!” He shouts. “I make the rules. It's true we have a parchment, but I can always propose your entrance to the members.” I change positions in the chair.

  “It's enough for me to be a guardian.”

  “I'm sure,” now he is being sly, “the guardians, in some ways, have more power than the members because..." he urges me to continue the sentence.