EPISODE X
“Live hard, die young, and you will have a nice-looking corpse”.
Will: Psychic energy capable of maintaining or imposing one´s opinion and the resolutions made over the others, in the context of surmounting obstacles of any sort.
Nugaró, Colombia, January 19th 2018
The night was cool, street lights imposed themselves against the clear sky, full of tiny stars commanded by the ever-vigilant full moon. Screams waned except for the remaining night birds seated on the sidewalks. After bordering the public hospital René and Balou set foot on a wide street, undertaking a twenty minutes fast-paced walk to the Hotel. During the first part of the journey they kept aloof, as if the peaceful surrounding atmosphere helped each to be wrapped up in himself. René tried hard –but failed- to guess what kind of thoughts were present in Balou´s mind, which threw him into bigger and bigger turmoil. Given the havoc that Balou´s post dinner sayings caused, the uneasiness of René spread out all over the place. Accustomed to engage in battles (for survival in high altitude) driving monoplanes and lighter military flying birds, his assessments of victories and defeats depended upon levels. To him victory consisted on a successful landing, the transport and delivery of uninjured passengers and crew members from airport of departure to airport of destination; whereas defeat occurs when pilot unskilful manoeuvres or technical failures thin out the probabilities of a soft landing of the aircraft, and passengers drop entailed risk. In order to bring his sense of victory back to earth, René was determined not to allow himself any moment of distraction with regards to his stroll partner. As far as he could see, Balou was challenging him to a somewhat “kill or be killed” chess-game, “if that were the case –René winced and talked to himself- Balou is welcome, I am ready for competition after ten years of experience playing chess and six thousand hours flight as military pilot”. “What kind of armament might he have to fight me back?” –he wondered, adding to the question a touch of treachery. During the military training he went through before getting his pilot license, at the air simulations in which he took part, the instructors had drummed into his head that “he who hits first hits twice”. Hence, he started the chess game playing a combination of his bishops because, René reckoned, Balou was surely in condition to assimilate, through his movements on the board, what he wanted to transmit him without exposing himself openly. René wanted to show Balou that he was used to get into entanglements as well as to influence the enemy´s unconscious by force of heterodox low blows. In a nutshell, he would commit to frighten Balou just from the beginning.
- I assume Valentina must have told you that I am a military pilot –said René to impress him.
- Then you assume wrong, Sir. She really did not tell me anything, but I know it. You have a public Facebook account; from there I watched some pictures of you posing with Valentina by a light monoplane. I understand it was your working tool. Valen wore a green military jacket that perfectly suited her. She should have been not more than seven years old at the time.
“Bastard!” –René mumbled, so that Balou couldn´t hear-. First round lost. He managed to suppress his growing immoderation: Unless authorised, no one may call her daughter Valen.
- When I became a retired pilot –he made an attempt to recover by telling Balou a bit of his personal background- vacuum invaded my life, so much so that I fell into depression. You have no idea, Sir, what it meant for a military pilot to be deprived of the freedom to fly, to take-off, to gain altitude. I suffered like a pig being slaughtered. You feel homesick for the missing cubicle of pilot and the co-pilot, your workspace for years; the sensation of being up there, the sensation of being the most powerful man in the world, you do miss them a lot. To maintain height looking miles ahead all quiet, to report to the Control Tower that systems are kept within normal operating parameters is a satisfaction that I know and you don´t. I did not ask for retirement, they fired me. It was the saddest denouement possible to my career. Of course, they said it was a matter of budget, but I did not believe them a word. There was something else I have never found out, because as a military you learn the duty of obedience and loyalty towards your superiors throughout time. You can call it deference to authority if you want. Thus, I decided to leave everything as it was. A repressed part of me, however, got twisted due to the fact of being, all at once, a component of the unemployment rate of the country. I used to beat myself every time I saw me a number in the jungle of statistics. Soon the revolt turned into fury, and the habits and discipline acquired during the military instruction went to shit –if I may say so. Not even the family support could refrain it. I reached for women and booze to ward off my anger against the aeronautical force. I have to confess that some kind of violence aftertaste still live on me.
“Well, to cut the story short –René sought to pick up track of the original idea he had in mind-, once you have lived far up and off the soil for so many years you examine facts, people and everything, with a different outlook. It´s automatic. While small forms are moving up, down, or sideways, you instantly take distance, while earthly things happen you think and act from your upper observation deck. Somehow you feel you can manipulate whatever activity taking place at sea level, as you take for granted that you are beyond everything. In a way, you feel yourself out of reach. You may now realise, Balou, the reason why I let my wife talk at home: it enabled me –you will forgive the repetition- to observe you from my observation deck.
Balou had no idea what was the point of the tragic burial of René´s Curriculum Vitae. In any case, the father of Valentina seemed to be longing for the old times, willing to turn the clock back to a golden age. His face depicted a man who finds hard to be settled in the present. On hearing this Balou resolved to say no comments, as he knew -out of his lifelong experience- that when a person reveals his miseries to a stranger for no clear reasons, such stranger should step back and act out a supporting actor ready to listen to his master. In doing so the individual under catharsis falls into the trap believing he is the main character, whereas in fact there is a nice strategy in motion conceived to encourage the false main character to keep on pouring out the wastage of his soul. Balou thus gave René a nod in the affirmative to exploit a home advantage so to hear the second part of a saga which, never came out. Contrary to the expectation, René swerved, closed the gateways of sentimentalism to bring about an unsuspected facet of his activities.
- I resisted the temptation to become a dull retired pilot –he went on. Something was to be done on the subject, taking into account my need to be useful to the society, to the country, an example for the family. I could not picture myself spending entire mornings and evenings gazing into the horizon, watching the days pass by as my life drained away in despair. Do you follow me?
Balou gave him a scarcely perceivable wink.
- This shall be a secret between you and me, so to speak, okey? –René got closer to Balou and whispered-. None, out of all the lovers I went to bed with, made me feel love. Only when I think of my wife and daughters is there room for love in my heart. Sexual intercourse caused me heartburns along with a strong wish for this nightmare to end. After all, undeclared pleasure prevented me from more suffering, which was not too bad at that time. One of these lovers, certainly a pretty-looking young lady, apart from being mine she was also the lover of a civil servant, officer of the Colombian Secret Services. He is positioned at the highest level of the organisation. Seeing that unemployment was consuming my will power, Yamileth Lucumí put some pressure on me to postulate for the Colombian Secret Services: The D.N.I. Dirección Nacional de Inteligencia. Trust me that not even once have I paid to Yamileth Lucumí for sex, better think of her as a self-employed troubled aristocrat, who found in me – and the Johnny of the Secret Services- a palliative for her distress. Yamileth Lucumí made a living out of selling top secrets to overseas secret agencies. Better said, an afro-descendant double agent holder of big tits, endowed by birth with limited intelligence. To compensate this shortage, Providence bestowed her with undoubtful expertise in amorous arts. No sooner did I enter the D.N.I., there was nothing left to do but to dump Yamilet Lucumí. My file at the D.N.I. should be clean from the very start.
- I infer that your first unofficial mission consisted on following Miss Lucumí and in the process the double agent was discovered. Correct?
- Correct.
- I am afraid you are fond of reading –René asserted.
- Of course, I am a writer.
- Me too. I acquired the habit in the waiting rooms of airports. Just now it comes into my mind a proverb I read in a rock´n roll magazine at Bucaramanga airport. “Live hard, die young and you will have a nice-looking corpse”. Nice description, isn´t it, Mister Balou?
He scanned René´s face carefully. Balou arrived at the conclusion that yearning for communication, fear, authority and a need to become part of the Heroes Club prevailed on it.
- I love rock. In fact, I compose rock songs.
- I know it –replied René, showing off an efficient-like spy attitude. Valentina has told me a lot of things about you. And also have you travelled a lot and speak several languages. I speak English and Italian.
- So, is there anything else worth sharing or the chapter of the Secret Service is over? –Balou tried to elucidate.
- You stretch the imagination to the extreme.
- Of course. I´ve just told you I am a writer.
At this point of the conversation, they had gotten to the hotel. The front door was closed. Balou took the keys out of the pocket of his frayed white trousers and leaned forward to insert the key inside the lock.
- Wait, don´t walk in yet –said René. Please. Yes, there´s something else –he grew enthusiastic. Valentina has been raised to become a princess, a queen, in the same way the Indian Chiefs of the Inca Empire educated certain damsels lodged in the House of the Chosen Women or Acllahuasi. The mission is accomplished. My daughter is a teenager of outstanding beauty but also distinguished by her knowledge and smartness. During her childhood she learnt piano, now she´s studying French, exceled at Maths…
- Yeah, I am up to date on her qualities –interrupted Balou-. Valentina attended the V Carnival of Mathematic held at Campus Valle del Lili, at twelve years of age.
A rictus of disgust arose on René´s face.
- Valentina has actually a good command of Maths –he admitted with disdain. I can say today that she has enhanced her capacities to the top even so, marriage or to have a boyfriend appear to be far too soon for her. I´ve made that decision, hence I bear the overall responsibility; besides, Valentina is comfortable with it. Courtships are time-consuming, they dissipate energy which is to be channelled into university studies and modelling. Alba and I want her to get the degree in Laws first. Believe me that we are facing hardships at paying the cost of semesters in due time hence, Valentina is only concentrated on her studies. It´s like flying, as long as you pay close attention and respect the sky, you´ll soon join the land safely; otherwise troubles take control over the situation and your flying hours are of no use to sort the problems out.
- That Valentina is a chosen damsel is no news to me. Tell me something new. Now, what does the princely education she was given have to do with the Secret Services?
- It has to do, it has to do. Calm down. Don´t be anxious. Even though I was fired from my job I am very dear to my ex colleagues of the aeronautical force, so that I still keep in touch with them. The first Monday of every month we enjoy an evening out with my ex colleagues, where anecdotes are recalled. We often cry and laugh together. This group is called the Military Brotherhood. Added to this reunion, we organise similar meetings in the Secret Services, group which is called the Hermetic Brotherhood. Amongst those banqueters two tough individuals, firm in their convictions, rather rich, are courting Valentina. I expect one of them to give my daughter a good life, you know what I mean? My task is to assess them, to appraise their performances while Valentina gets her degree, then help her catch the best spouse.
Only then Balou went perceiving the trick René had tailor-designed for him. It suddenly became clear to the writer the use of circumlocutory and coded language on René´s side, it suddenly made him sense that René had set an emotional tale on his job-ending as a military pilot, his adulterous storming period and further break-through in the Secret Services. By means of an impeccable rhetoric, Balou had been taken into the realm of the suitors of Valentina. He was almost mesmerized with the overprotective image of René overcoming the hurdles life put him in front, misadventures which ultimately enabled him to reach the observation deck. Discouraging novice footloose therefrom. A master move to be applauded. Full of admiration Balou replied René:
- You René, as a steadfast reader, should have read that eighty percent of Argentinians are of Italian origin. In the case of my family, we come from Sicily. My great grandfather, named Vincenzo, was a member of the Sicilian Mafia. In view of the upcoming World War One, his whole family emigrated to Argentina in 1911. Fearful that her elder son be brought to the front line, Vincenzo´s wife, Agatha, forced her opinion to exile the family. Vicente (Vincenzo in Spanish) was assigned the noble task of establishing a branch of the Sicilian Mafia in Argentina, to which he dedicated daringly. After a short while it was proven Vincenzo´s bravery with facts, actions, arms and corpses. Just think of anyone trying to piss Valentina off, a John Doe puts her in danger, you simply jump right in and get him off of her. Isn´t it true or not? The same fucking thing happened in Rosario to my great grandfather´s younger son, also called Vicente. This second Vicente, brother of my grandfather Nicola, got involved in a murky affair which included drugs, whores, barrooms brawls, death threats and so on. Everyone had their knives out for Vicente Junior, so to say. At that moment Vincenzo entered the scene slamming the doors of a down-town brothel. An amazing impersonation of a modern cowboy. On hearing no noise in there, he produced one: a shot to the aggressor of his son, who was being beaten to death. Now that the accounts were settled, so were the threats put down. Forever. Like a loyal shadow, there had obviously been the Mafia backing Vincenzo up. Since he had emigrated to Rosario (where he run a cabinet working and musical instruments business, used as a cover-up for this hidden mafia activities) my great grandfather was provided with a clandestine network of escorts, bodyguards, informers, snoops, contract killers and so on. Think of an Armoured Regiment, a belt of soldiers in the custody of Vincenzo The First. You can call them a Guard Squad ultra-prepared to enter into war straight away.
Yet a bit stunned, René returned Balou business courtesies by asking him in the same way:
- What does this tale have to do with you?
- It has to do; it has to do. Calm down. Don´t be anxious –Balou answered back, mocking on René. Unfortunately, my great grandfather died during a typhus outbreak in 1925. While Vincenzo conducted himself with the hermeticism of the Masons, not even her wife Agatha knew of his affiliation to the Sicilian Mafia. Therefore, his death marked the downfall of organised crime activities in Argentina. On account of his beliefs on eternality, Vincenzo left no successors. I learnt about his affiliation to the Sicilian Mafia –and about the brothel incident- in the most unexpected manner, in the course of an investigation I conducted in March 2012 in Sicily, where I went to launch a genealogic research to track my family roots. By the time I stayed in Sicily, across the ocean Valentina coincidentally attended the V Mathematic Carnival. Look how precisely the universe works in terms of synchronicity. Vincenzo was among the ten toughest guys of the epoch.
- Could you please pinpoint the accidental way in which you bumped into those revealing treasures?
- There I go, there I go –said Balou.
The Argentinian began to get cold.
He noted René´s genuine interest in the subject. Of course, Balou said to himself, the fact of belonging either to The Secret Services or being a confrere of the Sicilian Mafia represented, for Valentina´s father, the súmmum of occultism, source of intrigues and conspiracies, the highest aspiration possible for whom encrypted information constituted his leit motiv. Maybe René had made a mental comparison between The Colombian Secret Services and The Sicilian Mafia´s efficiency. And gloated secretly over his conclusions. Unlike Balou, René seemed to be insensitive to cold weather.
- You may wonder my connection with the Mafia and the activities of my great grandfather more than a hundred years ago. Strictly speaking, there is none. Nevertheless, my trip to Sicily abruptly switched when a priest of a small village –whose name, for security reasons, I keep in reserve- took me to a parochial church, where the Mafia kept invaluable documents out of reach of snoopers. It´s widely known that, like your own family, René, Sicilian people are fervent catholic, so massively that their temples are sacred to them. From time immemorial the island of Sicily was successively invaded, towns were pillaged by the Arabs, The Phoenician, The Greeks, The Carthaginians, The Visigoths and so on. With one particular trade-mark: each of those blood-lusted warriors, lovers of genocides and destruction, they burnt everything down along their victorious way but, due to the respect they paid to the faith of the islanders, churches and temples were left untouched. Not even dared walk into them. Aware of that, The Sicilian Mafia keeps safe its most confidential resolutions in the basements, vaults and caverns of churches throughout the island. An act of admission released in 1907 accounts for the incorporation of my great grandfather to the Sicilian Mafia. I saw it with my own eyes.
- When I left that beautiful white church –Balou continued-, marvellous construction from the fifteenth century stood in the middle of shaky houses, Father Carmelo took me to a Workers Union where very old people spoke an unintelligible dialect. All were yelling to each other at the same time. I met them. After that meeting I could figure out the tickle my great grandfather must have felt upon receiving the membership of Mafioso Islander.
- Are you trying to tell me that you belong to the Sicilian Mafia?
- Perhaps you are not a writer, René, but you have an overflowing imagination. The answer is no. I am simply an amateur writer. There´s a ban in place on speaking about the details of the meeting to anyone who has not attended it. I can only tell you that my life changed since I left the island, the communication between Father Carmelo and me is still fluid and so is with some of the confreres of the Mafia, especially with those who helped me build up the genealogic tree of my family. Avoid disturbing illusions and dreams: No family coat of arms was unearthed during my trip to Sicily. Instead, what it took me to the island, to trace back the family roots, was accomplished after one of those who spoke in dialect, a man aged one hundred and thirty-two, sent me to talk to the gravediggers of the village cemetery. The latter’s drove me to the home of the only alive relative remaining of my family. So lucid this super centenary was, that he still recalled of my great grandfather´s debut in the Mafia in the early nineteen hundred. Vito Galmarini looked like a kid, as though no time had passed for him. He made no publicity of his age because his interest was much more concentrated on not helping launch an investigation on his unbelievable career in a crime-based organisation rather than to satisfy his desire of being the oldest man on earth, according to the Guinness book of records. Sooner or later, Guinness snoopers’ boys would have double checked birth certificate and things like that, until his brilliant performance as capo-mafia be disclosed. Listen dude –Balou said all of a sudden- this conversation is so charming but I am getting asleep.
- Oh, Mister Balou, sorry to hear that.
- May I have your phone number, René?
- Yes, of course.
Balou added his cell phone number to the list of contacts, and caught René by surprise when he said:
- Do you know what a triumvirate is? It´s a collegial body composed of three judges. It´s widely recommended to be three than to be two. Should there be a discrepancy or a voting, the third party will be indispensable to tilt the balance in one or the other´s favour. The method chosen by the Sicilian Mafia is to resolve everything by counting three votes.
- So what? –René exclaimed undaunted.
- There is nothing wrong of Valentina having currently two unflinching committed suitors. For the reasons outlined earlier an additional unit of suitors should be advisable. You can consider myself as the third unit of wishful wooers missing for the triumvirate to be created; wishful, clear enough, in the sense of invading your daughter´s heart. I would gladly play the role of the referee in the ongoing clash of two candidates, the odd member who decides the competition by supporting one or the other right-doer. Just in case of death of one of your two wealthy handsome comrades-in-arms, then only I would step on stage to start running the race, or, even better, I would get you another candidate so to maintain the odd number of the triumvirate. And me still keeping the role of referee under the second scenario. Death is just around the corner, isn´t it? Good bye, I´m going bed.
René struck dumb. He refused to admit that tales exchanges had been quite enjoyable. “Even if the intimidation strategy turned out to be a disastrous failure”-he refused not to admit, as he walked back home.
