CHAPTER XXXII
‘As I said, Balou´s love for your daughter is real, and here they are two hard evidences of it, which should be regarded as the penances he did to compensate the damages caused’.
Release: Settlement of accounts. Expiration of legal charges.
Nugaró, Colombia, March 31st 2018
René woke up before the alarm clock started ringing. He noiselessly took his pyjamas off and after a moment of undefinition, unlike the elegant outfits her daughter normally wears, opted for a simple tight blue jean with a Mexican-buckled belt combined with a Hawaiian unbuttoned shirt, which made him look like a tropical cowboy; as for the footwear, he chose the classical black shoes used by country priests everywhere in the world. As his stomach refused the intake of food, he wasted no time and stormed off to the armory. Once there, he equipped himself slowly with weapons, in a calmness which evoked an artisan, we may also say he resembled a marijuana consumer or a heavy drug-addict when preparing supplies for their trips. The assembled arsenal was put into the guitar-case of Valentina.
René have not shot for a long time ago; and has not slept for several days.
Prior to heading for the armory, he gave his wife a kiss on the nape and crossed himself before the image of Virgin Mary, who, from the altar beside the mirror, seemed to be staring at him with a condemning expression.
‘Whether I am going to perform a righteous action or not, that I don´t know. What an asshole have I been for letting myself be convinced! How was it possible to permit it? There is no way back, we are underway. But despite my ignorance, there is no shadow of doubt that this mission will show me what I am made of. Insomnia torments me, it´s affecting me like a pain in the neck. As a result of walking around and around the house a fresh memory of the nigger lady Lucumí came to my mind. She used to say in the midst of the bustle of the brief period we passed together: ‘‘You are fucked, there is no cure for your sickness, son, in the future you shall meet with many persons to whom you can vent your spleen on. Violence, René –she assured–, is an immanent part of your being, you cannot escape the destiny of an Alpha Male. Do not combat what God or Lucifer have bestowed on to you’’. Still, I keep on fighting my nature. Yes, I am a fool willing to find out what he is made of’.
Yamileth never tired of blowing sunshine in Rene´s ears by telling him he was an Alpha male, which boosted his ego over and over, to unpredictable heights.
Warned by a light coming from outside, René opened the garage and noticed a taxi parked in front of the door with the engine running.
A man wearing the uniform of the G.A.U.L.A. stepped off the taxi and swept steadily across the street towards the door where René stood. The foreigner glared at him with intimidating eyes, while his bearing and huge size were of no help to make René feel at ease. He should be about fifty years of age and was not Colombian. He was carrying a dark-browned briefcase similar to the ones used by door-to-door bibles vendors during the sixties. It was just an instinctive reflection the threat he made to take the rifle out, but what´s-his-name´s defiant glare instantly discouraged René to go further.
- Don´t even think to give a try again. Forget to take daring actions, for you are not a hero –the foreigner rebuked Valentina´s father as his cheeks reddened underneath bloodshot eyes.
René put the rifle down.
The stranger walked in René´s house without asking for permission, and sat down on the couch where Balou was ushered to months ago.
- According to the circumstances –the man said in a calmly manner after a long exhalation, giving the impression of being chatting with his best childhood friend– I make people call me either Lombardo Giovanni, Franco Salomone or Antonio Péccora. For the time being please call me Franco Salomone. As for you, I will call you René Sargón or Green Beret depending on the case. As you may figure out, I am Italian, Sicilian-born by the way.
Franco Salomone came to a halt; his face reflected warmth now.
René had attended elementary and secondary studies in an Italian-speaking school, then did the career of Air Force pilot in Spanish.
- I came here to share a tale which is unknown to you, wherein you play a key role indeed. The tale of which you, René, are in the dark about, starts with the writer Adolfo Sammartino making me a special request. It was a literary-related matter. From a technical viewpoint, the order has been fulfilled –uttered Franco Salomone with the characteristic gravity often seen in national presidents on a TV transmission when summoned to declare, with an evil stare, an open-ended state of siege–.
- I have so much to inform to you, so, René Sargón, for the sake of fluency do not interrupt me. Think it twice before daring to, or better six times. To begin with, some ice-breaking announcements: stupid questions are henceforth forbidden; if you intend to restate self-evident matters that I already referred to and are knowledgeable to you, I suggest you to avoid it; today, due obedience to me is a wise recommendation for you to take, my commands are not to be disobeyed.
- Be careful, watch your steps, because I know who I am talking to –Franco Salomone asserted enigmatically.
‘What if I put up resistance?’René weighed inwardly a trial of strength, assessing his possibilities devoid of emotions–. But in the end, he resolved not to act hastily, and instead give the newcomer a chance to speak. Since while being trained by the D.N.I. the most important lesson a spy must have learnt was to let the opponent make his opening gambit first just for the spy to know who he is playing against, only then an agent can turn his card face up. Up-to-now, René didn´t see too much danger nor ghosts in sight, to the extent of yielding to the abyss of fear.
The Sicilian got a pipe out of his briefcase, convinced that the occasion called for it. ‘René Sargon´s house was far from being ugly, but mine in Caltanisetta is more beautiful’he said to himself, boasting of it proudly, once his periscopic glance at the place ended–. Then he engaged in the ritual of lighting up the pipe, a habit inherited by his ancestors from Catania. With the hidden purpose of marking off the territory under his control as well as to make it clear who was going to set the beat of the tale.
‘Adolfo Sammartino –said Franco Salomone in a whisper– is an obsessive writer; so is the Sicilian Mafia, yet in another field. We are obsessed over being at the leading edge in the improvement of tracking devices, in this specific case I refer to monitoring persons and places and objects anywhere, for reasons concerning the fulfillment of the purpose of our organization. There is a partnership in force between our Palermo-based department of Technological Research with the Institute of Microelectronic located in Sevilla, in Spain, whose collaboration resulted in the development of a cutting-edge attachable microchip prototype, tailored to suit our monitoring needs. Whatever futurist this feat may seem to you, Green Beret, it is objectively verifiable our introduction into the marketplace of a microchip, to which the RFID technology has been applied within. These devices take advantage of radio waves to transmit-receive information from microchip tagged in objects. This gadget is similar to a grain of rice in size, while in terms of technology resembles anti-theft devices tagged in garments, but our RFID chip has been refined even more. I am pleased to tell you that our final product was initially brought onto the streets in Argentina and Colombia, with a resounding success’.
‘Moving on to another issues, the upper echelons of the Sicilian Mafia stood in a moral debt to the Argentine descendants of Vincenzo Sammartino, who is the great grand-father of your dear Adolfo. The former made us earn big money in Argentina, and I do mean big money, at the beginning of the twentieth century. You cannot imagine how much. In appreciation for that we concluded with Adolfo Sammartino –whose background, Green Beret, you know in depth as well as his Sicilian ties– an agreement by virtue of which the Mafia would clear accounts with them by supplying and tagging forty RFID microchips on each paper copy of his book ‘Universal travelling assistant’, published in France at the end of two thousand seventeen. Your daughter Valentina was the first chosen reader of the book, as Adolfo personally dedicated to her a free issue which was delivered to your daughter´s domicile of Cali in Ciudad Jardín, on December 2nd 2017’.
‘Writers tend to be eccentric; it is then no wonder that our Adolfo be not an exception. As I previously said, Adolfo had made us a special request, for a literary purpose: What does the request consist of? He wanted to carry out an opinion survey in order to get feedback from every buyer or holder of his book. The main goal was for him to know first-hand whether his readers liked the novel or not, to obtain straightforward reviews from them in a clandestine way, like a poacher in a furtive hunt. In so doing, he keeps the readers unaware of his secret aspiration. Since you will certainly agree with me that when book authors endeavor to be told the truth from their readers by asking them directly: did you like the novel? Most of them feel themselves compelled to give a favorable opinion just to make a good impression on the questioner. Even if their texts are probably a piece of shit. In short, to Balou it was crucial to receive the views of his readers excluding any kind of insincerities. The Mafia, in turn, was about to launch the testing phase of its RFID prototype at the moment of receiving the request from Adolfo Sammartino’.
- Thanks to this microchip –Franco Salomone stressed, not without a certain solemnity– we could reach to you, Green Beret, though you had not been our initial target.
- On November twenty nineth two thousand seventeen late in the evening we –by we you should understand our experts in Microelectronics and me– were waiting for Adolfo Sammartino at Salitre bus terminal of Bogota, located in the southern corner of the city, beside the luggage storage counter. It was in that very place where we offered a colorful show when we started to tag a strip-shaped tiny microchip on each flap of the books referred above. During the procedure, a myriad of passers-by, travelers, whores, haggard workers and idle transgendered teens, witnessed in delight what we were doing having no idea whatsoever of the goal we pursued with it. I led the whole operation personally. I enjoyed the show tremendously, for what I love best in life is that which is given for free. I know it´s hard for you to believe, René, but sometimes I act as a philanthropist. The thing worked as planned: the microchip would spot the geographical location of every book holder: country, city, village, quarter, neighborhood, borough, street, number, etc., even the identification of the flat; we, the Sicilian Mafia as a whole, through a transponder and a detector or reader captures data which is forwarded to our Intelligence Headquarters of Caltanisetta for further data-processing. Later on, our field-work contributors would devote their working hours to intelligence gathering to each of the buyers, by means of which we ultimately collected evidence on the reader´s judgment of the book with regards to the plot, whether the characters achieved the desired performance level, and so on. This operation may seem plein foolishness to you, but believe me that the writer Adolfo Sammartino thinks otherwise. Finally, Adolfo received an email from us with a breakdown of the information we had collected. The result of the survey encompassed the following items: commencement date of reading, the reader´s name, city of residence, completion date of reading, and his/her verdict. Regrettably, the outcome the statistics have shown left a bitter taste in the writer´s mouth. The fact remains, though, that the RFID technology worked fine, and our street soldiers did a great job out there.
- Guess what! Who was the first monitored reader?
- I suppose it was my daughter –René ventured.
- It was Valentina Sargón Gutiérrez indeed. Me, as well as the Gutierrez family from Nugaró, I am a peasant by upbringing –Salomone whispered to René filled with emotion.
‘We planted hidden microphones and security cameras in Valentina´s flat in Cali. Which allowed us not to lose track of her thereafter. In a way, we had become obsessed to trace your daughter´s whereabouts. Thanks to these beautiful monitoring devices we kept watch over almost every movement of Valentina, along and across Cali, along and across Nugaró and so on. None of her steps were unknown to our appointed agents. A similar operation was launched in relation to Adolfo Sammartino´s childhood friends in Argentina, those who bought the book during the presentation of it, which took place at ‘La Muestra Bar’ in Rosario, on December fourteenth two thousand seventeen. And so, we proceeded with every new purchaser of the book. In whole, we have carried out operations of this kind in four countries, employing fifty-four of our agents to attain the literary objective’.
- It´s weird –René remarked, visibly upset– that my daughter never told me anything about this book of Balou.
- These sort of things, my friend, such as gallantries, flattering, gifts from men, being pampered with courtesies or dedicated books, are women´s gossip field, only commented among them; it´s a form of vanity they cultivate in secrecy, within a friend´s inner circle. Valentina –said Salomone in a lower voice–, only shared the reception of the dedicated book with Daniela, her best friend, and your niece Yurleidy, your sister´s daughter.
- Speaking of the monitoring devices you installed in my daughter´s flat: What did Valentina say about the book Universal travelling assistant? –René wanted to know.
- Weak performance of Balou, according to Valentina. She said it is a trashy romance, mostly a poor chronicle, not a masterpiece as a matter of fact –Franco Salomone now answered in good Spanish.
‘We held an accountability meeting with the presence of, while it may appear redundant, Adolfo Sammartino the accountant, during which he received from us a report on the overall investment we made to afford his literary request, and both the writer and the Mafia agreed that the unliquidated one-hundred-years-moral debt in favor of the descendants of Vincenzo Sammartino –presently turned into figures– has now been paid off.
Franco Salomone raised his voice owing to the torrential rain falling upon Nugaró. Dawn was approaching, bringing along its sounds and refinements.
‘In my quality of spy and Mafia member as well as businessman who loves to operate in the shadows and be the master weaver of webs of intrigues and conspiracies, in my quality of ratbag who doesn´t care a fig about the literary goal we pursued, I have to say to you that an awesome news (which lifted us up from drowsiness) came to the headquarters of Caltanisetta on January 23rd two thousand eighteen –Franco Salomone was screaming as he continued on–. We received a report from Francesco Changretta, our appointed man covering Cali and its surroundings, native of Ássoro, where he stated that you issued a threat to Adolfo Sammartino.
- Not a death threat –René argued with a gloomy face.
- Who said it was a death threat? -Not me at least, nor your grand-mother. I mean whatever direct or indirect threat you may have made to him, no matter whether you concealed it or not. Threat in a broad sense. I put the question in another way: Is Francesco Changretta to be regarded as a liar because he reported whatever threat from you towards Adolfo Sammartino?
- He is not to be regarded as a liar.
‘Owing, my friend, to this insignificant anti-drowsiness –yet awesome– threat of you, the character of our literary espionage changed utterly. From then on, the intelligence tasks with regards to Valentina were duly intensified to such an extent of innocence that we finally got to you, Green Beret.
- Further analysis on Valentina´s entourage (it goes without saying that she is the only innocent in this process) drove us to implement undesirable procedures, like brushing off nasty pieces of work in parallel with breaking some necks on the way. Nothing we are not experts at. One of our victims, just to provide an example, is an acquaintance of you, Harold Cuéllar, who was being followed by the Mafia boys on a 24x7 basis since January 23rd. Yes, it´s true, we broke out the rule: Haroldo Cuéllar has never been a reader of Universal travelling Assistant. But what does it matter when you are in the clamor of the battle struggling to survive? The issue was that Cuéllar sowed mistrust in Changretta´s meticulous mind since the very beginning. May we say that Changretta sniffed the prey beforehand? I believe so. To cut the story short, phone-tapping, eavesdropping, and clandestine video recording and hidden microphones installed at Haroldo Cuéllar´s D.N.I. office and house, produced unsuspected results. I am carrying inside this briefcase a set of overwhelming conclusive proofs –as well as his heart-wrenching confession– which show that yesterday you must have been killed, given that Haroldo Cuéllar had been planning to eliminate you, then embalming you and finally be taken to the refuge of Villa de Leyva where you were to find your eternal dwelling place. The method we used to coax information out of your good D.N.I. spy college might have not bestowed the blessing of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. May the Lord have mercy on those of his children who set off in the search of the truth.
With a quick movement, Franco Salomone suddenly opened his briefcase from where he took out a declaration duly signed by Haroldo Cuéllar and further notarized, written on the Sicilian Mafia´s letterhead. Next, René listened to a recording of the interview between Salomone and Cuéllar, on which the confessional document was later grounded.
‘When the Sicilian Mafia reported to Balou on the danger you were in, his command was to protect René Sargón from his assassin, Cuéllar the embalmer, who pretended to be your mate. If committed, it might have been a crime of passion, that is which is relevant. You may not know it, Green Beret, but Haroldo Cuéllar is homosexual, and is lost in love with you since time immemorial. ¡Major faggots are being hired by the Colombian Secret Services! Nevertheless, I have to admit the sincerity shown by Cuéllar during the questioning, as he claimed that if you were not his, you will never belong to anyone, even not to Alba. As a good misogynist, he not even dared to take your wife on, his misogynistic cowardice prevented him from touching her skin; but well, all considering, his behavior was reasonable taking into account that you symbolize the alpha male to him, a prey beyond-reach for his avid gay-obsession. Had it not been for the intervention of the Sicilian Mafia, today you would be a veritable feast for the flies and bacteria of the Morgue of Nugaró. Even if I am not used to blow on my own trumpet, I should congratulate myself for having helped Balou´s two wishes come true: the literary purpose; and the one to protect his beloved´s father from death. This story carries on.
- Correct me if I am wrong, René Sargón: Haroldo Cuéllar and Green Beret had plotted together to murder Adolfo Sammartino, for his further fate of becoming an embalmed corpse. It was a perfect plan so far. Each of you was assigned a different task: you were committed to dispatch Adolfo to another world, someone was expected to find a floating stiff in whichever Colombian river, and it would have meant that your job had been done, right? On the other side, Cuéllar´s engagement was to mummify the writer, he had to build the embalming chamber for Adolfo Sammartino: to put it nicer, the construction of his permanent abode. In order to complete the whole mission, the deceased, already embalmed, should be taken to the refuge of Villa de Leyva. True of false?
- True –René had nothing but to accept how things were planned.
‘If taken in a broad sense, well deep inside –uttered Franco Salomone mockingly– Haroldo Cuéllar is a big-hearted person. While if things had gone as they were really planned, your death certificate should have been delivered yesterday, as far as it concerns the work-schedule ‘valid-only-for-your-ex-partner´s-head’, now turned into malefactor; your span of time on earth must therefore have been over, whereas if it had been followed the agreed chronogram (the one between you and Cuéllar) for the application of the Zeta Technique, Adofo Sammartino should be dead today. This means that the idea of Cuéllar was never to send Adolfo Sammartino away to the slaughterhouse. Even less has he ever intended to marry Valentina Sargón Gutiérrez. He deftly made René Sargón believe both things in order to conceal his shady maneuvers. So, two plus two equals four: one person who was expected to die yesterday, I mean you, would have never been able to kill anyone today.
Franco Salomone, a consummate actor, purposely made a pause to allow Green Beret assimilate the flow of data he had just received, in addition to make him realize for himself that the preaching of Cuéllar on tapping the cell phone of Valentina as well as on the bipolarity of Balou were, in the end, empty words, not established facts.
- Concerning today´s elimination of Adolfo Sammartino, it is very sad for you to hear, René, that it would have been impossible to consummate. As he has left Colombia under our protection and he counts on our collaboration for his safety. He somehow quitted the world.
‘It is wrong to suppose, my dear René, that Adolfo Sammartino´s love feeling towards Valentina Sargón is sheer imaginary. Though intangible, his love is for real. Conversely, in recent times Balou has shown a reprehensible behavior before your family. By driving him away from your daughter you did the right thing. That is something we can agree on. But the threat, man, was unnecessary. In the aftermath Balou sought redress by pleading for forgiveness, in which he failed. In actuality, this is the state of affairs. Balou acknowledges that your incapability to forgive him is grounded on the excesses he had committed. You, your family, were not taught how to forgive. As I said, Balou´s love for your daughter is real, and here they are two hard evidences of it, which should be regarded as the penances he did to compensate the damages caused. These evidences confirm that Balou has forgiven your family´s incapability to forgive.
Franco Salomone was holding two folders in his hands: one was rocky brown, the second was violet. He opened the first.
- Balou told you about the life-story of Vito Galmarini, a long-lived Sicilian aged one hundred and thirty-two, who refused to hold the human´s Guinness record of longevity, didn´t he?
- He did.
- Well. The super centenary is a relative of mine and has just died in Trapani. He was an elderly crack of one hundred-and thirty-eight-years old by the time he passed away. One afternoon he went to take a short nap and no longer woke up. Perhaps is better that way, because Methuselah feared to lose his status of the longest-living human in the world. And so long as it´s appropriate to leave Methuselah undisturbed, it´s appropriate not to disturb me either. Vito Galmarini was immensely rich, you can imagine he has left a fortune, a will with a list of heirs. Adolfo Sammartino is one of the legitimate heirs to the deceased´s estate, but he gave up his share as he decided instead to transfer –by means of a public instrument– what it corresponded to him, to Valentina Sargón Gutiérrez. Adolfo Sammartino is no longer in need of bank accounts or wealth. Following instructions from Balou, I´ve just appeared on the scene to deliver to you a deed of transfer of a rural property located near the local castle in central Sicily, which covers an extension of one thousand and five hundred hectares. The land is hereby owned by Valentina Sargón.
René stayed still.
- Pick it up.
Again, René stayed still.
- Either you take the deed of transfer or I shall be forced to execute the Zeta Technique over your well-shaped body, Green Beret –Franco Salomone threatened René.
The Sicilian placed the folders on the sofa in a gentle manner, opened up the guitar case of Valentina (Salomone had snatched it from René in a fatal moment of distraction), took the rifle, he loaded it and aimed straight at René´s head.
It was a nerve-wracking experience for René to realize that he had been deprived of his ammunitions and supplies, as a consequence of which he found himself defenseless.
- Grab it! It´s an order.
René disobeyed.
Franco Salomone shot.
The bullet sounded like a guard whistle when a burglar is being caught in fraganti, and crashed against a bottle of Jack Daniels shelved at the food and drink counter, being the scattered whiskey a present from Venancio Pombo to a beautiful Valentina, all dolled-up, for her birthday number seventeen. A pale René Sargón finally grabbed the rocky-browned folder after noting that he had escaped unhurt from the gunshot. Relieved, he sat down again.
- I am overwhelmed at how easily we understand each other, Green Beret. I issued an order when I said ‘take the folder’. Next time pay attention to my imperative tone of voice. You shall sign both copies and your signature must be certified by a public notary so that the legal tradition of the land can be concluded, and thus have effects against third parties. You shall send us one of the signed copies by return post, which should be retained in our archives of Caltanisetta. I chose the rocky-browned color for the folder in view that is the color of the House-museum of Ágira inherited by Valentina.
As if time didn´t count for him, Franco Salomone dwelled on the hidden history behind the landed property. Until nineteen hundred ninety-five the estate had belonged to a famous Sicilian impressionist painter named Elio Sammartino, from whom Galmarini bought it before the artist´s death, and in honor to his contribution to the Sicilian culture and art, Galmarini recycled it into a House-museum. Although a Catania-resident, Elio had often used the land as a country holiday resort as well as a studio-atelier, for the countryside showered him with inspiration, which explains that most of his masterpieces were conceived there. When Galmarini, free-time curator, met Balou the writer during his 2012 visit to the island, he prevented from telling him that Elio Sammartino turned out to be a direct descendant of Vincenzo Sammartino´s elder brother, the mysterious Leonardo.
‘Within the Sicilian Mafia the concealment of information is commonplace, part of the job so to speak –on saying this Salomone triggered a macabre rictus–. Furthermore, ten centuries back the House-museum used to be a lodge for the knight templars on their way to Holy Land, for the crusaders who battled against the Saracens to keep them away from the temple of Jerusalem.
- We know that Valentina has read a lot about the knight Templars.
- And we are confident that Valentina will love the land –Franco Salomone got excited in a loud voice.
Now Franco Salomone set the writer on with the violet folder. The choice of the violet color was due, he explained, to Valentina being an emission of the violet ray of creation, a topic to which the Master Saint Germain chiefly alludes throughout his work.
- What is the violet folder about? Perhaps another inheritance on my daughter´s behalf? –René inquired sarcastically.
- Better than that. Along the dedication of the book ‘Universal Travelling Assistant’ our dear author predicted that someday Valentina Sargón Gutiérrez would be a star model working for Dolce&Gabbana, the renowned Italian fashion house. Just a few days ago I spent some time with Balou in Milan, and went along with him to drop a letter-request at the legal seat of Dolce&Gabbana, located in Via Goldoni 10. Five large-seized pictures of Valentina were also introduced in the envelope. As for his life in society, it was Balou´s last deed.
- What is he asking for in the letter?
- He pleads Dolce&Gabbana to hire Valentina as top model.
- He is asking too much.
- That´s true –Salomone admitted–. But bear in mind that certain requests that Balou had once made remained unhandled. For instance, the forgiveness he claimed for from the Sargón family.
René´s blushing face didn´t go unnoticed to Franco Salomone. Nevertheless, the latter kept silent, as he only spoke when needed.
- Upon signature of this one-year contract with Dolce&Gabbana Valentina will be established as the public face for them in Latin America, exception made for Argentina. On signing this document, you will act as her representative, while Valentina will be the executor of the object of this contract. On the other side, the Sicilian Mafia stands as guarantor. In witness whereof we have already signed as such in the last page. We are in charge of ensuring no diversions from the object of the contract, like Valentina being tempted to carry out services, let say beyond the scope of the contract, more libidinous ones to put it another way. You know what I mean?
- Of course, not all was plain sailing, since at a given moment, we were almost ready to implement the Zeta technique over some hierarchs of Dolce&Gabanna because at the beginning they showed themselves reluctant to sign the contract. For no reason. It was enough to mend their ways however, to put some pressure on them, cause them little injuries, lacerations, slight contusions, mild sprains which miraculously affected their brain functions a bit, resulting in transitory cerebral blood flow being thinned out, but in the end, no one was critically injured so to deserve hospitalization.
‘There is something essential, René, in which models differ from Mafia members: while models never miss a chance to be in the spotlight, they strive to emerge in as many social networks as possible, we strive to achieve the opposite: we have no ambition for publicity. Model decorate the scenes of daily life with their beautifulness, whereas we struggle to hose down the crime scenes, and in doing so any vestige of beautifulness as well as any remnant of live are rapidly cleaned out. We came to cherish the erasure of the tracks of our own undertakings. So, what is the point of all this? By avoiding exhibition, the pitiful mishap with the golden boys of Dolce&Gabbana did not hit the press: thank to our benevolent methods we managed to eliminate embarrassing witnesses and so was the fate of potential snitches. I don´t know why the latter loved to be whipped, and due to that devotion for masochism they end up learning out of the most unfriendly manners. It is sad to be forced to use cruelty, when it is at hand getting them to see reason in a more subtle manner.
Now Franco Salomone picked up the rifle, threw the contract off him, and aimed it at the target.
- Spare the reading and sign it straightaway, Green Beret, for this time I won´t miss the target.
Stimulated by the instinct of survival humans usually come equipped with, René signed the contract with a handwriting which would probably have left speechless the most prominent graphologists from around the world.
- Place the contract on the sofa.
Franco Salomone leapt to his feet to meet Green Beret´s face: not more than two centimeters separated the lips of the Sicilian from those of René. A swollen vein protruded from the Italian´s right temple, seemingly on the verge of exploding: the native of Caltanisetta began to shout out unintelligible words in his dialect while breathing on René, who failed to understand a word of it. Since it was long in itself, the silence lingered on: silence ad-infinitum.
- Stop trembling, man –Franco Salomone said in Spanish.
- I am not trembling.
- Yes, you are, cause I am holding your hips with my hands and feel the trembling fit –he answered back, now in Italian.
In his last intervention as such, Franco Salomone pulled away jumping backwards, and informed René:
- I will henceforward be acting as Lombardo Giovanni, my murderous version.
The paleness of René became evident.
- Repeat with me: Lombardo Giovanni.
- Lombardo Giovanni.
- That´s the way it is.
- The warning sign hung outside on the fence is bullshit.
- How did you realize about it?
- I´ve checked the house and there is no radar. The sign telling ‘this house is under the surveillance of Radar’ is foolish food for fools. Radar is either your cat or your dog, or both of them are called the same way. The mere idea of hanging a false threatening sign is formulaic and trite: it is no child´s play to chase away modern agents, spies, thieves and sleuths. Never forget, Green Beret, that in order to succeed, modern thieves and agents take profit of unprepared folks, and also of secret agents non-updated. ‘Bisogna aggiornarsi’ my friend. So what? Is Radar your cat or your dog?
- Radar is my dog, Lombardo Giovanni.
- It is not your dog at all –Lombardo Giovanni disagreed.
A deafening rage invaded Lombardo Giovanni as he walked, resembling an incurable maniac, around the house in search of his prey with a crossbow in hand. He was busy making the dumb show of shooting anywhere, aiming at whatever object within his field of vision. Intermingled with bursts of laughter. When everything finally seemed to get calmer, he turned around aiming at René Sargón´s head.
- You know what, Green Beret? I, Lombardo Giovanni, like yourself, am the worst lowlife in the market, a specimen with bottled-up violence. Yet always yearning for glorious bloodshed. There has been no other mission in the past with lesser violence than this one, the ongoing literary tour, lesser dead people than they could be found in the church of Nugaró, which I visited yesterday. Lack of violence hurts inside, please help me quench my thirst with at least one casualty to boast about. We might kill your pet, so that I can get back to Sicily with the feeling of accomplished mission.
The elliptic course of the shot finished with Radar being killed through the neck.
- Don´t get me wrong, Franco Salomone is a good shot too, the fact is though, that Salomone is a man of peace, he is my diplomatist version, a dialogue-oriented messenger, he who provides sensible information, a philanthropist to say the least –to have offered to transgendered sexual workers and whores a free live performance at Salitre bus terminal of Bogotá, is supporting evidence of my speech–. Whereas Lombardo Giovanni resorts to the rudest instincts available in human beings.
- There is a taxi waiting outside, let us take it together. We´ve got a flight to take destination Bogotá. You ought to help me out in order to return a favour someone did to me, which is related to your last-minute victory.
- I would like to pose to you two more questions, Lombardo Giovanni –René asked for permission.
The Sicilian lowlife wiped his right hand on his chin soothingly, caressed it, he was almost levitating when he approached the library for a glass of Armagnac. After sipping a little bit of brandy, a twist in his face ensued, it was as if for some unknown reason his features had softened into tenderness. He who spoke next was a completely different man, kind of beatific seer:
- Now it´s time for you to address to me as Antonio Péccora, my spiritual version.
- Okay, Mister Antonio Péccora: my first question is: Where is Balou now? Where is destiny leading him to?
- Do you remember, René, the flowchart that in past years you drew, as an expert in Egyptology, to your best friend Harold Cuéllar? Referred to the eastern location of the kingdom of life, coincident with the Nile River, while to the west laid the mountains of Libya, the kingdom of death? Does this seem familiar to you?
- Yes, it does.
- Well, in terms of the flowchart Balou headed for the West, in search for his final retreat. But before going to live as an anchorite and step into the dessert until he, one day, wakes up under the wings of death, Balou had paid a visit to Luxor and to the Sanctuary of Dendera in southern Egypt. He claims to have found in the latter the source of eternal happiness.
- The second question is: Is there any reason for you to wear the uniform of the G.A.U.L.A.? Does the Sicilian Mafia cooperate with them in any way?
- Not at all.
Antonio Péccora, with both the pipe in his left hand and the glass of Armagnac in the other, was staging a carefree bon vivant character, looking purposely self-possessed and restful like a trusted friend. While he rested his legs over the coffee table facing the sofa, he explained to René that no link has ever existed between the G.A.U.L.A. and the Sicilian Mafia. However, the Mafia decided to borrow the initial from the Colombian governmental institution to label the mission already accomplished under his leadership. Though to Antonio Péccora the G.A.U.L.A. initial symbolized a more spiritual state of affairs: ‘Group of action unified for the liberation of an anima’, whose meaning is cleared up hereunder:
After leaving the letter and pictures of Valentina at Via Goldoni 10 in Milan but prior to bidding farewell to each other, Antonio Péccora had gone for a coffee with the writer to celebrate the milestone achieved with regards to the ‘Dolce&Gabbana´s-golden-boys-being-tighten-up-Gate’; they had left the fashion emporium shoulder to shoulder and thus headed to a cafeteria nearby the Duomo. Entranced, speaking in a mystical fashion, Balou raised the cup of coffee over his head and pleaded Antonio Péccora to stick to his promise of getting the modelling contract signed by the Colombian side as well as to deliver to René the deed of transfer of the rural property of Ágira, as in doing so the Sargón family members could feel themselves indemnified. In Balou´s opinion, only an asset growth positively affecting Valentina´s domestic economy would act as a real compensation, a settlement of accounts between him and her. Only through such a move his soul would cease to be oppressed by lack of forgiveness, only then his soul could be freed and his Self be acquitted.
- As a sign of prediction about the future release of Balou´s soul –announced Péccora with pride–, the whole personnel involved in this mission bear the G.A.U.L.A. stamp on their uniform lapels. I remind you that in the same vein, on the inside of each book flap a monitoring device was placed. The fact is that, twist it how you will, anywhere you look at you will find carefully covered up procedures. The lapel in our unofficial garments is tantamount to a dust cover in Balou´s books. As things should be like when speaking of an organized crime syndicate, we carried out a successful double-mission of surreptitious nature.
Green Beret remembered the three golden rules set by Franco Salomone and thought: ‘Would it be a stupid question to make what kind of favor Antonio Péccora needed to return? Which might be my involvement in his returning a favor?’ With the fear (of Péccora turning into Lombardo Giovanni again) embedded inside his body, he rather remained silent.
René got on the taxi first, the Sicilian proceeded likewise subsequently. Once both were inside the car, they set off to the airport like greased lightning.
THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE NOVEL, BUT THERE IS AN EPILOG
