Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca
âWell, celebrities⦠Yes, thereâs some. For example, that one dates back about twenty years agoâ he said, taking pride for it, while showing a photo that had faded with time. âIâm with Marco Van Basten, that was the year when AC Milan won both the UEFA Champions League and the Italian Champions. Eh⦠those were good times.â
âIndeed! Are you supporting AC Milan too, eh?â
âYeah. But everythingâs changed now. Now weâre a minor-league team.â
The client smiled, making a strange movement with his hand. He didnât know why, but he was beginning to like that man.
âYouâre right, itâs a really bad football team. Itâs better taking an interest in something else. I donât know⦠beautiful women, for example.â
Romeo became gloomy..
âIâll leave that to you. Iâve never had any luck with women. I didnât have any when I was young and still had hair, let alone now. Bald and with this gut.â
The client smiled, amused. Then, Romeo noticed that another photo had caught his attention. Before he could say anything, the man had already anticipated him.
âAnd who is this guy?â he asked. âHe looks thunderstruck. His eyes are popping out of his head.â
Romeo moved closer to the board, squinting his eyes to focus on the image. Then he put on his glasses that he kept around his neck. He stood there for a moment thinking, before he answered.
âAhâ he said finally, ânow that one really is a weird character.â
When he turned again towards him, the manâs eyes were already set on him, waiting and greedy for knowledge. Romeo checked the time on his watch. Now the conversation was really turning better.
âIf youâre not in a hurry, I can tell you that guyâs story.â
The client nodded, satisfied. It would have been impossible not to read the curiosity in his eyes. Thatâs what the client was waiting for.
***
âHe should arrive,â Mrs Beatrice told her friend.
The other woman nodded.
âUsually he comes back around this time. He works late hours. At least, from what I gather. Maybe he works shifts.â
âAh, youâve already spied on him, eh? Old busybody,â Beatrice told her, joking.
Luigia looked at her, amused.
âWe are old busybodies,â she remarked, winking at her.
Theyâd been on the landing for fifteen minutes, waiting for the new tenant to come home. He was a young man in his thirties, with dark skin. But not really black. Brownish. As if a perfect mix between a white and black person. They didnât know what the right word was to describe an individual of that skin colour.
He was a handsome young man, oh yes. Muscular too. But they were too old now to even think about picking him up. There was another reason why they had decided to wait for him. They couldnât wait to introduce themselves and gossip for a while about the habits of the other tenants who lived in the old council building. Minding other peopleâs business helps you live longer, Beatrice and Luigia were convinced. Or they wouldnât have reached eighty and eighty two years old respectively.
They heard a squeaking sound from the ground floor. The old door of the main entrance had been opened.
âHeâs coming, heâs coming,â Beatrice exclaimed, all excited.
They were beside themselves with delight. They were going to vie with one another for who was going to gossip the most.
Luigia rubbed her hands. They would have certainly told him everything under the sun. That lad was going to stay and listen to them.
But both friends saw the disappointment in each otherâs eyes when a man with a dark coat appeared on the staircase. His face was covered by a scarf and his head by a wool cap. The collar of his coat, turned with the point upwards, helped hide his identity.
The elderly ladies stood there in silence looking at him. The man, with his eyes behind glass lenses, nodded his head in a polite greeting. Beatrice and Luigia did the same.
Then the man that theyâd never seen before continued climbing the stairs, and disappeared from view.
âAnd who was that man?â Luigia asked her friend, under her breath.
âHow would I know?â the other lady answered, almost whispering. âBetween us, youâre the best gossip.â
âLook whoâs talkingâ¦â
Luigia would have liked to say something else, but at the squeaking sound from the main entrance door her friend anticipated her.
âThis must be him.â
She nodded, her bright eyes revealed her happiness.
***
The man looked around, sitting on the ruined fabric of the couch that he had found at a dump. He was moving his eyes from one side to the other of the lounge, the biggest room of his two-room flat.
His⦠What a nonsense! It was owned by the council. He felt ashamed for even thinking that only immigrants and old lonely people would live in one of these council houses. Immigrants, old people and himself, Giuliano Giuliani.
If he hadnât been caught, maybe he would have become the leader of a criminal gang, a really big one. With a lot of dough. After all, hadnât he got away with it when, during a job someone had died?
You donât make history with âifsâ, you donât make anything with âifsâ, he admitted to himself.
But, if⦠here he goes again. Well, who cares. If his life had been different, maybe he could have even had a family. A beautiful wife and a couple of brats around the house. He should have quit dealing earlier. Had he got out once heâd made his money, he couldâve thought about starting a family.
Instead he was all alone. And certainly he would remain like this for the rest of his awful life. Besides, which woman, even one of the really desperate ones, would want to have a relationship with an incomplete man?
That question made him look down at his arm that no longer had a hand, and down at his leg that was without a foot.
He sighed.
Then he cursed out loud.
***
Romeo went to the entrance door and locked it. The newsagentâs was officially closed. His working day was over.
âI bet youâve never heard such a bizarre name before,â he said to the client. âThat guy was called Giuliano Giulianiâ¦â
âLike an old goalkeeper from Udinese Football Club, I think.â
âAh, I didnât know that. Well, if so, then Iâve lost my bet.â
They chuckled, like friends.
Then, the newsagent regained his train of thought.
âGoing back to Giuliani⦠those were the times when if a client wanted to buy a copy of La Gazzetta Magazine with the special supplement, heâd come to me. I was the only one who could supply that.â
âSpecial supplement?â the client asked, with a perplexed expression that was a pleasure to watch.
âYes,