Mulder and Scully’s reinforcements arrived a while ago, and from outside you can hear the confused sounds of cars and the voices of people talking over each other, repeatedly telling the spectators to “stay back” because “there’s nothing to see here.”
They seem to be tremendously busy out there, even though the monitors keep feeding us the same images, more or less, and the sensation that I’m starting to feel as I realize that I’m now inextricably a cast member of this reality show of sorts with a condemned man awaiting execution is embarrassingly familiar: could it be, I ask myself, that we’ve run through the entire bank of narrative canons available?
At a certain point I think I hear a helicopter coming closer but I couldn’t be sure: that too might be just another one of the imagination’s ready-made dishes.
Every so often a siren wails, I wonder why they turn it on, by now the building must be surrounded and I can’t imagine there’s still any need to warn anyone at this point. Maybe it’s a way of continuing to attract rubberneckers so the cops can tell them to stay back because there’s nothing to see here.
The carabinieri have cordoned off the space in front of the supermarket with their squad cars, but the hyenas have refused to give up their positions and continue to watch over the scene of the so-called trial, although they have been forced to move back, maintaining a safe distance roughly equivalent to that between the audience and the stage at a rock concert. Ever since Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo revealed Matrix’s identity and announced the reason he’d taken him hostage they’d gathered in a silence that seemed suspiciously like the rumblings of imminent revolt. In all likelihood a faction is being formed to root for the wrong side, and I believe that Mulder and Scully also foresee this same outcome because they look increasingly on edge, and for that matter this would not be the first time that police and carabinieri were attacked by the very people they’re supposed to protect.
Not long ago RAI TV also showed up, in the person of a formerly hot female journalist, her hair carefully tousled and unkempt, and as soon as she stepped out of the news truck she immediately interviewed Mulder, who told her nothing more than the bare necessities, summarizing facts of which she was certainly already aware, only to beg off, saying: “Now please let us do our job,” after which she attempted to talk to Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo in, as they say, real time, but he caught her off guard and explained to her that all he was willing to give her was permission to place her video cameras facing in the direction of the monitors and to broadcast live, otherwise she and her entire news crew could leave. After all, the video up to that point had already been saved to the computer, and that’s not all: a local television station that she’d probably never even heard of but which nevertheless existed (because, he was quick to add, local TV stations do exist)—and unless he’d been misinformed, that local station was also carried on a satellite network—was already broadcasting it from the beginning (“Yes, but the reporting was done by Mary Stracqualurso!” I was tempted to say to him), so it was pointless for her to act as if she were getting a scoop, in fact she’d be well advised to get rid of her whole snooty attitude that she was the national journalist who was going to show up and immediately monopolize the news, given the fact that she’d arrived second, and in these cases there’s no way of inverting the addenda.
Now I’m not especially fond of the journalist in question, but frankly I didn’t see any reason to treat her in that manner, especially given the very real likelihood that that idiot Mary Stracqua might think that Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo was taking her side and defending the TV station for which she, so to speak, worked; but that was obviously just my problem.
Clearly Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo was nursing some sort of age-old dislike for this woman: one of those dislikes that you just can’t wait to express (that kind of thing happens sometimes with television personalities).
To keep from seeming mortified, the formerly hot female journalist put on a formal smile (one of the best ways to defend yourself against embarrassing situations is to pretend you find them amusing), but there was no mistaking the fact that she was really upset about it. There was a look on her face like the one you see on the faces of politicians during the opening sequence of the talk show Ballarò when, by regulation, they are obliged to take the wisecracks of Maurizio Crozza, who even calls them by their first names before busting their chops, one by one, methodically, and in order to seem likable they let loose with those bloodcurdling belly laughs, the kind that make it perfectly clear that what they’d really like to do is get to their feet and curse the moderator’s nearest and dearest deceased relatives.
And so what the poor RAI television journalist tried to do next was retreat to live commentary, but she almost instantly realized that this was a tactical misstep, because when you’re dealing with reality television all comments are like lipstick on a pig, since as a format it’s practically self-sufficient (the highest degree of usefulness that moderators of reality shows can attain is when they announce the nominations or introduce the live feed with the father and the mother of the idiot who’s on that week and the idiot, from the private booth—that sort of cubbyhole from which the contestants communicate with the studio, with red moquette on the walls like in a bordello—starts whimpering and whining about how he loves and misses them, and his parents, even stupider than him, reply that they’re so proud to have a son like him).
Matrix seems exhausted: or, more precisely, disjointed. The fact that he can’t move his arms or legs has made him restless, so that he keeps changing position: sitting, squatting, kneeling, on his side, standing.
In spite of everything, he maintains an obstinate combativeness in his eyes and jaws that in a way I even find admirable, and he concentrates as much as he can on his effort to keep from looking Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo in the eye. Denying him his gaze is the sole offensive weapon remaining to him.
I review events and reflect.
There are only the three of us left in here (Matteo the deli counterman just a short while ago obtained permission to leave). Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo has captured his man and exhibited him before the video cameras exactly as he had planned. He’s told his tragic story and delivered it into the public realm. He introduced himself with his first and last name, and then he introduced his prey, also with first and last name. He has attracted the attention of the mass media and compelled law enforcement to intervene. He has succeeded in having the building isolated and surrounded. In mobilizing a daunting array of men, vehicles, and infrastructure. Outside, the usual little knot of pro-mob-boss demonstrators are probably getting ready to make themselves heard, just to throw the sense of solidarity among the crowd back into a minor state of crisis. The video footage that has been stored in the supermarket’s central computer and broadcast on television up to this moment alone is destined to become the subject of studies, arguments, and especially media jackals for a long, long time from here on. Even if Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo stopped right here, limiting himself to taking this man hostage without going any further, he’d still go down in history. At this point, whether or not he shoots his prisoner is a fairly secondary matter. He’s already become an icon of a civil society that has nothing left to lose and is now desperately counterattacking, and he’s probably well aware of it (even if this was not his goal). Before long, Mulder has told us, Assistant District Attorney Carlo Alberto Garavaglia will arrive; for years he has been investigating the criminal activities of Gabriele Caldiero (alias Matrix), and he wishes to have a frank and open discussion (that is exactly what Mulder said, verbatim) with Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo, in the hopes of dissuading him from taking this all the way, I presume. With regard to which Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo merely observed: “I have nothing to say to Dottor Garavaglia, except that today I will do the job he failed to do.”
His plan, in other words, putting aside whatever finale may be awaiting us, has worked out perfectly.
And I, now that we’re about to get to the (so to speak) good part, have had my fill of the whole thing. Because I’m suddenly filled with an oppressive feeling of self-pity, and I can’t stand being here a minute longer.
If you think that self-pity is an inappropriate emotion in this sort of situation, you’re quite wrong. I’ve spent my whole life getting sucked into things that mean nothing to me, spending time in places I want to leave.
How many times have I found myself in similar situations? Sure, without armed engineers, okay, but perfectly identical in essence. Situations in which I could feel someone stitching a role onto me that was not mine, appropriating my life, my desires, and who I thought I wanted to be. I’m all too familiar with that malaise, that wondering, “What on earth am I doing here?” and staying even when all I want to do is go, or, even better, never to have been there in the first place. If I have one regret, it’s that I’ve accepted instead of walking away, that I’ve said yes to keep from disappointing the expectations of those who have placed their faith in me; and the years have gone by, turning me into that domesticated version of myself that I know I am now.
I see myself, right here and now, not much older than twenty-five, in a courtroom during a hearing in a criminal trial, as a pair of carabinieri escort a sort of CEO of the Camorra into a cage located just a few yards away from the raised podium where the panel of judges presides (a distance that, choreographically as well as visually, has always reminded me of the distance between a baby’s crib—which, in fact, has bars—and the big bed where Mamma and Papà sleep), and the guy’s attitude is one more of concession than of submission to the legal process, a nonchalance typical of the habitué, as if all that remained to be ascertained in his case was how to conveniently reconcile the various charges and who knows what other debts to society remaining on his account, recalculating a sentence or weighing it and eventually reducing it in light of other sentences; and the only thing I’m thinking about in that moment is that I can’t stand wearing a tie, that I’ve never been able to stand it because it makes me feel stiff and I have a hard time breathing; and yet I’ve been putting one on every morning for the past six months, and in the past few weeks I’ve even been successfully tying the knot on the first try, and what’s worse is that I’m getting used to seeing myself in the mirror with these clothes on. And then I decide that I absolutely need to find a new café, because the barista at the café I go to get my breakfast at every morning already calls me Counselor, but I’m not a lawyer, I’m tempted to tell him, I only just graduated, I haven’t passed the bar, I’m not sure what I want to do, I might not even take the bar exam at all, I don’t want your terms of respect, direct your expectations elsewhere and stop filing liens on me, I refuse to sign, I’m not planning to marry your daughter, Signore Barista.
“See you around, Engineer,” I say to Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo, catching him off guard.
And I start heading toward the aisle.
All outside sounds die away at that exact moment.
You could hear a pin drop.
The impression I get—crystal clear, as if I were visualizing it—is of a wave withdrawing and pausing for a moment before crashing down on the rocks again.
It takes me a minute to remember that we’re broadcasting live.
“What?” says Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo.
He seems so sincere that then and there I think that he really didn’t understand me.
“I’m leaving,” I explain, with the same nonchalance that I would have used if he’d asked me what time it was. “I don’t intend to stay here.”
A half-smile appears on his lips, like an indulgent father who’s been disobeyed.
“I don’t recall telling you that you could go.”
“I didn’t ask your permission.”
He thinks it over.
“Don’t provoke me, Counselor.”
“And if I do, what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?”
We plunge into a silence that lingers in the air.
In the monitor I glimpse the silhouettes of Scully and Mulder as they seem to sharpen. Matrix lifts his head and looks at me; I sense his admiration. Then I feel something like a shiver running through an audience held in suspense, emanating either from the monitors or else from the crowd waiting behind a barricade outside, and directed at me personally. There is no doubt that I’m making quite an impression at this point. And it’s even likely that I gave my defiant answer for this exact purpose.
If you want me to tell you, the dimension of live TV is not bad at all. Because everything you do or say automatically benefits from a heightened symbolic potency, which disinhibits you so much that it pushes you to go all the way in anything you’ve started, even if you’re not entirely sure of it (like right now, when I must seem like a very courageous guy, whereas all I really want is to get out of here).
It’s the most natural thing in the world, in fact, to feel a surge of pleasure upon seeing reality respond promptly to any input. Because reality doesn’t usually let anything shake its foundations so easily. The relationship that reality tends to establish, at least with the human race, is one of delayed cause and effect. I’d even say that, if we really want to tell it like it is, most of the time reality is so lackadaisical that by the time it responds, you’re long over it. And so by the time reality is there in front of you, all willing and eager (television perfectly produces this impression of transition-in-process), obviously, you’re glad to take advantage of it.
It’s a little bit like winning at roulette or craps, actually.
Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo continues to look at me without speaking. In a certain sense, I’ve got him cornered. The most telling detail is the way he keeps shooting glances at the monitors.
“You know perfectly well that I wouldn’t do that.”
I look at his pistol.
“No, in fact, I don’t know that at all.”
He stares at me.
In this moment, it seems to me as if I’ve disarmed him.
So I press on:
“Would you trust me, if I were talking to you with a gun in my hand?”
“You’re not the one I’m using it against.”
I reply in a stream of words, following the flow of my own arugmentation:
“The mere fact that you have it changes everything.”
We stop talking and look at each other. I’m so satisfied with what I’ve said that I think this really would be the perfect moment to turn and leave. If there’s one thing that I really like (this is something I haven’t mentioned yet) it’s walking off-stage.
When there’s no crushing retort, of course.
Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo thinks it over, then nods, allowing a hostility that he hasn’t shown until now to shine through.
“Do you want to know what you’ve just made me realize, Counselor Malinconico?”
I say nothing and wait for him to answer his own question.
“If with this performance straight out of an American TV drama you expect to get me to beg you or even force you to stay, you’re mistaken. But what’s worse is that you haven’t understood the way things work. Not just in here, but also outside in the larger world.”
Whereupon I have to exercise great self-control to keep from popping him one in the nose. First of all, to hear him accuse me of televised exhibitionism—him of all people!—is at the very least ridiculous. Second, I can’t stand these kinds of attempted thefts of other people’s dialectical advantages with the aggravating factor of paternalism. We’re arguing, I trip you up, and so now you say that I’m the one who doesn’t get it? It’s an ugly accusation, telling others they don’t get it when it’s all perfectly clear. What, did you have an ace up your sleeve that you were refraining from using out of chivalry? Fuck you: if you’re so smart, how come you didn’t say it earlier? Or else, be my guest, let’s see if you know how to shake the foundations.
“Oh, really?” I retort, with a sarcasm that gives me a great deal of pleasure, considering that I usually tend not to know how to reply in this kind of situation. “Well, excuse me if I don’t understand much about the world, Engineer. Too bad there’s not a damned thing to understand here, aside from the fact that you’re forcing us all to witness your misbegotten spectacle, which frankly ranks far below a cheap American TV drama.”
The hyenas burst into an obscene explosion of laughter that can be heard from here.
“I’m not forcing you in the slightest,” Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo rejoins with an irritating show of calm. “Do you want to leave? Go ahead. After all, I’m just trying to do you a favor. If you choose not to take advantage of it, so much the worse for you.”
This last line sounds even crazier than the one before it. For a moment I stare at him, as if I’d missed something and were trying to figure out whether the atrocity that had just escaped his lips had any foundation in fact. That’s what happens when people try to foist the reverse of the facts on you.
“Hey, try not to spout any more bullshit. We’ve heard far too much of it already today.”
And instinctively I turn to look at Mary Stracqua.
Who looks back at me uncomfortably.
More cackling.
And even one who hiccups.
I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.
“Let’s get one thing clear, all right?” I continue. “First, I don’t need any favors; second, I didn’t ask you for any; third, taking someone hostage isn’t a favor: ask around.”
“I took a criminal hostage, Counselor, not you. I only offered you a case. And the offer still holds, if you’re interested. I really don’t understand why you’re clinging to this stupid matter of principle. After all, all I asked for was for you to do your job, nothing more. And what’s more, until just a short while ago, you were doing very well.”
Now I lose it.
“It’s time for you to cut it out with this buffoonery, Engineer. I’m not working as a lawyer here. I’m just another one of your hostages being forced into a cameo in a television format of questionable taste.”
“Exactly. How can you fail to see the opportunity that’s just fallen into your lap?”
I’m left speechless.
Some wise guy outside laughs.
“Excuse me?”
“You have a counter-historical concept of your profession, Counselor. Don’t you know what kind of world you’re living in? Do you still believe that trials are held in courthouses?”
I take a deep breath and force myself to think clearly.
“Oookay. You already said that to Captain Mul . . . you’ve already said it. And it’s an interesting and provocative idea, I won’t deny that. But if you expect us to take it literally you really are delirious.”
“Then take this literally: who are you? A famous lawyer, by chance?”
My head starts swimming slightly (when people insult me, I generally tend to get dizzy), then I turn red as a prawn and probably start to puff up too.
“You’re an asshole.”
No reply.
In fact, just a smile.
Outside, the hyenas seem to be having a party.
I look up at the television monitor and see Scully covering her mouth with her hand.
My jaw quivers.
“If you weren’t holding a gun I’d punch you right in the mouth.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Go fuck yourself.”
“What I meant was simply that I doubt you’re any less talented than any number of trained pet lawyers who pontificate on television every other day, and on the odd days too.”
That much is true, I think to myself.
“I’m not a TV showgirl, Engineer. I’m a lawyer. I don’t need spotlights and I don’t need cameras. You can have them.”
A few people cheer, while a few others boo and jeer.
“Come on, Malinconico, don’t be a hypocrite. There are no lawyers who don’t want to be famous. Legal careers are based on success and fame.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but that’s not where my ambitions lie.”
“Ah, no? Then what is it exactly that you’re hoping for, to remain a supremely talented nobody?”
Well, how do you like that, I think to myself.
“The whole idea of niche professions is out-of-date, Counselor. Get rid of it. Today you have an opportunity to practice your profession at the very highest level, the level that matters. Here, on live television, right now, without having read the files and exhibits, without having prepared your defense, without knowing where to start nor exactly what to say, without judges or court clerks or witnesses or defendants, without any civil rights or due process. We’re in the kingdom of approximations, we’re on TV, you understand? And not just any channel: RAI TV. This is the courtroom that people pay attention to.”
I’m left stunned, or perhaps I should say . . . left behind, as if I were unwilling to give him credit for having recovered so quickly. The worst thing is that I can’t even motivate myself to come up with a response to his arguments because, however much it annoys me to admit it, they intrigue me. But in any case I couldn’t make a retort even if I wanted to, because he doesn’t give me the time.
“Criminal prosecutions have become a farce. There’s no longer any mystery, there’s nothing compelling about them. Can you imagine the look on Kafka’s face if he could see what’s become of the trial in these people’s hands? To get to a definitive verdict you have to go through three levels of courts, which is quite enough to ensure that the crime’s dramatic impact thoroughly fades away. And in the meanwhile, television holds a trial of its own, shapes an audience, splits it into those in favor and those against, teaches them all to parrot court-speak, and sees to it that certain laws are passed and others aren’t.”
He’s leaking like a faucet. Clearly he’s been pondering these concepts for a long time, and that’s why he expresses them with such conviction. For that matter, you can’t undertake any sort of armed military mission without some foundation of theoretical preparation.
Keep going, I think. Sooner or later I’ll answer you.
“Why would you expect people to care about a case that drags on for years and years, with delays and peevish objections of every kind, only to culminate, when it does culminate, in a cobbled-together verdict that fails to punish the guilty or compensate the victims? The half-baked television version is a thousand times more impactful. It gives rise to ways of thinking, it shapes trends.”
At this point I’m getting ready to say something.
He probably realizes it, and drives home his point.
“You might tell me I haven’t done much better. That I’ve put together a vulgar spectacle and by doing so I’m sinking to the same level as the criminal I’m judging. I’ll admit that, if it gives you any satisfaction. But try stopping the first person you meet on the street tomorrow morning, and ask them if they know who my son was.”
He stops to gather his thoughts while I try to reassemble the different parts of his argument which, while it still fails to convince me, is technically impeccable.
“The trial of the probable murderers of Massimiliano, yes that really was a piece of buffoonery. Two coke-addicted hired killers who’ve done nothing but lie for the past two years, kicking their criminal responsibility back and forth without naming a single name or admitting to a single juridically useful fact. I wish I could show you the arrogance with which they sit in court and answer the prosecuting magistrates’ questions, the barefaced shamelessness of their statements. You ought to come by sometime and see the gall of the witnesses as they retract their testimony. The omertà—the code of silence—that you can smell in the air the minute someone mentions this man’s name. The judges’ powerlessness against a mouth that refuses to open.”
A silence of agreement falls.
Even the hyenas are quiet.
I don’t know if I’m successful in masking it, but at this point I’m truly impressed.
“I won’t tolerate this quagmire any longer, Counselor. This silencing of truths that are evident to one and all. Today I’m speaking my mind, taking the floor, and I’m no longer interested in complying with the rules. I want a kangaroo court of my own, ham-handed and slapdash, a trial held in aisles lined with sliced prosciutto and fresh mozzarella. Look, I fit in perfectly. There’s no need to even include a word from our sponsors, no commercials of any kind. I want an audience, a real audience, made up of unspecialized television viewers, and I want them to hear about my son, I want them to remember his story, I want them to believe more or less in his innocence. That’s enough for me. I want to have the benefit of the doubt, but genuine doubt, with some who believe and others who don’t. I’ve had more than enough of this culpable ambiguity to which I’ve already been sentenced, de facto. And look, I’m not even interested in seeing justice served; I don’t aim that high. All I want is for justice to be known.”
He stops as if to savor the silence after that summation (which, to give him full credit, has left us even more speechless than we were before; who knows whether he improvised it or wrote it out in advance), and that’s when—just as I’m making a superhuman effort to come up with an argument that has even a shred of validity to offer in rebuttal to his impeccable populist pragmaticism—an unpleasant and familiar odor reaches us, making us all simultaneously lower our eyes in Matrix’s direction.
I say we “lower” our eyes because a puddle of piss is spreading across the floor at the prisoner’s feet.
With a by-now well-honed sense of television timing, we raise our eyes and look at the monitors, to see whether the detail in question is also visible in the live broadcast (at this point there’s not a gesture, a word, or an event of any kind, no matter how minuscule, that we don’t automatically go looking for confirmation of on the television sets: as if reality had moved inside those boxes, and the present moment were on a loop-delay).
Since it doesn’t appear to be glaringly obvious (the floor was already smeared with yogurt), we lock eyes and come to an instantaneous agreement to say nothing about the embarrassing spill.
It’s a little pact that automatically springs up among us, and to which I adhere instinctively and immediately without even understanding who or what it is we’re trying to defend (is it Matrix’s privacy, so openly violated by this exposure, or our own images, which we’d rather not see sullied on television, or even worse, the reality show that I’m helping to put together, albeit against my will?).
The only thing I do understand—as I catch Matrix’s eye and see that he’s now staring at Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo and smiling at him with the desperate satisfaction of someone who’s finally managed to land a blow—is that he did it on purpose.
When you see a prisoner abandon himself to such an instinctive need, you finally really understand what it means not to be able to use your hands, to be in the hands of someone else. It’s almost as if you take part personally in his regression. And it’s hard to take.
By pissing himself, Matrix has upped the ante. He has, so to speak, reversed the responsibility for his capture. As if he had turned to the television cameras and said: “Look at me now. Look at what he’s done to me.”
And Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo, practically from one second to the next, finds himself cast as a torturer and turnkey, something very different from the image he had until just a minute before (at least, it hadn’t come through so clearly).
Which, necessarily, changes everything.