> From: “Gianni Orzan” <qwertyuiop@flashnet.it>
> To: “Lara” <larasic@libero.it>
> Subject: paranoia
> Date: Monday, August 30, 2004 5:28 P.M.
>
> Lara, I’m writing to you in a sudden fit of paranoia.
> I don’t know how, but right now I’m here at home at two
> in the afternoon, high as a kite, with an enormous black
> dog that wants to claw me to death. E-nor-mous, Lara.
> Enormous. How did this happen? How the fuck did this
> happen? The dog sniffs at me, circles me. How did this
> happen? Well: Belinda arrived. You don’t know her, Lara,
> I’ve only just met her myself. Her name is Belinda Berardi
> and she’s an actress. We’d been speaking on the phone and
> we were supposed to see each other face-to-face about a
> job, a reading for children we’re supposed to do together,
> and this morning, to get to the point, this morning she
> phoned and asked if I was free, and I told her yes, come on
> over, and she—here goes—she tells me yes, but there’s a
> problem. I’ve got the dog, she says; and I tell her no
> problem, bring the dog with you, and she says okay, I’ll be
> there in a little while, and she comes. And she’s a real
> basket case, this girl, a fantastic, fluorescent basket case, she
> forgets her house keys knocks over the mineral water gets
> pastry cream on her clothes absurd coincidences happen to
> her she’s always a little drugged out she always seems half-
> dead and yet she’s a breath of fresh air that comes into the
> house and clears it. Right away I can feel certain things,
> you know, I feel them inside. For me she’s the real thing.
> She looks like the real thing, Lara. With all the
> implications. Like I was saying, we were supposed to
> prepare a reading, she and I, but we didn’t. I can’t
> remember just what happened but she pulled out some
> weed and we started smoking. Instead of doing what we
> were supposed to be doing, I mean, we smoked this fat
> joint. And well there was the dog, but less enormous than
> he is now, and the weed started to have a major effect on
> me, and I found myself talking to her about the number 4
> and the Neutral Mind, you see it, and she goes, yeah, yeah,
> I’ve always been real neutral—duh: you were born in ’76,
> 7 + 6 = 13, 3 + 1 = 4, i.e., Neutral Mind as Divine Gift,
> you’re neutral, yeah. I get up and give some water to the
> dog, I remember, things like that. Then she starts talking,
> and she makes me laugh, she has a problem but you can’t
> tell what. Acting class. Some teacher with verbal diarrhea.
> She dropped out. I can’t understand a thing, but I can tell
> she’s got it. Awesome, I think. The Real Thing. Just look at
> how she fucking keeps beating herself up over this problem
> and you can’t even tell what it is. But she’s funny, she
> laughs, too, and despite her problem you can see she’s
> relaxed, cool: a girl who’s smoking pot and has the whole
> afternoon ahead of her. And I relax, too, because I’ve got
> the whole afternoon ahead of me, too, and we talk about
> the Neutral Mind, we laugh, etc., until drrinnn, the cell
> phone rings. She answers and—listen to this—she
> blanches. What do you mean, today? I thought it was the
> thirty-first, not the thirtieth, I was convinced, I swear, I
> don’t know what to say, sorry sorry sorry, and now what
> do we do? Really? Yes, I’ll hurry, I’ll be there in fifteen
> minutes. She had a dubbing gig, the moron. Completely
> slipped her mind. Everyone there waiting for her. So she
> jumps to her feet, and fuck this and fuck that, why do I
> have to be this way, it always happens to me, it always
> happens to me, and now what am I supposed to do, and
> where am I going to put the dog, and me—here it comes
>—I say leave it here, Belinda, I’ll watch it for you. Here?
> With you? No, I couldn’t, I don’t want to bother you—
> of course, but where would I leave it then? You would
> really look after it? So take him. And she left. Do you get it?
> She LEFT. High as a kite, dizzy, gaga, in a ridiculous rush,
> she ran off to her dubbing gig. Belinda, I tell her, what’s the
> rush? Slow down. Think. Protect yourself. You’re getting
> ready to drive your car through the maze of Roman traffic,
> high as a kite, to reach a dubbing studio where you’re going
> to make an absolute idiot out of yourself. What’s the rush?
> What the fuck are you going to say when you get there?
> That you were sitting around smoking weed and talking
> about the Neutral Mind? What the fuck are you going to
> say, eh Beli’? Use your head. Use your head, please, slow
> down, and be careful: it’s a jungle out there. And while
> you’re at it, I add, could you by any chance tell me when
> your dubbing gig is supposed to be over? Not for nothing
>—I’m getting there—I need to know what to do about
> this dog. You know, if I have to take him outside to pee,
> etc., or not. I have parquet floors, if you get my drift. At five
> thirty, she tells me. She’ll be done at five thirty. And she
> goes. And she leaves her dog here with me. Except that at
> first he wasn’t so enormous. Goddamn but he’s enormous.
> He’s hanging all over me, sniffing at me. Now he’s going to
> get all pissed off, knowing that his master’s dumped him,
> I’ll bet on it. He sees me, and with his little pea-brain he
> associates his master’s absence with me and he takes it out
> on me. And he lunges for my throat, to tear it out. I swear.
> And what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to
> defend myself? I can try to strangle him. Of course. I’ve
> heard of dogs strangled by men. It’s actually supposed to be
> the most common way for men to kill dogs. They strangle
> them. Sure, it’s possible. But I have to prepare carefully. I
> have to be ready to fight for survival. With this enormous
> and way too symbolic black dog. And I start to prepare
> myself. I get myself ready mentally to grab his throat when
> he lunges at me, and right away to squeeze tight—this is
> fundamental—decisively, terminally. No, I’m an idiot.
> Why give him the advantage of choosing when? No, I won’t
> wait for him to attack me, I’ll beat him to it. I’ll attack him.
> Yeah: be the first to strike. I’ll grab him by the neck and
> strangle him. He’ll put up a fight, of course, but what the
> fuck do I care, fight all you want, I’ve got you by the throat
> so you can’t bite me, heavy pressure for twenty, thirty,
> forty seconds, all concentrated in that gesture, all there,
> like Carmelo Bene’s Lorenzaccio when he plunges his sword
> into the tyrant’s chest, I’ll attack this fucking dog first—
> you get it?—BEFORE he attacks me. And I’ll strangle him.
> End of story. And when she comes back to pick him up
> she’ll find a corpse. Yeah. She’ll feel bad, it’s unavoidable,
> but I’ll tell her that’s how it goes in the world, baby, only
> the strong survive. That dog made a big mistake, my pretty.
> He underestimated me, he attacked me. Do you see what
> he did? He wanted to dig his teeth into my throat, he tried
> to tear me to pieces. That’s why he’s dead. I defended
> myself, sweetheart, I had no choice. It was either him or
> me. No, there’s no use putting your arms around him,
> trying to revive him, he’s dead as a doornail. I guarantee. I
> checked. She’ll keep crying and I’ll comfort her, that’s life,
> baby, and she’ll accept, because that’s the way Real Things
> are, Lara, they know how to accept evil, they even know
> how to love it…That’s how it should go, and it all
> depends on me. I have to strangle it. I have to focus,
> prepare myself. That’s it. He’s sniffing at me, the fucker. It’s
> his old tactic, sniff around a few times until the prey is used
> to being sniffed at, accepts the contact fearlessly, and then
> when he sniffs at you one more time, bam, he sinks his
> teeth into your neck. You take me for a fool? You think I
> don’t know what’s going on? He sniffs at me, or rather
> pretends to sniff at me, because in reality my smell disgusts
> him, because it’s the smell of He Who Wishes To Replace
> His Queen, and that’s why He hates me. He wants to kill
> me. A black dog, for crying out loud. It doesn’t get more
> symbolic than that. He’s not even the symbol of the demon
> anymore. He is the demon. The Beast personified. Dog with
> a capital D. I’ve got the demon in my house, for Christ’s
> sake, and I have to strangle him before He Gets Me. But I’m
> still not strong enough, I feel ready but I’m not. I have to
> fortify myself. I have to pull myself together so I don’t
> succumb. And what is my strong point? Writing. Of course,
> writing: that’s where I’m strong. That’s it, Lara, that’s it:
> now I remember. I decided to make myself stronger by
> writing. I told myself to gather my strength, to write. I’ll
> write to Lara and then I’ll strangle the Dog. That’s my
> strategy. And I came here, I went online, and I started
> writing. To fight the Demon, Lara, to triumph over Evil.
> Ah, and then there’s another paranoia: what if my
> sometime roommate arrives—Simona, who doesn’t know
> shit about this dog and is maybe terrified of dogs, especially
> Enormous Black ones, I really don’t know her that well,
> maybe she’s afraid of dogs, maybe just seeing one will give
> her a heart attack, just to hear the word DOG, what the
> fuck do I know? Maybe. Let’s say she comes in. That she
> comes in now. What’ll happen? She screams, she faints, and
> I’d be very vulnerable, well yeah, because out of nobility of
> spirit I’d rush to help her, I’d kneel by her side, and at that
> moment the Dog could lunge for my neck, from behind
> my back, of course, and while I’m trying to save a human
> life, you see, we’re talking about Him, people, not about
> some nobody, about Ipso in person, the biggest son of a
> bitch ever, he’d do it, he really would, and he’d enjoy it,
> and I would succumb, and he would kill me. He, me. No. I
> can’t let that happen. I have to prevent it. I have to think of
> something. I have to put a sign outside the door. Writing a
> sign is still a form of writing. I’ll write it and I’ll put it up
> outside the door. SIMONA I CAN’T EXPLAIN THERE’S A BIG DOG
> AT HOME TAKE A WALK AND I’LL CALL YOU WHEN HE’S GONE.
> Something along those lines. Well written. Clear. Outside
> the door. But I have to do it now. Otherwise she’ll come in,
> she could come in from one moment to the ne—Help.
> He’s barking. He’s howling. Help. The Dog’s barking. He’s
> stopped. He’s started again. He’s stopped again. I lock
> myself inside. Here in the study. If Simona arrives, that’s
> her fucking problem. I lock myself in the den, there, I’m
> locked in, and now maybe I’ll phone Simona, of course.
> And I’ll tell her on the phone, because the sign is a fucking
> stupid idea. I’ll phone her, of course. On her cell. It’s easy,
> this is the dawning of the Age of the Mobile Phone. There,
> I’m calling her. It’s ringing. Come on, pick up, Simona,
> pick up. Nothing, no answer. Fuck, she doesn’t hear it. Her
> phone rings to save her life and she doesn’t hear it, the
> moron. But wait, what about text messages? I text her.
> Much more efficient than a sign. Done: “Don’t go home
> UFN (which means until further notice, the way kids
> abbreviate it). CFY (Calling for you—I don’t think she’ll
> understand, I don’t like this abbreviating, and Simona’s
> young but not that young)—CMB (Call me back). I press
> send. She’ll understand. Good ol’ Simo will understand,
> and she’ll keep her distance from the house, where I’ll
> resist Evil all by myself. I’ll resist. No fucking way will I
> open this door. It’s even better than strangling him. I’ll stay
> locked inside here. That way he can’t have me. But—oh
> no: I suddenly remember the interview I’m supposed to do
> with Canada, any moment now. With Canada. In English.
> What can I tell them? The Adventures of Pizzano Pizza, or rather
> Pizano Piza, as they pronounce it, but who cares about
> Pizano Piza? “I’m Here Fighting Against The Dark And
> Thou Darest Ask Me About Pizano Piza?” The interview,
> yeah. Fuck. Now the phone rings and it’s Canada for the
> interview; and like an idiot I do the interview and who
> knows what the fuck I say I’m so high, I talk about Demons
> and Black Dogs and phosphorescent Real Things, and I
> fuck up my chances with the Canadian market for good.
> Canada: a country where it’s so damn cold people read a
> lot. They read children’s books to their kids at night, sitting
> on the side of their beds, reassuring, patient, civil, and one
> of those books might be mine. Canada. Ooops, and with
> one move I fuck it up, I fuck up my chances with one of
> the eight most industrialized countries in the world.
> Because I think Canada belongs to the G8. I really think it
> does. It doesn’t count for shit, but it’s there. Like Italy, for
> that matter. No, it’s not right. It took me years to get an
> interview with the Canadians. An entire lifetime. And now
> that they go for it I fuck it all up because of this bullshit.
> Oh, Belinda, come back, come back quickly. Hurry. You
> who are always hurrying, hurry to me. Save me. This dog is
> yours, after all. This Black Demon is yours. Please, tell the
> people at the dubbing studio, all of them, to go fuck
> themselves. I’ve already ended up looking like an asshole.
> Show some balls, don’t let them humiliate you, tell them
> to go fuck themselves and then come back to me right
> away. To Him. Not that I’m scared of him, you know, in a
> way I like him, and it’s the very fact that I like him that
> scares me. That’s why I’m asking you to come back. Come.
> It’s even less absurd than death, at least we’ll be together
> when your demon attacks me and tears me to pieces.
> Because he will, he really will. Because I know that I’ll
> never strangle him. Me strangle a dog: where did I get such
> an idea? He’ll Get Me, he will definitely Get Me, but at least
> you can be here with me, Belinda, when He Gets Me. What
> the fuck. At least be by me at the hour of my death. Please,
> come back. The sooner the better. I’m here, helpless
> against Evil, against Your Evil, more alone than I’ve ever
> been. This weed is ass-kicking, look how long it’s fucking
> lasting. Come back, Belinda. Now I’m going to count to
> three and the doorbell will ring and it will be you. One.
> Two. Three. Come back, I’m begging you, come back.
> Come back. One two three: come on. Now, right now, your
> finger is about to press the doorbell. One two three, come
> back…Come come come, and you still don’t come. And I
> have to manage on my own. Now It’s whimpering behind
> the door. Scratching. Whining. It wants to overwhelm me
> with emotion, the son of a bitch. Tactic number 2: play the
> victim. Anyone who falls for it is fucked. But I don’t fall for
> it. Whine as long as you fucking want, Big Black Dog, I’m
> not going to console you. I’m not the cause of this
> situation. Don’t go blaming me. Even if, by some absurd
> chance, you were not The Dog, but an ordinary black dog,
> sweet and innocent, abandoned by its master, and therefore
> sad and in need of petting, even then I would still have the
> right to let you suffer. To avoid any risk, you understand?
> So whine all you want, I’m not going to feel guilty on
> account of you. And I’m not going to feel any sympathy.
> And even if I did I would never admit it, so go ahead and
> die of a broken heart, I will not open this door—but don’t
> forget that the same woman who dumped you dumped
> me. Well, Dog, she dumped the two of us, so we can
> become friends and get drunk together and talk about all
> the other women who did us wrong. There were lots,
> weren’t there. So there must be something a little off about
> us, don’t you think? If they all end up dumping us there
> must be a reason. They dump us for another guy, for a
> dubbing gig, even for nothing, Jesus Christ, we could even
> get dumped for nothing. You don’t think so, little brother?
> We can’t even get the better of nothing. Like Luciano
> Rispoli, whose reruns of Flying Carpet got an even lower
> market share than the blank screen that RAI-2 broadcasts
> when there are technical difficulties. We’re less than zero.
> Let’s become friends, you and I! Now I’m going to open the
> door for you. Here you are. Nice dog. Nice dog, come on.
> You only wanted to curl up here, right buddy? Yes, that’s it.
> Between my feet, like my old dog Roy before Anna took
> him, too, took everything, including the dog, but at least I
> came out on top that time and after two and a half years I’ll
> have Franceschino and the dog back, goddamn it, and
> whatever happens will happen but I’ll always know that I
> saved the two of them, don’t ask me from what I don’t
> know but I do know that it was tough and had something
> to do with that terrifying deep black well that starts inside
> of her and reaches all the way down to the bowels of hell.
> Apropos of Real Things. The well I liked so much. Namely
> you, Big Black Dog, whose name I don’t even know, curled
> up here like old Roy used to do, like he’ll do again starting
> next month. Come here, buddy, come over here. Our
> mistress has dumped us, yeah. She’s left us all alone, yes.
> You’re nice, you know that? So soft. See how you like it.
> Aw, he likes to play, look at him. Driiin. THE CANADIANS!
> My home phone! No one has that number! I gave it to the
> Canadians this morning! Help…Hello? Who? Marcella?
> From Viareggio? What does she want? I haven’t heard from
> her for years! I’m not exaggerating. Years. How did she get
> my number? Did something serious happen? Nah, she just
> wants to know how to rent an apartment in Rome. Rent in
> the sense of find a tenant. So after all these years, this
> Marcella phones me to ask me how to advertise a rental
> apartment in Rome. She explains the whole story about
> how it’s empty, belongs to her old aunt, her uncle on his
> deathbed, her grandfather in a wheelchair. Go to an
> agency, I tell her. Oh, she says, an agency? Yeah, I say. An
> agency. Why didn’t you think of that, Marcella? I can’t
> believe you never thought of a damn agency, tell me the
> truth. Sure, I thought of it, but I thought it was dangerous.
> Dangerous? In the sense that maybe they try to rip you off,
> so I wanted to ask your advi—Dangerous, Marcella? Since
> when is going to a real estate agency dangerous? Do you
> want to know what dangerous is, Marcella? You want to
> know? Dangerous is staying home with a Big Black Dog
> between your legs after smoking God knows what together
> with a fantastic girl related to all the fantastic girls who
> ever tore your heart out. THAT is dangerous! Christ. An
> agency is dangerous? Thanks anyway, she says, how’re you
> doing, everything all right, how’s your son, is he okay, do
> you ever come to Viareggio, I’ve been coming every other
> weekend for two and a half fucking years, Marcella, and
> you can’t not know that even if we haven’t spoken for
> years, indeed I know for a fact that you do know, what the
> fuck kind of questions are you asking me, and to make a
> long story short she says is everything fine, and I go yes,
> fine, give me a call when you’re around, sure, why not, bye,
> bye. Absolute bullshit. An agency’s dangerous. Well at least
> this time it wasn’t those Canadian bastards, which is
> already an improvement. And the black dog is curled up
> between my legs, nice and quiet, look at him, rather than
> Biting Me and Eating Me. And this is even better. And
> there’s a nice breeze, and I’m fine, the pot isn’t affecting me
> as much (but it’s really kicking) and I could even say that
> now I’m feeling great, I’d say, and I can’t complain about a
> thing, it’s peaceful, wiping out any unhappiness, I’m here
> and I’m fine. At any rate, shit happens, end of story. What
> the fuck am I doing here cooking up trouble for myself? If
> Simona still hasn’t come home to face down this big black
> dog it’s because that’s not the way it was supposed to go.
> You think it’s just luck? No way. She still hasn’t arrived
> because she wasn’t supposed to arrive. End of story. It
> wasn’t preordained by the karmic order, it has nothing to
> do with luck. Besides, she could still arrive any time, so it
> would be better to talk about this Simona stuff later. But I
> even texted her. I warned her. I did my fucking duty. And
> who knows whether or not she’s afraid of dogs. Maybe she
> actually adores them. Beats me. Maybe she’ll save me and is
> better at dealing with dogs than I am. And to tell the truth,
> who is there to save? And from what? From this mutt
> curled up between my legs, so meek—look at him—
> grateful, submissive? I’m forgetting the most important
> thing of all, the Symbolic Fury he was sent here to unleash
> upon me. Or rather, Left here, and by Her, by this sudden
> New Real Thing related to all the Real Things who tore
> hearts out—and yet, to be honest, who also made them
> incomparably happy for remarkable fleeting instants
> overripe with beauty that I will never forget, with their
> Black Dogs curled up inside, soft and sleek, and the beach,
> the moon, the lights of the fishing boats, even the fucking
> fireworks somewhere, and the best sex in the world, Lara,
> on the beach. Will you marry me? Yes. Hah. What time did you
> say this dubbing gig was over? Five thirty? And what time is
> it now? 5:06. Twenty-four minutes. Big deal. I can make it.
> I’m fine. The dog with a small d is huddled at my feet. Time
> is passing and playing into my hands. 5:07. The effect of the
> pot is finally lifting. Quite a kick, though—who gave you
> this pot, hey, Beli’? Come back whenever you want, take
> your sweet time, don’t worry about me. I’m here with your
> dog. With your big black sin that I like so much. And don’t
> get hurt, drive carefully, and think, always think calmly
> before acting. Drinnn. My cell phone—and the Canadians
> only have my landline. It’s her. I know even before
> answering because I associate her with the much sexier
> ring of the cell phone, that electrifying sound. Drindrindrin.
> Hi, Beli’. She wants to know how it’s going. Fine, I tell her,
> everything’s smooth. How did Cruise behave? Good, Cruise
> was good. So his name is Cruise. He didn’t scratch the
> door? He didn’t whine? No, I tell her, not even a little. You
> abandoned us, I tell her, and we got along just fine. We’re
> good friends now, me and old Cruise. Look at him. He’s
> here at my feet. Cruise! Lie! Over there! Strange, she says,
> usually he makes a big fuss when I leave him. It must mean
> that he found positive energy in your house, she says.
> Fantastic, I think. Of course the dog was good. I emanate
> positive energy: truth is, everyone’s trying to glom on to
> me, I swear, men, women, dogs; my aura must be fucking
> incandescent lately; my body superradiant. Charisma.
> Energy. Authority. I’m on my way back, she tells me, do
> you want me to bring you anything? Maybe a couple of
> beers, Beli’, I’m all out. And she says yes, a couple of beers,
> I’ll be right there. Fantastic. She’s fantastic. Who knows
> what will happen later. With her you never know. I barely
> know her, yet I also know her too well. Lara, I know all too
> well what makes her so awesome in the eyes of a poor guy
> who’s sick in the head like me. And if I think about it, if I
> have the courage to think about it, I know all too well
> what happened to her when she was a little girl. Only
> abused girls for me. Only them. Are you looking to find a
> girl who was abused when she was a child? Simple: just
> pretend my dick is an arrow, follow my erection, and you’ll
> run right into her. By now I know. That’s the way it works,
> Lara. Belinda is so fantastic because inside her there’s
> something savage, and there’s something savage inside her
> because someone put it there when she was a child.
> Savagely. By now I know. And so who can say what will
> happen when she comes back here? With the beers and that
> demo—now I remember—that she wants me to listen
> to, of her singing with that tired-ass group of hers. Maybe
> she’s really good, you know. They’re full of talent, these
> Real Things. Then they waste it all, but they’ve always got
> tons of it. But I’m out of the danger zone now, I can stop
> writing. I’m not entirely sure I was really fighting in the
> past three hours, but if I was then I won. It’s all over,
> everything’s fine. Life is good and I’m strong. I emanate.
> And I bless you, Lara. I bless you for being near me in my
> moment of need, like you always are. Let’s talk on the
> phone tomorrow. I can’t come to the wedding, you know,
> I’ve got Franceschino for the weekend, not to mention how
> much it pisses me off that you’re marrying that fucking
> yuppie, but basically it’s as if you already were married,
> you’ve been together for a long time, it’s obvious that you
> like it like that, there’s no accounting for tastes, if you’re
> happy we’re all happy, Sean Connery is better-looking in
> his old age than he was when he was young—let’s talk
> tomorrow, on the phone. As if nothing happened, because
> in the end it really was nothing. Like the astronauts said a
> few weeks ago, I don’t know if you followed it, those two
> dickheads that have been in the orbiting space station for
> months, the Russian and the American, well one morning
> they heard a noise, you see, like a wrench banging against
> the stern of the space station, TA-DAA, and they didn’t
> understand what caused it and they asked the control
> center, “Houston, do you read me, what the fuck was that
> thump?” And at headquarters they started to do all the
> housekeeping, all the checks with the computers and the
> tests, very scrupulously, and at the end of all that fuss one
> of them replied, “Nothing, guys. It was nothing.”…It was
> nothing. It’s always nothing. Who knows if a message this
> long will make it through the Internet. I’ll give it a try.
> Big kiss.
Gianni.