Early in the following morning, even before dressing up and having breakfast, Giovanni sat in front of the Postman and input the text he had so carefully made up in his head.
“I communicate the finding of a manuscript hidden between the frame and the mattress of my bed. It looks like a transcription of memories, probably of the former Keeper. I await dispositions.”
He carefully read it a couple of times, asking himself whether he should give more information or gloss over the conclusion he had reached; it was inevitable to think he had read it, even only partially, to asses its nature. He decided that the message was perfect. He sent it and waited in front of the monitor with his hands crossed on his lap.
He never knew who was on the other side, when he communicated with the Head Office. He had some vague idea of the alternations of the military staff, but not of their rank and authority. For ordinary communications they were probably normal employees, while officers were involved in case of more important matters. Like that one, no doubt. He could almost see a soldier, maybe an EG, read his message, think about it for a second, than contact a superior with a certain hurry...
Beep.
There. Really fast. How much time did pass since he had sent his email? A minute? Two? They monitored everything with admirable rigor.
The answer was predictably laconic, but very clear: “The EGs of of the first delivery will get it.”
Good, it was done. Giovanni could almost physically feel the weight relieve from his back.
***
He was crumbling some biscuits into a bowl full of yogurt when he heard the buzzing rustle of the fax machine. He cleaned his finger and went to see what it was about.
Three deliveries, for a total of eight new convicts: thieves, scammers, a pedophile priest, a couple of revolutionaries...same old, same old. Under the list of names and accusations, in the space reserved for notes, a perfect block-lettered handwriting: The Guard Giulio Lojodice had been assigned to collecting the exhibit. An unintelligible signature followed.
“The exhibit.” He tasted that word, which appeared almost out of place. It sounded like something ancient, maybe even valuable. “I have slept for month on an exhibit.”
He chuckled and went back to the kitchen to have breakfast.
***
The first delivery was at 8:45 A.M. and, as always, the two EGs were right on time. Scar up front, as he had more years both of age and of service, and Burr in the back. Between the, three people that the good old Lombroso wouldn’t hesitate calling unloading subjects, had he lived at the time of the Tanks.
Giovanni did his part, as always, without mentioning the diary. It was obvious that Scar (Giulio Lojodice, huh?) wouldn’t leave before retrieving it, and so it was.
Once the mechanism of the Shutter went silent again, the first guard told him with a martial look (Had he any other?): “I have received orders of retrieving something.”
Giovanni moved before the sentence was complete.
“Of course. I’ll take it immediately.”
He went to his apartment and after a few seconds he came back with the papers. “Here.”
“Is this all?”
Giovanni could feel an acid answer coming from his stomach. No. it’s just one part. I’ll give you the rest when I finish reading it, ok?
“Yes, it is all.”
Scar weighed it, nodding. “Good, Keeper. I have been ordered to tell you that your behavior is remarkable.” Giovanni kept a stern expression. Smiling or lowering his head would be a rookie gesture. “Thank you. I just did my job.”
It would probably have been easier for everyone, at that point, to not think about it anymore and bid each other farewell, as usual. Ma Giovanni couldn’t resist the temptation of blocking Scar and Burr to ask: “Excuse me, but...do you think I’ll get to know something about it, sooner or later?”
The Guards stared at him as if he was some kind of weird animal. Scar tilted his head and, with his coarsest voice, asked: “What do you mean, Keeper?”
“Well, something about the diary. If it belonged to another Keeper, if some measures will be taken...I would never want that...”
He didn’t feel completing the question was necessary. The Guards had entered the cabin way before his voice faded into a whisper. He was sure they wouldn’t answer. But while the doors closed, Scar poked him with a: “Keep to your place, Keeper.”
And the familiar clangor of cables and pistons joined them in their descent, after that exit worthy of an expert actor.
Giovanni went back to his apartment with a light step, a satisfied grin on his face. To tell the truth, he didn’t really care about what would happen after the delivery of those papers. He had gotten rid of them, and that’s what was important to him.
***
That evening, at 10:40, he had to change idea.
He was taking off the cotton pants he used as a pajama, when a beep came from the Control. He immediately went still as an instinctive reaction.
Someone - the same person as the night before? - had sent him a message. And it wasn’t work-related, he imagined. It was with a certain reluctance, and a small, yet annoying knot in his stomach, that he reached for the Postman and read: “Revolting pig spy bastard.”
Silence, except for the incessant buzzing of the fridge and the blood that turned his temples into small drums. With great calm, slowly, Giovanni sat in front of the keyboard, without taking his eyes off those four words. Four. Like the previous evening. Like the tetragram. Now that every kind of misunderstanding had dissipated, maintaining officialdom wasn’t necessary anymore. That provocation had to be faced with no roundabouts.
“Ok, if you wanna play, let’s play.”
His answer was sent after a nervous ticking.
“Who are you, coward?”
It was like fighting in the dark, taking turns in throwing four-pointed shurikens to each other. He had already decided that, had he not received an answer in a minute, he would go to bed and abandon that childish act.
(Are you sure it’s a game? He called you a spy, haven’t you noticed? It’s not a random offense. It’s because you informed the higher-ups instead of keeping it to yourself. You hadn’t thought that the one writing you could be...)
He leant on the seatback, crossing his arms, refusing to contemplate the though. But it completed itself.
(...the author of the diary?)
“No way...”
Beep. There it was again.
“It is not important. Who you are is. What you must do. Do you know it?”
Fantastic. Four times four. Four points for you, friend.
The annoyance that Giovanni felt suddenly shattered the shell restraining it.
“A game is fun as long as it’s short.” He input clenching his teeth. “And this went on for too long. Either you speak clearly or go to hell. Let’s hear it, what is it that I must do?”
He started counting the seconds. The beep, a strange coincidence, came exactly at the thirteenth. Like when he had to wait to close the Suffering.
What he read made his mouth go dry.
“Die die die die”
Had he still any doubts about the mental health of that imbecile, he was sure now: he was talking to a madman. Who he was, and how could he communicate with him freely (Nemo me impune lacessit), remained a mystery. But he sure as hell wouldn’t play along.
He remained there for another ten minutes, without answering, waiting to receive further provocations. But the the interruption of the communication on his part was also the end of that pitiful exchange of threats. For that evening, at least.
***
Lying on the bed, his hands joined at the back of its head, he concentrated on the light and dark that created moisture stains made of shadows on the ceiling. Did he have to talk to someone about it? Probably yes. Maybe it was a joke; more than a Guard would gladly pull something like this, the only civilian in a world of soldiers. But he couldn’t rule out the possibility of it being something serious and that somebody really had some bad intentions towards him.
He tried to think about the tropical island surrounded by a clear sea, blue like a topaz...but the image he managed to summon was faded and unstable, like an out-of-sync TV channel.
Giovanni turned on his left side, towards the wall, and waited for the current to push him into the whirlpool.