Contin hates me. Wants to fuck me over. Shit, I need something to calm down. That new guy in 14 says he’s got some Roipnol to sell. But nobody knows him from Adam. He’s Italian but that means diddly. He might be a motherfucking informer and then I’d be in deep shit. You’re already in deep shit, dickhead. If Contin gets the papers against me, the minister’ll bury me in the clinic. What the fuck can I do? Contin’s a son of a bitch but he’s right. What if I asked the guy in 27 for a little more weed? He’s pricey and doesn’t give credit. My stash of cigarettes is gone and the Serb still hasn’t paid off the bet. Yeah, Contin’s right. I killed his wife and kid and I’m asking for a signature without giving anything in return. But I can’t give him that name. First of all, I’d become a stoolie. I could’ve done that fifteen years ago. Then my entire plan to slip away to Brazil would go up in smoke. I got a right to a little peace. Fuck, I’m dying, it’s just a question of time, and these past fifteen years I’ve suffered like a dog. The doc told me to hurry up and decide about the chemotherapy. The sooner I begin, the longer I can keep the beast at bay. “Aren’t you interested in knowing where you have the cancer?” he asked me. “No,” I answered. What the fuck do I care where it is. It’s there; that’s all I need to know. And it eats away inside you like a rat stuffed up your asshole. If I knew where it was, I’d always be feeling that part, I might even start poking around, and that could make it eat into me faster. Then the doc told me I was wrong to keep acting like I was healthy, it’s irresponsible. In a different situation I would’ve socked him in the jaw twice. Could anybody say something more fucking stupid? Doesn’t he know what it means to be sick in prison? The other inmates sniff around you like vultures. Nobody pities nobody here. To top it off, he warned me the pain’d be terrible at the end. Bastard! If I’d been a paying customer, he would’ve kept his mouth shut. What if I got cancer of the dick? What a hose job! I couldn’t have no fun before I kicked. Maybe I got it in the dick for all the times I jerked off. I could ask the Calabresi for a little scag but then I’d have to ask the Bergamosks to borrow their works. Great kids but what do I know whether they’ve got some fucking disease that’d kill me before my time? They could say the same thing about me, of course. I got cancer and they might not want to lend me their needle. I think I got to pass on shooting up but there’s nothing in the cell ’cept cigarettes and coffee. There’s no way out; I got to take the risk: I won’t give up that name. I’ll send a telegram to the lawyer and gamble on the suspended sentence. If it goes south, amen, I’ll end up at the clinic. Fuck, could the cops stick me with the damages on the day of the robbery? A bullet is faster than jail and cancer. Much faster. Yeah, I got to bet everything. Maybe Contin won’t raise a fuss with the papers. No, he’ll do it and fuck me if he does. He’s gone off the deep end. But he’s right. I’d do the same. I got him wrong; I didn’t think a “normal” guy would take it so far. I’ll make myself a coffee, just for something to do. When the pain starts I got to be on the outside. With the money I can score some stuff that’ll keep the beast at bay. At the clinic they dole out the painkillers with an eyedropper. You’re a shitty lifer and nobody gives a fuck if you’re suffering. Yeah, I’ll send the lawyer a telegram right away and tell mamma to get in touch with my partner. So he can get the money and passport ready. I don’t want to get out and then find he’s invested everything so he can’t hand over my euros. Mamma won’t be happy but there’s nobody else I can trust with this stuff. In all these years I got in touch with him three times. About three escapes that fizzled out. Nobody breaks out of jail these days. Nobody knows how to keep their mouth shut. I’ve done my part; now it’s up to him. I got to remember to order coffee and sugar. Yeah, I’ll do it like this: I’ll send mamma and he’ll organize my getaway. Provided Contin don’t fuck me. He sure has changed. Him too. He’s got a face like a corpse, it scares me, and his skin’s as white as milk. Looks like he’s been in jail. Don’t he ever go to the beach? Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s got cancer too. I got to hurry up, in a little while they’ll come by to pick up the requests, and I need to get the warden’s authorization to send a telegram.
Dear Sir, inmate Beggiato Raffaello, cell 5, second block, requests permission to send the following telegram addressed to his lawyer: I am waiting for an urgent interview. Yours respectfully, Raffaello Beggiato.
How many fucking requests did I make to these bastards in all these years? You want to talk to the priest or the warden or the social worker? Make a request. You want a shampoo that don’t thin out your hair? Make a request. You want panettone for Christmas? Make a request. You want to get butchered by the dentist? Make a request. What a great guy he is. He only does extractions for free, ’cause the ministry reimburses him. If you don’t want to be toothless at forty-five, you got to pay. You want to pay the dentist? Make a request.
Contin rubbed me the wrong way. I cooked up a whole speech to convince him I’m sorry but he blindsided me. My partner should put up a monument in my honor, no shit. On more than one occasion I was really tempted to sing in order to cut short my jail time. Now more than ever. There was a moment when I felt my legs give and I was about to spill everything to Contin. But then they’d make me testify at the trial. What a fucking disgrace that’d be. If I didn’t kill the woman and kid, I’d be proud of myself. But I feel like shit. Never fessed up to anybody about being the shooter. Only my partner knows the truth. And yet every once in a while, like now, I feel the need to tell somebody about it. Don’t know why. Before I die I’ll call a priest and tell him. Maybe before giving me the last sacrament he’ll absolve me from this sin too. Does hell really exist? You don’t ask these stupid fucking questions your whole life and then, when you know you’ll kick within 730 days, you start covering your ass.
I got to change the ring on the moka. Another fucking request. And the brigadier responsible for outside purchases is a testicle. Most of the time he gets it wrong. I might get saddled with rings for a six-cup moka. It already happened. He’s got it easy. When he’s on duty, instead of being stuck in the cell block, he tools around the city, buying our stuff, and he still manages to fuck things up. Fuck that asshole pig.
I thought about death and now I’m scared shitless. I feel it in my stomach. I’m fucking afraid to die. When the time comes, will I be conscious? What’ll I feel? And then what’s going to happen? Will God appear to me, like Don Silvio said, and ask me if I want to live eternally in his presence? Live? What the fuck are you saying, dickhead? What if there’s nothing instead? Just darkness. An endless black darkness.
Chill out, stop thinking. Light yourself another cigarette. If I wind up at the clinic it’ll be a shitty death. But if I was free I could score some good stuff so I wouldn’t suffer and I’d keep my appointment completely unconscious. Then I’d fuck over the grim reaper. Shit, the money. That makes all the difference. It always did. I want to die in Brazil. Like a signore. In the meantime they might discover a new cure and save me. I’ll get in a few more years. I’m forty-five, fuck. I’m young. A young lifer. A young lifer with a malignant tumor. And Contin’s got the gall to ask me for that name. Up his ass. Up everybody’s ass.
Dear Sir, inmate Beggiato Raffaello, cell 5, second block, requests permission to purchase one package of three rubber rings for a one-cup moka. Yours respectfully, Raffaello Beggiato.
I underline “one-cup” so the testicle don’t get it wrong.