A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti Page A

dress and she moves with the natural elegance of a feline.
    I hadn’t noticed her walk the other time. Or maybe I was too busy trying to show off in front of Daytona to notice it. Step by step, her eyes emerge from the dim light. She holds them level, meeting my gaze, even though when she finally speaks there’s a note of embarrassment in her voice. And an exquisitely feminine form of caution and shame at being in my presence, at a place like that at that hour of the morning.
    “Ciao.”
    “ Ciao . What are you doing here?”
    “I’ve been waiting for you.”
    “You’ve been waiting for me?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why?”
    She tosses her head in the direction of the office building where, behind the lit-up windows, her coworkers are laboring with mops and rags.
    “I was at work. When I got here I saw your car. Then I kept watching it out the window, hoping that you’d come get it. At a certain point I couldn’t help it anymore. I took off my smock, I walked out of there, and I came down here.”
    I’m having a hard time focusing on her face. My stomach feels as if it’s full of sawdust and my body by this point is just a pile of firewood. And yet, all the same, what strikes me about her is a form of womanliness I’ve never encountered before.
    I feel bad and I feel as if I’m being attacked. So I’m a little harsh with her.
    “What do you want from me?”
    She looks away as she talks to me.
    “I’m sick of my life. I’m sick of breaking my back for a couple of lire. I’m sick of seeing women all around me who’ve grown old without ever being young. I’m sick of having to fuck my boss to keep my job or having to fuck my landlord to cover the rent.”
    I take a deep breath. This confession falls onto the pavement with the sound of tinkling coins. I don’t know why, but I know that this is an important moment. Our two lives are intertwining and I feel like an idiot because I’m so tired that I can hardly utter anything more than monosyllabic grunts.
    “And so?”
    She looks me straight in the eye again. Her embarrassment and caution have vanished.
    “Your proposition yesterday morning…”
    A short pause, as if to give me time to remember.
    “Yes?”
    “Your friend told me that you’re someone who knows what he’s doing. That you have a nice network. I’d like you to make me part of the network and help me to make a lot of money.”
    I’m standing in front of her and it’s as if I’m slowly watching her vanish into the distance. My head is exploding and I feel as if my legs are hollow inside. The question that I ask may come as a surprise to her.
    “Do you have a driver’s license?”
    “Yes.”
    I stick my hands into my pockets and then I hold out my car keys to her. I can’t imagine what my face looks like as I tell her, with the thin thread of a voice that I can still muster, what I want from her.
    “Drive me home, please. I don’t want to faint behind the wheel.”

 
    7
    The last thing I see are headlights .
    The light disappears suddenly, along with my breath. Then a rough canvas bag over my head, shoving, yanking, a callused hand pushing me into a car. From then on it’s only sounds. Bumping and jouncing, the clicking of vibrations and the roar of the engine in the dark. The heavy breathing of more than one man. Then the car stops and the whole thing happens in reverse. This time it’s to get out of the car, but it’s still yanking and jerking and shoving and a callused hand
    the same one?
    pulling me out and I’m unable to breathe because now two hands
    the same ones?
    are throttling my neck and forcing me down onto my knees. And the voice comes out of the void and …
    I wake up with a jolt.
    I’m in bed, naked, and I can feel that the sheets are drenched with sweat. Maybe it’s not only sweat, but I pay no attention to that detail. My head is doing its best to get my thoughts into some kind of order. Unfortunately, with the return of some semblance of order comes