A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti Page B

memory as well. Tulip, the trip to the outskirts of the city, those three pistol shots smothered by the silencer, the bloodstain on his shirt, his eyes staring glassy in the darkness. And after that, Carla’s eyes, docile while she looked at me, rebellious while she was speaking to me, and careful while she was driving and listening to the directions to my house.
    I can’t imagine what her eyes were like as she watched me emerge from my clothing.
    As soon as we got home, walking as best I could, I went into my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, fully dressed. I fell asleep instantly. She must have undressed me. I can well imagine her surprise. Maybe she leaped backward when she slipped off my underwear. A reflexive act of horror, a switchblade jab to the stomach, the kind of thing that the mind combines to form a new memory.
    I stand up, yank the sheet off the bed, and wrap myself in it like a toga, ready for my twenty-three stab wounds. I walk into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, lower myself onto the pot, and let go of everything I’ve got inside. When I think of the fact that right now I ought to be lying motionless a yard deep in the ground with a bullet lodged in my head, even pissing and shitting can become a hymn to life.
    I step into the shower and carefully soap every square inch of my body to remove all traces of last night. I don’t know who shot Tulip and I don’t even bother to venture a name. I’d need to search through too long a list of people who might have it in for that murderous psychotic. The thing I can’t figure out, no matter how hard I try, is why the same guy didn’t shoot me too.
    I slip into my bathrobe and notice as I step out of the shower that my clothing is piled in a heap next to the laundry hamper. I’ll have to get rid of it. Washing it might be enough, but it’s a risk I’d rather avoid. I don’t want to be found walking around in clothes that might contain traces of dirt from a place where the police have just found a dead body with three bullet holes in it.
    I step out of the bathroom with my hair still wet, walk up the hallway, and emerge into the living room. Carla’s on my right, lying down on the sofa. She’s asleep, fully dressed, her legs tucked up, one arm wedged under one of the little throw pillows. She’s removed her jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders as a blanket. Her shoes lie neatly on the floor. She’s breathing lightly, despite her uncomfortable position. Her face is beautiful; her complexion is fair, even without her eyes to illuminate it.
    I run my gaze around the room.
    On the chest of drawers next to the television set is everything I had in my pockets. Cigarettes, lighter, wallet, money clip and wad of bills, pager—almost exactly the way I arrange them before I undress, in practically the same order. The wall clock says it’s noon. The red light on the phone is blinking to tell me there are messages on my answering machine.
    Later for them.
    When my eyes swing back around to Carla, she’s awake and looking at me. I made no noise walking on the carpeted floor. Evidently my simple presence was enough to awaken her. She remains curled up, in anticipation and in self-defense. She speaks without moving.
    “Sorry.”
    “About what?”
    “For taking off your clothes. I didn’t—”
    I break in, brusquely and dismissively filing the case away for good.
    “It’s not a problem. Do you want some coffee?”
    She studies me, carefully. Then she swivels to a sitting position, in a rather graceful manner.
    “Do you want to talk about it?”
    I shake my head slightly, and as I do, in spite of myself, I can feel my jaw muscles tightening. “No.”
    I walk past her and head into the small galley kitchen. Her voice follows me.
    “That thingy made a noise once or twice.”
    I accept the information without comment. I presume that the thingy in question is my pager. It can wait too. Right now, I don’t feel like getting back in touch with the