Spaghetti Paradise

By Nicky Persico

A practicing lawyer, Alessandro Flachi, inexperienced and also a little clumsy, finds himself involved in the defense of two very different women in terms of age and social background, who share the fact that they are both victims of violence. From here, spiced up with intriguing culinary mixtures, a dense web of stories and people who, amidst suspense and moments of serenity, enter into the phenomenon of stalking and manipulation through a series of events that are destined to reveal unpredictable realities.

In a Puglia that is always fascinating Puglia the story is told in a way that is extremely original, Nicky Persico leads the reader by the hand into a world of dangerous individuals - invisible enemies yet under the eyes of all, envious of the life and vitality of the victims they persecute – it proposes the recipe that its protagonist has devised to transform trivial ingredients into a philosophy of life: Spaghetti Paradise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781071517833

Book preview

Nicky Persico

Spaghetti Paradise

You have explained that hell, that of women who have no voice, who don’t know how to ask for help.

Because they are unable to, because they can’t, because they don’t want to.

Or really, because this is what they believe.

But theirs is only an incantation, an enchantment of death.

They have bitten the wrong seemingly beautiful apple,

and instead it was empty, and rotten.

Rotten inside.

NON-TIME

––––––––

Dark. Pitch dark. Late evening, almost night. As though time stood still.

I closed the door to the office. As often happens, I was the last to leave.

No elevator, even this time. I slipped into a narrow, dusty concrete stairwell. One of those that usually lead to underground parking lots, with red and white strips at the edges, stamped out cigarette butts, and the typical smell of closed in damp.

After the final flight of steps, using the panic bar, I went through an open iron door. The parking area was half-empty, shiny. Some areas were barely illuminated by a malfunctioning neon light, creating large shadows between the columns and the yellow stripes on the floor.

The ramps are cracked and marked by clumsy maneuvering. Two cars are parked.

Heading towards mine, just around the corner, a few meters away, I see a figure standing still. I freeze.

A tall woman. Long, dark coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Long, light colored hair.

I recognize her, even though she is almost behind me. We had met before, in the office. Then she was gone, preceding me by a few minutes.

She is motionless. Confidently, with outstretched arms, she holds a chrome pistol in both hands, aimed straight in front of her.

I watch her, and at the same time I see everything that surrounds me, as if only my time is flowing, while all the rest is held stopped in a frame.

I take another step, silently. I can see her better now. The weapon that the woman holds in both hands is pointed at someone, even less visible, in front of her.

With difficulty I see her features: a female figure with a dark coat and hat. Long, light colored hair.

They are identical!

She also holds a gun, turned against her twin. But she holds it with one hand, and her body is sideways, compared to her target, as if in a duel from other times.

The head turned, aligned with the right shoulder, and her raised arm. I can sense that she is looking into the viewfinder, like a precision shooter aiming at a target at the firing range.

Three points aligned: eye, viewfinder, target.

Two women, armed, in a position of stalemate.

Of course – obviously – one is defending herself against the other. A murderer, a victim, and then I: the unexpected element, unexpected variable, complication, or unexpected luck. Everything depends on what will happen from now on.

From if, and what, I will be able to do. From how, and if, I will move.

I could remain petrified with fear, or choose to stay motionless. I could scream, I feel that instinct, or throw myself to the ground, or run away in an attempt to take cover, or take a step towards them, or retreat.

I can do something, or do nothing, and it will change everything: life, even, or death.

One thing, however, is certain. One of those two women is no longer defending her life only: she is also defending mine.

If the murderer gets the better of her target, then she'll kill me too: I'm a witness.

I can wait, and hope the opposite happens. Or I can act.

But how?

Nobody can imagine they could find themselves making a decision about something so important in so few minutes. And instead it can happen.

I never imagined I would ever find myself in a situation of this kind.

I have never even imagined that I could be a judge, or arbiter, or a determining factor, in other people's lives. The same people who, paradoxically, were judge and arbitrator of mine.

And having to decide what to do in a situation of being non-time, like this. Or doing nothing. Knowing that it could be the difference between life and death.

Time is not always the same.

There are years that last for an instant, and instants that do not seem to be simply eternal: they really are. This is non-time.

Next to me, on a ledge on the wall, a thick metal shape, perhaps a pincer from a bench vise, forgotten by somebody. I had noticed it, just before stopping, because of a reflected glimmer.

I grab it mechanically, without thinking. It weighs at least a couple of kilograms. And it is cold.

Instinct is the space of an instant that does not exist. Non-time.

* * *

It has happened for many, for example after an accident, that they had no conscious memory of what happened. Then, instead, they discover that they had managed to swerve, brake, and at the same time reach out an arm to protect someone. Often moving efficiently, correctly. Perhaps the best decision that could have been made at that point in time.

And yet, to go back over the events, there were no interruptions, or pauses, in the sequence of events: something unexpected and sudden had happened, and they had acted accordingly.

But at what point did they decide how to act? When could they think about the actions they then put into practice? When did they complete the process of wondering about the best thing to do, or not do, among the various possibilities, perhaps selecting or discarding some because of the consequent side effects?

The answer should be: never, because they did not, materially have the time.

Yet there is an incongruity, because – in fact – they have chosen, and then performed, calculated and rational acts. Neither randomly nor confused.

And how do they explain it, then?

«I acted instinctively» they say.

But what they call instinct has occupied reason for a fraction of the time that has never existed.

Non-time.

Which instead existed, although not measurable according to our conventions. Perhaps you can define expanded time. Or even eternal time: since its basic value cannot be measured, it skips all the parameters that the human being has set to measure time.

I had heard about such things. Yes. Regarding the speed of light. If we could travel at that speed, we could see around corners.

I had heard about it, in a sense, also in relation to Maradona.

Maradona was a champion because he was quicker, could make decisions rapidly. Only a few millionths of a second, maybe, but enough to be unpredictable: when opponents understood, it was too late. Thought and action, neuronal transmission, dynamic calculation: what the rest of the world calls talent. Someone, instead, used the term

«Light cut»

However, the magic of Maradona was satisfied, in the eyes of others, when the ball entered the net. Actually, the magic was achieved when the leather ball lost physical contact with his foot. At that moment everything had already happened, but the result had not yet materialized.

In fact, from that moment on, no one could halt what was happening. Only to be there, and, according to his supporters, to hope.

But one person, only one in the universe, knew, felt, that the ball would end right there where he had decided it should finish up, in the instant he had imagined it, evaluating the projection of positions, distances, speeds and the movements of opponents, team members, goalkeeper, spatial position of the goal posts, and all other existing variables. In the dynamic combinations between them.

Maradona felt it, yet not even he believed it completely. In fact, he was exultant only when the ball entered the net. And if we had asked him «when» he had gone through all those complex discussions that had led him to an impressive sequence of choices, he would certainly say that he had done it instinctively.

In any case, when the ball leaves the upper part of the shoe, the moment when you can't go back: for Maradona it was glory, or eternal regret.

That fraction of time, precisely that, which is truly eternal or not, certainly for many it seems that way. That time when everything is accomplished, and after which one can only be part of the subsequent events, which cannot be measured by any clock in the world.

***

A sudden gesture, quick and decisive. I reach out my hand a little, close my fingers firmly to grip the metal and start to swing it to gain momentum employing a wide-armed movement, aided by the rapid twisting of the shoulders.

As in tennis, when serving the ball.

The heavy metal object, therefore, begins to pick up speed at the same time that my movement, as I had imagined, attracts the attention of the two women for a very short, infinitesimal instant.

I am aware that I have caught their attention, but they can dedicate only a marginal part of their mind and their senses, to the situation they find themselves. Looking away from the adversary would be fatal, and neither could have done it ever. For that reason they remain motionless, sensing my arrival.

But no matter how cold or calculating they may be, or how much adrenaline they may have in their bodies, instinct will lead them, by force of circumstances, to dedicate at least that much to understanding what is happening. Their reasoning, though unwittingly, must take into consideration that movement, that sudden rustling, coming from the darkest corner of the entire parking lot, which means that I have moved.

I have heard that, on average, non-professional tennis players are able to make a ball travel at a speed of over 180 km per hour, during the serve.

I'm about six feet tall, weigh over 78 kg, and I used to play tennis.

But most of the time, when a boy, I was able to throw a stone at least a third farther than any other of my friends. I was able to do it very well. And I had unerring aim.

These are those strange talents that each one of us possesses. Things that are, very often, useless. Things that come naturally to you, and you don't know why.

The two women therefore had to focus a fraction of their attention on me. Both, in their mind, are processing that unexpected event. Their instinctive part is attempting to figure out exactly what that shadow is doing. What is that sudden movement which, in spite of themselves, they have been warned.

In that same space of time that it takes to ask the question, the arc completed by my arm comes to an end.

Now my fingers, according to a precise neural command, release the cold piece of iron, which moves towards its target at an impressive speed, thrown with all my strength after having loaded the momentum.

Needing to make an assessment, the target at which I want to throw the heavy iron pincer is between 15 and 20 meters away from me.

That object, by default calculating a speed of 160 km per hour when my fingers release it, will cover the path in a few thousandths of a second, as well as being almost invisible, in the dim light of the parking lot.

Obviously, I selected a target.

With the speed of instinct, as I have already said. But among the instincts, the primary human one, survival, is faster than the others, and my target still managed to perceive the danger, and to make a defensive gesture: to move her upper body to avoid it, or at least this is what she wants.

The movement was not enough.

The piece of iron, inexorably, reaches and violently impacts her skull, producing a macabre sound.

The stricken woman suddenly collapses, falling to the ground like an inanimate puppet, and the other, no longer under fire, begins to turn around to look at me.

The events have been completed. We can no longer go back, and the results of my action are completely unknown. Maybe I have saved the good person and myself with one blow.

Perhaps.

If, on the other hand, I have chosen the wrong target, I have removed the only person who could have done something to save my life. The woman closest to me, the one holding the gun with both hands, after turning around will kill me. How I decided to act, as I chose, and when I decided all this, I couldn't say. «I acted instinctively» Then, a spasm. All is dark around me. No sound.

I try to concentrate, to reason. I am stunned. My heart beats wildly and my muscles no longer respond.

I try to move.

After having barely opened my eyes a crack, I realize that it is night. It is the middle of the night.

I tried, as I always did, to calm my anxiety. It's nothing, I tell myself, it's nothing. Here we go again: it has happened again.

It was a dream.

A dream I knew it well now.

It was always the same, and every time it ended like this, because I woke up with a start.

THE MAFIA DOES NOT EXIST

Of all the lawyers Spanna, had one thing in particular that caught my attention when I met him.

The shoes.

His shoes.

They were old, certainly old. But well cared for. Lived in, I would say: black, stitched in the English style, clean. Probably had been re-soled. Probably Church Burwood. At each step they always let out a particular and slight creak, which made that elderly man's walk, well established and cared for, even more austere.

His shoes.

When I met him for the first time my eyes were attracted to his shoes, more than to his figure, evoking a particular shot in the film The wings of freedom: a close-up of Brooks' shoes.

Brooks was one of the convicts who had been sent, already old, to do socially useful jobs. Free, practically, but completely unaccustomed to the world outside prison, so much so as to miss it. Dry and muscular, despite his age, short, with a curved back and shoulders and hands like two tongs.

The framing started from that first close-up, just from his shoes: old, but well cared for. Black, shiny and robust like those of American marines (like Church Shannon, to give you an idea). The camera continues climbing slowly up the legs of that hoary man, and then spins around him, reaching up to the hollowed face: standing on a wooden table, he was intent on engraving with a penknife the words

«Brooks was here» on the beam that he would hang himself from moments later.

Who knows why, that shot just occurred to me. I had asked myself that many times, but I’d never found an answer. Never.

Perhaps because I've always thought that it is possible to understand many things about a man from his shoes. Or perhaps because Brooks was also well groomed, austere and measured in everything he did. He had also been when dying. And he too, his shoes had made an impression on me.

In those shoes, I was saying, step-by-step the lawyer entered the room.

The edges of a blue pinstriped pant leg on the stitched upper. A classic, very light and their lines not too far apart. The trousers were the right length: not one millimeter longer, not one less. They fell very well. Under the jacket, which is also perfect over the shoulders and probably tailored, a shirt with a straight pointed collar, a turndown collar, with a white base and light blue stripes, and a regimental tie with a blue background tied with a stable but not too large knot: a half Windsor, of course

This was the ideal combination for the forensic profession:

Suitable for all occasions, communicating authority, but no identifiable messages a priori. It placed the lawyer in the right position with respect to any speaker, and in any context.

His visual language said: I am no «mor» than you, but neither am I «less» I don't want to show it, but I respect you, and I demand respect for my role. Not flawless, I won't try to cover up character deficiencies (that is I don't have identifiable weaknesses). I am balanced. What happens will also depend on you. Translated: authoritative with clients, impeccable with the chancellors, a step below the magistrates who wanted him a step below. Without excess. He simply avoided and prevented potential misunderstandings and disagreements based on non-verbal cues.

And he used this clothing of his for his needs: if he appeared to be impregnable, one remembered that he belonged to an order. If its tones became more complex, he became modest, ready to take a step back, elastically, to suggest willingness to an agreement, to a bold, or even indecent but necessary proposal. He was deployed, yes, but for legitimate duty. Unexceptional towards the opposing colleague, but he had to do his job. He was credible with the magistrates, respectful of the role, but also of the correct application of laws or exceptions that may be unjust. And so forth.

Effective, is the exact term to describe his outfit. In short, about him, overall, nothing was out of tune. His hair was gray, carefully cut and still thick. His eyeglasses had an elegant chrome frame, and the lenses were always very clean.

The lawyer Egidio Spanna had entered the room, had not yet uttered a single word, yet he had already told his interlocutor, who had aligned himself with the most suitable psychological pose.

He looked at me for a moment (we are speaking of a millionth of a second, Spanna was able to do it again for the exact same length of time) and headed, accompanied by the squeak of his black shoes, to the large leather chair behind the desk, where he took his place with the usual single movement, almost without producing any noise that was not that of the leather that covered it.

After a quick glance at a note shown to him by the secretary, slowly he took off his glasses, put them down on the wooden surface, and leaned back, relaxing and then, once, passed both hands over his face. It was the only moment of relaxation that he allowed himself, only with people close to him: collaborators, friends or family. Soon after he put his glasses on again quickly and precisely, and looked at me.

Before he had entered the room, I had been sitting on one of the two wooden chairs at the other end of the desk. Uncomfortable. And I'm sure even that wasn't by chance.

I understood him now, that man. And the day that I would sing to him had arrived. I was tired, and I wouldn't be fooled by his tricks and his polished dialectic.

He spoke in a friendly tone, with a questioning expression. Vaguely paternal.

«So, Alessandro, how are things going» An open question: he needed to probe the ground.

«Good» I answered promptly, «I'm trying to orient myself, Counselor»

Closed answer: I'll show you today.

Right away, I had understood that nothing would be wasted with that man, let alone words. Words take time, and those that are wasted cause a further effort in the dialogue, a dispersion of concepts, a domino effect that makes any comparison unnecessarily more difficult. The magic word, with the lawyer Spanna, was

«Essential»

I think one of the main reasons why I liked him – undeniably – was the very fact that I immediately understood him: «he speaks little, listens a lot, is very synthetic, and even quick»

To be clear: with the lawyer Egidio Spanna you also have the full right to be an emeritus asshole and he will tolerate you: only hurry up.

At my reply, Egidio Spanna was immobile. The message was equally clear: the closed answer was not enough, I had to continue.

«I'm beginning to understand a lot of things about law and reality. Well, I’ve been involved with this firm and my profession for six months now» I added, but I myself was surprised by a certain lack of conviction in my voice, «I like it very much. I like criminal law in particular. The procedure is more pragmatic, and its practical application is more interesting. The lawyer's gaze turned into a slight frown: he perceived an inconsistency in the speaker.

«But there is no doubt that I still have a long way to go» I continued. His eyes returned to normal, and almost seemed to smile, pleased with my recovery in real time.

He settled his shoulders back: he was about to speak.

«You have many qualities» he began. But from the tone it seemed what it was: a negative premise. In fact he went on to say:

«Perhaps too many for this job»

He paused. I had a little choice of words. I took it.

«It is that the law, at times, is too dry, schematic, anachronisti», I argued, «and it is not easy to get used to this»

I had the distinct feeling of having made a loud noise, despite having expressed a plausible concept. But I didn't really know where the mistake was. Two words, and I was already in trouble.

The lawyer took off his glasses, and seemed uncertain.

«Arid, schematic and... ah yes... anachronistic»

He repeated my words, punctuating them with his eyes lowered as he lightly rubbed his temples.

«Right» I added with the ill-concealed disorientation of someone who knows he has been careless, putting himself in the right position to receive a cannonball in the face.

Then he looked up and stared at me.

«What is the Mafia» He shot at me point blank.

«Er... in what sense, Counselor»

«I asked you what is the Mafia. You are a practicing lawyer. You have a Doctor of Law. You have been attending this law firm and the courts for six months. «What is the Mafia» Explain it to me!!

Bastard.

«Well, here, the mafia is... so..» I tried to recall the article, «the... the... 416 of the penal code... well no! The 416 bis... yes... mafia-type association. It is an aggravated form of