Читать книгу Death Brings Gold - Nicola Rocca - Страница 9

CHAPTER 2

He was pleased with himself for deciding not to drive his car to the church. First of all because, due to the traffic, he never would have made it on time to the service; and then because he also would have had to do some walking. He kept seeing Umberto’s dismayed face and it reminded him of his own similar pain. He, too, had lost both his parents. And although his mother had been gone now for five years, her memory was more vivid than ever.

This thought veiled his eyes with melancholy, while the stinging cold continued to vehemently stab his face. He slowed his pace to a halt and the echoing of his footsteps seemed to continue for another second before stopping. He slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, searching for the package.

When he found it, he opened it and extracted a Marlboro. He brought it to his lips and rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. He returned the package to his pocket and resumed walking, taking deep draws from the still unlit cigarette. He had always liked smoking. His only vice, and he clung to it dearly.

Then, his mother’s face instantly appeared.

It was the face of a woman with only a few days left to live. Ashen, framed by dishevelled hair that time and illness had turned grey. Her eyes were lifeless, sad, and were struggling to see.

Alzheimer’s and a metastatic carcinoma were taking her away. That poor woman had been unable to utter a word for days and, according to the doctors, her brain couldn’t understand what was going on around her anymore.

The day before she was gone forever, she made a sort of recovery; a moment of clarity. She had her eyes wide open and was trying to keep her head – which until then had been a weight dangling from side to side - still.

“Mum?” he called in disbelief.

Then he turned to check if Carolina, the nurse that was looking after his mother, was still there. She wasn’t.

His mother had lifted one arm, trying to extend it towards him and that gesture was draining her of all the energy she had left. He had welcomed her hand between his and stood there staring at her, confident that something extraordinary was going to happen.

The woman blinked her eyes several times, trying to focus on the images in front of her. Her mouth opened in a grin and her hand started to tremble, while her breathless voice was coming through with difficulty.

“David, m-mhy d-d-hear…”

Distorted words were coming from her twisted lips.

“… ss-h-k-keep on sshmoukeeng, if hhhyou c-can’t do… uithout …em…”

At that point she had had a small breakdown and a snarl of pain deformed her face.

He had squeezed her hand, to make her feel his presence and at the same time to encourage her to continue.

The woman’s head had fallen forward.

“Mum?!” he called out loud.

His mother had raised her head again and she had started blinking her eyes again.

Then, certain that sight had abandoned her, she had closed her eyes. Defeated.

He stood there staring at her for what seemed an eternity. Then, the woman’s distorted voice had come back.

“… But plheashe … it’s for u hoo… art a mmly…I whuont hhee you sttleouwn …”

“What?” he asked her.

The woman had stuttered some more, but they seemed more like moans caused by her pain than contorted phrases.

“What did you say, mum?” he repeated, placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her lightly, but the woman’s head was now dangling again.

He stood there looking at the bed sheets moving slowly with the rhythm of his mother’s weak breathing.

Then, Carolina’s silhouette had peeked into the room.

“What’s going on?” she had asked. “I heard you shouting.”

He didn’t think it necessary to tell her what had happened. That was the last dialogue between mother and son and, even though he hadn’t understood some words, certainly he was not going to ask advice of others. He was convinced that his mother had woken up – with the help of some kind of divine intervention – in that precise moment, because they were alone in that room. And because he was going to be the only recipient of those words.

At that point he had brought his mother’s gaunt hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he had stood up from the bed and gone into the living room. He had taken a biro and written those last words his mother had reserved for him on a post-it note. He was convinced that they meant something important. Not so much because they were her last words, but mainly because saying them had been so extremely hard for her.

When he came back from that memory, he realised that he was almost near the Metro station. He slowed down and felt his trousers back pocket. Touching his wallet reminded him of the treasure inside it. He felt some kind of relief and lit that cigarette, now soaked in saliva. He inhaled the smoke, kept it in his lungs for a moment and finally let it out to mix with the icy-cold air.

When his mother was still alive not a single day would pass without her telling him to ‘stop with those damned cigarettes’. And then, on her deathbed, she had told him the exact opposite. Who knows why.

He wondered if one day he was going to be able to decipher her last words. Since then almost five years had passed and he hadn’t succeeded yet.

He took his last drag of “poison” then, flicking the cigarette butt with his two fingers, he tossed it away. He took the stairs leading to the Metro Red Line. When he arrived at the platform, he saw the train leaving. He stood and watched it until it was swallowed by the dark tunnel.

He looked around and realized that he was alone. A lonely man.

That thought provoked in him a smile, but, at the same time, a sense of emptiness. For the first time in his life he was afraid. Not for what might have happened to him. But for what he was.

A lonely man.