A Pimp's Notes Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Giorgio Faletti
quit.”
He takes his last sip of coffee.
“You might not believe it, but there’s no pleasure in smoking a cigarette if you can’t see the smoke pouring out of your mouth. Evidently there’s a bigger aesthetic component to bad habits than you might think.”
Once again, his voice is veiled in a layer of irony.
“That could be a cure for smoking. Take someone and blindfold them until they lose the urge.”
He smiles.
“Or until they have to get plastic surgery to fix the nose they’ve scorched by trying to light cigarettes with their disposable lighter.”
His smile broadens at the idea. Then a mental connection makes him change the subject.
“Speaking of blindfolds, apparently on Sunday Lady Luck lifted the rag over her eyes and cast a glance in our direction.”
“How so?”
“Down at Michele’s bar, the one next to the church, somebody bought a lottery ticket that won 490 million lire.”
“Fuck. Nice win. Do they know who it was?”
Lucio moves confidently and well in all the public places he frequents. Because of his physical handicap and his personality, he manages to win people’s trust. And so they tell him things.
“Not for sure, but there are a few clues. There’s a guy, name of Remo Frontini, hard worker, decent fellow, lives over in the public housing project. I think he works in a factory. He’s got a boy, a kid about eight, and I give him guitar lessons for a pittance, because he has a gift and because music is a good way to keep him off the streets. You’ve probably seen him leaving my apartment, I’d imagine.”
In fact, I never have, but that hardly seems material to the purpose of the story. Lucio continues without waiting for an answer. He probably thinks the same thing.
“I have to say that what little he pays me comes in when it comes in, if you take my meaning.”
“That’s mighty good of you.”
“Yes, it is. But that’s not the point.”
He breaks off for a minute—I imagine so he can rethink what he’s about to say and make sure of the conclusions he’s drawn.
“Yesterday he came by with his son and he was almost giddy—very talkative. Unusual thing for him; he doesn’t usually talk much. He assured me that before long he’d pay all his back fees, and that from now on he’d pay on time. He even asked me what the best make would be if he decided to buy his son a new guitar.”
After another brief pause, Lucio concludes this little personal investigation of his.
“Throw in the fact that Frontini frequents Michele’s bar and that every week he plays the Totocalcio soccer lottery, and the facts speak for themselves.”
I think it over. Maybe for just a second too long.
“When something changes your life, it’s always difficult to conceal it.”
Lucio lowers his head. The register of his voice drops by a tone or two.
“I don’t know why, but it strikes me that these words are more about you than our lucky lottery winner.”
I get to my feet and leave this statement hanging in the air before it can find the strength to turn into a full-fledged curiosity and therefore a question.
“ Time to go , Lucio,” I sing out in playful English.
He understands and lightens up.
“Anybody who can turn his hand to farming after an all-nighter deserves the bed that awaits him.”
I head for the door.
“Thanks for the hospitality. You certainly are a man who keeps his promises.”
The question I’m expecting comes just as I’m pulling the door open to leave.
“Which is to say?”
“That was one shitty cup of coffee.”
I swing the door shut behind me on his laughter, cross the landing, and a second later I’m home, in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment that’s the mirror image of Lucio’s. Just a few short steps, but it’s another world. Here you see colors, posters on the walls, books on a bookshelf, green plants.
A television set.
I take off my jacket and toss it on the couch. I empty my pockets and lay their contents on top of the chest
He takes his last sip of coffee.
“You might not believe it, but there’s no pleasure in smoking a cigarette if you can’t see the smoke pouring out of your mouth. Evidently there’s a bigger aesthetic component to bad habits than you might think.”
Once again, his voice is veiled in a layer of irony.
“That could be a cure for smoking. Take someone and blindfold them until they lose the urge.”
He smiles.
“Or until they have to get plastic surgery to fix the nose they’ve scorched by trying to light cigarettes with their disposable lighter.”
His smile broadens at the idea. Then a mental connection makes him change the subject.
“Speaking of blindfolds, apparently on Sunday Lady Luck lifted the rag over her eyes and cast a glance in our direction.”
“How so?”
“Down at Michele’s bar, the one next to the church, somebody bought a lottery ticket that won 490 million lire.”
“Fuck. Nice win. Do they know who it was?”
Lucio moves confidently and well in all the public places he frequents. Because of his physical handicap and his personality, he manages to win people’s trust. And so they tell him things.
“Not for sure, but there are a few clues. There’s a guy, name of Remo Frontini, hard worker, decent fellow, lives over in the public housing project. I think he works in a factory. He’s got a boy, a kid about eight, and I give him guitar lessons for a pittance, because he has a gift and because music is a good way to keep him off the streets. You’ve probably seen him leaving my apartment, I’d imagine.”
In fact, I never have, but that hardly seems material to the purpose of the story. Lucio continues without waiting for an answer. He probably thinks the same thing.
“I have to say that what little he pays me comes in when it comes in, if you take my meaning.”
“That’s mighty good of you.”
“Yes, it is. But that’s not the point.”
He breaks off for a minute—I imagine so he can rethink what he’s about to say and make sure of the conclusions he’s drawn.
“Yesterday he came by with his son and he was almost giddy—very talkative. Unusual thing for him; he doesn’t usually talk much. He assured me that before long he’d pay all his back fees, and that from now on he’d pay on time. He even asked me what the best make would be if he decided to buy his son a new guitar.”
After another brief pause, Lucio concludes this little personal investigation of his.
“Throw in the fact that Frontini frequents Michele’s bar and that every week he plays the Totocalcio soccer lottery, and the facts speak for themselves.”
I think it over. Maybe for just a second too long.
“When something changes your life, it’s always difficult to conceal it.”
Lucio lowers his head. The register of his voice drops by a tone or two.
“I don’t know why, but it strikes me that these words are more about you than our lucky lottery winner.”
I get to my feet and leave this statement hanging in the air before it can find the strength to turn into a full-fledged curiosity and therefore a question.
“ Time to go , Lucio,” I sing out in playful English.
He understands and lightens up.
“Anybody who can turn his hand to farming after an all-nighter deserves the bed that awaits him.”
I head for the door.
“Thanks for the hospitality. You certainly are a man who keeps his promises.”
The question I’m expecting comes just as I’m pulling the door open to leave.
“Which is to say?”
“That was one shitty cup of coffee.”
I swing the door shut behind me on his laughter, cross the landing, and a second later I’m home, in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment that’s the mirror image of Lucio’s. Just a few short steps, but it’s another world. Here you see colors, posters on the walls, books on a bookshelf, green plants.
A television set.
I take off my jacket and toss it on the couch. I empty my pockets and lay their contents on top of the chest