Metanoia

London night

The grey harshness cut into my eyes as I tiredly scratched my forehead with my short fingernails, reading through the emails that had flooded my inbox since this morning. The insurance company I had contacted late into the evening had informed me that the agents were aware of the fire at The Empire restaurant, they expressed their deepest regret and understanding that the current situation was taking a toll on my life, but they had no jurisdiction to assist me in dealing with the aftermath as the arson version was unproven and therefore not suitable as an insurance case. I clenched my jaw, rolled my eyes and felt a stabbing pain in my eyeballs. I honestly didn’t understand why my father had decided to work with an insurance company – there hadn’t been any such incidents in the restaurant during his lifetime, but in the case of arson, I would have to pay the insurance agents to make the claims. Opening another letter, I quickly scanned the lines informing me that if the cause of the fire was not covered by insurance, the company could refuse to pay compensation. I pressed my fingers into a triangle and rested my forehead against them, closing my eyes and breathing out tiredly – although I had slept longer than usual today, I felt disgusted, and the gloomy sky, where the clouds stretched like grey cotton wool and merged into the horizon, plunged me into a bleak hopelessness and a sense of despair at the flood of endless problems. The damp morning air was uncomfortably cold on my shoulders and back, hidden behind my black turtleneck, causing an unpleasant stabbing sensation in my shoulder blades, forcing me to constantly distract myself and knead my muscles. I jerked sharply and pulled my cold fingers away from my face as a large black silhouette appeared to my left, which turned out to be Thomas in a charcoal suit.

“Are you alright?” he asked simply, raising an eyebrow in surprise as I looked at the folder in his hands, to which I nodded slowly, still dazed. With trembling fingers I reached for the shiny cigarette case, “As you asked,” he mentioned as I raised my eyes to his blond head, “information on De Rosso,” the beige cardboard folder landed on the wooden table next to my grey laptop.

A small orange tongue of flame bounces off the mirrored backdrop of the gold filter and after a moment the smoke begins to billow into my lungs. I feel it slowly pass down my trembling throat and fill my chest with warmth. I began to feel the pleasant dizziness and relaxation that comes with smoke, which my deputy watched with covert interest. Waving my free hand, I repeated that I was fine and thanked him for the file on De Rosso.

“I can go to the office of the insurer who’s been writing you letters,” he stubbed his fingers on the desk, leaned down to read the text on the screen, then straightened and stared at me with his stubborn grey eyes. I took another drag, squeezing the cigarette tighter between my index and middle fingers, and rested my chin on my palm, looking down the stone path beneath my bare feet, next to the heels that lay off to the side. The insurance agent’s health would depend on my word. I tapped the knob of the chair with the fingernails of my free hand, considering this decision carefully but quickly – I wanted to resolve this conflict peacefully, without resorting to violence, but the brazen extortion of a bribe, amidst other incidents, was increasing my irritability. The old methods are quick and effective, but not long lasting; by threatening once, I could ruin the relationship with the insurance agency forever, although whether it made sense, given that I wanted to end our cooperation, was a matter of course. It was difficult to explain my real reasons for wanting to keep the insurance – perhaps it had something to do with the fact that my father had made that decision, and although he was a complex character, he had more experience in business than I did; perhaps a luxury restaurant in an expensive area of London without insurance would have aroused suspicion. I took another drag. The smoke I exhaled created a cloud of white vapour that slowly wafted through the air, leaving behind a faint scent of tobacco. I watched it rise in thin swirls and disappear. The smoke seemed alive, moving and changing with the movement of the air, creating magical and beautiful images. I slowly nodded to Thomas.

I wanted to get rid of the blood that kept running down my cold and trembling hands, but it was impossible – to work with criminals and not become one was close to dreams. I avoided excessive cruelty. My father attributed this to my feminine and domestic nature, to which I attributed the uselessness of blood in most of its spills – if a man could be negotiated with, I had no desire to gouge out his eyes or cut off his genitals while listening to the pathetic cries and squeals. Instead of violence, I used intelligence and a cold strategy that convinced the other person that I was right and that our cooperation was effective – it often took longer, but it ensured longer communication. It did not reduce the blood on my hands. I did not stop using subtle methods of negotiation, but I could justify myself in this way. Like tar, the invisible blood stiffened my movements and made me feel dirty. I had put enough effort into developing the ability to dialogue and adapt to different people, which is very easy to devalue by calling it feminine nature, but I still did not understand – could I be proud of it?

I took a cigarette break and returned to my mail, deleting all the letters (read and unread) from the insurance agency, before concentrating on a message from Richard, reporting a successfully concluded deal and awaiting his share of the fee, and from a client who expressed his deep gratitude by enclosing a transfer of the negotiated amount to my account. Having made a note of the payment in my notebook, I was about to examine the information from my vineyard workers, who had noticed the appearance of disease in some of the vines, when my gaze shifted to the cardboard folder on my left. I swallowed hard and leaned back in my chair, picking up the file with “Dante De Rosso” written in large letters on a beige background.

I desperately wanted to find out more about this man and see how safe he was to work with, but that would mean distrusting my brother and his choice. When I opened the folder, the first thing that caught my eye was a black and white photograph of a man much younger than he was today: he was looking straight into the camera, his gaze was the same as I had seen at my brother’s wedding, so deep, so magnetic; his full lips, thick and furrowed dark eyebrows, short dark hair. I lifted the picture with two fingers and began to read the text fluently.

Mute shock froze my face when there was nothing criminal in the information Thomas found – Dante was born in Salerno to an ordinary family of an accountant, a teacher and his older sister. As a child he was quiet and obedient, completing all his homework on time and never complaining about his behaviour. His family was well-behaved: occasionally late with their mortgage payments, they were friendly, constantly attending parties and celebrations, some of which they organised themselves. But after the tragedy, when the car carrying his parents and sister plunged off a bridge into the water, he became withdrawn and silent, lonely, indecisive and nervous. The file described an episode in which De Rosso, in sixth grade, was bullied by classmates who called him “orphan” and “homeless”. Dante became very upset and locked himself in the school’s spare room and sat there until the evening when a security guard found him sitting in the corner with his knees pressed to his chest. His aunt Helen in London, who had left Italy when he was an adult, took him into her care and from the age of ten Dante lived in England, where he studied economics and began his career. There was nothing wrong. I hadn’t found anything in his file about illegal activities – for a long time he worked for a leading brokerage firm in London, but after a highly publicised scandal with his bosses he was sacked; since then he has been providing economic services as a sole trader. My intuition confused me. I exhaled sharply and threw Dante’s data onto the table, scattering the papers. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers and closed my eyes, feeling the usual contradiction in my soul: my brain understood that De Rosso was harmless, my brother trusted him, but my soul understood that I could not trust him.

The reply from the lab still hadn’t arrived in my mail, which was beginning to worry me, since this decoration was so far the only clue in this mystical case that was destroying my business, while Thomas was dealing with the insurance. Gathering all the documents in a single file, not forgetting Dante’s dossier, I took the papers and a laptop, a notebook, on my way to my bedroom, where I intended to continue working on the documents. Still confused by the information I had received about Dante, I quickly staggered barefoot across the cold floor, abruptly opened the door and angrily threw the contents of my hands onto the bed.

Hours later, Thomas texted me, giving me a time and place to meet the insurance agent who had recently taken over The Empire’s case. Jensen kindly agreed to lend me one of his cars, and a security man drove me to the restaurant. Now, looking out the panoramic window of one of the The Empire’s working halls at night, I was even more convinced that city life was wearing me out – having lived permanently in a seaside resort on the Tyrrhenian Sea, I was used to the peace and quiet, the slowness that was so uncharacteristic of the metropolis, even of its people. The population of the capital was eighteen hundred times larger, so as I drove through the crowded streets I began to appreciate the sparseness of the roads, which allowed me to hear the sound of the waves and to stare at the water for long periods from the balcony of my hotel room. Even in the evening, which quickly turned into night, people were still in a hurry, chasing something. There were also many disadvantages to living in a small town, as most of my partners preferred to live in the capitals, the megalopolises, and one can understand them, because there is business and therefore money. Exhaling deeply, I looked up from the picture window and stared at the empty chair opposite me. Just a few minutes ago, a man had made me happy with the news that I wouldn’t have to spend money on repairs. Of all the businesses I owned, the restaurant held a special place in my heart – not because of the size or the money, but because my father, who chose not to take the patriarchy into account, had left me The Empire as a legacy; getting the place meant winning the fight for my rights, but that was the reason I had lost everything.

I wore a loose black suit that didn’t constrict my body, but no sooner had I regained the skin on my legs after the last few days than I had to put on my high-heeled pumps again, which felt like nails under my heels. I continued to drink my coffee, glancing occasionally at the view out the window; I’d given Thomas a few errands to run, including transferring payment to Richard and contacting the lab, Jensen was unavailable all day – because of his wife or the bar, I didn’t know. All I had to do was contact the guard who’d taken me to the restaurant, because I had no other safe way to get to the castle. Licking my lips, I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, not letting my back be as flat as usual.

“Is it free here?” a man’s voice came over my head, the coldness of his tone making my spine tense and my shoulders quiver.

“Depends on your intentions, Dante,” I cautiously opened my eyes and pulled myself out of the chair. I hadn’t thought about De Rosso since I’d read his file, and since then I hadn’t been able to decide how I should feel about him. His appearance was attractive, but the coldness in which his personality was wrapped made me doubt and mistrust him; although there was nothing unusual about his life, I could feel the intuition manifesting itself like a heavy lump in my stomach, an uncomfortable and pressing feeling.

“The worst ones,” he replied with a grin. The man pulled out a chair and sat down, looking at me relaxed.

“Is this really a chance meeting? You, me,” I furrowed my brow slightly, confused by his grin, locking my fingers together and leaning against my chest, “my restaurant,” I clarified, looking back at the small number of diners in other parts of the restaurant (few people wanted to dine in a half-burned building where the walls and floor had absorbed the smell of smoke). I didn’t like his appearance here.

“No, actually,” he leaned back in the upholstered chair, adjusting the collar of his white shirt at the back of his neck. I noticed how casually he touched the rough fabric with his fingers, how his chest heaved as he inhaled. I raised my left eyebrow, expecting him to continue, “I saw you in the window.”

“And to what do I owe that encounter?” I nodded, picking up a cup of coffee. Although Dante’s voice was softer and more relaxed, I couldn’t help but feel his coldness and distance, his superiority over me in the dialogue, which obviously frustrated me – it made it difficult to find the right strategy to expose this man. Squinting slightly in the dim light of the old lamps, I could make out a small dark spot under his chin, the darkness of the night making it difficult to see the colour, but I was sure it was related to the blow I had dealt him yesterday.

“Decided to remind you that walking in dark corridors can end badly,” was probably the first emotion I could read on his face. Primal superiority followed by mockery. Either Dante had felt confident enough to speak to me too soon, since he’d decided to speak so bluntly, or he was amused by the situation – I found it hard to laugh when De Rosso tried to touch my thigh under my dress, jeopardising my mission.

I decided to mirror the man’s behaviour and, placing the cup with the brown stains on the table, I leaned back in my chair and relaxed, “Then you shouldn’t get under the dresses of innocent women,” I replied with a slight smile.

“I don’t remember a single innocent woman that night.”

Our eyes locked, both of us feeling superior to the other, even though we both knew it was a lie. My irritation with the man grew, as did my desire to know him – what could be hidden behind the happy life, if one can call it that, of a child from Salerno? Dante is not to be trusted. Despite my unconditional loyalty to my family, I could not allow a stranger, rejected by my body and my mind, to get under my feet. Unwilling to tolerate the man’s presence a moment longer, I held up my left palm, whereupon the young man in uniform approached me.

“Bill, please,” I asked the waiter, to which he quickly nodded and left.

“Leaving so soon?” Dante’s voice meant I had to tell him everything I knew and I had no right to demand reciprocity, “You still haven’t told me why you were in Luсa’s office.”

“I’m not even going to,” I arched an eyebrow, resting my elbows on the table and pushing my shoulders forward.

Dante chuckled as he rubbed his chin. I picked up the phone, intending to contact the guards.

“I can take you to the castle,” the man suddenly suggested. Noticing the confusion and disbelief on my face, he repeated the same phrase in a more familiar, colder style, nodding slowly. I blocked the screen of my phone and tucked the front strands of my hair behind my ears, revealing my face – my security was matched by my curiosity; by talking to Dante, I could cunningly get the information I needed from him, including one that would make my exposure easier.

“Your bill,” the waiter held out a terminal, to which I quickly swiped my card without opening my eyes from Dante’s night gaze. Despite his distance, which felt like a cold tingle on my skin, the man looked immersed in the lights of dark London; his chest rose slowly, the thin cashmere of his pullover enveloping his massive ribcage. Exhaling softly, I found myself clenching my lower lip between my teeth, burning De Rosso’s gaze. I squeezed my eyes shut sharply.

At the same time, I got up, straightened my jacket and, squeezing my bag between my fingers, we headed for the lift. The small room smelled like a diffuser, with an apricot scent that made me close my eyes for a moment and think of Italy; if not for the sharp pain in my legs, I would probably have fallen asleep standing up. Lately, coffee had begun to have the opposite effect on me, draining all my energy. The coldness of my fingertips felt like a touch, and I felt the warmth emanating from the man to my left. Even with my eyes closed, I caught the scent of his spicy perfume, which tickled the tip of my nose, reminiscent of ginger. The sound that signalled the arrival of the lift to the ground floor was so loud in my ears that a headache pierced my temple, and the man quickly raised his hand, pointing me towards the opening doors. In the fleeting moment when our fingers were a few millimetres apart, I felt a sharp jolt of electricity running from the tip of my nail straight to my heart; opening my eyes wide, I realised that this closeness, though unintentional, had affected me more than the strongest espresso, making me breathe more frequently.

Dante had a black Audi, and the city’s night lights reflected off the glossy paint of the SUV, catching the eyes of passers-by. The man drove the car quite skilfully, his brown eyes following the road, one hand resting restfully on his hip, the other turning the wheel. Dante remained at a distance from me, not trying to engage in dialogue, which was characteristically different from his behaviour in the restaurant, while my thoughts returned to my incomprehensible reaction to his proximity, to the minimal distance between our fingers. I was confused by this unexpectedness – I’d never felt this way about a simple touch, a feeling I couldn’t explain. My eyes began to close, my lids falling slower and slower like cobblestones until I was plunged into darkness. With one last glance at De Rosso, which he noticed, I relaxed in the car seat, immersing myself in the scent of Dante that surrounded me all around. Too exhausted to analyse the behaviour of the man on my right, I began to doze, my head resting on my shoulder, having heard the man grin earlier. I opened my eyes from time to time. Although the slow speed of the car was more soothing than the bed in the castle where we were going. My eyes opened again when Dante abruptly turned to the side of the road and got out of the Audi. I followed him.