to go.
Massimo thought for a bit and said:
– Oh! Kurt, would you mind borrowing a tenner? I would like to see the aunt.
– No problem – Kurt answered politely. – This is sacred.
The lawyer took a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to Massimo, saying:
– And go ahead, find some new friends. These will put you back in the dock.
– Yes. Certainly.
They said goodbye and went their separate ways. Kurt went to the public parking lot, and Massimo to the nearest metro station. After three stations he left the subway. On the way, Massimo stopped at a flower stall. He asked the saleswoman to make a bouquet of five scarlet roses.
Ten minutes later, Massimo knocked on the hospital room door. Inside, his forty-seven-year-old Aunt Barbara lay on a cot. She was the sister of Massimo’s father. When he was just five years old, his parents, Silvio and Ramona Spinazolla, were among the eighty-three people in a movie theater attacked by suicide bombers. On that ill-fated evening Massimo was under the care of his aunt, who lived four bus stops away. Since then, he has never returned to his parents’ apartment, remaining in the care of Aunt Barbara.
Eight months ago, Barbara Spinazolla was diagnosed with stomach cancer. After several courses of chemotherapy, her condition did not improve. The tumor continued to grow in size. Six weeks after the last course, her attending physician recommended that she agree to surgery. She agreed without hesitation.
– Massimo? «Well, finally,» Aunt Barbara said weakly. Despite the passivity in her voice, her face expressed indescribable joy at the appearance of her nephew.
– Hello – said Massimo. He approached his aunt, kissed her forehead, and then carefully placed the bouquet on the edge of the bed.
– Here. This is for you.
Barbara pulled her head towards the flowers, smelled them and said:
– How fragrant they are. – She looked at her nephew and asked: – Why were you gone for so long?
Massimo took a chair near the wall, brought it closer to the bed, sat down and answered:
– I just found some part-time work. So I lingered.
– Part-time job? – the aunt asked with suspicion.
– Yes. What surprises you? I needed to buy flowers. I couldn’t show up to you after so many days, and even empty-handed.
– You are my golden one – Aunt Barbara said with a smile.
– How are you? Hurts badly? – Massimo asked anxiously.
Aunt Barbara took as deep a breath as she could.
– The nurse comes in thirty times a day. I have enough painkillers to last me a lifetime.
Massimo put his hand on her aunt’s arm, encouraging:
– But don’t you dare lose heart. The doctor said that soon it will be our turn.
Aunt Barbara exhaled loudly.
– God willing. God willing.
Massimo sat by the bed for almost three more hours, after which he kissed his aunt again and took the return route to the metro station.
With one change, Massimo drove forty-two minutes to the station, which was a few minutes walk from the house where he and his aunt had an apartment.
They lived in an area that the city dubbed with a special name: «Little Rome». The quarter owes this name to the fact that everyone settled in it, just as once upon a time all sorts of rabble gathered in Ancient Rome at the dawn of its emergence, among whom were foreigners, runaway slaves, criminals, refugees and exiles. It seemed that Little Rome was becoming a haven for everyone without exception. The quarter was more than ninety percent composed of immigrants and their descendants, such as Massimo himself. Mostly Latin Americans, Spaniards, Irish, Portuguese, French, Germans and, of course, Italians lived here. The bulk were Latin Americans and Italians. People from Eastern Europe were rare. Even more rarely, migrants from the Middle East settled in these places. Many local residents made money by opening their own small businesses. For this reason, on each street there were dozens of newspaper stalls, clothing stores, supermarkets, hairdressers, equipment repair shops, bars, snack bars and pawn shops. Robberies were no longer uncommon in the area, and the fact that many goods were in plain sight kept petty theft rates high. Recently, points of distribution of counterfeit alcohol and alcohol of elite brands at a reduced price have begun to appear, which was facilitated by the import of goods across the border illegally. Over the years, prostitution began to gain momentum. According to official statistics, among the cars stolen in Little Rome over the past four years, zero cars were returned to their rightful owners by police officers. Each stolen car does not survive longer than five hours, after which it ends up being dismantled for parts in one of the local auto repair shops.
The street, on which Massimo and Aunt Barbara lived, was constantly filled with the smells of local grocery stores, the loud voices of indignant customers who had become owners of defective goods, the cries of sellers luring buyers among passers-by, the roar of running engines and the horns of passing cars.
The sun disappears behind the horizon of residential high-rise buildings and the streets of Little Rome pass into the power of bribe-taking policemen, racketeers, speculators, pimps and the working class, working to maintain the corrupt bureaucratic hierarchy that has been developed over the years. Bar visitors carefully dry the establishments’ alcohol stocks. Prostitutes line up in an even formation along the curb under the shadow of the overpass. Somewhere, a group of teenagers is cleaning out an apartment temporarily abandoned by the owners. Someone in the VIP room of a nightclub is being undressed by a certain sharper with marked cards. In the same establishment, an emboldened and drunk client persistently pesters a busty stripper moving to the beat of the erotic blues. And somewhere, a couple of dozen tough heroes with knives, bats and brass knuckles came to a business meeting, where for some of its participants death was almost guaranteed. At the same time, a convoy of Colombian producers of laughing powder drives up to the back entrance of the nightclub, which a whole crowd of customers is waiting inside the establishment. A suitcase with cocaine inside in exchange for a suitcase with stacks of Benjamin Franklins.
With tired movements of his knees after a long day, Massimo walked up the stairs of his entrance, passing graffiti with inscriptions of various contents:
«Puerto Ricans rule!»
«Lucas! Nit! Pay back the debt!!!»
«Manuela is a whore»
«Republicans FORWARD!»
«Lucas! Where’s the money!?»
«Democrats are crap!»
«Down with General Videla! Long live President Peron!»
«Fortune telling using coffee grounds. $10 per session. Contact apartment 25»
«Lucas! I’ll kill you!»
«Size
