There were no more paths to follow. The whole universe was at the mercy of the butterflies, the blood and the tears. The last image that Giovanni could see, grasping it with a splinter of consciousness, was Lucas drowning head first in that obscene swamp of agony. He could almost hear the noise, the sucking, lamenting noise, so unbearable that one could lose his mind, listening to it for too long.
11 – A Visit
In the morning of April 15th, Giovanni found out, much to his surprise, that the deliveries – two triple ones – were both in the afternoon. Nothing during the morning. It had never happened, apart from the Cleansing day.
He thought he could dedicate some more time to reading and physical exercise. A bit of weight lifting, a bit dickens, a bit of running around the Ring… but his plans were promptly canceled at 9:00, when the red light of the Spy and its terrible droning noise made him jump. The first thing he did was checking the fax again. Was it possible he had read it wrong? No, the it was perfectly clear: no delivery in the morning. Then what?
As a second, instinctive action, he secured the holster of the Beretta to his belt, then got out of the apartment and into the hallway. Luckily, he thought, he was already dressed adequately, expecting some unforeseen event driven by his sixth sense – or maybe by the strange schedule of the day.
When the elevator arrived Giovanni wasn’t next to the Shutter. He wasn’t expecting any deliveries; if on the other end there had been some glitch in the organization, he wasn’t the one to be blamed. He placed himself before the sliding doors, choosing a stance that conveyed self-confidence. He couldn’t get out of his head the idea that everything he did and said during work was communicated to the higher ups and evaluated to add up to some sort of final score.
But when from the cabin came out a disheveled, sweating man in his fifties, wearing a pair of very thin glasses and carrying a heavy, black suitcase, Giovanni was surprised. The regulations didn’t allow unexpected visits from strangers, so he fruitlessly wasted time deciding how to behave. Could that man be a threat? Were they testing him, maybe? Should he extract his gun and order the stranger to present himself? Were he a soldier, he would be clearly recognizable. He was wearing a simple suit (beige jacket, white shirt, dark brown trousers); and even if it’s true that people should not be judged by the way they look, that man looked harmless. Moreover, to get up there he had to use his ID card, authorised and emitted by the Center’s Permit Office, so there were all the premises to rule out any sort of threat. Without letting the guard down, of course.
Getting out of the elevator, the man smiled at him and extended his hand, staring at him right in the eyes. “Good morning, mister Corte. I’m Doctor Nicastro, from the NMO’s medical department. Nice to meet you.”
A doctor? Of course. Periodically, unless the Keeper doesn’t explicitly asks so, the NMO will subject him to check ups to evaluate his physical and mental state: this was the passage of the regulation explaining everything! Giovanni breathed out loudly and shook the doctor’s hand.
“Nice to meet you too, doctor.”
The check up – nothing speciaclass="underline" blood pressure, heart and lung auscultation, standard questions – lasted no more than fifteen minutes. Giovanni’s body was strong, working out benefitted him, he ate properly, his reflexes were excellent… nothing new. It simply was the confirmation that all the parameters requested when signing up for the role of Keeper remained unchanged. The physical ones, at least.
“Good, mister Corte, good.” Doctor Nicastro stroked the corners of his mouth with thumb and index, then asked: “Could I have something to drink, please?”
“Yes, of course. But I have no alcoholic beverages, as you know.”
The medic waved his hands with a slight smile. “Oh, no alcohol of course. No, something refreshing should be enough, even just a glass of water.”
“Let’s move to the kitchen then.”
From the bedroom the two men went to the kitchen. Giovanni pointed to a chair, then opened the fridge. “Some orange juice, maybe?”
“Perfect.”
He filled two glasses and sat in front of the doctor. The latter half-emptied it in one go, then started looking around with a seemingly distracted expression. Giovanni, who too was drinking, watched him through the curved surface of the glass, making him look like some sort of being with a deformed and dilated face.
When Nicastro started talking, he did so with detached and professional tone with which he had conducted the check-up just a few minutes ago. “How do you feel in here, mister Corte?”
Giovanni put the glass on the checked tablecloth and started following the vertical grooving with a fingertip. “How do I feel… what do you mean?”
“Being secluded for months in a place like the Tank could cause problems. Do you think you have some?”
Giovanni weighted his words carefully before talking. Of course I do. Is there anybody who doesn’t? No, it was better to walk safer paths.
“I have passed al the tests.”
Nicastro nodded slowly. Now that the physical check-up was over, they went on with the psychological one. A mine filed.
“I know that. I read your profile and the test results. Admirable. But you know… there’s a very big difference between saying and doing.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Giovanni realized just in time he was being defensive, almost hostile, so he immediately toned his answer down with a smile to which the doctor gladly adapted. He had to avoid looking nervous. Any sign of instability could be used against him. He had to keep calm, look like a man of the utmost integrity. A proud member of the NMO.
The doctor was still waiting for an honest answer.
“Well, solitude can lead to boredom, it’s pretty natural…” While talking, Giovanni scrutinized Nicastro’s face, looking for even the slightest reaction, a minimal sign encouraging him to go on on that route. But the man on the other side of the table was more than used to not letting his patients understand what he was feeling.
(Because that’s what you are now, Giovanni? A patient?)
“…but apart from that, I would say there aren’t any… real problems.”
“Why, are there any false ones?”
Giovanni kept smiling and had to loosen the hand he had the glass in. He was clenching it too tightly.
“No, I mean… no problem. Really.”
“I believe you, mister Corte. And it’s a pleasure to hear you say so. You know, the higher ups are always worried about their employees, even more so for those with delicate jobs, like your. But let me asked you a couple more questions, may I?”
“Of course. I’m at your disposal.”
Nicastro leant on the chair’s seatback and, without breaking eye-contact, he asked: “Any nightmares?”
There it was. A mine field: no, way worse than that. During the selections he had been coherent following a version and he had better not contradict himself.
“Nothing I can’t remember.”
“So you admit that you could have had some.”
“I think it’s impossible not to. But if I can’t remember them in the morning, they probably weren’t important…” He smiled again. Maybe not a very convincingly, though. He remembered some lines from his predecessor’s diary. He still hadn’t reached that point (not yet at least). No, he would never.
The doctor shrugged. “You’re probably right. And… wet dreams?”
Giovanni’s throat instantly dried up and he felt a hideous warmth expanding on his face. He had always been reticent on that particular topic. “Well, I don’t really understand how this could… interest you. No offense, doctor…”