Giovanni got his gun from the pile of clothes on the floor, put on his slippers and, hiding the Beretta under his back, appeared on the kitchen’s doorstep. He was ready for anything, but not for what he saw. And a painful migraine punished him instantly for his stupidity.
He still hadn’t noticed that all the light were now on. And so was the TV.
In the screen, a young journalist and very elegant old man were talking in a studio. The camera focused on one, then the other, and it sufficed to follow just a couple of sentences to understand it was an interview. He was a nazi hierarch, or something like that.
Dragging his feet and pressing a finger on his temple Giovanni grabbed the remote and made both disappear, annoyed. It was all clear now. What an imbecile!
He sat at the table, which was still set from the night before, but the mere sight of the dish, oily and smelling of hot sauce, made him sick. He stood up, growling some vulgarity, and went to the bathroom. He swallowed a couple of painkillers, took a warm shower, dressed up, then dragged himself to the Control.
Everything appeared to be in order inside the Well. The greenish image of the agonizing convicts went back to its professional routine that made him keep his usual balanced emotive detachment. Good.
The Postman was silent. Everything good on that front, too. It was too soon to receive messages or faxes. But that day he would be the one to take the first time, and very early, too.
He sat in front of the screen, rubbed his hands and, without beating around the bush, he started writing his report to the officers in the Center. His headache was disappearing.
Thanks to the chemical first-aid, he thought with mock satisfaction. Moreover, the strict mental training he went under in these last few months let his cut with efficiency the umbilical cord binding to the nightmare he had made, so he couldn’t remember it. It was useless, very useless, to think about it. There was a time when he would think about it for half a day. But not now. No more dead weights. A clean mind!
“I am the NMO.”
Yeah, right. A piercing titter slipped away from a corner of his mouth. You are the NMO, and you are also an idiot who cant tell two talking people in the TV from intruders…
That was really a good one. It would be a funny chapter in the memoir he would write. One day.
He shook his head to forget those inanities and focused on what he was writing. Once finished, he double-checked.
“Esteemed Sirs, I have to signal a serious incident happened in the evening of yesterday, the 6th of July. Alerted by a power outage I proceeded with all the necessary inspections, opening the door of the isolation cabin to check. During the inspection I was blindsided by an intruder, impossible to identify due to the reduced visibility caused by the emergency lights being almost out of battery. Since he manifested homicidal intents, I was forced to shoot (a single bullet). Wounded, probably in his left shoulder, the intruder escaped using the escape door form which I think he got in, considering the impossibility to do so with the elevator. My attempt to catch him had a negative outcome. I still haven’t cleaned the floor should there be the need to analyze the blood trails. I await directions. Respectfully.”
Bureaucratic slang had always irritated him. But now, so spontaneously coming from his head, he found it ridiculous. It was a very good report: dry, short, exemplary. It was a pity he couldn’t communicate the enormous emotional impact of what happened. But what could he write? Passions and emotions had very little influence when information was communicated to those levels. The only important thing was to be dutiful. And be sincere, when possible. Ok, he didn’t get inside the Shutter for an inspection, not technically anyway; but he also had to protect himself, didn’t he? Ok, that was good.
He sent the message with a sigh.
He then looked into the Well. How strange… had the intruder pushed a button the night before (a simple pressure of the finger on a plastic circle!), then now he too would…
He stood up, annoyed by the direction his thoughts had taken, refusing to let them go on. He just needed to kill some time before getting an answer from the fax machine or the Postman. He wasn’t hungry, so he decided that breakfast could wait. Going back to bed was out of the question. Reading? Some TV? No, thanks. He thought (they would have found out you weren’t there, see that you were in the Tank, activated some kind of device to take you out, they would they would they would) he could shave, in all tranquillity, watching his face disappeared from the mirror behind a layer of vapor.
Dragging his feet he started walking towards the bathroom (if the people under there recognized you they would have dragged you down, nobody would have ever found you, you would have gotten eaten!), but a sudden beep blocked him on the Control’s threshold.
An answer already?
He went back to the Postman and, biting his lip, opened the message.
“You are authorized to clean everything up. The intruder has been caught and awaits judgment.”
His first reaction was to land his fist on the console.
“Great!” He exclaimed. But the enthusiasm so vigorously blooming inside him was immediately ruined by a hideous interior voice: And what if he’s the one writing you? Would it really be so unlikely?
True… if the man that had gotten inside the Tank was the same who had written those rambling threats (and he was, without a doubt), then he could really be…
“Oh to hell with it!” It was crazy talk. How could anyone be sure of anything when in there, unaware of anything happening in the outside world? Had he to trust the message and clean up the water and blood in the Ring, or was it some kind of deceit? The uncertainty made him feel helpless. He realized he was biting one of his knuckles and his teeth had already left pale moons on his skin.
He thought he should probably answer somehow, and did so with the extremely vague hope he could strengthen his trust in whoever was communicating with him. He wrote: “As injured party, can I know the identity of the man you arrested?”
“I’ll cut my hand off if they do…”
The answer arrived after just 20 seconds.
“When the time is right. Have a good day, Keeper.”
There it was. Exactly how he feared. That Have a good day, Keeper was the end of the conversation. Answering would be useless. He would do what he had been told to and if had indeed all been a trick, the printouts would confirm his good faith, and most of all his obedience.
He grabbed a bucket and a mop, and went to the Ring, cursing the migraine trying to conquer his head.
Two triple deliveries, that day. One at 9:00 A.M. (drunken nomads stopped while riving a stolen car, and one at 4:00 P.M. (revolutionaries found in possession on unregistered weapons).
Giovanni tried to ask the guards, both in the morning and in the afternoon, trying to get something out of them by using generic questions such as “Any problem with the storm, yesterday?” or “Anything new out there?” They were good attempts, even if a bit pathetic, and altogether useless. In one case (It was Wrinkle) the answer was “No problems” and the other (Bags) “Everything all right, Keeper” (and Giovanni had learnt that when a GS ended the sentence with the work Keeper it was more of a shut up and remember your place). He didn’t resent the soldiers’ silence. He knew their modus operandi and also that they had received orders they couldn’t disobey. He decided thing would take their own course, as always, under the management of a superior system. The NMO would decide what he should come to know, when, and how.