The Nicotine Chronicles Read online

  But then Giovanna took my face in her hands and leaned in to kiss me again. When she pressed her lips into mine I tasted tobacco and vanilla and she dug her fingernails into my back and scratched me hard and our sparkling nakedness and all these sought-after and dangerous cigarettes made me feel powerful and vulnerable, like a giant mango about to explode, but I didn’t tell Giovanna that because I didn’t want her to think I was so weird that I compared myself to fruits we couldn’t even get in this town. The soft of her breast against my palm made me shiver.

  I said, “Giovanna, I know a squat in Berlin. With central heating. All we have to do is sell these cigarettes, then buy our tickets. There’s work in Berlin, I’m sure of it. And all kinds of families without men. I’ve made money painting in the streets. Tourists—they all want their picture. I can show you how to do murals!”

  Giovanna nodded slowly. I could tell she was mulling the idea, warming up to it even. “Street muralists,” she hummed, and she rubbed her sweet belly. She was fixed on the cracks in the stone floor, and bit her lip.

  Yes, I would take Giovanna away from all this.

  She looked back up. Just the slightest hint of lipstick clung to the edges of her lips. “We can’t sell the cigarettes here. They find out we have the cigarettes and they’re going to think we killed Martelli. But . . . I might have a way.” She took another cigarette from the pack and lit it. And in that golden, dusky light through that tiny little window, Giovanna, naked and pregnant, blowing smoke rings toward the fan, was a picture I wanted to paint.

  * * *

  In the dark of morning, I stood in the archway of a ruined castle at the edge of the piazza, my two backpacks still quite full of cigarettes. I’d shoved a single change of clothes into a side pouch. I fingered the wad of lire in the pocket of my army-surplus pants. Marco, from the café, would hardly notice the missing money. Giovanna had wanted me to take all of it—she said if he left his cash register full of money every night he deserved to learn a lesson—but I still had some morals then.

  “Good morning, bella,” Giovanna whispered from behind. Bella. I could get used to that. I could imagine it all: we’d paint the walls of our squat blue, make a cradle for the baby from a milk crate.

  She wore black gloves, and dangled a key in front of me, bringing one finger to her lips. “Shhhh. No one can see us leave town together.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You take the car. I’ve got a ticket for the first bus. I’ll meet you at the railway station in Grosseto in time for the 6:15 train.”

  I nodded.

  But when Giovanna pointed to the car she had in mind, my skull felt heavy. I wanted a cigarette. “How do you have a key to Martelli’s car?”

  She pouted, just a little. “We were engaged.” She smiled and winked at me. He must have loved that wink.

  What was it about Giovanna that made me see everything in flush pinks and reds? I closed my eyes against all those colors and frowned. Sternly I said, “We can’t take Martelli’s car.”

  But Giovanna laughed her easy laugh and replied, “Don’t worry, bella, we’ll have it abandoned at the station by dawn.” She pulled me in, and when she pressed her full breasts against mine I knew all things were possible.

  Yes, in Berlin we would have central heating. We would march through the streets holding hands and that song about the ninety-nine red balloons would play from a boom box somewhere out of sight. We would be artists, and have the baby in summertime. I wondered if Giovanna wanted a boy or a girl or a herm—if she’d want another child after this one. Yes, in Berlin we would get femi-fists tattooed on our biceps and we would probably meet Nina Hagen.

  “Let me take one carton,” Giovanna said, and she reached over my shoulder and unzipped my backpack and slid out a carton of MS. A light, cold rain started to fall and the dark sky began to blue and Giovanna kissed me once more and let her tongue graze my teeth. “Drive safely, bella.” I felt the imperative of my mission: yes, I would be the one to get Giovanna out of this place. She didn’t need this parched Catholic morality any more than I did.

  She said, “Oh!” like it was an afterthought, almost forgotten, and pushed a brown paper bag toward me. “I packed a surprise for you—for later.” It smelled like cloves and old libraries. Everything she touched smelled good.

  I liked the way she said for later. I imagined something soft and heavy, a sensual token of her gratitude—something worth waiting for. Just then the church bells started to clang the early-morning hour and I rushed to Martelli’s car. I threw my things onto the passenger’s seat and I shifted that car into neutral and eased out of the piazza, then started the engine, and took a sharp right over the bridge that crossed the ravine and led out of town. At the bottom of the hill, I followed the arrow that pointed toward Grosseto. The sunlit freedom of it all. I shifted into high gear, reached into the brown paper bag without looking. The hard thing inside felt like a dildo and a shiver of excitement ran from my fingers and down my arm. As I began to caress it, the thing seemed a little cold. I peered inside the bag.

  What in the motherfuck?

  And right then is when I heard the sirens. My heart contracted as everything came into focus: I was driving a murdered man’s car, the passenger seat piled with cigarettes that might as well have been his haul from Napoli, my fingerprints on the gun. I fumbled for a pack and opened it. My hand shook as I held the Nazionale between my fingers, but I managed to light the thing. I looked up into the orange of the sunrise and felt a tightening and a fluttering at the same time, like a bird was trapped in my chest. I inhaled, knowing this would probably be my last cigarette for a long time, but just then, as the nicotine flooded my veins, the trapped bird opened her wings with something like grace.

  I rolled down the driver’s-side window and blew the smoke into the air, took another hard drag. I reached over and grabbed a half-empty pack and threw it out onto the street, watched it tumble and bounce behind me. I grabbed a whole carton then and opened it. The sound of the cop’s brakes screeching behind me was the sound of my opportunity. I pushed all my weight onto the gas pedal, and glanced into the rearview mirror as that watercolor town melted into a blur, and there in the chipped corner of my mirror that constable scrambled to pick up all the packs. Yes, I would abandon Martelli’s car at the Grosseto station, jump on the train and change my clothes in the tiny bathroom, pay for my ticket once we were already speeding north and away from that crumbling hill town where no one had so much as asked my name.

  I lit another cigarette off my last, and tossed the butt out the window. I thought of beautiful Giovanna, all rainbow crystals and black stockings, her little wink. And I couldn’t help but smile again: I was your one chance out, Giovanna. And now you can really go fuck yourself.

  The Renovation of the Just

  by Christopher Sorrentino

  They were smoking when Dormer opened the door, two unexpected strangers standing expectantly on the step where they’d just rung the bell, both with cigarettes fuming in their hands. It was odd. It was, in fact, rude. The first words out of Dormer’s mouth addressed that rudeness—politely but decisively, he thought.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is a smoke-free home.”

  “Well,” said the man standing on the right, “we’re not in your home yet.”

  Both men wore suits that fitted them poorly. The one who had spoken wore one that was too small. The one who had remained silent wore one that was too large. They were about the same height and easily could have switched suits. For a moment Dormer thought about how they might effect that, and whether it would make a difference. Perhaps they lived together. He spoke again.

  “I’ll have to ask you to put those out.”

  Too Large glanced at Too Small and backed up a step, raising the cigarette to his lips for one last drag. Then he threw it on the broad, well-tended lawn. Too Small snapped his away from between his thumb and forefinger, following the arc of its flight with visible satisfaction. It had traveled farther than Too Large�
�s.

  “There,” he said. “Now can we come in and speak to you?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Okay, Mr. Dormer,” said Too Large, speaking for the first time. “We can stand out here and talk if you like.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “All the mail in the box is addressed to you.”

  “He’s kidding,” said Too Small. “Don’t kid him. Mr. Dormer is a serious man.”

  “Well,” said Too Large, “it is.”

  “You just moved in here, what, about two months ago?” said Too Small.

  “Closed on the place on the twelfth of February,” said Too Large.

  “How would you know that?” said Dormer.

  “A matter of public record,” said Too Large.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t explained ourselves very well,” said Too Small. He reached into his jacket and produced a card. Dormer looked at it.

  “They didn’t mention anything about the place before you offered on it, did they?”

  “They never do,” said Too Large.

  “It’s a shame. Personally, I don’t think it would make a difference to an educated buyer.” Too Small took an appreciative look at the house’s tidy exterior.

  “But not to say anything just kind of leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Totally unnecessary,” said Too Large. “But, then again, why take the chance?”

  “You know what you are? You’re a cynic. You’re at work all day, aren’t you, Mr. Dormer? You know what it’s like to spend all day with these cynical types. It gets old fast.” He turned to Too Large. “You’re totally predictable,” he said.

  “Reliable,” said Too Large.

  “Reliably a pain in the nougat.” Too Small tapped the side of his head. He then reached into his shirt pocket and removed another cigarette. Automatically, Too Large reached for one as well.

  “Really, I have to insist on your not smoking.”

  “Sorry,” said Too Small. “Reflex.” He flipped the unlit cigarette after the first one. Too Large simply put his back in his pocket.

  “Asthma, is it? Allergies?”

  “It’s probably just distaste. Mr. Dormer is an educated man with good sense,” said Too Small.

  Too Large nodded and smiled.

  “I used to smoke,” said Dormer. “I stopped a long time ago. Terrible habit.”

  “Tell me, did you find it hard to quit?”

  “Sure it was hard. But I knew what was at stake. I knew what was really important. Now, please, tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. It saves me the trouble of telling you.”

  “It doesn’t really,” said Too Large.

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course I still have to tell you. It’s merely that I don’t have to figure out how to introduce the subject. Although I suppose standing on your doorstep might beg the question.”

  Dormer took another look at the card. He opened the door all the way and stood aside.

  * * *

  “No matter what you people do to the place, it always looks the same to me, somehow,” said Too Small.

  “Not that you haven’t done a nice job,” added Too Large, quickly, placing a lightly restraining hand on Too Small’s forearm. “You’ve really refreshed this room. Bold color here, texture there, rich and varied materials to add interest, statement pieces to announce yourself.”

  “What the heck is that?” Too Small was pointing at what looked like a large knife hanging on the wall over the mantel.

  “It’s a fauchard. Or just the blade, actually. Sixteenth-century weapon. My wife gave it to me. I’m of French descent.”

  “Beautiful,” said Too Small.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Seeing what you’ve done to the place is one of the pleasures of the job.”

  “Everyone must be very happy here,” said Too Small.

  “We’re enjoying our new home, yes.”

  “Can be a tense time, moving in. No tension?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You and your wife are getting along okay?”

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  “Is she at home?” asked Too Large.

  “Yes, is the family here?”

  “She’ll tell you the same thing,” said Dormer.

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking. I’m perfectly satisfied with your answer. But they are here?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Excellent. If you’d collect everyone, we’ll meet and briefly explain here in the living room,” said Too Small.

  * * *

  Dormer found his wife in their bedroom. She was fresh from the yoga mat and flushed with health.

  “Who was at the door?”

  “It was some men. They’re downstairs.”

  “What kind of men?”

  “Some kind. They seem to be here on official business.” He handed her the card.

  “I’ve never heard of them,” she said.

  “But here they are. They want to talk to all of us.”

  Dormer left his wife to change her clothes and found his son in his room, sitting in the shadows behind curtains closed against the day, watching a video featuring a continuous zoom into the depths of a Mandelbrot set. The repetitive music that accompanied the video was unsettlingly reminiscent of the soundtrack from a pornographic film that Dormer thought of now and then, occasionally, from time to time. The boy, Charlie, was snacking at his desk against all instructions. Dormer told the wayward youth to meet him downstairs. He thought he may have heard a response.

  * * *

  “Here’s where we need to focus,” said Too Small. He was standing in a small passageway that led from the living room to the dining room. There was a framed poster on the wall behind him. Dormer couldn’t quite make it out, although he’d hung it there himself only a week beforehand. He closed his eyes to try to recall the poster.

  “Who wants to be the body?”

  “Body?” said Dormer’s wife.

  “You said you were going to explain,” said Dormer.

  “We are explaining,” said Too Large. “How about you, young man? You look like you can handle anything you put your mind to.”

  Charlie got up from the couch and shuffled wearily over to the passageway.

  “Now lie down,” said Too Large.

  “Don’t jump the gun,” said Too Small, “let’s get everyone involved. Mom, you come through here into the dining room. Do you have any oven mitts? Go ahead and put one on. Your right hand will do fine.”

  “Sit down, everyone!” Dormer yelled. He hadn’t expected to yell, but he was suddenly very upset. This was getting out of control. “You said you’d explain what you were doing here and you haven’t.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Too Small. “You’re absolutely right. Everybody, gather round. Here’s the deal. This young man will be the body. Or object, if you prefer. Heavy, still, motionless, inert. A stone in an overgrown field. You’re a natural! Mom will assume the posture of everyday life. An oven mitt, as if you’ve just come from putting a pie on the windowsill to cool. And you—”

  “I don’t really bake,” said Mrs. Dormer.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. For example, this little ray of sunshine clearly is more than just an object on the floor. It’s in the spirit of things. And you—”

  “I don’t bake,” she said again.

  Too Small drew Too Large aside and the two conferred for a moment. “We don’t ordinarily like to skip steps, but perhaps you should simply emerge from the kitchen holding the cigarette.”

  “Cigarette?” she asked.

  Too Small and Too Large immediately produced cigarettes.

  “Please!” said Dormer.

  “I’m sorry,” said Too Small. He muttered, “Thought she was inviting us to smoke.”

  Too Large crumpled his in his hand and let the shreds of tobacco and torn paper sift through his fin
gers onto the floor.

  “What would make you think such a thing?” said Mrs. Dormer. “None of us smoke here.”

  “Smokes,” said Too Large. “None of us smokes.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said Too Small. “Let’s try it a different way. Ordinarily we’d prefer not to regress to these earlier reconstructive steps, but I think it may help to illustrate the necessity of our requests. So, Mr. Dormer, you will slip into your home. You’ll pass through the hallway, to the left of the staircase, enter the first doorway straight ahead, proceed to the left of the staircase, go through the doorway you’ll see ahead of you, and then there’ll be a corridor running parallel to the staircase on its left-hand side, at the end of which you’ll enter through the doorway. Then you’ll pause.”

  It didn’t sound very much like Dormer’s house, but before he had a chance to mention this, Too Small had gestured at Too Large, who stepped forward to take Dormer by the elbow and lead him back through the hallway to the front door. He opened it and gently pushed Dormer onto the step.

  “When do I come in?” asked Dormer.

  “Oh, immediately.” Too Large shut the door.

  Dormer stood on the step for a moment, uncertain. Then he tried the door. It opened. He passed through the hallway to the left of the staircase and entered the doorway at its end. There was a second staircase, with a passageway running along the left. He crossed it and then entered through the doorway at the end. There was a third staircase. He heard music—tinny, repetitive, electronic music that seemed to stir unseemly memories. He continued along this hallway more slowly and paused at the doorway before crossing the threshold into the space beyond it, where he found himself in the passageway between the kitchen and the dining room. The poster was of a field of crops, large ovate leaves flowering with pale-green five-pointed blossoms, extending toward the horizon and the setting sun. He saw his son kneeling on the sofa, kneeling with his back to him, wearing a pair of headphones. Despite the headphones, Dormer could clearly hear the music and, over it, someone moving around in the kitchen. In one hand he found that he was holding a large and heavy stone.