I Am The Emperor. Stefano Conti

very low chances of a successful take-off. I get up the stairs to a large entrance on the backside (and not on the side), I pass through the huge hold, charged with a bit of everything; behind a sliding curtain there are around ten passenger and then the pilot’s cabin. The seats are not numbered: I sit in the only free one, next to a guy who looks at me head to toes and then goes back to reading his newspaper.

      We wait for a long time, before they authorise take-off. I forgot my mp3 in the suitcase; to avoid thinking about taking off I start reading that odd anatomopathologist’s report: page after page handwritten in Turkish, with at the end of the second copy an English summary. In forensic science language he declares that Barbarino died after the fall: he reports multiple compound fractures, the fatal one on the back of his head, but no heart attack.

      I am shocked: the professor’s assistant talked about a sudden illness as death cause. Here it seems that death was due to a hit on the head, probably during the fall. I put the report away: the police will think about investigating.

      In the meanwhile, unbelievably, the plane has reached its flight quote: I calm down. It lasts only a moment though, since I realise I haven’t seen the coffin when crossing the hold. Losing a suitcase is unpleasant, but what about a corpse!

      Since I think no hostess is expected to be on the cargo, I get up, move the curtain and go back to the hold. There is a coffin, I approach it to be sure: the name is the right one. Something hits my eye: something has been written on the short side. Some letters have been engraved, poorly, on the wood: DDCF. Weird! Probably someone at customs, since during the long trip on the van I didn’t notice them. I am actually certain: they were not there before. It looks like an acronym: sounds gloom and familiar at the same time.

      I take back my place: that smart gentleman keeps looking at me, on the sly.

      I am slightly perturbed by that acronym and the end of Barbarino: I travel back in time during the period passed at his service, better said his “dictatorship”; I certainly do not miss him, humanely I should moan his passing, but I really cannot. After all I wrote and did for him, he wasn’t even able to get me a permanent contract at the University. He claimed I deserved it more than anyone else for my curriculum, but there was always someone with extra academic credits passing in front of me: I really did well to leave that world.

      At arrival in Fiumicino, I go to customs with the Turkish documents. Luckily in Italy everything is easier: they just put a couple of stamps on them.

      I think I saw it in a movie: a famous dealer used the coffins of American soldiers, died in battle, to smuggle drugs into the Unites States. In my case, no one would realise: they do not open the sealed crate and the only anti-drug dog remains curled up in his corner.

      I deliver the report from the anatomopathologist: «They told me to give it to you in order to have it forwarded to the State Police».

      «No worries» says the officer, «we’ll take care of it.»

      He puts the paper on top of a pile on his left, those documents seem to have been there for months.

      It doesn’t matter if no one investigates on that death.

      Before leaving, the last question: «What am I supposed to do with the coffin now?»

      «Are you family?» asks the dutiful employee.

      «No, let’s say… a friend.»

      «Then you have to deliver it to the heirs» his final sentence.

      I get out even more confused. Among the crowd I notice a board with my name on: I always hoped to have someone waiting for me at the airport with a nice big panel.

      I approach them: «Good morning, I am Francesco Speri».

      «We were waiting for you» answers with false politeness a woman in her sixties. «We would like to thank you for all you did for us.»

      At my questioning look, the lady indicates to a nearby boy to come closer and introduces herself: «Grazia Barbarino, nice to meet you. I am poor Luigi Maria’s sister and he is my son: we came to give a proper burial to our beloved».

      Her courteous tone and composed ways do not inspire sympathy at all. «Did you have a nice trip?» asks her, with very little interest in my answer.

      «I am deeply sorry for your loss.»

      None of them seems particularly afflicted; I am not either, I’m actually glad I can get rid of the corpse.

      «Thanks again for everything» repeats the boy.

      Of course, they could have been the ones going to Turkey, I try to not let that thought shown in my face: «You’re welcome. It was the minimum I could do, after many years…»

      «Sure, I can imagine» cuts short the lady.

      «Here’s a copy of the report of the anatomopathologist, in case you want to show it to your lawyer» I add, articulating my words slowly.

      With a last condolences gesture, I leave the odd group and go to the train station.

      Only when the Intercity from Rome arrive at Chiusi station to change, I feel I’m in Italy again; at around 19.30, after taking a minibus from Sinalunga station until Bettolle, I get home: I am glad to be back to the quietness of the town I live in since when I won the research grant from Siena’s University.

      I leave my bag and immediately go down to get back the cat from my neighbour, where I left it in these days. I knock vigorously. A kid around 5 or 6 opens the door.

      «Hi, is grandma home?»

      The baby says: «How do we say?»

      I am speechless.

      «Mum says you always have to say please.»

      «She’s right. So, nice kid, is grandma home, please?»

      «What’s my name?»

      I never knew it, actually. «What’s your name?»

      The little crook smiles: «I won’t tell you!»

      «Come on, tell me.»

      «And what will you give me?» he says all proud.

      And my parents wonder why I do not want kids…: «A candy?»

      «Mum says not to accept candies from strangers»

      «But I am no stranger, I live upstairs.»

      The kid then puts out his right hand, I give him the honey and mint candy that luckily I had in my pocket.

      «Now, will you tell me your name?»

      He crosses his arms and bends his head: «Gian…luca».

      «Very well, Gianluca, is grandma home?»

      «Well, apart from the fact that you didn’t say please» he specifies «What’s my grandma’s name?»

      I knew he would ask that, but I really can’t keep her name in mind: «Federica?»

      «No.»

      «Elisabetta?» I try.

      «Almost» he smiles, happy with this new game.

      «Elisa?»

      «Got it!»

      «Ok, listen carefully: Dear Gianluca, is your grandma Elisa at home… please?»

      «Nope» and he slams the door in my face.

      While standing stunned in front of the door, I think about a scene from the movie Caro diario of Nanni Moretti: he’s on holiday in Salina and when ringing a friend, a kid picks up and before passing the phone to his parents, he forces him to imitate several animal sounds.

      Luckily Elisa overheard everything: «Francesco, welcome back. How was it?»

      «Well, bureaucracy aside…» I cut short.

      She smiles: «Pallino behaved very well, here