04/02/2019 – 1 hour 20mins
It was certain right from the moment the question was asked. Emil Ranton was not going for pizza. He had always avoided it really, or at least, ever since he came to America. Part of it was the way the greasy American diners butchered the culinary delight of his homeland, but Emil knew that deep down he had never been a fussy eater.
He awoke that morning in his single bed, as usual, drenched in sweat, heart racing. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing on the one creaky floorboard in the whole room. With the energy of a man on his last legs, the 39-year-old dragged himself to the shower, where a violent torrent of lukewarm water began to peel away the sweat of last night like the browned skin of a banana. He took a deep breath in, then puffed out blowing water onto the wall in front of him. For a final minute he cranked up the heat and stood, eyes closed, head on his chest and felt the warm water pour over the crown of his head and cascade down his shoulders.
Ground coffee from his barista-grade machine in a metal flask that barely did it justice. A flat cap rammed down onto his head and car keys on a string yanked out of the bowl by the door. Emil Ranton left his house at around seven forty-five, the same every morning except Sundays and bank holidays, and proceeded to the driver’s seat of his restored 1960s Cadillac. There was a part of him which despised the old thing, so big and attention-seeking, he knew it didn’t make sense for him to own it. But ever since he moved to Detroit, twenty years ago, he had begun absorbing it. What was it? he couldn’t quite describe it. In many ways, though the word seemed silly in his head, the essence of the place. Not just of Detroit, but of America. Land of the free. A world of new opportunities.
He had moved to Detroit when he was just 19. Lived rough for a few months before he found a place to stay sharing a flat with some others his age. They were squatters, living in an old office which was so run down that the authorities would only ever force them to move if some development company became interested in building some new houses. They were safe for the time being. Nobody wanted to build new houses. Not then. Not in Detroit. It was from this place of security that he finally began to regain some order in what had become a whirlwind of a life. He began to fit in. Learnt the language. Picked up the accent, still retaining his Tuscan twang. Scrapped the papers he’d used to enter the country, finally getting real ones and creating the character of Emil Ranton. Emil, after his dad. He had started to fit in more with the people that surrounded with him. Build connections. In many ways, he had learnt to trust people.
It was through this period of reconciliation that Emil had found his way to Brad’s Automobile Garage. It was nothing special. He was shockingly paid for difficult and uncomfortable work. But it was work. It was here that he’d picked up his passion for cars, and, finally, where he’d purchased his caddy.
He didn’t like to get attached, but when Brad had offered it to him at such a low price, as a “sorta present. Say thank you for sticking by me all these years”, he accepted and soon became fond of the car that everyone in the neighbourhood knew as “The Duchess”.
The Duchess’ tires crunched on fine cut gravel as she wheeled gracefully into the staff carpark at the garage. Nobody was around yet, it was still barely 8am. Emil sighed as he got out of the car, sniffed the air and rolled his neck around, trying to clear his head of the lingering remnants of the nightmare. He enjoyed opening up the shop. Unlocking all the doors, switching the lights on, firing up the computers and wheeling the few second-hand cars out to the front for display. It was a slow, methodical task that he completed five days out of six, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. It always helped calm his nerves. If he was lucky, he’d get it done with enough time left to begin tidying the office a little, before he had to turn the sign on the glass door to Open.
The morning passed with little worthy of note. The two polish engineers employed under Emil and Brad turned up around an hour after he did and got to work on a Chevy truck that a retired farmer had left with them. Lunchtime came, and Brad turned up with a basket of his wife, Mary’s muffins to share. After popping to the shop for a BLT Emil sat quietly next to the three other men and exchanged small-talk about the customers they had had that morning, and who was due in the afternoon. Meaningless conversation. Harmless. He knew he would never let anything on in this situation. He had been doing this for so many years now he had totally relaxed around his colleagues. The day was drawing to an end, signified by the arrival of some of the polish engineers’ friends from the nearby appliances factory who brought a distinct mood of joviality to the garage. This was when they asked the question to Emil.
“Wanna come out for a pizza and some beers with the boys?”
“Cmon, they’ll be showing the Tigers game in the bar!”
He hardly wanted to go. And he knew for certain that he would not order a pizza, rather opt for a burger or something sufficiently more American. But, as he often did, he agreed quickly, with a stiff nod and forced grin and muttered something about being along right after he locked up. Brad had laughed at him, as he often did, before clapping the two Poles on the shoulders and marching them off into the carpark.
It did not take him long to lock up, it was mere instinct to him now. He never forgot any one step of the process.
The evening was far from eventful. After a burger and one beer with the boys, he wouldn’t ever drink more, he made his excuses and left for home. It would be another ready-meal tonight. Simple. Quick. Didn’t give him chance to think about herb blends or food presentation, like his mum had always taught him. And then, after flicking through channels on a dusty TV from under eyelids as heavy as lead, Emil made his apprehensive way to bed.
And he was back. Same place as every night. Italy. Twenty years ago.
He was storming down a quiet lane in the countryside. Furious. Anger, no rage, burnt inside him. Pure, passionate rage. In his mind images flickered of his boss, how angry he’d made him. How he’d kept on giving him a hard time despite how hard he had tried. The arguing, leading to the shouting. Himself, wildly gesturing and finally bursting to his feet and flinging that awful machine to the ground. He had stormed out of the place, his boss’s calls following at his heels. And here he was now. Where he always began his dreams. The same every night. The passage through the town was over in a flash, faster than he remembered it in real life. Or maybe he was getting confused. So many times, had he relived this moment in his dreams that he could barely discern truth from fiction.
It wasn’t that he was surprised at his mother’s reaction. She had always reacted passionately to his many failures. When he got into fights at school, when he dropped out of high school before he could get his diploma, and now this. Her shrill cries forced their way into his ears the minute he cracked the front door. His name. His real name. It was the same as it always was.
“Martino come now look what you’ve done!”
“Leave it mama for one time just LEAVE ME ALONE!” He had snapped at her before she had even begun.
“Mr Micalo called me on the phone and he explained everything. What were you THINKING of?”
He ignored the question and barged past her, crashing down the hallway to the kitchen. She followed him persistently, as she entered into one of her classic lectures. He knew what he had done wrong. He knew why, and he knew how she felt about it. She just wouldn’t shut up!
The smell of freshly rolled pizza dough entered his nostrils violently as he entered the kitchen. He crossed to the sink and began filling a glass of water.
“Martino! Are you even listening to me?” she was screaming at him now. He wanted her to shut up. Give him a break for once.
“SHUT UP MAMA!” He yelled before swigging at his glass of water.
This was the part where the dream always slowed down for Emil. He saw it coming, every time. It was almost as if he was detached, but a part of himself at the same time. Able to watch from a third person view as it happened, whilst being able to witness everything through the eyes of young Martino too. He watched, helpless, as his hand, clasping the glass, half empty of water now, lifted up and crashed down hard. Down onto her head.
It shattered instantly and there was a scream and a spray of blood which seemed to fan out slower than naturally possible. He could see it all. Every minute detail. Every drop of blood. He watched as his mother toppled to the ground and watched as his hand raised once more and came battering down. Down again and again. So mesmerising was the puddle of blood and the way it ran in rivulets between the floor tiles that he could barely hear the voices screaming.
He awoke in his single bed, as usual, drenched in sweat, heart racing. Swinging his legs over onto the creaky floorboard, he gasped for breath and, before he could stop himself, had staggered to the corner and was violently sick. He shook his head, muttering incomprehensibly. What kind of existence was this?
He crawled across the floor to the one creaky floorboard and prised up the corner, delicately lifting out the rope that lay underneath.
