Page 65 of Shame

I jerk when my phone rings. It can be only one person. I hope, at least. Filled with suspicion, I tap to connect.

“Yes?”

“Carmen?”

It’s matron’s voice. I sag with relief, but at the same time my blood starts tingling and an uncomfortable jittery feeling spreads through my body. Her calling can mean only one thing.

“Yes.”

“He’s open for discussion. I’ve got a number for you to call.”

My knees nearly fold and I grab a kitchen chair, pulling it to me, slamming down on it as my pulse roars in my ears. I didn’t expect to be the one talking. I don’t want to talk to him!

“Okay?” I say faintly.

Matron begins to recite a number. “Wait!” I scramble to find pen and paper. “Go on.”

“You need to talk to him. You need to sell it, honey. I tried to mediate this, but he only wanted to speak with you directly. I don’t have to tell you to be clever about this, do I?”

I shake my head and realize she can’t see that. “No,” I croak, “you don’t.”

“Good. Be careful. I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Thank you.”

I disconnect, then I sit numb, my mouth dry as sandpaper. It feels like ants are crawling all over me. I dart up. I need to talk to someone, or I’ll go insane. Hesitating just a moment, I knock on Jane’s door. I always seem to wake her up these days, one drama after the other.

There’s a drowsy mumble from inside, and I push the door open. “Can I come in? Please?”

“Sure? Need me to open a door again?”

“No, I need to talk, or I’ll implode.”

“Get us some tea, sweetie, then you tell me what’s eating you.”

When I get back with one steaming cup of hot and sweet coffee for me, and one cup of tea for Jane, I climb up in bed opposite her, cross my legs and grab a pillow, clutching it to my chest.

“I haven’t told you everything. Have you heard of Luciano Salvatore?”

After I’ve spilled everything to Jane, she’s horrified, but my heart is lighter. That afternoon, after having gathered as much courage as I possibly can, sniffed a little at the baby, and downed half a glass of wine, I take a bus to the other end of town.

The old bar is nothing more than a hole in a wall, located a few steps down from street level. It’s dimly lit, dank, a smell of smoke lingering despite smoking being prohibited indoors since several years back. A couple of wizened old men, nurturing a bottle of beer each, sit by the bar and look up as I enter. I get the impression they’ve been here for so long they’ve merged with the stools.

I have a hood over my head, pulled forward as far as I can to hide at least parts of my face. Catching the gaze of the bartender, I ask, “Got a phone?”

He cocks his head. “Payphone in the back.”

Perfect.

“Thanks.”

My nervousness spikes as I stand by the phone. It’s grimy, layers of dirt covering it where thousands of filthy hands have held it, and not something I would touch with a ten-foot pole under normal circumstances.

But these aren’t normal circumstances.

My hands tremble as I pull up the coins and put them on the little shelf next to me. Then I find the note and unfold it, inhaling deeply.

This is killing me. I don’t want to talk to him. But then I think of Lucas and lift the receiver.

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