Well, I've finally gotten out of this craziness! Or rather, I've gotten out of the crazy third floor of this building. Seeing the number, I realize there are at least seven more. Let's hope the exit isn't in the garage…
Anyway, I don't see any shortcuts. The stairs exit one floor and enter the one below, and to get to the next floor down, you always have to pass through the preceding one. I've been imagining this structure ever since the fiery room, and I'm afraid I'll have to go through several more places.
Luckily, I recovered the coins; I still don't know what they're for, but that strange fortune teller made me a bit uneasy. I don't know if I'll be happy with this new floor, but right now I'm sitting down because I'm exhausted. Let's hope no one comes up the stairs, because I might even fall asleep.
I reflect for a bit: I haven't had time yet to try to remember everything that happened yesterday and why this is happening to me.
Let's backtrack for a moment. I told you about how three friendly guys stole a small backpack from me with 100 thousand euros worth of stuff, and how Tito, my great friend, told me that I either had to get it back from them or ask my family for the money, otherwise he'd probably have to bury me. I remember that well, but then what happened?
Ah yes, something very strange. Unexpected for me. I went back home to check that the other 100 thousand euros were there, and I asked Claudio for advice. As I told you, he's my "Alfred," but he's a bit of a fictitious figure. I've never asked him for advice; I only stay with him because he's a fallback if I get into trouble and he allows me to do my business without anyone bothering me. But this time I'm desperate enough. The situation is complicated, so I ask him.
"Claudio," I say to him, "if some scoundrels stole 100 thousand euros from you and it wasn't yours, and you had to give it back to avoid being buried, what would you do? Would you ask someone for it or would you confront the bad guys?"
With a lot of frankness, he told me: "With my tough nature, I'd beat the three of them up. But, as you may have realized, since I became semi-blind, I can no longer use force, and I've become more amenable. So, what would I advise you to do today? I'd suggest you try asking someone you know or your family for help. Unfortunately, I don't have anyone. After that, if no one could give you the money, I'd go to the police, even though I'd be aware of the consequences. Because, let's face it, if someone steals 100 thousand euros from you, and then threatens to kill you, my friend, you're in trouble."
Claudio was right. Of course, I could have tried to find the money myself, but the next step should have been to take responsibility—something I've never done in my life, always preferring to run away.
Today, I probably have to decide whether to let myself be killed or ask for help. I can say, "Help me!" and then maybe lock myself up behind bars for a while. What's the big deal? With good behavior, I'd be out in a couple of years. Then, who knows... I've always read that in prison they make you study, that they have PlayStation. I haven't quite figured out the story about the soap in the shower, but otherwise, it doesn't seem like such a terrible experience to face. Sure, a Marquis in a cage has never been seen, but there's a first time for everything, right?
I made a vague attempt.
I walked towards the house where I grew up. It's near the city center, but far enough out to afford a large garden and spaces unthinkable within the historical center. The house is about 400 \text{ sqm} and spans several floors. Outside, a huge garden, with many well-kept plants and antique statues. A true palace!
I take the tram and head in that direction. I haven't been there in so, so many years—at least fourteen, more or less. I drove past the outside when my grandmother passed away, but I didn't feel up to going in. You know, running away from home at 16 is a problem... sure, it certainly doesn't make Mom and Dad happy, but today I'm forced to go there.
The tram stops, and I catch sight of the house walls. Something is off. The moss on the walls has changed color. Well, maybe the gardener has had problems at home and maintenance hasn't been done for a while. I decide to ring the doorbell anyway.
A voice answers, a woman's voice that I hadn't heard in a long time and, to be honest, I missed a bit. Shaking, I reply: "Mom, it's me."
I hear a gasp on the other side, but her tough personality pushes her to say: "What do you want?" In reality, I hear the tone of her voice that wants to tell me, "Run inside and hug me!" But it's fair enough; when someone hasn't been seen for fourteen years, there's a little bit of apprehension.
I tell her I need to talk, and at that point, she can't hold back anymore. She replies, "Alright." And finally, she opens the gate.
Once inside, however, something is even more off-putting. The 300 \text{ sqm} of garden are completely neglected: high grass, climbing plants wrapping around the now crumbled antique statues. The situation is not justifiable with a simple week off for the gardener. Gardening work hasn't been done here for years. Even the house itself, seeing it from the outside, I remembered it much better.
And my memories were bright: the sun used to blind me when it reflected off that white palace. Today, however, the walls are dirty, and the sun seems to be absorbed into the gray.
Now I see the house door open, and I step inside. The first floor was what I used to call the "exhibition" floor when I was little: you know, nobility must be displayed, it has nothing substantial and is only appearance. So, if there could be Ikea beds upstairs, the floor below had to have unrestrained luxury and the exhibition of all the historical and artistic assets we had. Think about it: when I was little, I used to play soccer in the garden, even though my mother didn't want me to, and then, when I came in, I had to take off my shoes before going into the "exhibition room." I was never allowed to touch anything. Once, playing soccer, I forgot the door open: a ball hit a Ming vase, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Well, I think that's one of the reasons why my mother still didn't want to open the door for me today. But now that I'm here, the exhibition is gone: the room is empty, there's a sofa of questionable taste on one side and a coat rack recovered from I don't know where on the other, but the statues and paintings are no longer there. I really don't understand what's happening.
Wait a minute... I'm still on the stairs. I dozed off, and I'm in a hurry to get out of this building; I can't take it anymore.
I enter this seventh floor and hope there's something normal. Then I'll stop and seriously think about what happened yesterday.
Okay, I open yet another fire door and don't know what to expect on the other side: will there be fire-eaters? Pirates on a galleon? Or knife-throwers trying to hit me while I run inside an endless hamster wheel? Luckily, it's a strange building, with strange people, but it's still a building, not a fantasy movie. But geez! Whoever designed this place had a lot of imagination.
I couldn't see the penthouse because it was on fire.
A very long hotel section? A shopping mall on the eighth floor? But on the seventh... Padel Courts!
I've heard about this sport and how it has caught on all over the world. People are exasperated by work and, to stay in shape, they train every day: match after match. In my opinion, it represents the unease and the need to vent of an average employee. It doesn't require the calm and class of tennis, nor the precision and technique of squash, but it's a mix of power and reflexes typical of someone who has been sitting in an office, beaten down by their boss, undervalued for what they can do in life, and who, in the evening, decides to hit a ball with a racket as hard as they can, trying to smash it almost to break it against the glass.
Now, this is an oversimplification, and any padel enthusiast will say: "You've never played it and you don't know what it means." That's true, but if you saw the faces of these people while they play, you'd understand why I have this opinion.
Indeed, I walk in.
There are three courts and some slightly strange signs. For starters, the score... I don't exactly know how the points work, but I thought they went up one by one; I don't understand why the scoreboard has numbers like 10,000, 20,000.
There are maintenance workers ready to intervene because the violence within the court seems downright excessive. There are writings on the surrounding glass, one of which is larger than the others: Pier. A name on a mirror where I violently hit a ball. This gesture makes me a little uncomfortable because it gives me the idea of hurting someone. This someone is named Pier, and who knows what he ever did to deserve such a pelting. Maybe I'm just being suggestive, but with some bounces off the glass, I heard someone say "ow."
Indeed, the game seems to have a truly heavy approach. The players on the courts seem unable to stop: they are all sweaty and red, perhaps they weren't so trained to face a long session of play. But the strange thing is that they are genuinely worn out.
With my amenable nature, at some point I would say, "I can't do this, I'll stop." From their expressions, it seems they are thinking the same thing, but I have the impression that they can't. Perhaps they are in that situation where, after paying for the court for seven hours and spending all the money they had, now, because they paid, they want to use it. Yes, maybe that's it.
On Court 1, I see that the participants are starting to give out, and consequently, they are missing their shots. Powerful and wrong. It's clear that they can hit their opponent, and from here, I start seeing truly disturbing things: a hit on the arm that creates a bruise, one on the head that makes the opponent fall, one on the legs, on the stomach. If I was sorry for a broken window before, now I see people in flesh and blood, and I wonder if they've gone mad: why are they hurting themselves and not blocking this ball to say enough? Every time they pick it up and start again.
Well, I think I've stopped for too long. I look for the door to go to the next floor, as I have no intention of playing padel and, above all, I don't want to get hurt.
I pass by Court 2, and here too there is great frenzy: the hits, perhaps, are even stronger than before.
There is a very muscular big man playing; his shots are extremely violent. With a couple of hits, he strikes his opponent who falls to the ground, but gets back up and keeps playing. However, with one of the subsequent shots, at a certain point, he hits the corner that connects the two panes of glass, causing a crack in the column supporting the court. Essentially, the risk is that the whole thing will collapse.
I hear "ow" again; maybe this Pier who built the glass really put some sort of sound in it, or maybe it's me, having the hallucinations because of the day I'm having. Anyway, I stop for a bit, like old men at a construction site, to watch what happens.
Immediately, two maintenance workers arrive. It's well organized, because two maintenance workers immediately running to try to fix something instead of just closing the court gives an idea of solid organization. The two start working on this pole to try to repair it, but as soon as they touch it, the pole begins to crumble, and the entire structure is about to break.
One says to the other, "Leave it, leave it, I'll do it." But the situation gets worse. They try and try again, but every time they touch something, they make it even worse. Now the glass is precarious, but they keep playing despite everything being about to collapse on them. These maintenance workers arrived quickly, but it's certainly better not to let them fix anything.
I look around: I don't see a door to leave and I try to interrupt the maintenance workers, who, however, tell me they don't have time.
I try to stop the game on Court 3 to ask the players for information, but despite me speaking, they continue to look at each other and respond with one-liners after another.
But now I'm sick of these cages of lunatics. I pick up the first thing I see, one of their bags, lift it and use it as a racket to block the ball. The two don't even look at me, but continue to bounce in place with the racket in hand, as if ready to take the ball, even though I have it in my hand.
I stand in front of one of them and try to talk to him, but he seems to be hallucinating. Maybe it's the competitive drive, maybe he's having a stroke from exhaustion, but he doesn't answer me.
The second one seems younger. In fact, he's very young, 18 at most. Who knows how he met the man he's playing with, who must be 40. Could he be his dad? Anyway, when I place myself in front of him, he has more or less the same reaction as the other: fixed gaze, bouncing, and racket ready to hit the ball.
"Come on, please, I want to get out of here," I tell him. Finally, he moves his eyes for a second. It seems he's listening to me, so I insist: "Listen, I have the impression you're sick of playing, so let's do this: if you tell me which way the exit door is, I'll take the ball away, and then you'll see if you want to start playing again or go home after taking a nice shower... and take the shower, because you stink to high heaven."
The boy moves his eyes again, he hesitates. Maybe he's scared of the man, maybe he doesn't want to disappoint him, maybe it's the first time in years they've spent time together. But it's obvious he's tired of playing, and so he seems tempted to take the risk. He hesitates... but then he raises an arm and points a way out to me. Looking that way, through the changing rooms, there might be an exit. I thank him and take the ball with me.
I follow the path he indicated and drop the ball into a trash can. I look back for a moment and see that the boy and the man on Court 3 are still there, frozen, staring at each other. Well... sooner or later they'll decide they can't play without the ball.
I get to the changing rooms, and here I see another maintenance worker trying to fix a locker. The scene is quite funny: the lock on one locker broke, and in trying to fix it, he apparently broke the whole door and is risking making the stack of lockers fall over. Another maintenance worker is holding up the adjacent lockers that, leaning, are risking creating a disaster. I would review the hiring process, but they must have some good qualities, I guess...
Past the changing room, indeed, as the boy indicated, there is a fire door. The umpteenth fire door. But, after 7 there's 6, after 6 there's 5, and so on... sooner or later, I figure there will be an exit. So I pluck up my courage and continue.