Confidential: Excerpts from the Life

         I'm known throughout France as Stiletto Cunetto.  Back home they just call me Shoe.  I suppose every Mafia princess needs an alias, but how I got mine is a little unclear since I’ve forgotten when it began. I suspect, however, that it might have something to do with that time I beat a sleazy Italian’s face in with my Jimmy Choos just off the coast of Nice, where he had been taking care of some “family business."  Not really my fault though.  He kept getting fresh with me and didn’t find my warnings to be all that threatening.  Maybe next time he’ll listen.  I loved those shoes.  That fucker.  He’d better pray that I never see him again because I am fully prepared to rearrange what’s left of his face after what he made me do to my favorite pumps.  That fucker.  Yes, that could be how I came to be Stiletto.

         My father is the head of the Italian crime syndicate here in France, which makes me more than a little vulnerable to kidnap, murder, torture—all of those fun and wonderful scenarios that come with the title.  I was taught early on, however, never to talk.  Talking gets you killed sooner than silence does and you won’t be the only one who dies if you rat out family.  I don’t worry about those things though, and I certainly don’t hide behind prayer like the rest of the family does.  When the possibility is always looming over you like a vulture in search of a meal, you tend to suppress the very thought of it.  All I know is that if I’m not allowed a natural death, I won’t drag it out like Sophia Coppola does in The Godfather; my people lose respect for you if you make them wait too long for a funeral—especially since they probably have several already lined up anyway.  I don’t worry about those things though.  Being around a primarily Paris-based Italian mob since birth, I’ve had my fair share of excitement.  Today, I am returning a favor, because as rumor has it, that’s what we Italians do.

         Last year, Uncle Dom had taken care of an abusive ex of mine and so I’m to meet him at the Cathedral of Laon at 2:00 to keep an eye out while he takes care of business with some other gangster; it’s a fair trade.  I never ask questions and always do as I’m told: it is the only way to survive in this life.  Arriving early, I cautiously move toward the beckoning doorway.  The gothic cathedral has maliciously drawn me in but allows me, for a moment, to linger just inside its stumpy foyer, toying with me.  Again, I’m moving forward.  As if on automatic pilot, my surprisingly steady fingers softly dive into the stagnant holy water and bless me.  Feeling betrayed by my own body, I shake my head.  These little rituals were instilled in me at a young age by my grandparents, but despite my religious affiliations growing up, I don’t belong anymore.  I know this.  The structure surrounding me knows this.  And it takes prisoners.  Finally, I see my uncle.  He is kneeling at a pew near the confession booths; I have the feeling that he’s paying for a sin not yet committed.  Upon seeing me, Uncle Dom nods his head, stands up, straightens his tie and clenches his jaw before disappearing through one of the church’s side entrances.  Holding my breath, I take a seat, look around and start to count.

         My obsessive counting started in this church at my grandfather’s funeral over a decade ago.  I was ten.  No one would tell me exactly how he died, but by this point, I had already figured out that the family business kills and its workers never retire.  As the priest droned on with his biblical exaggerations and lies, I found that counting the candles to my right almost completely blocked the monotonous preaching.  So I counted.  Once I had finished counting the rows of tiny, dancing flames, I proceeded to count the crosses that made their home upon the stone walls.  This game quickly became my own little holy “I spy” and even more quickly, it became ritual—my supplemental religious edifice meant to hold me together when the walls of my own mind are about to cave in on me.

         I can no longer allow myself to count anything tangible within Laon.  I don’t know what happened.  I just marched into the church with my parents one Sunday, excited and looking forward to numbering my sacred artifacts, but as soon as mass started, I stared blankly at the cold stone statues and couldn’t bring myself to label such seemingly angry and judgmental objects.  They weren’t worthy anymore.  I knew this.  They knew this.  The church and I have disowned each other, but I still come back so as to not be disowned by my family—the hypocrites.  How can he who kills pray?  I no longer believe; therefore, I am unworthy of forgiveness in the eyes of those who do, but where does their God draw the line?  No.  I no longer belong here.  So now, while I wait, I sit and count nothing in particular behind the quivering sanctity of my own eyelids to keep myself from praying.  I only count to keep from praying.  By the time I get to eighty-seven, I feel a hand on my shoulder and spin around.  Uncle Dom looks serene and gives the door a nod; he is finished.  Finished with what, I don’t know.  I never know.  It’s for my own good that I don’t know.  This way, I can’t talk—even if I want to.

         Lying in my bed, I count the stones that make up my fireplace.  I already know that there are sixty-three, but I continue to count out of habit.  Daddy’s downstairs with the Russian syndicate boss, trying to muffle his voice so that I can’t hear what’s going on.  It’s for my own good, but just in case his voice becomes audible, I count.  There’s a storm coming.  I can feel it.  The skies are blue but something in the world is unbalanced.  The clouds move so quickly here, ever-changing moods of blue and black.  Less balanced than the Venus de Milo, yet as stably frantic as the Symmetry of Man—or at least as stably frantic as it makes me feel.  Even the birds are shrieking some kind of a warning from an unseen fortress high in the trees.  Their shrill cries remove some of my loneliness, for they too sense the inevitable pandemonium that will surely arrive by morning.  Why this does not comfort me remains unclear, but I fear that an answer is preying just around the corner of tomorrow.  The slamming of a door brings me back to the present and I count myself to sleep.

         Every Thursday I go with my mother to Normandy for tea with some friends of the family.  Every Thursday we sit in the same salon, drink the same coffee, and talk about the same things with the same guests; this afternoon was no different.  After about an hour and a half, our hostess, Mrs. Badeau, excused herself to “powder her nose.”  I knew where she was really going.  We all did.  She was going to mix herself a cocktail from the rather impressive assortment of pills that were—ironically enough—kept in a delicate glass candy dish next to her bed.  It is about this time every day that her earlier mind-numbing dose begins to wear off—and we can’t have that.  After she finishes self-medicating herself with enough drugs to put Keith Richards down, she saunters back into the room before leaving it again to fetch coffee.  I hate it when she saunters, her hips slowly and dramatically maneuvering from side to side (more so with each glass of wine).  Ah, drunkenness—art in its lowest form.  No one speaks while she’s gone (as it has become part of the weekly ritual for us to take a moment of silence in her (dis)honor at this time).  Upon her return, the mood in the room shifts—as it always does—to one of pathetic sadness, despite the ridiculous smile plastered on her sunken-in face.

         Mr. and Mrs. Badeau are certainly well off and flaunt their wealth accordingly.  I’ve never asked where their money comes from (and I probably never will), but I’m sure they acquired their money the same way through which my family has acquired theirs—the family business.  At the present moment, I count the stupid French crystal figurines that are spread across the mantelpiece in the back of the room.  There are twenty-two.  I already know this but count anyway—with any luck, I’ll count until tea is over.

         After we say our goodbyes, Mother and I get on the train to Paris and head home.  The door is unlocked when we arrive.  The door is never unlocked.  In the tree next to us, a bird shrieks from its fortress.  Mother tightly wraps both arms around me and quickly backs me toward the ivy-covered wall of our house.  She’s scared and I can feel her heartbeat through my coat.  Pressing my back against the wall, she instructs me to stay still—the tree has me hidden from the street—and then I watch her pull a pistol from her purse and inch her way inside the house, reminding me of a cop busting into a building to rescue a hostage.  My teeth are chattering and my arms are covered in goose bumps; it must be colder than I thought it was.  With wide eyes, I begin to count the bumps on my arm—one, two, three, four, five—I jump as the bird shrieks again.  After the interruption, I wait a second and start over—one, two—another cry from the tree pierces the night sky.  That fucking bird!

         All of a sudden I hear a gunshot and fall into a sit on the cold ground.  My knees to my chest and my head to my knees, I count to keep from praying.  I only count to keep from praying.  There’s nothing to count, but I count anyway.  The sound of that gunshot is echoing in my head so loudly that now I’m counting aloud…fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…suddenly, there are arms around me and I’m kicking.  I open my eyes and fall, sobbing, into Daddy’s arms.  Registering my mother’s absence, I push away and run into the house in a panic.  I hear my father shouting after me but for once, I don’t listen.  I dash upstairs.  My bedroom door’s open, so I slow down and make my way over to it.

         Six steps from the room, my mother appears in the doorway, replacing her pistol neatly in her bag.  Mother looks serene and embraces me with steady arms.  She is finished.  Finished with what, I don’t know.  I never know.  It’s for my own good that I don’t know.

         With Mother’s arm around me, we walk downstairs where Daddy’s waiting.  The birds are gaily chirping now and I can feel the sun as it shines through the parlour windows.  My parents are talking to me, but I don’t catch everything they’re saying.  Apparently, we are going to move to Cherbourg—it’s quieter there or something.  I have a newfound respect for these open windows and my fireplace and the tree out front and know that I will miss all of it, but I just smile and nod my head.  I never ask questions and always do as I’m told.