METANOIA

Reunification

Life, filled with perpetual opposition to hegemony, slowly turns into a rejection of any norms and authorities imposed by society ─ this realisation came to me as a child, when, as a child with an angelic pale face on which glassy blue eyes resembled two of the rarest sapphires, looking up timidly through strands of blond hair, I stayed behind the strong wooden doors, behind which men discussed important issues. My father had taught me to ignore the words of the men around me, constantly rebuking and condemning ─ his cruel words became lessons to me, every tear I shed after his shouts like a hammer hitting the young iron, forming a sword. He was from sunny Naples and, having fled to misty London with his family after a police investigation, had become a hostage to greyness and primness, melting inside a rotten hatred of all that was legal and right. A genetic predisposition towards Italy eventually caught up with me on the day I entered university in my father's homeland, the same day I got a tattoo on my right wrist ─ the sign of Mars¹ as the planet of masculine energy, strength and assertiveness, which they tried to eradicate, to beat it out of me. Growing up in a conservative and traditional family, even before I was born, I was destined to marry, have children and spend the rest of my life pleasing my husband, hiding the bruises of his beatings ─ this was fundamentally different from my nature: the submission, indulgence and unconditional consent inherent in the women in my life were signs of the weakness and victimhood that my father hated so much. Having chosen a side, I became Mars (or Ares), who destroyed in a bloody battle all those who opposed me, I turned them into the horror of war, the likeness of my cruel father.  (¹ ─ ♂)

Returning home had always been difficult for me. In the last years that I lived in Italy, I managed to adapt there and create something more than I was allowed to do here, in London, where I spent all my childhood and youth. I lifted my head, noticing my deputy's intent gaze on the folder of documents he took with him on the plane. A few strands of his blond hair fell over his eyes, making it difficult for him to read. I turned my head to the left, looking out the window: a private jet was approaching the London airport, which means it brought me closer to my family. The faint smell of sandalwood mixed with leather created the familiar work atmosphere that I am always in ─ old offices in mansions, luxury car showrooms drowning in piles of documents.

"The Empire was set on fire yesterday," Thomas said, sipping his coffee. I furrowed my brows, turning sharply to the man, eyes wide. He slowly lifted his gaze from the papers and continued: "The third and fourth gambling halls burned down completely," Thomas held out the papers to me, and my eyes began to run between the lines. The insurance company's damage report showed that one-fifth of my restaurant had been seriously damaged by an unforeseen fire. Photographs confirming these words were attached below, in colour, though the rooms had turned into huge black patches of ash, resembling the cauldrons of hell. My fingers crumpled the edge of the sheet and my jaw clenched harder ─ I knew it was arson. It would take a huge toll on me, knowing that the insurance agency would not pay compensation, or would demand such a bribe for it that it would be cheaper to rebuild at my own expense.

"This," my finger pointed at the papers, "will attract the police," I said, pursing my lips. This had already attracted a lot of the noise the patrons of my establishment dislike so much. "This is the second fire in the restaurant in the last two months." I put the papers down and pinched the bridge of my nose as Thomas went back to studying the insurance.

"So be it," the man replied, gathering all the papers into one stack and pushing them aside. He pulled a cigarette case and lighter from his jacket pocket, then took a sip of espresso, "if the insurance company confirms it's arson, then their expertise will be useful to us."

I felt anger creep up my throat like nausea, which made me swallow. My legs crossed under the table and began to shake, which I tried to hide by putting my cold palms on my knees. It felt like the blood in my system had turned to hot lava, burning me from the inside out; I tried to breathe slower, to make my heart stop beating so fast, and to make the anger pass as quickly as possible. Closing my eyes, I slowly exhaled, listening to the sounds around me, then took a deep breath, remembering why I was on the plane. Bad news like the second casino arson in a month was a frightening omen before my little brother's wedding.