ACCIDENTAL DETECTIVE

January 1st - The Diary

January 1st, 2023. Here I am, standing in front of the mirror, contemplating my first 40 years of life. Tall. A proportionate build but not muscular. My hair is still black, thick, and often messy. A meticulously groomed goatee. Glasses, the "Harry Potter" style. A job as a cook in a restaurant in Turin, and the urge to tell the story of my life. Every year I have this desire, but now I am sure of it: the time has come to write and capture everything that has happened in my earthly existence.

I leave the house in search of what will become my life's diary. It cannot be just any diary. It must be something special. It must be able to tell everything about me, leaving no doubt about who I was, who I am, and who I will be. There is just one problem: finding a shop open on the first of January is practically impossible. Luckily, "Saint Internet" is open 24 hours a day.

I return to my tiny apartment on the fourth floor of an elegant building in Chivasso. As usual, I take the stairs because I have a certain aversion to elevators. I enter my room and sit at my desk. I slip on my elephant-shaped slippers. I log on to an online shopping platform and type the word "diary." The search yields a myriad of purchase options, in any format, colour, or type: "Do you want a personal diary? A secret one? Or a school journal?" My eyes and mouse land directly on a particular link: a "vintage" diary, with yellowed paper, due to years of exposure to the sun. The description reads: "Secret diary, dimensions 14 cm x 18 cm – 365 pages – no lock needed." What? A secret diary that does not need a lock. It is not that secret if anyone can open it and read its contents. "Price: €3.65." The price is tempting. I am not going to waste money on something I am sure I will not finish. Every year when a new year starts, I think about writing a diary and then abandon the effort. I have never thought of buying a diary. But today... today is different! I feel like this diary is calling out to me. The cover fascinates me, and the quote intrigues me: "A dive into the past improves life." I feel I must take this dive into my past. I feel the need to swim in the sea of memories of my life.

I have decided! Without even realizing it, the mouse "clicks" on the "Order now" button. Done! Estimated delivery: January 1st – 6:00 p.m. "Once again, I have been swindled. Good thing it only costs a few euros," I say aloud. I shut down my computer, and the doorbell rings, startling me. I head to the intercom.

"Who is it?"

"Delivery for Mr. Giorgio De Giorgi."

I check the time: it is 6:00 p.m. I put on my robe since I am still in my pyjamas. I open the door, and the courier climbs up to deliver the package.

"How much do I owe for the delivery?"

"Delivery is free. You only owe for the contents: €3.65."

"Thanks for the speedy delivery. I did not expect such efficiency, especially on a holiday."

"No need to thank me, and sorry for the delay. The package has been in our storage since last week, and we only managed to deliver it today. Happy New Year, and nice slippers."

The courier smiles and leaves. I stand there, staring at the package on my desk.

"In storage for a week? But I just placed the order. There must be a mistake." I sit down at my desk. I unwrap the package and find the very diary I had just ordered: A dive into the past improves life. There is no doubt, it is that diary. The yellowed colour of the pages matches the photos on the shopping site. The scent it emits is that classic smell of an old book, the kind that carries the scent of dust accumulated over time. I open the diary. Every page is waiting for me to write my story. All the pages are blank. All except one: the first. At the top, written in cursive, is the date: January 1st. I really must start today. "This time, I'm going to write something." I examine the diary's construction again. Indeed, there is no lock, so it cannot be locked to protect secrets. "I'll just hide it somewhere." I look at the hardcover in light leather. Embossed on it is the quote that caught my attention. Below the quote, there is a drawing of a smiling little man, like one of those fairytale elves. The only difference: he does not have the typical pointy hat. "What a childish thing," I think, looking at the diary and then at myself in the mirror, "Can I really be 40 and end up writing like a twelve-year-old?"