The Voice

By Roberto Rizzo

A voice in the dark. In a surreal and disquieting stage, a man who is immersed in the deepest of darkness in his bedroom suddenly hears a voice that is impalpable like a dream, persuasive and cryptic. An undefinable, mysterious presence that slowly unveils as it leads a dreamlike dialogue between two people which, in the deceitful meanders of flattery, could hide all sorts of surprises. To flee, to leave the room, to turn on a light that might reveal the face, the sense behind that hypnotic voice which seems to envelop him more and more in a clinging, paralysing web. A trap with no exit in which, swallowed up by the darkness, time confounds night and day. In the anguish of the imponderable sequence of deceitful sensations, the gripping epilogue approaches until it coagulates into a chilling grip that only the unknown can provide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Rizzo
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005305345

Roberto Rizzo

I do not think of myself as being a homebody type of person. Perhaps this is because I took my first flight before I was nine months old.From Africa to Europe, from Libya to Italy, at the yoke of the plane was my father. However, my never revealed desire to travel exploded at the age of eighteen when, without any money, I decided to wander across Europe.However, I wandered for more than two years travelling throughout Europe with a friend of mine, hitchhiking and working in different places to scrape together the little money I needed to survive.It was in Copenhagen that we found ourselves in serious difficulty, because we lost our job and, with a just few cents in our pocket, we were certain to be in a position of constraint. The humiliation of the travel warrant was in our hands but we had to think up a solution that could delay, at least temporarily, an inevitable surrender. Then a sudden brainwave gave me the solution. I could draw, we still had a few cents to buy a box of colored chalks and being in a situation which did not allow hesitation but which fostered enterprising action, I had an inspirational idea: we would work as pavement artists! From that moment everything changed. No more empty stomach, fears or hardships, but beautiful women, smart restaurants and nightclubs. Qualified begging but, above all, well-paid, during the day. It was during that long period of “dolce vita” that I met a Danish girl; I married her and took her to Italy, where I started a business. In the meantime I kept on writing and composing my first songs and I had the chance to share some musical experience with Fabrizio de Andrè. I took part in many literary and poetry competitions and got gratifying results. Then I began to collaborate with “Panorama”, a Yugoslav magazine written in Italian.Some of my poems were published in the prestigious journal “Fenarete” and in other qualified periodicals. Then I met Eugenio Montale who, at that time, had not yet won the Nobel Prize. Luckily he liked me and understood me and I grew fond of him. In that period he lived in Milan at 11 Via Bigli and I used to visit him every Monday when I went to Milan for my job. Even if at first I had gone to him to ask his opinion, for a long time, a kind of fear kept me from showing any of my poems to him and submitting them to his judgment. But the day came when he asked me why I had not brought him one of my works yet, and he finished with a sentence I will never forget: “I have not yet figured out if you’re one of the most honest and fair man I have ever known or just a very smart guy.”It was just this kind of straightforwardness which made me understand I was with the wittiest man I had ever happened to meet. Not only, my opinion never changed and was strengthened over time.The following Monday I took him almost everything I had written until then.For two weeks he told me nothing. During our conversations I was pleased with his encyclopaedic knowledge and with his intelligence. He was conversant or knowledgeable in so many things ranging from philosophy to politics, from art to science, from psychology to religion, and, of course, from literature to poetry. From our conversations I realised that I shared almost the same point of views with the person I had learnt to consider as being my teacher. The following week, for the second time, he approached the subject: “Don’t you want to know what my opinion of your work is?”I felt like I was going to sink: “Sure! Of course!” I said eagerly.“So why didn’t you ask me?”“Because I’m afraid of your judgment. Moreover, simply because you haven’t spoken to me before now has convinced me that your opinion is that my work is useless. ““I want to give you some advice. Don’t enter any more competitions. “I felt like I was going to die. My doubts were changed into certainties. What I wrote was worthless or at least of very little value, and therefore, implicitly, his advice was to consider myself a writer no more.“Got it”. - I said, mortified. - “I’ll stop writing.”“You have understood nothing.”He replied and, smiling, he added a sentence that satisfied me beyond all expectations. I will keep it forever in my heart, but my discretion has always prevented me from reporting it to someone else. However, encouraged by his exhortations then and his memory after his death, I have tried never to abandon my passion for Literature, Poetry, Philosophical Theory, Music and similar works.In the mid-eighties I was elected President of a cultural association in my town. I accepted the post with enthusiasm because the organisation promoted new talents by publishing their literary works and offering them the chance to express their opinions through the medium of its magazine. It was a commitment which I could carry on for only a few years but which I give credit to for having made me find at least a few minutes to write every day.I have always supported the idea that a life with no novelties is not worth living and maybe just because of this from time to time I have tried to create or take advantage of new situations. The last chance I had was when, going to the Russian consulate to get some information, I asked a young Russian tourist for some help. I soon found out that this same person was fond of literature. What could I do but marry her?However, today, thanks to a chain of events, not least as a result my marriage, I am at last able to put Montale’s urgings into practice and I am able to write full time. Furthermore, I am sure that it is consequential that I often have the sensation that he himself is pleased because I’ve continued to follow his advice.And now, roving the intricacies of my mind, I get inebriated by space, formulating theories that recklessly try to stretch out their hands to embrace those who desire to think, to know, to understand. Just as I try to do too.

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The voice

psychological thriller

Roberto Rizzo

Copyright © 2021 - Roberto Rizzo

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Roberto Rizzo

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The voice

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Roberto Rizzo

I do not think being a homebody type of person. Perhaps this is because I took my first flight when I was before nine months.

From Africa to Europe, from Libya to Italy. At the yoke of the plane was my father, a Tripoli air force pilot who, at the beginning of the war, was moved to Novi Ligure airport where I am still living and where I have been writing since the age of fifteen. But my always hidden desire to travel burst forth at the age of eighteen when, without any money, I decided to wander across Europe. Other times, a different Europe, other borders. Real borders and in some cases almost impassable. However, I wandered for more than two years traveling throughout Europe with a friend of mine, hitchhiking and working in different places to scrape together the few money needed to survive.

It was in Copenhagen that we were in serious difficulty, because we lost our job and, with a few cents in our pocket, we were certain to be in a position of constraint.The humiliation of the travel warrant was in our hands but we had to think up a solution that could delay, at least temporarily, an inevitable surrender, when a sudden inspiration, gave me the solution. I could draw, we still had a few cents to buy a colored chalk box and being in perfect physical condition to overcome any hesitation, I had the winning idea: we would work as pavement artists! From that moment everything changed. No more empty stomach, fears and hardships, but beautiful women, smart restaurants and nightclubs at night. Qualified begging but, above all, well-paid, during the day. It was during that long period of dolce vita that I knew a Danish girl, I married her and took her to Italy, where I started a business. In the meantime I kept on writing and composing my first songs andI had the chance to share some musical experience with Fabrizio de Andrè. I attended many literary and poetry competitions where I got gratifying results, and began to cooperate with Panorama, a Yugoslav magazine written in Italian.

Some of my poems were published in the prestigious journal Fenarete and in other qualified periodicals, until it happened to me to know Eugenio Montale who, at that time, was not the Nobel Prize yet and who, luckily, expressed me sympathy and which I grew fond of him a lot to. In that period he was living in Milan at 11 Via Bigli and I was accustomed to visit him every Monday when I went to Milan because of my job. Even if at first I had gone there because of it, for a long time a kind of fear kept me from submitting to his judgment even one of my poems. But the day came when he asked me why I had not brought him one of my writings yet, so that he finished with a sentence I will never forget: I have not yet figured out if you're one of the most honest and fair man I have ever known or just a very smart guy. "

It was just this honesty to give me a confirmation of being faced to the wittiest man I had ever happened to meet. Not only that conviction kept unchanged but was strengthened in time.

The following Monday I took him almost everything I had written until then.

For two weeks he told me nothing. During our conversations I was pleased with his encyclopaedic knowledge and with his intelligence ranging from philosophy to politics, from art to science, from psychology to religion, and, of course, from literature to poetry. From our conversations I drew confirmation to have almost the same point of views with the one I considered my only teacher. The following week, for the second time, he was approaching the subject: Don’t you want to know what my opinion on your writings is?

I felt like I was going to sink: Sure! Of course! I said eagerly.

So why didn’t not you ask me?

Because I fear your judgment. Moreover just because you haven’t spoken to me before about it, convinced me that your opinion was negative.

I want to give you an advice. Enter the competitions no more.

I felt like I was going to die. My doubts were changed into certainties.What I wrote was worthless or at least was of very little value, and therefore, implicitly, his advice was to consider myself a writer no more.

Got it. - I said, mortified. - I'll stop writing."

You have understood nothing.

He replied and, smiling, he added a sentence that, satisfying me beyond all expectations, I will keep for ever in my heart, but my discretion always prevented me from reporting it to someone. However, encouraged by his exhortations, even after his death, I tried never to leave my passion for Literature, Poetry, Theory, Philosophy, Music and Related Texts.

In the mid-eighties, somebody thought of electing me as President of a cultural association in my town. I complied with enthusiasm because it was intended to promote new talents by publishing their literary works and offering them the chance to express opinions through the magazine of the association. It is a commitment I could carry on for few years only but whom I give credit to for having given me the opportunity to carve out a short time to write everyday.

I have always supported the idea that a life with no news is not worth living and maybe just because of it I have occasionally tried to breathe new life. The last chance I had was when, going to the Russian consulate to get some details, I asked about a young Russian tourist who, by chance, as I could verify very soon, was fond of literature. What could I do but marry her?

However, today, thanks to a chain of events, not least as a result my marriage, at last I was able to put into practice the exhortation of Montale by being able to write at full time and I am sure that it is consequential that often happens to me to feel the sensation that he himself could be pleased because I've heard him.

And now, traveling into my mind, I get high on space, formulating theories that recklessly try to stretch out their hands to embrace those who desire to think, to know, to understand. As I try to do so..

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The voice

CHAPTER I

Wrapped up in the dark, chilled and full of trepidation, I stayed hidden under the sheets and, in my heart, I hoped that nothing would come and disturb the silence of the night. I knew that, as had happened now for a very long time, he would insinuate himself within the folds of my denial to compel me to answer him but the stubbornness that springs from the fear of the unforeseen supported my decision and determination to avoid doing just that. This time, whatever urging he might invent I would refuse to take part in even the smallest of insignificant conversations.

I was certain that nothing would alter my intentions yet the sound of a weak, muffled groan made me focus my attention.

I should certainly have considered that since there was no one in the room except myself, it could be none other than him, however, my propensity for never excluding even the most absurd of hypotheses had the upper hand. Therefore, I promised myself that I would stay as still as possible and prick up my ears in order to catch even the most imperceptible of whispers.

I stayed like that for a long time. I felt more tired and dispirited than ever but, although I felt an irrepressible need to yell to someone that I was nearly at the end of my tether, that I really could not last much longer, I did not want him to sense even the least of my feelings. A doubt that it might have been someone who had broken into the house, maybe with his help, vanished almost immediately because I reminded myself of the simple fact that I had not left the house for the past three days and that therefore my suspicion had no basis for belief. My fears were further confirmed at this point: the lament was nothing but yet another attempt to induce me into changing my attitude. It was inevitable then, that as a consequence a new question should thus rise to the surface. It was certainly true that it might only be a manoeuvre whose scope was simply to force the limits of my resistance, but how could it be possible that for all of three days, three very long days, I had been unable to identity this person, of whom all I knew were his groans, as someone who was in some way already known to me? Consequently, this doubt opened a door on another one that was very much more disturbing which I obstinately considered impossible but which my rationale was beginning to consider the only one worthy of any logic and thus any plausibility. The mysterious speaker with whom I refused to talk and to whom I had no intention of answering, could be no other person than myself! It was a consideration that might already be considered a fact but I could not accept that I was essentially the victim of a doubling of my personality, a madman in the throes of absurd hallucinations who spoke with, or rather, who refused to talk with himself.

Yes, clearly this interpretation, which I preferred to continue to consider simply a hypothesis, was more logical than the phenomenon and even more than that it was the only one that could provide a rational and believable explanation for each incomprehensible anomaly. It was strange but, although it was an interpretation that was particularly permeated with disquieting results and negative perspectives, I was sure that it would be more manageable than any other eventuality. I told myself that in point of fact even the bitterest of fights with oneself would carry fewer risks since my rival would be the person that I knew best of all and, furthermore, the fact that I would be both victim and executioner at the same time would neutralise all effects. I did not think about how much damage we are capable of doing to ourselves all by ourselves.

Anyway, I was resigning myself to accept the thing that by then I considered the most probable intuition and also the least anguishing of any when I felt something grab my arm and my blood froze in my veins. If someone was touching me, then my conjectures were no longer credible and all that remained for me to do was to surrender to the available evidence. Even though I had tried with all my being to deny the mere hypothesis, it was not a suggestion, an illusion, the occult presence of an arcane force or, worse still, somebody with evil intentions who had entered my home, it was him! Still him, always him, the one who had persecuted me for years!

From the heights of his presumption, he had insinuated himself amongst the folds, the most deeply hidden folds of my existence, conditioning each gesture of mine, every decision and all of my thoughts even. It was for this reason that, in the hope of creating a minimum of tranquillity, I had decided to hide myself at home taking care that he could not reach me. With this in mind I had even reinforced all the locks to the house and the shutters. After that, I had gathered a supply of foodstuffs to last me for several weeks in isolation. Then, the third night, when I was snuggled up in bed, he had made his presence felt yet again and I had suddenly realised that all my precautions had been in vain.

At this point I was beginning to come to terms with the resignation that I had up till then managed to repel yet I was also desperately trying to hang onto some, any, subtle justification that might allow me to accept the inevitable. But what could the inevitable be for me in those instants? Maybe simply to go back to putting up with his wishes, his conditionings, his absurd impositions which he claimed were awareness and freedom of choice.

Freedom from the limits of all that is conventional, from the constrictions that each and every one of us must suffer in order to be able to be considered worthy of belonging to this society which concedes you the right to renounce your rights to give them to those who will make use of them.

To flee, yes, to abandon everything and escape, maybe this was an option that still remained, but where to flee to? In any case, it would only be a question of time because he had all the time in the world to dedicate to finding me. It was therefore an uneven fight and it was useless to even propose what would be a total defeat even before the fight could begin.

Nonetheless, before surrendering I wanted to play a last card. Even though I was certain that he would not fall into the trap, I had no other choice, because submitting to his desires would mean certain death for me, of this I was convinced.

While I was certain that the epilogue would be anything but happy for me, I could not, I did not have to give up what I considered to be my freedom of decision, my independence of choice and therefore my survival.

I needed to use all of my craftiness. I needed to pretend to bend to his desires by appearing to demonstrate an acceptance that was born of an agonised and heart-wrenching battle against what I considered to be my indispensable principles from the beginning of time. A change of opinions which did not spring from his wishes, but which arose from his clever way of illustrating concepts of all sorts and was also strengthened as time went by. It was his profound way of explaining things that had progressively widened the breach in the embankment of conventions which layer upon layer of hypocrisies had sedimented making them immemorial. Yes, this was the right reasoning that would make it possible to convince him of the sincerity of my conversion and the spontaneousness of my re-thinking. All our past disputes had been marked by psychological conflicts that had been extremely engrossing which had pierced my mind and soul and now, just thinking about it dragged me back into a whirlpool of feelings and sensations where anguish ruled as queen.

But, how long had this battle been tearing me apart?

I could not remember. Yet I knew that it had started many years ago and that in a certain sense I had interpreted it as a battle between good and evil. But who was capable of judging on which side stood evil? I was sure that on my side was the good and maybe time had confirmed this for me, but who was really able to guarantee this for me? Good and evil … what sense could the two concepts have if after all everything can be considered debatable and moot? If the truth be told, what is good can be bad and vice versa since what might be good for one person might be bad for someone else and therefore it would perhaps be preferable to say that the best choice should be the one that might be between what is just and what is unjust or between that which is true and that which is false, between beauty and ugliness.

In any case, the choice as such is moot therefore it is questionable. The only incontestable truth might be given by God who, however, from the heights of his indisputability, has transferred the interpretation of all dilemmas and questions to men. Nonetheless, men can obviously be contestable and although they are almost always and above all presumptuous in giving diverse interpretations, they have inverted the factors to the point of giving rise to the doubt that they themselves created God instead of the opposite.

In any case, these considerations did not exonerate me from the need, the ever more pressing need, to manage to untangle myself from the constricting condition in which I felt myself to be immersed, to which, although I did not know how it could have happened, he was certainly not a stranger.

Therefore, it was crucial that I should manage to talk with him as soon as possible yet without letting him understand in any way that I wanted to do so.

If this did not happen, he would unmistakably and irremediably take advantage but most of all he would feel that he really could guess my true intentions. Yet how could I start a conversation without him suspecting something, and how could I manage to acquire some element that he could not perceive which would allow me to free myself of his presence and thus achieve autonomy once again? It was critical that he should approach me, so convinced that he had bent me to his wishes as to be distracted and in this way, finally reassured he would unconsciously concede a possibility of escape.

Whilst I was racking my brain, considering how to reach the goal that I had set myself, it seemed as if he had stopped tormenting me. I could hear no noises, no laments and most of all no one had touched me again. Every so often the doubt that it was not him resurfaced but I realised that, if the truth be told, it was only a meagre hope because nobody in the world could have hidden in the limited space of an apartment, be it ever so large, without letting their presence be noted unless they themselves wanted it to happen. As always, in the battle that saw us as foes the role of the cat belonged to him and the mouse to me, and the simple idea of continuing in this way left me exhausted because nothing could demoralize me more than the feeling that I wanted to be the mouse.

I looked around me. Everything was still shrouded in darkness and I could not hear any noise, not even that of feeble breathing that might allow me to intuit somebody’s ethereal and impalpable presence. I knew, I was certain, that he was there, ready to torment but stupidly