The Ruling Impulses Read online

  Francesco Portone

  THE RULING IMPULSES

  Copyright © 2019, 2020 Francesco Portone

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

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  English version by: Francesco Portone

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  Table of contents

  Dedication

  Presentation

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Epilogue?

  EPILOGUE??

  Many years earlier...

  DEDICATION

  To my father Domenico

  To Kobe and Gigi

  Presentation

  William Deveux is convinced: the worst dictatorship is the one that gives you the perception of being free. But nobody is really free in the city-state of East Eden and nothing really is as it appears. A man will have to fight against a petty conspiracy to affirm his right to a normal life, in a system that hides behind the respect for the rules, and the pursuit of the “common good”, to justify any sort of abuse. But to succeed in that, he will first have to face his demons: a disease that afflicts him from birth and causes him headaches and mood swings, making relationships complicated. An evil that threatens to distance him permanently from the woman he loves, Lucinda Merritt, sick of his outbursts of anger and his misplaced cuddles. To accompany him in these tremendous trials, Charlie DeClerk and Kate Ramos, the only people he dares to define friends . Will he be able to regain his balance, to recover his freedom and his affections? And will he be able to find out what lies behind the outwardly beautiful East Eden?

  Francesco Portone was born in Naples in 1974. A graduate in Economics, he has worked in the financial sector for over fifteen years. In February 2019 he released the novel “Impulsi Dominanti” (“The Ruling Impulses”), first episode of the series "Libertà Di Scelta" ("Freedom Of Choice"). In April 2020 he published the second volume, “L'Alba Più Buia” (italian version).

  Chapter I

  “Message successfully delivered”. Old N-27 model's cerulean screen barely lighted up a thin penumbra made of discomfort, disengagement and distrust. Outside, a persistent yet not so cold breeze shook the scarce grass probably envisaged by urban planning; far from the view, made of metal and some other cheap building materials, of the attic of Building 16.

  William felt uneasy. He did not really felt a malaise, it was more like a mild anxiety. A tingling that started from the lower abdomen and turned into a knot in the pit of his stomach. It was not the first time he experienced that, but he did not call it depression. It did not usually last very long and did not go beyond a moderate chest tightness, maybe unpleasant but fortunately without consequences. However, from time to time that feeling resulted in a noticeable impatience and he felt like an animal in a cage, restless, frustrated. He doubted himself, doubted he was worthy of his woman's love, and he even asked himself if he was socially adequate.

  In those moments he sought solace in small daily habits such as tidying up the apartment or making tea. And in that sleepless September night, his choice fell upon the drink he was fond of. He had his own method to prepare it: he filled the teapot with water up to two thirds and placed it on the ignited gas stove with the handle turned to left; he had his favorite cup and a teaspoon on the right side, a sweetener sachet and one of Indian tea, already unwrapped, on the left side; he let the water bubble for five to ten seconds, then he turned the fire off and dipped the tea sachet in hot water; with his left hand holding firmly the cotton thread and the teaspoon in his right, he maintained light yet steady pressure on the tea sachet, keeping it from surfacing; at the last stage of that careful procedure, he put his nose closer to the teapot to smell the vapors, then pulled out the sachet and threw it into the rubbish, using the spoon to keep it from dripping; the Indian tea could finally be poured into the cup and flavored with a pinch of sweetener. It took longer to make than to drink it, but it was all worth it. The intense aroma of that cinnamon and jasmine spiced black tea thrilled him every time and left him with a sense of relief he knew was ephemeral, yet really encouraging.

  No chance to sleep tonight anyway, he thought. The digital alarm clock already read 2:27. He took another look at his computer, but everything was quiet.

  Migraines seemed to get worse in recent times. Maybe it was just like that or maybe his pain threshold drastically lowered. Very hard to say.

  That dead silence was both unreal and deafening. He could almost hear his heart beating, while staring at the steaming hot cup. He sipped it slowly, paying attention not to burn his lips. He made a face. Too little sweetener.

  The farthest wall was flooded with whiteness. He had never noticed how white that light was until then. He was not fully used to that new environment yet, to his new accommodation. Deep in his heart he thought it was not so bad. It was his new home, after all, no matter how chilling it was to think so.

  A computer audio signal dissuaded him from attempting to relax. He walked up to the table and checked, but without haste. A fear, dressed with boredom and vaguely unrealized expectations, held him back. With a gesture of annoyance, he erased another of those réclame that urged people to discover more and more bizarre kinds of virtual sex. Fifty credits to have the chance to fulfill your most hidden fantasies, or something. He could not remember how people labeled those intrusive and indecent proposals years and years before.

  He was not disappointed, not even resigned. All in all, he was still deeply optimistic. Wandering in that limbo was enough for him at the moment. Living in a comforting inertia and waiting for future events.

  He thought of turning all off, but waited a little more. The slashes tearing the right side of his head would not allow him to rest peacefully. He swallowed a Sefinol tablet and sat on his armchair, trying to finish the drink. Would the tea interact with the drug? A recurring yet still unanswered question.

  Spam. Here's the exact term for that advertisement. He was almost sure to ignore the etymology of that word. It was probably related to organic waste. He had always hated jargon, in any context. He considered it cold, soulless, like a robot thing. Yet in his field of activity that foolish form of language was widespread and inevitable.

  Suddenly he trembled. He did not realize he had crossed the border between sleep and wakefulness. He stood up and went to put the cup in the sink. A simple gesture turned unexpectedly into a gesture of anger. I will have to learn to live with it, one way or another. He decided to undress and try to relax. Fortunately, the medicine relieved his pain. It was not the ending he wished for that night; however, it was too late and futile to think about it, or complain
.

  He noticed he had not turned the computer off when the number of beeps increased and they became insistent, but his eyes were now too heavy, so he voted for staying in bed and surrendering to Morpheus' embrace.

  The morning after he got up rather rested, despite the nighttime tribulations. The alarm clock melody sounded less annoying, too. He stretched himself and yawned broadly, then stood by the high window to enjoy the tenuous beam of light that gently brushed it. The dirty clothes were still lying on a chair. He had to put them in the laundry basket, but prior to that he needed a good healthy breakfast and a warm shower.

  Various thoughts stormed his mind. The Minneman case was still an open question. He hoped for the best but, once again, he did not want to take anything for granted.

  He listened absently to the daily news, they never told anything that could arouse his interest. He toyed with the last muesli pieces lying on the bottom of the bowl and when he had enough he entered the shower box. He wore some clean and good-smelling clothes, a quick last glance at himself in the mirror to make sure everything was in order and finally he left the house.

  He met just a few people around the neighborhood, perhaps because it was very early in the morning. He turned his gaze to the center of the square, right in front of the Buildings, and saw two militiamen with folded arms, like they were waiting for something or someone. William found it quite strange.

  Leaving before 7.00 was unusual for him, but that allowed him to carry out a peculiar sociological analysis about neighborhood inhabitants: at 8.00 people usually answered to his greeting by returning friendly and knowing looks; just an hour earlier those smiles turned into grunts and puffs. It was a hard life for people forced to get up early and move from Numbered District to downtown, William concluded. And it certainly was not a fairytale place for all the people forced to live there, subjected to coerced stay.

  They're always so damn punctual, he mumbled with a hint of sourness, as he watched the train coaches reach the collection point. The social carrier, the only mean of civil transportation that could be used by ordinary people to move within the city-state of East Eden. According to Guild of Transportation's last reform, private use of vehicles was almost completely banned. Just a few authorizations granted, mostly to wealthy and powerful men, besides Militia, Guilds' members and health workers. In any case, everything was precisely indicated in the Unified Code, so no mistakes or imprudence would be tolerated.

  27 minutes. It was the time required for William to cross the whole city and reach his workplace, including a short walk. Guild of Transportation made punctuality and rapidity its strong points in the sphere of social reform, in the belief that those were essential foundations for the brand new civil society that was meant to be established. The models of rigor and efficiency provided by urban transportation had to help strengthening order and justice. Many citizens believed, however, that raising such a fuss was just a pretext to gain more consensus and power within College of Guilds.

  William vainly tried to doze as the coaches were darting undeterred on paved streets of marble and metal. The marble was to exemplify the purity, the elegance, the order, merging with the brilliance of the aluminum alloy of which the whole city was sprinkled. According to College of Guilds' pseudo-philosophical logic, even such details were important. Everything had to aim at rigor, order, clarity, self-denial. Even at a distorted sense of belonging.

  The carrier arrived at the scheduled time. The advanced braking system made it possible to move from high speed to complete stop in seconds and with no discomfort for passengers. A jewel of technology, one of the flagships of the new government.

  William headed for Leigh Madison Enterprise's headquarters, raising his jacket collar to protect from a warm yet steady breeze, which had been relentlessly blowing for a couple of days.

  He noticed some surprised looks, especially from security officers, as soon as he got inside the building. Same thing just a few seconds later, inside the elevator. On the seventh floor, he saw Tom Bertold coming towards him and carrying a small server under his arm. His fellow system administrator was tempted to stop and say hello, but he opted to keep going and get rid of that heavy burden.

  A voice from the bottom of the stairs caught his attention.

  «Don't tell me you lost your teddy bear and you couldn't sleep.»

  He promptly turned around and found Kate Ramos, the Secretariat's manager.

  «Now I'm sleeping with a dolphin and, fortunately, I did not lose it», William replied.

  Kate laughed but it sounded much more like animal noises than human laughter. The lady, who was also secretary to C.E.O., was a plump, lively, sharp-tongued middle-aged woman, but, above all, she was a good girl, so much so that William had never had anything to complain about their work relationship.

  «If it had a positive impact even on a guy like you, I'll have to get one», she added, still giggling.

  William tried to free himself from Kate's grip and go on, but she immediately stopped him with her panther-like reflexes.

  «Not so fast, Deveux.»

  She spoke like she was one of those old western movies gunslingers, at the final showdown.

  «Hutchinson was looking for you yesterday afternoon. You were already gone. Any urgent affair?», she hinted, with a mocking tone.

  «Nothing special, I just wanted to avoid your clutches.»

  William tried to look as serious as possible. She moved away, waving her left hand's index finger as if to say you're not telling the whole story.

  Among all operations managers, Jon Hutchinson was the most demanding. Uncompromising, it was the precise term used by William Deveux to refer to him. A hard worker, a bit austere but not haughty. He used to acknowledge just two acceptable outcomes to the conclusion of a project: a) a job well done; b) a job very well done. In any case, he was a decent guy and knew how to credit those who showed commitment and skills.

  Hutchinson's office was housed on floor number 27. The entrance was decorated with floral arrangements and rare plants; it all looked more like a jungle than a control room. Color therapy was considered essential to help managers to handle stress. With the Guilds government's advent, companies were subjected to a closer monitoring and had to provide detailed reports about their work. Severe penalties were imposed for the most serious infringements, so it was necessary for people to make every effort to keep their heads clear and not to make mistakes.

  William stood at the door. Hutchinson was in the middle of a video chat, yet as soon as he noticed him, he motioned William to come in, dismissing his interlocutor.

  «How are we getting on with the installations at Caribbean Inc.?», the manager asked, as per his custom, without too many pleasantries.

  «The equipment is connected, the system is online, but we're still testing the firewall and the alarm system. When we have a green light, we will install armors all over it», William answered immediately. His temples meanwhile began to pound. He tried to massage them clockwise, but could not get any relief.

  Hutchinson slowly looked away and started to tickle his mustache with his right hand.

  «It's a very important contract», he muttered, giving the impression that he was focusing on something else. William lowered the tone of his voice to match the manager's one.

  «We're confident about finishing by the deadline. As long as those Caribbean gentlemen cooperate, of course.»

  «They must! They can not think of setting up effective protections without shedding some light on the nature of their work.»

  Hutchinson's tone became imperative again. The manager then nodded his head as if to say enough said, but, before William could leave, he held him back for one last question.

  «Deveux... how are you? How you doing?»

  His voice strangely betrayed uncertainty.

  «Is that a trick question?», William replied impulsively, spitting out the first thought that crossed his mind. He doubted whether kidding was a good choice, so he judged he
had better put things right.

  «It's all right, I guess.» He swallowed.

  «How are you feeling?»

  «A bit worse, lately. It's because of my anxiety, I suppose.»

  Colleagues and supervisors knew about William's illness, in any case they kept it discreet, avoiding inappropriate questions. William was an esteemed worker and everyone loved his enthusiasm, though some found him a bit weird because of his mood swings.

  «Any news from Ralph Minneman?», the supervisor carried on chatting.

  «Situation's unchanged.»

  «That guy is a hard-ass, a son of...»

  «You may say it openly if you wish, sir.»