ANGELO ALSO CLAIMS to have had interactions with Giusva Fioravanti, Facchinetti, the CIA, Gelli, the Lebanese, the Syrians, Turkish and Armenian terrorists . . .
He claims to have been in contact with Roberto Calvi (banker found hanged under Blackfriars Bridge in London, June 1982), works as a debt collector for the Mafia . . .
IN CONCLUSION: Angelo’s accusations and self-accusations are not very credible because his references to events and people are “in appearance rich in detail which, however, no one has verified or which cannot be verified” and lack any indication that makes it seem certain, or at least probable, that the information comes from someone who actually took part in the criminal acts in question, about which Angelo might have learned “through a thousand other channels.”
FOR ANYONE WHO HAS BEEN PATIENT enough to read this far through this tangled and astonishing account, I’m going to paste in excerpts from an interview that Angelo gave in 2001, and a few other curious and significant documents.
ACCORDING TO THE JOURNALIST who did the interview, Angelo “has lost the gaze of a chilly robot” that he had at the time of the CR/M.
AND HERE IS WHAT HE REVEALS about himself: “I’ve stopped loving violence, only thanks to my love for my fellow humans, only once I understood the beauty of being a man among men.” As a boy, with his gang of classmates, he pulled armed robberies, “as many as four a week.” And this is how he explained those youthful intemperances: “We felt we were knights at war with the world, invulnerable and unbeatable . . . life is a charge, a furious, desperate careering charge in which you push your horses to the utmost of their strength, to sweep aside enemies and obstacles.” And then the usual (all too familiar to me) nursery rhyme about rehabilitation: “In prison I have had time to read, study, and think . . .”
THE EDUCATORS AT CAMPOBASSO PRISON understood it:
“Angelo has worked with profit as a scribe. He took part with interest in the course of English language and literature, was part of three theater projects, two computer courses . . .” What’s more, “he possesses a natural instinct for poetry.”
Angelo has faced the challenges of the last several years of his confinement “with a sort of positive, problem-solving approach, directed toward an exploration of the aftermath of his wrongdoing. He took advantage of the privilege of his considerable intellectual gifts to focus on changing and renewing himself . . .”
As a result, “we recommend adopting more expansive measures of freedom, in order to allow him to strengthen his relationship with Città Futura, which has been positive and fruitful.”
(CITTÀ FUTURA, literally Future City, is the association in Campobasso where Angelo was working as a psychological consultant for troubled young people when he strangled two women, a mother and daughter; those murders took place in April 2005.)
IN THE REPORT FROM PALERMO PRISON in July 2004, which helped to win him a regime of partial freedom, you can read, among other things:
“ANGELO IS A SOCIALLY USEFUL individual . . . a specialist in the treatment of alcoholics and in the integration of Roma into society, with particular focus on the scholastic reintegration of children . . . he shows willingness and openness to dialogue, exhaustive and eloquent . . . he has sincerely repented . . . in fact, he appears to be undertaking a psychological journey of expiation and reparation for the harm and offenses done to others . . .”
FROM A HANDWRITING ANALYSIS, the following observations emerged, in sharp contrast with the views expressed above:
a tendency to present himself endlessly in the same manner, with stereotypical behavior;
an inability to express openly his own state of mind, which leads the subject to repress his aggressive impulses to a pathological degree, with a corresponding risk of an explosion of violence;
little if any emotional and relational involvement;
in order to feel he is alive, the subject needs to experience strong feelings and excitement, including perverted ones;
stubborn determination in constantly adopting the same attitude, typical of those who “will stop at nothing.”
15
MONTE CIRCEO, like so many other places in Italy, for that matter, became a vacation spot by mistake. Almost without realizing its menacing nature. In reality, it’s a frightening, mythological, doleful place. An immense magnetic rock. An Indian burial ground that someone built their house atop. Strolling along the beach at Sabaudia and approaching the mountain’s black bulk, down there, in the distance, where the beach ends in a gorge, you walk and walk for miles, and everything looks the same, until all of a sudden there it is, looming right above you, sheer, a vertical massif, shrouded in darkness and greenery, but that greenery is a green blacker than ink. Only here is it clear that a crime of this kind could never have been committed in Rome, too shallow, too lazy, and instead it took place at the Circeo, a place of the horrid and the supernatural.
I have been telling myself for years that I should take a tour of the house where the CR/M unfolded. I hesitate, I keep putting it off. I doubt that it would be useful, dotting that particular “i,” crossing that particular “t,” in other words, would be very useful, to be able to say, “I was there,” “I saw it.” Direct experience is more useful when it’s involuntary, the product of random chance . . . and my eyes see better when I’m not obliged to observe. And so, today, I made up my mind once and for all: I’m not going. I’m not going to go. I asked Tano, F.’s son, who’s been going to the beach there since he was a child, to tour the house in my place and to give me a report. Here are his notes.
THURSDAY
It was six in the evening.
At that time of night in Circeo we can say that we’ve done almost everything there is to do here. In the morning we wake up, have breakfast, then hang out on the rocks by the water until two in the afternoon, then we eat, we go down to the water again, then when you’re tired it’s back up to the house, shower, chess, dinner, and bed. At the very most, you might go dive off the Gabbianella or the Batterie, but by the twentieth dive you’ve run out of the adrenaline from the first dive, and you keep diving just because you have nothing better to do.
But yesterday was different. In fact, at six o’clock we decided to change our daily routine.
Carlo, Bernardo, Lavinia, and I decided to go see the house. That’s right, the Circeo house.
We’d heard about the story of Circeo since we were kids, the Monsters of Monte Circeo, about all the terrible things that happened in that house, but we were always afraid to go see it.
Certainly, there was nothing particular about its appearance: it’s just a waterfront villa like any other. It’s a few minutes away from the house where I’ve spent my vacations since I was a child, and it was exactly this proximity that has always made me steer clear of it . . .
We started off, following the signs. They are strange signs, red letters “I” in circles. Ten minutes on foot and we were there: two large red I’s told us we were in the right place. After hesitating briefly, we climb the dirt road that leads to the gate, and suddenly we see it.
The black gate, shaped like the tentacles of a giant squid, makes your legs shake. But there is nothing frightening about the house itself, it isn’t abandoned, indeed, if anything it’s in pretty good shape. The shutters are closed but the lights burning in the garden are meant to convey the idea that someone was there until recently and will return anytime now. I don’t think twice, I just climb over it, and the others follow me. Carlo cuts his hand on the rusty gate.
Once we got in we took a stroll around the garden: it felt as if we were in that movie, The Goonies, four friends entering a house where a murder took place thirty-five years ago . . .
The house isn’t pretty, a small two-story villa with a view of the water, nothing extraordinary. Children’s toys scattered in the courtyard. After walking around it, we stopped on the terrace to admire the breathtaking view of the Pontine Islands, but we soon realized that the owners might be back at any moment
and that we really shouldn’t linger. What sounded the alarm was a pack of cigarettes on the table in the living room, which we saw through the window: they must have just gone out for a few minutes to buy some food, we said to one another, we’d better get out of here!
On our way back, we wondered about who the new owners might be.
There was talk of a couple of Germans. Who wants to live in a house where those things happened?
It wasn’t frightening the way I expected. When I was a kid I had nightmares just at the thought of going by there, the Casa del Circeo, and I imagined it as monstrous, like in a horror movie, but now I understand that when you hear people talk about something terrible without ever having seen it yourself, there’s a good chance you’ll be even more afraid of it because your imagination pushes you a lot farther out there.
The house at Monte Circeo isn’t scary, but I only just realized that.
FRIDAY THE 13TH
The road there is deserted. It always is. The curves full of potholes, skirting the sheer drop to the sea. The aqua-green gate, with the guard who happens to be on duty standing watch, not particularly authoritarian, and clearly with no desire to work. The asphalt turns into gravel and the vegetation grows thicker. On the left side, there are no houses, just wild trails that run down to the Batterie: natural rock stacks at different heights, perfect for diving off. The man-made berms are speed bumps, to slow down cars though there are none in sight, and even when they pass, they’re gone immediately in a cloud of dust.
SUNDAY
I remember the exact point. From there on, the mountain became the protagonist, you could start to feel its weight . . . The sea was out of sight . . . The road ran uphill in blind hairpin curves. The House was there. At the foot of the mountain. It stood there, suspended in a limbo between rock and sea, two forces of nature that may meet but that can never synchronize. You could perceive a powerful energy in that place, and it was both frightening and pleasurable at the same time . . .
MONDAY (BACK IN ROME)
Monte Circeo is, for me, an oasis of peace, though I come out here only in the summer, usually toward the end, so that I can enjoy the last few days of bright sunshine. I eat, I drink, and I sleep well. Nothing more than that. I feel isolated, I see no one, I’m a young hermit in search of peace after my summer adventures out and about in the great big world. I read books, I watch movies, I play chess, I do puzzles . . . I distract myself and perhaps I bore myself. The biggest charge of adrenaline comes when I dive off the Gabbianella cliffs or I play Pictionary.
The tragedy that occurred just a short distance from here still hovers in the air. The people who come here to visit like to ask which is the famous villa so they can go and take a look at it and wet their pants a little, maybe to stave off the boredom of playing cards, but I’d rather avoid it. I’m afraid of that house. When I was little, my older female cousins would go there at night and they’d tell me about seeing strange shadows and otherworldly sounds from the beyond. It was a sort of baptism of fire, out at Monte Circeo, to sneak into that house at night, but I never did it. I just limited myself to going to see it in broad daylight, kept at bay by my fear of the unknown and the darkness of the moonless nights.
I play cards and I listen to music on the rocks, then I take a swim and do some push-ups, I climb back up to the house, hiking up the ninety-one endless steps, I eat some stuffed pizza with fresh mozzarella and cherry tomatoes, a nice gelato, and a nap in front of the TV. If friends come by, then we can go have a drink together on the roof, we chat about things, we feel good, carefree. But if we shift our gaze just a little farther up, the sinister shape of that house, now the property of Germans too cold-blooded to be afraid of it, a chill runs down our backs. Horrifying thoughts get the upper hand, you try to find a distraction but it’s hard, you read a few pages without understanding, your mind is otherwise occupied. Another nightmare tonight? I hope not. And so, before falling asleep, I try to focus on the filled doughnuts from Casa del Dolce that await me in the kitchen tomorrow morning.
1
SOMEONE WAS RINGING the doorbell.
Someone was ringing.
The doorbell was ringing . . .
I woke up, I got up from my desk, and I went to answer.
It was a diminutive priest with an open, honest face, neatly brushed red hair, a clear gaze, and a northern Italian accent, who had come to give my home an Easter blessing.
This ceremony always embarrasses me and if possible I avoid it, making sure not to be home during the times listed on the announcement posted in the window of the doorman’s booth roughly a week in advance. This time I’d overlooked it.
The priest asked in a low voice, “May I come in?” and I couldn’t think of any reason to say no. But we remained standing in the front hall. “I’m Father Edoardo. A pleasure to meet you.” Astonishment: Father Edoardo. I’d never heard of a priest with my name, it sounds . . . it rings strange to my ear . . . stranger than Jeremiah or Rehoboam.
He asked me who else lived there, and whether those other tenants were at home.
“No. I live alone.”
Unfortunately.
“I understand. But even living alone there can be happiness, contentment. And therefore, let us pray together, the two of us, intoning the Our Father,” and he opened his arms wide, holding the palms of his hands turned upward, while I joined my hands together, interlacing my fingers, even though I’m afraid that’s not done anymore. Perhaps no one but a few little old ladies prays that way anymore. I felt I was suddenly a child again, and I bowed my head, fearful I might not remember the prayer, but then I limited myself to mumbling along, while Father Edoardo clearly and audibly enunciated the words and phrases.
Having finished the Our Father, the priest blessed the apartment, sprinkling holy water left and right, that is, toward the bookshelf that held the Enciclopedia Treccani volumes that had belonged to my grandfather, then to my father, and now to me, and then toward several cases of wine, stacked there, ready to be consumed.
I was confused and, at the same time, contented that this holy water should have come into my home, at just the right time. Maybe it’s always the right time, there’s really never a wrong time.
Father Edoardo rummaged in his black leather satchel. He handed me a flyer with the program of Easter services at the parish church. Since he’d never seen me there, maybe he imagined that I was a nonpracticing believer, or a lazy Catholic, or a little lost sheep, or maybe even someone who had recently moved to the quarter, or else an atheist: and I was none of these things and yet I was all of these things together, at the same time. I expected that at that point he would ask me for an offering in exchange for the benediction, but he didn’t. I was surprised and I appreciated that, since I thought it was up to me in any case to decide whether to make the gesture. I reached back to the rear pocket of my trousers, where I keep my cash, bills folded, since I’ve never owned a wallet. I don’t know if the priest had noticed my act and meant to stop me, or whether he actually was in a hurry, but he grabbed my other hand and said: “I’m terribly late, I really have to run,” and added an apology for the unusual time of the evening in which he’d knocked on my door.
Right he was, it was 8:20, time for dinner.
He snapped the buckle on his bag and said goodbye the way any scrupulous professional would have done, a physician, for example, after a house call.
As soon as he left, I went back to my computer and closed the various pages, stacked one atop the other, of the porn sites I’d been surfing when the doorbell rang. Then I turned off my computer.
I SPENT GOOD FRIDAY working on a screenplay. The story we were developing was about a king whose wife has died young, whereupon he gets the misguided and corrupt idea into his royal head of marrying his own sister: “flesh of his flesh, breath of his breath.” The young woman, whose name is Penta, refuses, disgusted by that incestuous proposal. But the king won’t give up. He absolutely must make her his . . .
“If
your sense of honor as a man doesn’t stop you, at least restrain yourself in the name of the love that has bound us since we were children.”
“Penta, it is precisely this that I dream of, every night. And that is why I desire you. After all, it’s just a matter of being together again, the way we were when we were little . . . playing together, amusing ourselves in the same bed . . . Only, now we’d be closer . . . a little closer . . . one inside the other, that’s the only difference.”
Having been rejected for the umpteenth time, the king has Penta locked up in prison, in one of those underground cells called “oubliettes” (a frightening name, a “forgetting hole”) with just a single opening in the ceiling, letting in a shaft of light, and through which food is lowered to the prisoner. The part of Penta’s body to which her brother is most attracted, in a morbid fashion, are her hands: and so the girl, in order to put an end to his desire, has a servant cut off her hands . . .
THAT NIGHT ON TV I watched the finale of the third season of a series set in Atlantic City, during Prohibition, featuring corrupt politicians and a gangster on the rise. Even though the series abounded in frontal nudity and explicit violence, it was very well written and directed, with a well-constructed story, fantastic actors and dialogue, in short, that kind of enviable commercial product, brilliantly produced and well acted. But the final episode is a bloodbath. They try to kill the main character, played by Steve Buscemi, but are unsuccessful, and so other gangsters gallop to his rescue, and it’s a massacre. Tommy guns spit flames in the dark of night. People are disemboweled, there are shotgun blasts to the face. One veteran of the Great War, whose face is half-masked to conceal the horrible disfiguring wound he suffered, manages to get into a brothel where he murders seven people in order to rescue a little boy being held captive there by the boy’s grandmother, a heroin addict, who a few episodes earlier had killer her lover, who she’d chosen specifically because he resembled her dead son, drowning him in the bathtub after fucking him and then giving him a fatal overdose of heroin. The true bad guy in this third season, whom we had seen in previous episodes engaged in every imaginable sort of brutal violence (including decapitating with a spade a man buried up to his neck in the sand, because he was guilty of having lost a shipment of whiskey at sea), dies stabbed in the back while he’s pissing on the beach.
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