"Right. I'd like to ask you something. But I'm afraid of hurting you."
"Hurt me? Impossible unless you want to talk about Luca."
"Yes. I'm sorry. But I would like to talk about his death."
"So you suspect something too."
"I'm just crossing some information. What can you tell me?"
"There's a picture behind it, boy. Something from afar. Something dark, difficult to understand."
"Please continue."
"I discovered it in a completely random way. Let me explain: In prison I studied the history of Castelmuso. I needed it for my thesis. Title: Castrum Musi Historiae. As soon as I got a permit for good behaviour, I went to the monastery of Santa Croce to do some research. After the destruction of the
Benedictine monastery, it was the only one in the area that I could consult. It did not seem true to the friars that they could alleviate the misfortunes of a lost sheep. May I tell you something that will shock you?"
"Of course."
"One of the friars was a very nice fellow. Young, cultured, and charming. And the library was inaccessible."
"So?"
"There was only one way to consult the most confidential documents. I had to convince the handsome monk, so I gave him a speech: I reproached him for preaching against vices and sins in general, reminding him that I never heard him blame his righteousness.
I explained that, in my view, you preach sanctity out of cowardice because you are afraid of death, or perhaps even love. While those who are brave sin.
He listened to me carefully. And, you won't believe it, I persuaded him to make a little sin..."
"What kind of sin?"
"I took him to bed. Oh, let's be clear. I'm not a whore. I liked him, and I needed him."
"And I'm recording..."
"Fuck. I always forget this is an interview."
"Don't worry. I'll cut this part out."
"Thank you. So, the handsome monk allowed me to get my hands on several ancient and inaccessible documents.
While I was researching for my thesis, I came across evidence of the plague in 1425. An event that scourged our valleys. It was so terrible that they forbade the ringing of death bells so as not to sadden the people. A very particular story is mentioned in a document. It's about a commoner, famous for her enchanting voice. It seems that during the plague she sang popular songs to relieve people from her suffering.
One day, a monk who went around throwing lime and giving the Extreme Unction, said he saw the girl smearing yellowish substance on the handles and door jambs of some shacks. She immediately yelled at the girl. The girl was arrested and tried on charges of witchcraft.
She, however, pleaded innocent. She explained that the friar had made it all up.
Apparently, the clergyman was harassing her under the guise of the plague, and to save the people plagued by the disease, he was going to restore them to health and create new life. In short, a great excuse to fuck a beautiful girl and, at the same time, save his soul.
The monk tried to rape her, but she fought back furiously by kicking and biting him.
"And the friar then accused her of being a matchmaker."
"Exactly.
"The poor girl was burned at the stake?"
"Yes. And here's where it gets interesting. The few survivors of the plague had gathered in the square. They were all grieving because they knew that a blatant injustice was being done.
As the executioner, at the foot of the stake, lit the faggots to revive the flame, someone told the girl to sing for all present one last time. The chronicles report that as the fire burned her clothes, the young girl sang an angelic song. A poignant song that spoke of Decus et Damnationis. Beauty and Damnation."
"The writing on the wall."
"It's no coincidence. I have a feeling there's like a thread. A thread woven, as it were, by someone who's weaving a web through time. The weave is thick and inscrutable. But it has its own logic, doesn't it?"
(I nod without answering)
"See, boy, I've convinced myself it's best not to get too deep into this. It's the only way not to get trapped in the canvas, so no more questions. I'll get you the Pepsi."
11
The buildings in the Villa Serena district had sprung up like mushrooms in the sixties. Neither dilapidated, nor well placed, but far from the real decay, they surrounded a large circular square, which over time became a roundabout.
In the middle of the square, a dignified monument of white marble held a bronze obelisk with ugly bas-reliefs carved to sing the praises of the Renaissance. Beyond the monument, the houses, all downhill, disappeared following the profile of the mountain, opening an airy panorama filled with the stinging colours of the thriving hills struggling with the last stretch of land, the one that divided the coast from the shining blade of the sea.
The Grancafé was the only exercise that overlooked the square: it displayed a bare and unpretentious display case on the right side, while the bar counter stood out on the left wall. At the end of the corridor, a dozen or so round tables and cheap chairs were placed in a completely random order. The back of the Grancafè was crammed with slot machines, a fertile ground where low humanity could graze.
Guido was disinterested in cigarettes smoked in public places, but for the bartender, the stench was something intolerable. The girl annoyed the No Smoking sign to a regular customer, one who probably considered the bar a corner of his home.
The sign specified that the amount of any fines ranged from twenty-seven euro to two hundred and seventy euro round. But certain prohibitions, in some bars, were options related to the criminal record of customers.
Guido was sitting in the back, the veil of smoke over his head and, behind him, two guys bent over the slot machines.
He listened attentively to them to find their accents even though he had no talent for languages.
One of the two young men had a large, sturdy build, and was not particularly tall. Guido imagined he might have come from Albania.
Playing the slot, for the two patrons, was clearly a pretext.
The man, the probable Albanian, was distracted and disinterested and listlessly inserted the two euros into the slot. The player's interest was only ignited like a flame when he watched Guido.
The other guy was an indecipherable guy. He could have been the first one's sidekick, but he was too nervous in front of the video poker. He seemed to be more of a compulsive player. One who, unlike the first, could have nothing to do with Daisy Magnoli's diary.
Guido lifted a finger to draw the attention of the barmaid, a brunette with a dry face, agile movements because of a slim physique, but without a thread of grace.
The boy ordered her an espresso. She looked at him as if he were teasing her, and perhaps he wasn't wrong - she was lonely, busy, and tired. From her point of view, the customer could have had coffee at the counter and saved her the hassle of serving it at the table.
Filippa Villa parked the scooter in front of the Grancafè. She looked at the fender held by two strips of grey tape. There was no money to replace it, which made her in a bad mood. And Filippa, when she was particularly angry, felt an overwhelming urge to hit someone. At that moment she would gladly break the face of anyone who tried to blackmail Guido Gobbi.
He noticed that his Civic was there, oppressed by a car parked in a double-parked row, while he saw neither Leo's Panda nor Manuel's Citroen two horsepower.
Filippa walked into the bar without any particular discomfort, holding the gaze of two guys standing at the entrance, their backs to the wall, their hands in their pockets, sloppy, but strong as bulls.
ʺThey are not there by chanceʺ Filippa thought as she entered the bar.
An intense smell of Sambuca came from a table cluttered with glasses and cups of coffee. Sitting at the table were a woman and two men, presumably a mixture of Italians and Albanians.
Filippa bought a pack of Tuscans, slipping a couple of cents change into a box with a picture o
f two abandoned puppies glued to it. She put a toscanello in her mouth, which he kept carefully switched off, and joined Guido.
"Got coffee?"
"Already taken, thank you. Are you alone?"
"Alone. Should I call Manuel and Leo?"
"Already heard on the phone. They'll be here any minute."
"Not at the same table, mind you" she said, sprawled on the red plastic chair. "I'm curious to see how this story turns out” she added, nibbling on the tip of her cigar.
"Let's say this is going to be a long afternoon" Guido echoed, noting that the Albanian at the slot was examining Filippa with some nervousness.
"Are you sure Leo's a guarantee? If things go wrong, I mean" she asked, resting her amphibians on the other empty chair.
"Leo's won a lot of tournaments. "Maybe everyone he's ever entered. Only laziness has knocked him out."
"And Manuel?"
"You know Manuel. He won't help us. Let's say he's here to make a number, or to testify if things go wrong. The bar, however, is frequented by both bad guys and the good people of the neighbourhood. Besides, it's in a central part of town. That's why I consider it safe enough."
"Okay. I'm going to order a beer, though, in case I have to get someone to bottle it."
Guido pulled up his shirt sleeve to watch the clock. It was time for the date.
A handful of seconds passed when a young woman entered the bar. Guido examined her carefully. She was larger than long, the kind you do before you go around her than jump on top of her. She had a brown duffel bag over her shoulder, modest black hair, and looked like she'd just come out of a parish meeting. Huddling around, she walked up to their table. Her face was kind, her eyes low, her expression demeaned by those who would like to apologize to everyone.
"Guido Gobbi?" the woman blushed over her ears.
It only took a second for Guido to realize that the stocky lady wasn't there because she really wanted her to be, but rather that she had been forced by someone to go on a date.
Guido noticed that the Albanian from the slot had become even more nervous.
"Yes, I'm Guido Gobbi" the guy confirmed. Now it was clear that the two were working in pairs: she was clearly the succubus of an accomplice who seemed neither very smart nor particularly smart. But she seemed resolute, and perhaps even dangerous.
The woman exchanged a look with the Albanian, who seemed to blame her for something. The woman, perhaps gagged by her accomplice, clutched her bag towards her as if to protect her, and asked Filippa, "Who are you?"
"His girl, baby, can't you see?"
"You should have been alone" the woman complained to Guido.
"You too, if I'm not mistaken” replied the boy, pointing at the guy pretending to play the machines.
"Who is he?" Guido asked.
"His name is Fatmir. He is my husband."
"What about them over there? Can we trust them? Filippa pointed to the three of them at the entrance with the tip of his cigar, and now they were playing cards.
"They don't fit in” the woman explained with a voice.
Guido looked at her insistently, and her face suddenly seemed familiar.
"I know you. You're the civil protection woman. I saw you the night of the accident" Guido exclaimed vividly.
The woman replied full of embarrassment. "I knew it. I knew I shouldn't have listened to him..."
"Let's get to the point. What do you want from me?" asked Guido, refreshed by the fact that whoever wanted to blackmail him seemed incredibly unwise.
The woman shook her head, her face red as a ripe peach. He shut up without being able to say anything.
The husband, angry, decided to intervene. He stopped playing slots, stuck his hands firmly into his pockets and
cracked his knuckles, and walked up on two strong, arched legs.
"Maria. So?" the guy asked the woman, giving her a hard look, which I will turn threateningly to the two guys without flinching an eyelash.
"I told you I didn't want to do it” she said in a submissive tone. He put it in a grammatical accent. "You fool. You didn't have to bring this. Not now” she said peremptorily, tearing the bag out of her hand. The man looked at Guido and Filippa in an ignorant manner, then unzipped the zipper and pulled out an agenda with a metal padlock and red leather cover. The man slammed Daisy Magnoli's diary onto the round table, making sure to place his broad calloused hands on it. He clarified a few things by speaking bad Italian.
"Listen” he said, trying to be convincing, "my wife found this under a car. The day of that nasty accident. I don't work. And I have debts. I give money to people who aren't very good. So, sell this."
Manuel and Leo entered the bar after negotiations began. A quick look around to locate their friends. A nod in the distance, and as they agreed, they turned a blind eye and sat at the bar. They ordered two beers without missing a beat of what was happening at the back of the bar.
Guido, reassured by the arrival of friends, tried to understand what the Albanian wanted. He was probably really desperate, but he couldn't bear the fact that he thought he was a swindler.
"Just so to be clear, that diary is not yours." Guido told him in one breath to clear his head right away. "Besides, what's this got to do with me? Not to mention the fact that this thing smells strongly of blackmail."
"No, blackmail. No, no, no!" The Albanian was raving, waving his hands as if he had to chase away a flock of gnats.
"No, blackmail. No. It's about you in here” said Fatmir tapping his finger on the cover. "That's why I'm looking for you. It says Guido Gobbi. I searched the Internet, and found you. There are interesting things in a famous girl's diary. It's worth a lot of money. You talk to her."
Filippa pulled the cigar out of his teeth. Without paying the slightest bit of attention to the Albanian, he turned to his wife and said, "In a nutshell, this dickhead husband of yours wants to sell the diary to Daisy.
"What did you say, you slut?" the man exclaimed, quick to get irritated by provocation.
"I said you're a dickhead. Dickhead, and son of a bitch. Slut your sister, your grandmother, and every whore I can think of."
"Watch your mouth, bitch woman."
The man was getting upset, but he was quietly threatening, like he was afraid someone might hear him. Filippa breathed a patient sigh, took his legs off the chair, bent forward with his elbows on the table.
"But can't you see it? You're just a poor man who thinks he's clever. Do you know how long it takes us to put you in jail, you asshole?" said Filippa, pointing his cigar right at his heart.
"W... we got two kids. Please..." cried his wife.
Leo, sitting at the counter, noticed the strange movement of the two Slavic boys he met at the entrance, the same ones Filippa thought weren't there by chance. The two of them were watching Guido and Filippa's table and exchanged a few whispered opinions.
"Things are getting bad” whispered Manuel from the desk.
Meanwhile, at the back of the bar, the discussion began to get dangerously heated.
"Give us that diary and let's end it here. Otherwise, it's a fine extortion charge. And if you are familiar with Article 629 of the penal code, you should know that you could face up to
ten years in jail" Guido warned, knowing that his threat was not acceptable. Drug dealers and hardened criminals, caught red-handed, were unlikely to go to jail, let alone one who had stolen a girl's diary. Guido's intimidation was a good pretext for probing the Albanian's reaction.
"You're going to report me? Do you want to end badly?" he threatened the man. A credible warning that worried Guido.
Filippa was not intimidated and replied: "Listen. If you still don't understand this, we work for a newspaper. I'd consider that bad news if I were you. Do you want your children to see your shit face on the front page?"
The Albanian's wife died. She remembered the journalist's badge Guido showed her the night of the accident.
"Let's go away, Fatmir” she said, taking him b
y the arm.
"Shut up!" her husband intimated her by putting his hand on her chest to push her away. Several eyes kept low until then, they all rose from the tables together. "All right. We're leaving now. You can keep the page." said Guido, turning his back. The Albanian made some vague threats, his wife tried to shut him up, and he slapped her. The man's violence froze those present, yet tore someone's consent. The women, according to the general belief of the bar's rough patrons, had to learn to stay in their place. But Filippa certainly didn't think so.
"You piece of shit!" he scanned the big girl by throwing the cigar. The Albanian raised his hand and threatened to slap her, the air of those who didn't really want to slap their hands.
The gesture was enough for Filippa. With unusual force for a woman, he punched Fatmir in the face. The Albanian felt the barrel of his nose deviate under the hard knuckles of the girl. The diary in his hands fell between the tables. A stream of blood spurted from the nostrils of the fool, smearing his cheekbones.
Guido took advantage of the moment of confusion to collect the diary.
"Let's go away!" exclaimed Guido, grabbing the arm of Filippa to drag her out of the club. Guido opened the fire door wide, finding himself on the square in front of the bar, a few meters from his car. Leo and Manuel left the bar in turn. Guido ran towards the Civic. He was opening the door, when Fatmir blocked him from behind.
Leo didn't notice anything and climbed into the hazelnut colored Panda, which he was laboriously paying in instalments. He took a quick look in the mirror, put the car in reverse, turned the steering wheel, and the car leapt back with a screech of tires. He put the first one in with the intention of starting at full throttle, when Filippa's wheel mass hit the hood, causing him to brake. The girl was yelling something at him, her finger pointing at the parking lot near the bar.
Guido had a blade pointed at his throat as the two slavs were approaching his Panda.
The Dawn of Sin Page 13