* * *
At the end of the third week since his awakening, Dante was capable of stringing together some simple phrases as well as swallowing semisolid food, with Colomba spoon-feeding him and taking care not to let him choke.
Every time he opened his eyes, he knew he’d find her beside him. Sitting outside if the weather was nice, or else inside, at the foot of his bed, with some old book or other in her hand. She was his guide in his return to the world, for the moments when he couldn’t remember ordinary everyday acts. Dante often looked on in wonder or fear at objects in common use. He would drift into a state of rapt bewilderment at the sight of a button or a spoon. He’d have fits of rage, crying jags, and panic attacks, and when he overcame them, he was mortified and filled with shame. In much the same way, he was ashamed of his stilted command of the Italian language, of the way his body had turned weak and flaccid, of his momentary intervals of absentmindedness.
Colomba never ran out of patience, not even when he threw tantrums like a child. She’d read to him from an Italian edition of A Farewell to Arms so old that the price was in lire (350 lire, to be exact), or else she’d read reviews of the films he’d missed, or the latest news. At his request, she hung a sign on the tent that read Crystal Lake (which Colomba suspected was an obscure reference to some film or other), she told him about the Marche region and her family, and a little at a time—very cautiously—the things that had happened during his time away: Tommy, the Melas murder, Dr. Pala, Lupo, Romero, and all the rest of the chain of clues that had led her to him.
One night Dante screamed as if someone were trying to slit his throat. Colomba, who was sleeping in the other bed that had been set up in the tent, separated from Dante’s by a small partition, ran around to see what was wrong, sidearm drawn and ready. “What’s wrong?”
“Leo … I saw him,” Dante said, his voice hoarse from the tracheotomy.
Colomba looked around, wildly swinging the pistol that had only recently been given back to her. “Where?”
Dante twisted his lips in the effort. “The Music Box.” He coughed.
“I don’t understand,” Colomba said gently. “Try again.”
“Opening. Cold. What a long trip!” Dante was on the verge of tears. “Shit. Fuck.” He concentrated, trying to pin down the wriggling eel that his brain had become. “The Box.”
“The Box? The prison that Giltine was in?”
“Wunderbar!” Dante said happily. “Wonderbra!”
Mixing languages and references that came from who knew where, Dante managed to tell Colomba the broad outlines of his awakening in Chernobyl and the meeting with Leo that had resurfaced in his mind. She told him that it had been nothing but a dream, and in order to convince him of the fact, she let him scroll through satellite pictures of the Ukraine and Chernobyl. “You see? There’s nothing there. The Box was dismantled after the meltdown of the nuclear power plant. You told me so yourself.”
At first, Dante didn’t believe her. It all seemed too real to him, more real than the tent that had become his new home. But as his grip on reality grew stronger and more stable, he soon realized that Colomba had to be right: he’d dreamed it all, and the year and a half that he’d lost he’d spent fast asleep. No heroic escape, no radiation eating away at him, no act of courage, no confrontation with the man who claimed to be his brother. All the same, Dante was convinced that that dream must have a meaning. Or at least he hoped so, in order to find something positive in all that misfortune.
Looking up at the moon in the sky that was losing its wintry gray hue, with his body in the tent and his head out in the chilly garden air, Dante wondered if even this was a hallucination. Maybe he was still back in Venice, frozen in the moment when he’d recognized Leo for the man who’d been spying on him for years. Maybe they really had shut him up in a crate and he’d lost his mind, and Colomba was still looking for him, because there never had been any Tommy to show her the way. Or else there never had been any crate, any massacre, any Leo.
Maybe he was still locked up in the silo, still the Father’s prisoner, imagining a life that he would never have.
CHAPTER II
1
Colomba, wearing a too-heavy woolen cap and a pair of sunglasses, climbed the front steps of the cathedral of Portico, now crowded like a soccer stadium on game day. There were officials and authorities from all over the province and police officers in dress uniform come to commemorate the death of the Melases, the only double homicide in the surrounding area since the Stone Age. The magistrate had authorized the funeral, seeing that all possible and imaginable tests had been performed on the bodies of the victims, including the DNA. Even though she’d been away from Portico for a month, and she’d never spent much time there in the first place, Colomba kept her eyes downcast to avoid meeting the gaze of anyone who might recognize her.
Right before the funeral began, it started to rain. Dozens of multicolored umbrellas opened on the piazza and Colomba found herself shoved into the human riptide, able to stop only when she came even with the coffins in the nave. The heaps of flowers piled atop them weren’t enough to conceal their shoddy construction: Demetra must have chosen the cheapest ones available in the catalog.
In any case, there she was, in the front row, with ten strings of pearls around her neck and a face that looked more angry than it did sad. The investigation into the murder of her brother and sister-in-law was far from complete, and that meant she was obliged to remain in Italy. Her passport had been suspended and she had been questioned by magistrates and Carabinieri, forced to reveal every wrinkle and detail of her life.
Next to Demetra clustered the city authorities, including Lupo and four of his men in dress uniform, plus the legless guy on crutches who answered the phone at the police station.
Colomba slipped behind a column and continued studying all the attendees. In the crowd she recognized the medical examiner and the nerd from the cell phone shop who had for once renounced wearing his T-shirt with the slogan in Klingon, and even the Korean barista from Montenigro. Pala was there, too, dressed of course in black from head to foot, standing off to one side admiring a fresco while waiting for the service to begin, with Caterina at his side, speaking intensely with him in a low voice. Colomba continued observing those present, in search of someone who might seem out of place. She hoped that Leo might appear around there, wearing a fake mustache to laugh at his victims. She knew that her hope was practically impossible, but if she’d stayed home she’d have been tormented by doubts nonetheless.
The priest began the commemoration. Colomba crossed herself and recited the Our Father, and then turned in search of the exit. That’s exactly when Tommy entered the church.
Accompanying him was a brusque gray-haired woman, perhaps a social worker from the group home where Tommy had been transferred. He seemed relaxed and even more mastodontic, bundled in a navy-blue wool turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark brown elephant cord trousers that seemed ready to burst around the thighs. He looked around, jerking his head from side to side like a small bird, dry-washing his hands and uttering at every step a repetitive series of noises that covered up the priest’s voice. Every head in the church turned toward him as if in a wave at the soccer stadium, and the officiant stopped speaking. Feeling far too visible, Colomba quickened her pace toward the front doors, but with the crowd packing the house of worship, it wasn’t easy. Tommy noticed her and emitted a piercing shout so high-pitched that it shook the stained-glass windows. He rushed toward her, knocking over his attendant, with an enormous smile that left his top teeth uncovered.
“Calm down, Tommy,” Colomba said gently. “Don’t knock me down.”
Tommy took her by the hand, forcing her into a sort of unruly ballet among the crowd. In the distance, Colomba glimpsed Lupo and his men turning to look at her. When he recognized her, Lupo turned red as a beet.
“Tommy, I have to go,” she said, delicately freeing herself from his grip. She wanted to keep Lupo from getting
his hands on her.
Tommy frantically twisted his head around, right and left, in the throes of agitation. Colomba stroked his hair. “I’ll come see you soon. That’s a promise,” she said, and left him in the care of his attendant, heading out into the driving rain. Behind her, the bass notes of the cathedral’s pipe organ started up, and as if they’d summoned him, D’Amore appeared in the middle of the piazza, with a large rainbow umbrella.
“Of course, you’re here, too,” Colomba said.
He smiled. “Discreetly, as is our nature. Seeing that it’s almost lunchtime, what you say we eat something together?”
“They’re serving meat loaf at the cafeteria today. I can’t miss that.”
“Come on. I’ve left you alone in the past few days, but you can’t expect me to forget about you. My treat.” D’Amore raised his umbrella. “Come on under.”
Colomba remained a step away from him. “I’d rather drown. Lead the way.”
2
They lunched in a trattoria that everyone in Portico called Dal Fascista, because of the oversize mural of Mussolini painted during the Fascist regime and passed off as a historical piece of art. The elderly waitress served them two bowls of wild boar stew and a basket of grilled crescia flatbreads, and in the din of conversations at the adjoining tables, they felt perfectly safe carrying on their own discussion. “Demetra Melas has asked for legal custody of Tommy. We’re doing our best to put obstacles in her way, but if no other relatives step forward, in the end she’ll probably get what she wants.”
Colomba looked up from her bowl in astonishment. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“She has her good reasons. Twenty-five million good reasons,” said D’Amore.
“Excuse me?”
“Her brother was filthy rich. He even owned Villa Quiete. He became a majority partner in the company that owns it, through an equity fund. Before dying, Melas put everything in Tommy’s name. He doesn’t even have to inherit it. It’s already his.”
“He’s still officially listed as a person of interest for the double homicide,” said Colomba. “Why haven’t you cleared him?”
“Because there’s no proof that it was Bonaccorso who made him an orphan. The attorney general is very sympathetic to our investigation, but he’s not willing to clear Tommy based strictly on an abstract line of thought. We haven’t found any connection between Bonaccorso and the members of the Melas family, much less any traces of his passage through Italy.”
“Aside from the bombing in Milan.”
“The only person who’s seen him is covered with burns on seventy percent of her body. Even if he’d left something useful in Romero’s apartment building, it’s gone up in smoke.”
“I didn’t imagine that the investigation was still so completely at sea,” Colomba murmured. She took a piece of flatbread and devoured it.
“If you have any suggestions, you’re more than welcome to volunteer them.”
Colomba swallowed, helping the food down with a swig of wine. “If anything occurs to me, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
D’Amore smiled. “How long are you going to go on sulking? You have a score to settle with Bonaccorso and we need a hand. Even if only to figure out what the fuck he had in mind when he moved to this part of the world.”
Colomba toyed with her sauce. “By now, he’s probably on the far side of the world.”
“That’s what we thought at first, too, but we were wrong.” D’Amore forked the last piece of wild boar into his mouth. “We’re willing to support you, whatever aspect of the investigation you choose to undertake, and we’ll give full and free rein, all the independence you need. You can even use the surviving members of your team. And we’ll pay you, too.”
“Very generous on your part.”
D’Amore gave her a smile that dripped red with sauce. “You’re right. I doubt you’ve ever gotten a better offer.”
3
During the trip back to the “field hospital,” Colomba seriously considered the offer. She knew that working all alone she’d never be able to lay her hands on Leo, and the thought of him had started to obsess her again, now that Dante no longer required continuous attendance. He was able to speak clearly now, and he could stand on his own two feet and even walk, though he needed a walker to do so, and he especially hated that because it looked just like the one used by the old child molester, Herbert the Pervert, on Family Guy. His voice was very hoarse, and now and then he’d still lose the thread in a conversation, but his medical progress was considered, if not miraculous, at the very least, exceptional. It was hard, though, for the doctors to have any terms of comparison, since there’s not a lot of documentation on the prolonged sedation of healthy patients.
“After the third coma, it becomes easier,” he’d told her one evening at dinner under the translucent cloth of the tent. Dante had eliminated all animal-based nutrients from his diet. In spite of the fact that the doctors turned up their noses at it, he supplemented his soups and purées with vegan smoothies befitting a body builder.
That evening, Colomba, by contrast, had ordered a depressing chicken breast with salad. She was putting on weight and building up her muscles, and that was all to the good, but she didn’t want to get a potbelly. “Three? You’re pulling my leg.”
“Narcotics overdose. I called it simple experimentation, but the doctors begged to differ.”
“It’s bullshit, but I’m going to pretend to believe you because you’re still half out of it.” Colomba had handed him the wishbone, after gnawing all the meat off it. “Pull.”
Dante had pulled and had gotten the long part. “I win.”
“What did you wish for?” Colomba asked.
“To be able to get back what I’ve lost without having to exert any effort. But I don’t think it worked.”
After his thirteen years of complete isolation while being held prisoner by the Father, Dante had set out to collect hundreds of cartons filled to the brim with pop culture from the years that had been stolen from him. Clothing, videocassettes of television programs that not even the actors remembered anymore, deodorants no longer in production, vinyl albums still unplayed, surprise toys from Kinder eggs, soccer player trading cards, toys that had lasted only a single brief summer such as Clackers balls, as well as fashion catalogs and interior decorating magazines. And now he had another eighteen months to get back, in a world much more complex than the world of the eighties, made up of snatches of nothing that went viral on social media before being filed away and forgotten.
Every time he failed to grasp a wisecrack or an allusion tossed off by the nurses or the guards was a knife to his heart. It took him back to the awkward adolescent who had escaped from the silo, clueless about how to use a bathroom or knife and fork, shoes or a telephone. If he’d survived that dark period, he owed it to the only advantage that the silo had conferred upon him: his spirit of observation. In order to understand the aliens that surrounded him, he’d codified and memorized thousands of their gestures, sounds, smells, and facial expressions, as if he were studying a complex foreign language. Before age twenty, he’d become capable of reading human beings like so many open books. And he’d made the discovery that had changed his life: Everybody lies. Out of self-interest or fear, to cheer someone up or to win their charms or favors, out of stupidity or viciousness, they all lie and frequently believe their own lies.
This is something that Colomba knew, and she also knew that their relationship worked because she had always been brutally frank with him. At least, until he’d awakened from his coma, and she had decided to spare him the details of everything that had happened while he was away.
When she entered the tent and saw a brand-new television set at the foot of the bed, though, Colomba realized that the secret was no longer a secret.
4
Dante looked up from the television set, and Colomba couldn’t meet his glance.
“Hey,” she said, looking down at her feet. “When did that get
here?”
Dante turned it off with the remote. “This morning, while you were out. Did you know that Netflix made a documentary about Venice?”
“Yes.”
“What the fuck happened, CC? What the hell did they do?”
“They covered it all up. Or, actually, we did. I went along with it, and it’s partly my fault.”
“I don’t believe that.” Dante was so upset that he’d started cutting short his words like he’d done right after his awakening. “You’d never do anything of the sort.”
“But that’s what really happened. Do you want to know the whole story, or should I just go hang myself?”
Dante shut his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. Tell the story. From the beginning, please.”
Colomba sat down by his bed and took off her combat boots. “After Leo stabbed me and kidnapped you from the Palasport della Misericordia, I passed out. I came to at the Venice hospital three days later. I’d lost plenty of blood and I was pretty much out of it.” And every time the morphine started losing its effects, it felt like a hand grenade had blown up in her belly. “So out of it that I didn’t notice that no one was coming to see me, except for Santini. He listened to my ravings, he told me what was going on outside without any of it sticking in my mind. Only after a week did I figure out that no one knew yet that I had even been there, in the Palasport della Misericordia. I had been registered under a false name, and they hadn’t even informed my mother.”
Kill the King Page 18