Cold for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Because she was beautiful, you know that, you piece of shit? Just beautiful.

  Sometimes I would gaze down at her, after making love with her in the grass, and I’d ask myself what on earth could be better than this; I never came up with an answer. Now, if I try playing the things I wrote back then, they seem like pieces written by someone else.

  Sometimes, love needs a place to live, you know that, you piece of shit? A physical location, a street, a zip code. If you move it from there, then love sickens and dies, unless it’s treated in time.

  I left my hometown because I believed that certain things couldn’t change. I left because I thought that if I stayed there I’d die, I’d suffocate, but instead what happened is that I died here. Because love, if you take it away from its home, can no longer breathe.

  I remember when I found her there, waiting for me outside the door of the club, right here, not thirty feet from the table where you’re drinking with such gusto that beer I spat into. She was waiting for me to finish my shift, smiling as if she’d just jumped out of a cake. God, she pissed me off.

  I was here to work. I was here to meet someone who could help me cut a record. I was here to build my future and hers, too. And there she was, standing proud and smiling in the pouring rain. She didn’t understand that I needed to have her far away, to guard the heart that I had given her, not right here, to bust my balls.

  There she stood. And there she was again, night after night, because she thought I was fucking all the girls I could here, in this city, that I had come here to have fun where she couldn’t find out about it, not to work. The times I was able to get a gig singing, ramshackle clubs that paid just a few euros, she would swoop in like a hawk, and instead of watching me perform she’d survey the other women, monitoring their every movement.

  You can’t imagine, you piece of shit, the constant arguing, the obsessive fixation that she turned into. She’d gone to live with that brother of hers, who was born an old man, that useless creature who knows nothing about real life because all he can think about are books, and she’d done it for one reason only, to torment me.

  Then she started looking around a little.

  Do you understand, you piece of shit, just the way this superficial and absurd city of yours can treat a woman who comes from a tiny, godforsaken little town, especially if she’s beautiful enough to take your breath away? Someone who’s got it into her head that her man is cheating on her every night, someone who wants to take revenge?

  It didn’t take her long to get busy. She could have done it behind my back: busy as I was, I might not even have noticed. But maybe there was no fun to it, if I didn’t know.

  You know, she said, I’ve been offered work as a runway model. What kind of runway, I asked her. Like at an airport? Runway, don’t you get it, she replied. Run-way mo-del. A fashion runway, like the ones you see in magazines. So then I asked, who offered you this work? Some guy on the street. What do you mean, some guy on the street?

  So it turns out that while she was on her way to buy some groceries, some guy in an SUV pulls over and stops her: just like in some dumb American TV show. Excuse me, Signorina, can I steal just a second of your time, just a moment? And she, bumpkin that she is, ignorant country girl, who has no idea that in a city like this one you should never stop and talk to someone on the street, just smiles and says: Sure, I’m all ears. With the face she has. With that body, you understand, you piece of shit? Sure, she says, I’m all ears.

  And it turns out that this guy has a modeling agency, surprise surprise. That he’d noticed her walking down the street: You know, Signorina, I really want to compliment you on your natural grace. Oh, Signore, what a coincidence, that’s actually my name, Grazia. Ah, how funny you are, can we relax and switch to the informal? Why, of course, my pleasure. Natural grace indeed. Fine firm ass, is what he meant to say, I really want to compliment you on your fine firm ass.

  Ah, now you get mad, she says to me. When you play your guitar, or stroll from table to table smiling at the girls, putting on a show like a guy who puts out for money, I’m not supposed to say a word. But when someone offers me a job, oh no! and there’s nothing wrong with me working, is there? It’s not like I’m going to be a prostitute or anything, I’m just showing off nice clothing to other women, after all. But then I’m suddenly a slut, is that it?

  You try and explain to her that it’s not the same thing at all. You try and explain that for an unexperienced young woman it’s dangerous to frequent certain circles in a place as complicated as this city. You try and explain that the runway presentation is just the first step, then come photographs and after that, who knows what else.

  You’re so selfish, she screams at me. I feel like doing certain things. Just the same as you, I have no doubt.

  That was when I hit her the first time. I’d never touched her before, not to hurt her, anyway. I don’t know where it came from, but there it was. She looked at me for a whole minute, hand on her face, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. That image was what inspired my song, “Tears on Your Face,” which might have been the best piece I’ve ever written.

  She wouldn’t answer the phone for two days. I had to go to her apartment, and then that idiot brother of hers wouldn’t let me in: I knocked him out of the way with a quick smack of the back of my hand. I took care of everything the way real men like me take care of things, you piece of shit. Real men. Not like you.

  She promised me she’d never do it again. That I had it backwards, that I didn’t understand, that she’d stop for my sake, even if there was nothing wrong about it.

  It all seemed too easy to me. I thought she’d put up more of a fight. It smelled fishy to me, so I took the day off work, I told them I wasn’t feeling well, and I set out to follow her.

  She was still going, you bet she was. She was going, bright and cheerful, then she’d come downstairs out of that place with five or six other whores, all of them worse than her, and she’d head home. I went in, I made friends with the doorman, and I got him to tell me what they wore on these runway presentations.

  Underwear, and that’s all. Can you imagine, you piece of shit? Underwear. A thong, a bra.

  My woman striding back and forth in a thong and a bra, with that body of hers that turns your brain and your heart inside out, those endless, perfect legs, those arms, the belly she has.

  Underwear.

  And I’m not sure it’s just women who go to see those runway presentations, is it? There are salesmen and businessmen who are there to select the items, the lines to manufacture and market. That filthy pig of a doorman even offered to put me in touch with one of the girls. You just give me ten euros, I’ll talk to her and get you her phone number. I pointed to the picture of her and the filthy pig exclaimed: Ah, the Calabrian girl! She’s new here, and she’s spectacular. But she’s a tough nut to crack, she doesn’t put out. You’re going to have to spend at least fifty euros. I don’t even know why I didn’t break his nose for him, the filthy pig.

  When I saw her in front of me that night, I lost control. I took her into the back of the shop, and God only knows how I managed to keep from murdering her. God only knows. She took off running, in tears, and since then she never showed her face around here again.

  I’m here to work, you piece of shit. Strictly to work. And I wanted to construct a future for me and for her. But now I don’t know anymore if she’s the one I want at my side. Now she’s no better in any way than the little slut sitting by your side, who secretly watches me when you’re turned away. What good is a girl like that, to me?

  A girl like that doesn’t mean a thing to me.

  As far as I’m concerned, a girl like that can just die.

  XVII

  Pisanelli ran his hand over his eyes. He was tired. His shift had been over for hours, his and everyone else’s. But they needed to plan out their next steps in the investigation, and they c
ouldn’t stop now.

  Lojacono, on the other hand, seemed carved out of stone; he wasn’t moving a muscle.

  “Has the father been contacted?” he asked, calmly.

  Ottavia shook her head.

  “No. He’s not in his hometown. He told a friend that he was coming here.”

  “Did he tell him why?”

  “To go get his daughter. He wanted her to come home with him.”

  There were a few seconds of silence, broken only by the whistling of the icy wind as it rattled the windowpanes. Finally Palma spoke up.

  “The girl must have had other ideas, and that’s the reason for the quarrel that the two young men overheard.”

  “Probably,” Alex agreed. “But it seems that she wasn’t there for that argument. Vinnie and Paco heard two men arguing in dialect, but they didn’t see anyone. What’s more, they don’t know Cosimo Varricchio.”

  Pisanelli toyed idly with a pen.

  “Maybe it was just the television turned up loud, sometimes that happens. It strikes me that this whole thing with the father is a little contrived.”

  Ottavia disagreed: “Let’s not forget that he’s a violent individual, with a prior conviction for murder.”

  “He beat a man to death over a trifle. It seems reasonable that he might have lost control,” Aragona added.

  Romano snapped.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Arago’, what do you know about it? Are you saying that if a guy made a mistake once, he’s bound to make the same mistake again? What, is he branded for the rest of his life? What we’re talking about here is a father that you’re saying murdered both his children, I mean, can you imagine? These aren’t crosses you can lightly put on people’s backs to bear. Not even when you’re a bunch of loser cops gossiping in the local bar.”

  That disproportionate reaction to what Aragona had said created a sense of awkwardness in the office. It was clear to everyone that Romano was defending himself, not the victims’ father. In the past, because of his inability to control his temper, he’d grabbed a suspect by the throat, winning himself a suspension, followed by a transfer away from the Posillipo police station. And that wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.

  Palma tried to buffer the tension.

  “Of course, of course. We certainly shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Let’s take the fight into account and try to figure out who was yelling and why. Let’s track down this father, if nothing else, we’re required to inform him of what’s happened. And let’s find the young woman’s boyfriend, too, so we can figure out when the last time he saw her was. Ottavia, do we know where he works?”

  “Yes, luckily we can turn to the social networks: people post everything imaginable these days. He’s a waiter in a trendy bar in the center of town, the Marienplatz, a place that stays open till all hours. The bar is closed today. We should be able to go talk to him there late tomorrow morning, when they’re busy cleaning the place up. Unfortunately, I don’t seem able to track down a home address.”

  Lojacono listened attentively, while Alex took notes.

  “So this young man is from their hometown, too, isn’t he?” asked the lieutenant. “What’s the place called . . . Roccapriora? Which means he would be just as capable of arguing in dialect.”

  Palma nodded, wearily.

  “Yes, but for now we’re strictly in the field of suspicion and innuendo, for the moment we have no solid evidence. All right then, we need to get busy. Lojacono, Di Nardo, of course we’re all at your disposal, any logistical support you may need. I believe that the survival of this precinct may largely depend on the outcome of this case.”

  Lojacono furrowed his brow; this was the first time in hours that there had been a crack in his impassive demeanor.

  “No pressure, though, right, boss? If we do manage to crack the case, though, credit will be due to all of us. The information that Ottavia and Giorgio manage to put together saves us lots of legwork and time. Aragona, too, plays a fundamental role: his presence here at the station definitely gives us plenty of incentive to stay out on the street in spite of this cold.”

  Everyone laughed. Aragona objected.

  “Why, I’m the one who has to find the culprit for you every time, because you’re all rotten old fossils with decaying synapses!”

  Palma turned to Romano.

  “By the way, what did you turn up with the young girl? Did you go by the school?”

  Romano exchanged a rapid glance with Aragona.

  “Yes, yes. Most likely, just as we imagined, the schoolteacher is a bit of an alarmist. We met the principal: she and Professoressa Macchiaroli let us read several passages of certain essays she wrote that could easily lend themselves to suspicious interpretations.”

  Ottavia snickered.

  “Boy, it’s easy to see that you don’t have children. We’ve been referring to the principal for years now as the academic director and class writing exercises have become ‘short essays.’ You ought to keep up with things.”

  Aragona shot her a grimace.

  Palma pressed on.

  “Well, so what impression did you get?”

  Aragona put on a wary, watchful face. In the rest of the room, the tension had subsided, and the others were still discussing the double homicide in low voices; the group’s slackened attention allowed the young officer to remain vague.

  “Well, boss . . . maybe it’s worth the trouble to check out a couple more details on this matter. Tomorrow, unless there’s something more important on the agenda, we could do a short informal investigation of the girl’s parents.”

  Palma scrutinized him.

  “Listen, men: if there’s anything, anything at all, tell me about it right away and we can get the family court involved. There are certain matters here that only specialists can handle. In any case, I’m in agreement, first let’s make certain: the last thing I want to do is ruin people’s lives over a bunch of fantasies. Just be cautious, though.”

  Romano scratched his cheek.

  “All right, chief. Just one last quick check.”

  Palma looked at him, as if trying to decipher his expression. Ordinarily, Francesco was only too willing to share his doubts. It was unusual to see him being so reserved.

  The dense agenda of appointments and commitments that awaited the team took his mind off that nagging thought, though. He called the room to attention, cutting through the low buzz of conversation.

  “It’s late, people, very late. Thanks as always for your generosity and cooperation, but now we’d all better get some rest, tomorrow’s going to be a long day. Let’s go home.”

  XVIII

  Let’s go home.

  Walking through the deserted streets, swept by a wind that seems to have blown up out of the Siberian steppes, howling like a wolf and cold as ice.

  Let’s go home. At least there it’s nice and warm, and we’ll be surrounded by our own possessions, our own sights and sounds.

  Let’s go home. That way we can shut this infamous world out and forget about it.

  Let’s go home.

  Pisanelli happened to cross paths on the landing with the Commendatore Lapiana, who lived in the next apartment.

  His comb-over was out of place and he wore a stained smoking jacket under his overcoat. He must have fallen asleep and then awakened with a start, remembering that he needed to take the little mutt out for a walk; the diminutive dog was wagging her tail affectionately, on her short leash. In his other hand, the man held the scoop and the plastic bag to collect the dog’s excrement.

  “Buonasera, Commendatore. Pantera is burning the midnight oil, isn’t she?”

  The other man gave him a look of despair.

  “Dotto’, don’t talk to me about it . . . But seriously, aren’t animals supposed to die young? This dog is sixteen years old, and she’s hea
lthier than I am. It’s just that she,” and he nodded in the direction of his own apartment, behind the door of which was his wife, “treats her like a princess. But one of these days, when she’s out doing the grocery shopping, I’m going to take a pillow and suffocate this little bitch: and I’m talking about the dog, not her owner, of course. That way, at least, I won’t have to go out at night in all this cold. Because it’s really cold out, now, isn’t it, Dotto’?”

  Pisanelli smiled and nodded his head: “I’m sorry to say it, but yes, Commendatore. Just be patient, though, your wife loves Pantera.”

  The mutt with the incongruous name—Panther—looked up, turning her cataract-blurred eyes toward Pisanelli, as if she had guessed that he was talking about her, and panted.

  “You see?” Lapiana commented. “She understands. I know that she understands. More than that woman does. Buonanotte, Dotto’. And just one favor I have to ask you, if you’re asked to investigate the mysterious death of a dog found suffocated, forget anything I ever told you.”

  As his neighbor headed out to brave the tundra-like weather, retracting his half-bald head into the collar of his coat, the deputy captain unlocked the door to his apartment. The heater, set to a timer, had worked perfectly, he was glad to notice, and the warmth wrapped him in its embrace.

  Ciao, he whispered. Then he turned on the television set, tuned to a channel chosen at random, with the volume low but still audible; it was something he always did, to cover the sound of his own voice. To ensure that neither Commendatore Lapiana, his harridan of a wife, nor the small, ancient pooch Pantera should get the idea that Deputy Captain Giorgio Pisanelli was losing his mind.

  “Ciao,” he said again. “Ciao, my love. I’m home. I have lots to tell you.”

  He went into the kitchen to make himself a bowl of pasta. He was feeling peckish, even if he knew that he wouldn’t digest his meal if he ate that late, and that he’d toss and turn all night like an omelette.