Death's Dark Abyss

by Massimo Carlotto

  I showed up at work almost four hours late. The optician who opened a shop next to mine asked me if something was wrong. Nothing like this had ever happened in all the years I’d been there. Even some customers were amazed.

  “Had to get some documents,” I answered, and the guy took it as an opportunity to complain about taxes and insult the minister of finance.

  I started working, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to head back to Siviero. Wanted to see him, follow him, spy on his life. When a customer asked me when he could pick up his resoled boots, I told him to come back next week. I knew a pensioner who used to work in a shoe factory and often turned up at the supermarket looking for odd jobs. On many occasions he offered to fill in for me, but I always declined. I wouldn’t have known where to go or what to do with a little free time.

  I found him in the bar on the upper level. He was drinking a glass of prosecco and chatting with the tobacconist’s daughter, a plain girl with a fat ass who dropped out of school to sell cigarettes, candy, and lighters.

  “I’m not cut out for studies,” she once told me. “Besides, I earn a decent salary here, and the job is secure. Why should I study?”

  The pensioner’s name was Gastone Vallaresso. He was about sixty-five, sharp and witty.

  “I can start right away,” he said, enthusiastic. I didn’t discuss the pay, but I reluctantly had the drink he insisted on buying me. I couldn’t wait to leave. I explained the few things he didn’t know and told him to make sure he always gave a receipt.

  “How long do you think you’ll need me?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. A few days, a week.”

  I ate a sandwich in the car while I kept an eye on the cleaners. Every time the door opened, I had a jolt I wasn’t able to control. I couldn’t breathe, and my heart pounded. The anxiety was starting to torment me. Sometimes it blurred my vision. The darkness of death seeped past the edges of my mind. “Clara, love,” I implored, “let me be.” But I felt a mounting wave of desire to go inside the laundry and free the howl.

  “Everything’s gone dark, Silvano. I can’t see anymore, I’m scared, scared, help me, it’s so dark.”

  I murmured it softly as I sometimes did before I fell asleep, when I switched off the lamp on the night table and darkness took possession of the room.

  The few men who went into the shop that afternoon were all customers. To see Oreste Siviero in person I had to wait till closing time. First the woman left, heading towards a yellow Smart car parked almost in front. Then a man who immediately turned his back to me to lock the door and pull down the gate. He showed me his profile when he climbed into an SUV that had to cost at least 25,000 euros. He started the engine and left calmly. I stayed right where I was, weeping, my head leaning against the wheel. “I found him, Clara. I found him.”

  When I reached via San Domenico, the cars were already safely in the garden. The lights in the house were on, and a normal life was unfolding there—talking, the noise of dishes, taps running, the TV in the background. People who were alive, looking at one another, touching one another. It wasn’t just that Oreste Siviero should live my reality, what was mine by right. His had been built by destroying mine. That motherfucking bastard in his pretty little house, with the lawn and the barbecue—he was the only one who’d gotten something out of it. Me, Beggiato, his mother—we’d all been fucked. Me most of all.

  It was a long night. I couldn’t calm down. New scenarios continually took shape in my mind. Triumphant epilogues of justice prevented me from sleeping, but in the morning I didn’t feel tired. I was ready to start over.

  At seven I again stationed myself in front of the house. An hour later the electric gate opened. First the Smart drove out, then the SUV. They took different directions. Obviously, I followed him. He stopped in front of a bar. Through the window I saw him greet a couple people. The asshole was in a good mood. I got out of the car and went into the place without exactly knowing what to do. Siviero was standing at the counter, stirring a coffee.

  “Un caffè,” I ordered in a loud voice. Then I slowly turned around to look at him. He did the same thing, giving me a distracted glance I found reassuring. He hadn’t recognized me. He raised the cup to his mouth. And I took the opportunity to eyeball him more closely. He must’ve been my age, just under fifty. He had the same build as Beggiato, but he was healthy and in good shape. His conscience hadn’t troubled him enough to let his appearance and health go to hell. He had a broad face, a small, fleshy nose, dark, determined eyes, short hair with long, neatly trimmed sideburns. He had on designer clothes, and he wore them naturally. I spotted a Rolex on his wrist, but unlike the hoods on TV he wasn’t flaunting rings and chains. Just a thin band on the ring finger of his left hand. He was normal. Like so many other guys. He was with a woman who was like so many other women. His life couldn’t have been anything special.

  “Ciao, Tosi, see you later,” he said in a low, deep voice.

  “Oreste, don’t forget the points on the pool,” said the cashier.

  He waved and left.

  I looked at the coffee, then the barista: “A Vecchia Romagna, please.”

  I was acting on instinct. It was too much of an effort to think. I’d found Beggiato’s accomplice after fifteen years, and I didn’t know what else to do but go with the flow. I went home, grabbed two pairs of trousers and a jacket that had been perfectly cleaned and pressed, and threw them on the floor to get them dirty and wrinkled. Then I shoved them in a plastic bag and showed up at Siviero’s cleaners.

  The woman was helping other customers. She greeted me with a quick, impersonal smile. I knew it well; I also used it at Heels in a Jiffy. He wasn’t in sight; he must’ve been in the back operating the machines. I tried to steal a glance behind the curtain. No luck. I killed time by getting a better look at the woman. The neckline of her blouse opened onto a small chest. Her hands were cared for, but her skin wasn’t as white and soft as Ivana Stella’s. Economic differences could be noticed in the little details. Her face revealed the rural origins typical of our country. She had a small scar on her forehead. When it was my turn, she flashed me another smile. I pulled the clothes out of the bag and put them on the counter. She checked them and bent down to write the receipt. This gave me a chance to stretch out my neck and sniff her scent. She smelled of spices and chocolate. A bit vulgar and trendy.

  “Your name?” she asked.

  Once again it was instinct that guided me. “Contin, Silvano Contin,” I said in a loud voice. The woman had no reaction, and this was proof her husband had kept her in the dark about everything. From the corner of my eye I saw the curtain just barely move. I quickly shifted my line of vision. The slit was parted by a hand, and my eyes met Siviero’s. The curtain suddenly closed.

  “You can pick them up the day after tomorrow in the afternoon,” the woman said.

  I paid, slipped the change and the receipt into my wallet, and returned to my car, parked a short distance away.

  Siviero came out a few minutes later, looked around, then went back inside. After so many years something had shattered his confidence, and he needed to know if the guy whose wife and son he killed had come into his shop purely by chance. He’d seen me a few hours before in the bar, but it wasn’t clear whether he recognized me. One thing was certain: from now on he’d pay attention to my face.

  After about twenty minutes I saw him come out again and head for a phone booth. He talked a short time, although obviously worked up. He had a peculiar way of gesturing, shaking a rigid hand as if to wave air in his face.

  He left his wife the nightly task of closing up. I easily followed him through the city. He parked near the start of a bus route and had to run so he didn’t miss it. He got off at the third stop and turned around, eyes worried-looking, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. I kept behind the bus, which moved slowly in the traffic. Near the center of town I saw Signora Beggiato get off. This is who he’d phoned from the booth. I slammed on the brakes and ran aft
er her. I reached her in an instant and grabbed her by the arm.

  “Why’d you meet him? What were you talking about?” I asked.

  The woman raised a hand to her heart. “Holy Madonna, what a fright.”

  I waited for her to calm down, but I kept squeezing her arm hard. I tried to reassure her with my look, but that poor woman was in a tizzy.

  “Raffaello asked me to contact Siviero so he’d get a passport and his share of the robbery ready for when he got out. That’s how I knew his name. Today he phoned to tell me everything was ready.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Don’t you want your son to get away?”

  “No! I want him to stay with me. I’ve been waiting fifteen years.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game. Stay away from Siviero. The police are going to turn up soon.”

  “You’re the one who’s playing with fire. What got into your head to make you go to the cleaners?”

  Nothing had gotten into my head. I just did it. At that moment I thought Clara might be guiding my actions. And right away I convinced myself there could be no other explanation. Clara knew what I had to do. One part of me felt the only sensible thing would’ve been to knock on the door of a psychiatric hospital and say: “I’ve got a problem.” But another part of me was engulfed in death’s dark abyss and couldn’t see a thing. It was dark. Pitch dark.

  I let Signora Beggiato go, and she walked away, mumbling insults at me.

  In the meantime, a motorcycle cop had stopped next to my car and was writing me a ticket. “Did you see where you stopped?”

  Half the car covered the zebra crossing. “No. But you’re right; I deserve a ticket.”

  He gave me the once-over to see if I was pulling his leg, but the expression on my face told a different story. The cop tore the ticket from the pad and handed it to me.

  “Next time pay more attention,” he warned me.

  Back home I took a shower. Then, in pajamas, I went into the kitchen to find something to eat. I found würstel in the fridge and boiled the sausages in a pan of water. I ate them with some crackers and red wine. They had a strange taste. I looked at the expiration date on the wrapper. They should’ve still been good. When I read the label more carefully, I saw they were made from chicken. Chicken würstel? I’d never eaten them before. I thought they were only made from pork. I couldn’t get them out of my mind all night. I went to bed asking myself if they ate that chicken crap in Germany too.

  I dreamt of Enrico. I was holding him in my arms. His head belonged to an eight-year-old, but his body was a newborn’s. He didn’t want me to rock him. We stayed stock still till he shut his eyes and fell asleep.

  The next morning, as I waited for Siviero at the bar, I read the local papers. They all made the publication of my letter front-page news. The commentary came from every direction. Presotto’s article maintained that he understood the great human value of my words, but once again he appealed to the judiciary and the minister to act so that the rigor of Beggiato’s sentence would remain unchanged. In accordance with justice. The center-left paper assigned the commentary to an expert who asked why the relatives of victims were entrusted with a decisive role that recalled a tribal social structure more than a constitutional state. The local insert of the national daily limited itself to a point-by-point summary of the case, which they ran with large photos of the protagonists. Living and dead. In the center they placed my letter in italics.

  Dear Editor,

  I would like your newspaper to give me the opportunity to state, once and for all, my position concerning the request for pardon and the subsequent petition for a suspended sentence filed by Raffaello Beggiato, a convict serving a life term. This man, with an accomplice who remains unknown, killed my wife and my eight-year-old son after taking them hostage in the course of a robbery. For these most grave crimes, he was given the maximum sentence provided by our legal system. Fifteen years after the events, inmate Beggiato, seriously ill with a tumor, asked for my forgiveness. After meeting with him in prison, I decided not to grant it for strictly personal reasons that I do not intend to make known. Regarding his request for a suspended sentence, however, after a long and painful deliberation, I believe it to be appropriate to make public my favorable opinion by means of this letter. Even if it is not binding on the judicial decision, I feel it is right to communicate my thinking. Raffaello Beggiato is seriously ill with no hope of recovery, and his death will not give me the least bit of comfort. The pain from the loss of my Clara and my little Enrico will remain unaltered. But this does not prevent my conscience from siding with an act of humanity. To let Beggiato die in prison would be pointlessly cruel, and I hope this does not happen because it would be revenge, not justice. Besides, the suspension of the sentence for illness does not cancel out the crime, and Beggiato would remain, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner sentenced to a life term. I hope that Beggiato, should the petition be granted, might utilize his freedom, not only to undergo treatment, but to reflect with serenity on the terrible crimes he has committed in expectation of the Lord’s judgment.

  For my part, I ask only that I be left to my pain, which I do not intend to share with anyone ever again. Least of all do I wish to transform it into news or spectacle. We relatives of innocent victims deserve only silent respect.

  Silvano Contin

  Ivana Stella was right: the letter was perfect. I didn’t make a fool of myself, and it enabled me to avoid journalists in the future. Above all, it helped me to find Siviero. Through the window I saw his car pull up a few minutes later.

  When he rested his elbows on the counter, waiting for his coffee, I materialized at his side.

  “Un caffè, grazie.”

  The sound of my voice made him turn, and our eyes met a second time. He blanched and suffered a moment of confusion, uncertain whether to take off or to act as if nothing had happened. At this point, he must’ve realized I wasn’t there by chance.

  “Remember me?” I asked. “Yesterday I brought clothes to the cleaners.”

  Siviero didn’t answer, but he managed to articulate a sound that could’ve resembled a yes. He drank his coffee without putting any sugar in it and quickly moved over to the cashier. At the door, he turned back to look at me. I waved goodbye.

  I was disappointed. Siviero was such a normal guy that he was quaking in his boots. Armed and protected by the balaclava, he could rob and kill, but in the end he was just like everybody else. It was obvious I had enormous power over him. The mere sight of me must’ve conjured up terrifying words in his mind, words like police, life sentence, prison. I think he would’ve done anything he could to avoid catastrophe. That was it. Before sending him to prison for the remainder of his life, I had the chance to make him understand the meaning of pain, anguish, loss. Then he’d understand the rest.

  RAFFAELLO

  I don’t fucking believe it. When the commissary clerk showed up with the newspapers and told me, “There’s a letter from Contin in your favor,” I thought he was diddling me and I’d already decided to pass on the urge to slash his face in the shower. But it was all true. Shit, that crazy bastard Contin wrote me an A-1 letter. Now I’m sure to get the suspended sentence. Hey, Brazilian chicas, get ready and spread your legs wide. Here comes old Raffaello with a cock as hard as steel. I’m already feeling better. Fucking aye; you wait and see how I beat the fuck out of this cancer. Great day, even though it’s Friday. Today fish, the usual hake casserole with potatoes, boiled like the screws’ balls. Tomorrow’s Saturday, fortunately. I’ll have a talk with mamma, who’ll give me the good news about the passport and the cash. It’s really true, I’m already feeling better. Yeah, I feel “alive.” I can’t even think about freedom. I dreamt about it so many times and now it’s within reach. As long as the lawyer gets cracking and that asshole judge sets a date for the hearing. They already got all the documents. Cancer, cancer, cancer. And of course they can’t invent shit. They even got Contin’s favorable statement. And that count
s, you better fucking believe it counts. I could’ve sworn he wanted me to die in jail but he wrote: “To let Beggiato die in prison would be pointlessly cruel.” What a nifty way to put it. That’s reason enough to whoop it up. Seeing as how I’ll be on the outside in a little while, I can let myself splurge. Two cartons of Marlboros for a decent taste of scag. I’ll mainline it and have a dreamy afternoon. Especially since there’s not a fucking thing on TV worth watching. That guy they caught with the payoffs told me on Fridays people do their own thing so they don’t bother investing in interesting programs. I can start counting the days that stand between me and freedom. Today when we hit the yard, I’ll start divvying up the things I’ll leave behind to avoid any cutthroat rivalries. I don’t want to see some dickhead wearing my bathrobe. What if they make me do another test and find the heroin? Who the fuck cares. I can say I used it for therapeutic purposes. That’d be a scream. You’re getting back your good spirits, Raffaello, keep it up. I really don’t understand that Contin. Who knows what he’s thinking.

  SILVANO

  A word crossed my mind like a flash of light: blackmail. I thought Clara might’ve suggested it to me. I gave into the urge to look up the definition in an old dictionary from secondary school.

  Blackmail: coercion based on threats, practiced against a person with the aim of extorting money or favors or of compelling actions or behavior contrary to a person’s will or interests, esp. to blackmail with the threat of compromising revelations . . .