Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  ‘Looks fake to me,’ he concludes. And he thinks again about the man’s pale complexion and tries to guess why and realizes that he spoke very little, that he kept his jacket buttoned up even though it is so hot, almost as though he wanted to hide something… ‘Maybe he’s a killer?’ he says in the end, speaking to himself, his hoarse voice cracking. And now in his mind he sees a pistol in that pocket, and he is less curious, more worried.

  The stranger does nothing strange. In no hurry, he walks along the roads, looking around as he goes, buys himself a newspaper and reads it for a while on the bench in Via Monteolo, like a tourist. Every now and then he looks at the time, stretches his arms, starts walking again. It is almost four o’clock when he reaches the end of Via Dante Alighieri and there before him at number two is the villa. He stops opposite by a wall covered with old posters and studies the house with approval as he lights a cigarette. Then he leans his shoulders against the wall, studies the gate from a distance and exhales cigarette smoke with a sigh, either of satisfaction or of tiredness, and the few people around at that moment do not even think to look at him. He watches, feigning indifference, but without hiding himself. He could wait for him somewhere else, he thinks, not right outside his house, but a bit further away, even at the end of the road, at the corner with Via Parioli. But he stays put.

  Quarter past four, twenty past four. He stands clear of the wall now and walks a bit further on until he comes to a bench. Still standing, he leans on the backrest with his elbows, feeling the heat from the sun. He looks at the road in the bright light and his eyes struggle to cope with the glare that suffuses the motionless, windless air. Then he yawns, stretches again, takes another drag from his cigarette. And his eyes now close to two slits because the sun is too much, then all of a sudden he puts his dark glasses on. In the silence he has just heard a metallic squeaking and he watches the gate open and a man walk out.

  Zoboli looks around before crossing the road. And for a moment he even looks at the man with the dark glasses, without recognizing him, the man with invisible eyes and his lips in a straight, rigid line. Ferrero does not call out or say hello. He just nods almost imperceptibly, as though nodding to himself, and sets off to follow him, slowly, paying attention to where he goes, whom he speaks with. Via Parioli, Via Monteolo, downhill. Zoboli seems to be relaxed, like someone who is walking with no particular purpose, in no rush, looking around now and then, but not often really, just enough to check the traffic at a crossroads, or in front of a shop window, and without ever turning around, without ever realizing he is being followed. Maybe he is going into town to do the shopping? Then suddenly he stops and Ferrero finds himself too close, but Zoboli goes into a telephone box (strange, so close to home; doesn’t he have his mobile with him?), and so Ferrero turns to look at a shop window, swallowing as he does so. Why is he so anxious that his guts are in turmoil, his throat is tightening? It is not as though he has to speak, to say anything, after all. All he has to do for now is watch.

  Then Zoboli reappears, a look of concentration on his face, pausing as with one hand he eases the doors closed, stopping them from slamming. He is red in the face, but maybe it’s the heat, or maybe that’s just the impression Ferrero gets, who knows, because it is not as though you can be sure about colours or details from thirty metres away. And anyway it is nothing more than an instant as Zoboli turns and starts walking, slightly agitated now, irritated, perhaps because of the phone call. That makes life easier for me, Ferrero thinks. If he is preoccupied with other things, more important things, then I can get closer to him. Twenty metres will be alright, no closer than that, but at that distance it would be easy to take him out… no more than he deserves and then it would all be over. Instinctively he puts his hand into his jacket pocket, the one on the right-hand side with the bulge, as though he is about to pull something out without thinking, but then he stops, saying to himself that he’s not here just for this. And by this time anyway a woman has stopped Zoboli.

  There is nothing going on between them, Ferrero thinks almost immediately, nothing personal, nothing he would be interested in. An ordinary sort of woman, almost elderly, with dyed hair. He sees that she is insisting about something, touching Zoboli’s arm, but he is shaking his head, politely, with a smile that carries just a touch of intolerance. Can’t blame him, he thinks. In the past he would often run out of patience when dealing with the pushiness of some old folks. Just how much do we have to put up with in one single day? And just what consequences are there in a delayed explosion of anger, in bottling up a sort of resentment? He knows about all this only too well. And not just one day’s worth. Eighteen years’ worth.

  After a while she gives up as he smiles, reassuringly, and goes off waving, some distance between them, like friends. He is clearly heading towards the centre now: Via Repubblica, Via Roma, and then he is at the K2 bar, the one in Piazza Marconi, with the tables outside – the wicker chairs, the white napkins. As soon as he sits down a waiter approaches. Zoboli smiles (knowingly?) and the waiter goes away immediately. Ferrero takes a seat three tables behind him, near the road, and worries rather illogically that the same waiter might come to his table, or that the man from the Bandieri, the only person in town he has spoken to, might spot him. But neither of these things happens. He orders a beer, even though he has already had one and he would like an ice-cream, but the beer is better because it can be drunk quickly and he might have to get up suddenly to follow Zoboli. That could happen.

  But it does not. The afternoon is slipping by slowly, in the slightly less muggy heat of the shady square, with Zoboli still sitting there and every now and then looking at his watch and sighing, more resigned than tense as time goes by. Then he gets up to pay and leaves, slightly distracted, and it is clear he is going back home because he takes the same route, without stopping. This time he crosses no one’s path, not even a chance meeting. In the garden, before entering the house, he puts the car in the garage. Not the Seicento, the other one. Ferrero just needs a glance as he slows down in front of the gate, to see it as it crunches through the gravel. A Volvo S40, 1600 cc, registration AV993WD. Brand new.

  It is three in the morning. She is fast asleep in the double bed, her face turned towards the open door. But he is awake. He had been asleep until half an hour ago, and now he is lying there, thinking, without falling back into sleep. He would like a cigarette, but he would have to get up and open a drawer and he is afraid of making a noise, of waking her from her sleep; her breath is deep, her lips slightly open. It is best she sleeps, definitely. It was best she did not wait up for him while he was downstairs trying to write for tomorrow’s appointment. It was best she did not ask him to make love. He is not sleepy at all now and that is why the ringing telephone on the bedside table does not make him jump.

  There is no voice. Just a slightly hoarse breathing, like someone with a throat full of catarrh. He waits a second, without saying hello or anything else, in the hope that whoever it is might reveal themselves, might say something, if they want to. Then the metallic click of the phone being hung up.

  Who could that have been? thinks Zoboli. There are idiots and perverts all over the place. All that matters is that whoever it was does not try again because they might wake her. Indeed, after just a second or two:

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No one, Miriam. A wrong number. Go back to sleep.’

  Breakfast together the following morning: peaceful, pleasantly uncomplicated. Two small pizzas warmed up in the oven for him, a yoghurt for her, and then an espresso coffee with that thin layer of foam on the top, just as they both like it. And then the desire to chat a little, to tell each other a few things. He has his appointment, she has to tidy up and do some shopping, before going to Modena in the afternoon. They will see each other at lunchtime, otherwise they will speak on the phone. Just as they did once upon a time, at the beginning, when they were just married and any news, no matter how small, drove them to search each other out. Then the years had gone
by – habit and fatigue had entered the equation. Children had not come, but that is not what it was, no. Childlessness unites people even more, sometimes, or at least they knew others for whom this was true. It was more the feelings that had changed them. Because people change as life unfolds, inside and outside, and no one remains the same and you cannot stop time. And then someone else comes along and something inside you is born again, burns again. It is all to do with feelings, yes. They do not make you any happier, but they make you feel more alive. And it’s worth it, even if they sometimes make you suffer.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  There is a strange look on her face as she asks him, and perhaps it is even sweetness that is in her eyes. He smiles and shakes his head, without speaking, and thinks instead that at this moment, to an outsider they would look like two people made to complement each other, to alleviate with quiet, thoughtful affection their respective incompleteness.

  Outside, they say goodbye after taking the cars out of the garage and opening the gate. Together they take a look at the mail box, on the right. Leaflets, as usual, she thinks… they have even started distributing them in the evenings.

  ‘Giulio, take a look at this…’

  Behind a supermarket flyer, there is a folded photocopy, as big as a page from a broadsheet newspaper. They stare at it together for a few seconds as she opens it up with both hands; he is standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. Il Resto del Carlino, NEWS FROM MODENA, runs across the top of the page. And then there is a big six-column headline, alongside the obituaries.

  ‘What is this?’

  But he has already taken it from her hands and is now moving towards the Volvo, almost running and he gets in and closes the door still holding that piece of paper and then he is off, at speed, leaving her there at the gate. Without giving her even the time to speak, time to think. Without giving anything away.

  But she had read something. ‘Last night: accident or crime?’ And then the date: 23 February 1980. Eighteen years ago.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The appointment

  The ‘Athos Lodi’ Foundation, set up to encourage philosophical and literary research, has been based for years in the centre of Guiglia, in the convent in Via Di Vittorio. The Foundation’s wealth, which according to local gossip is considerable, has always been managed by the board of directors of the Banco di San Geminiano e San Prospero, ever since the creation of the Foundation, when the current president deposited it all in the bank’s coffers. The president gave the institution his own name: Don Athos Lodi, fifty-five years of age, priest and former high-school history and philosophy teacher, author of many papers published in academic journals, spends his time between Guiglia and Modena where he owns and runs a small publishing house. And it is this publishing house, Mutina, that has taken on the task of publishing the proceedings of the national conference on ‘Formiggini and Early Twentieth-century Publishing’, to be held in Modena in October. Prestigious contributions are expected from some of the grand old men of academia – Garin, Roncaglia, Ramondini. Don Lodi and Ramondini are both due to present papers.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Don Lodi looks out of the windows at the green garden, paying no attention to his pretty young secretary who is sitting behind him. Ramondini is already here and has placed a notebook (his own, this time) on the table, but he has not opened it yet and is silent, simply looking at the books that surround them. Oak bookcases decorated with inlay cover three walls from floor to ceiling. The books are also antique and their spines are almost all of the same colour, all having been bound so that a uniform, ivory tint pervades the room. No one says a word, not even Ramondini who opens his mouth two or three times as though undecided, staring at the other man’s back rather than at the girl’s crossed legs, until the door opens and Zoboli walks in, red in the face.

  ‘Am I late?’

  ‘We can start immediately,’ says Don Lodi, without answering the question. He points to a leather armchair for Zoboli, on the other side of the table, and he himself sits. With brisk decision, he comes straight to the point: ‘I’ve heard there’s some problem between you, some sort of conflict. I don’t want to know any more than that. All I want to say is that it mustn’t influence the conference. That is to say, our work.’ Zoboli and Ramondini look each other in the eye, then turn to the priest without speaking. The secretary stops, her fountain pen still raised, and she too looks at the priest quizzically, as though asking whether she should start taking minutes or not; then she decides she should not and lingers over the preliminaries, repeating to herself what she is writing: ‘Today, Tuesday 23 June 1998, in the Foundation’s offices, a preliminary meeting takes place…’

  ‘Let’s just make that clear, first off. Because the conference is an important opportunity, for us and for the Foundation. To let people know about us, to add value to our research… to our results. To show people that out here in the provinces there’s good work being done, that we know how to work together…’

  He is speaking with authority, Ramondini thinks to himself, with a bit of vanity too, the vanity he has always been aware of, even from their high-school days, the vanity that had first made him curious and then had charmed him. Because Don Lodi was an attractive man, despite the slightly ascetic austerity of his intense gaze, behind those glasses and the vaguely derisory disdain expressed in his eyebrows. But once you got to know him, out of school, there was not much pretence about him, he really was like that. With his one metre eighty height, his great learning, his capacity for encouragement and decision, he exuded energy and authority. Then there were the corners of his mouth, curving slightly upwards, that sometimes formed an unexpected smile, a sign of liveliness, or a sudden gaiety, but indicating an ever-present inner serenity.

  ‘The second thing, on the other hand, is that I’m a bit worried. And I’d like you two to reassure me now. What I mean is…’ and he clears his throat, but not because he has a cough, ‘just three months before the conference it seems we still have no significant discoveries to report from our research… therefore we don’t even have a definite line. Or am I wrong? So, over the next few days let’s get some good ideas sorted out, otherwise all we’ll have to present at the conference will be our embarrassed smiles.’

  He has spoken for everyone, but he is not referring to himself, that is quite clear. Because all three, as they turn to him, perceive that half smile, that faith in himself, in his own intelligence.

  Ramondini finally speaks, ‘You’re being unfair in saying that. We’ve worked hard and we haven’t finished yet…’

  ‘I know that. By the way, which of you two is going to present the paper?’

  ‘Me.’ And Ramondini’s ears suddenly turn red while Zoboli opens his mouth as though he is about to speak, but then he changes his mind and looks at the floor, at a strip of sunlight on the tiles.

  ‘Good. Come on then. Tell me about your discoveries, and then I’ll tell you about what I’ve been doing. That way we won’t cover the same ground…’

  ‘Or contradict ourselves…’

  ‘Precisely. Come on, let’s hear it.’

  Calmly, the professor reads a summary, prepared beforehand, of all the material gathered by Zoboli. It is an accurate, precise summary, almost as though the work were actually his. The priest in the meantime chooses a cigar and lights it, slowly, an almost ritual gesture, then he assumes a comfortable position, leaning slightly backwards, his elbows planted firmly on the armrests, every now and then looking at the slowly lengthening ash on the cigar. In the end he says nothing but remains in that posture, concentrating, until a movement of his head makes the ash fall.

  Then Ramondini says, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in this research?’

  ‘Not this research in particular, but all the research I do and then publish. I’ve always said so, no? There are two great loves in my life…’ and he smiles, ‘… the Foundation and t
he publishing house. Publishing things you’ve discovered yourself, or even things someone else has discovered, means disseminating culture, truth. It means tying your name, your passions, to something that remains, however few or many may ever read it…’

  ‘A true raison d’être,’ murmurs Zoboli under his breath.

  ‘That’s it!’ The priest looks at him, nodding. ‘And even more than that. It’s an educational, a moral vocation. Or do you think we can use the word vocation only in religious terms? No, scholars too, publishers… men of culture, like me, like you… we have the courage of a vocation, of a calling. And it’s not a written manifesto, it’s an inner manifesto: you do this because you can’t do anything else…’ He looks them all in the eye, slowly, even the secretary who does not understand, who has a puzzled expression, almost as though asking him to repeat. Then he smiles again.

  ‘Don’t worry, Simona. You can take the rest of the day off. You can finish the minutes some other time, if you manage to make sense of what I’ve just said.’

  The girl blushes and silently swallows some air. The minutes slip from her hands and she bends down, rigidly, to pick them up before standing up again and heading for the door with a rather pathetic display of seriousness. Don Lodi picks up where he had left off as if nothing has happened.

  ‘At school I talked to you a lot about the soul. Do you remember? Well, today if you lose your soul, you lose your dignity, your freedom. And we lose our soul when we relinquish our dreams, our ideals… when we give up on what we feel we’ve been born to do. Out of fear of punishment, for example.’ His voice cracks for an instant and becomes a whisper. ‘Or out of guilt.’