‘Does Guiglia Oggi still exist? Is it still going?’
‘Guiglia Oggi? Oh yes, though it’s not the same as it used to be. It’s more technical now, a sort of bulletin… with announcements from the mayor, the minutes of council meetings, etc.’
‘And don’t you work on it anymore?’
‘That’s right. I used to be an editor, I used to write pieces, take photographs. But now I spend most of my time in this office, not on the paper. It suits me better here – I open up, lend a few books… I’m more useful here, as a volunteer of course…’
‘Of course, as a volunteer. What did you do before, Nunzio?’
He has asked him suddenly, as though just wondering, with that affable concern that can appear to be both simple human interest and a search for familiarity.
‘I was a clerk for the council. All my working life. First at Vignola, then here in Guiglia.’
‘But you’re not from around here, are you?’
‘That’s true. Can you still hear that?’
‘From your accent?’ He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s your name.’
‘Nunzio? True. Nunzio Napolitano.’ He pronounces it slowly, almost spelling it out.
‘I’m from the south… a maruchèin.’
He has used the local dialect word, a corruption of ‘Moroccan’, and as he laughs he shows off his white teeth, as big as piano keys. One of them has a gold crown.
Cataldo smiles too: ‘People have used that word to describe me too, you know. Countless times. But you get used to it. Or at least I did…’
‘Right. People here aren’t nasty. And I came here as young boy. I went to middle school here. I’ve been here almost all my life…’
And since Cataldo nods, he takes this as encouragement and continues: ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m from Cimitile. Province of Naples…’
‘I’m from Catania, Sicily,’ says Cataldo.
‘It’s a nice place, Cimitile, but no one’s heard of it. I bet you haven’t either. Look…’
He moves forward and reaches out towards a heavy ornament sitting to his right, on top of the desk. It is a model of a belltower, and it looks as though it is silver, but it must be plated, thinks Cataldo.
‘Do you know what this is? No? It’s the belltower of my town. But not the belltower that’s there today… that one’s a modern thing and is completely anonymous. This is the old Paleochristian one… perhaps the very first one in all Christendom, according to local tradition.’
‘Ah. So it’s a souvenir…’
‘Yes. And it looks good here too.’
Cataldo picks it up, out of courtesy. He is right. It is solid, with a heavy pedestal – an excellent paperweight. Then he puts it back where it was, on the desk, and makes a pyramid with his hands on which he rests his chin.
‘Listen. You said before that you used to take the photographs. Is it possible that you took the pictures in 1980, at Ramondini’s supper?’
‘At the restaurant? Well… I really don’t remember… why? Are you sure someone took pictures?’
‘Not sure. But it’s possible.’
‘We’ll see when we get hold of the article. Who knows…’
He starts thinking, searching through his memory. And Cataldo observes him calmly. He is a tall man, bony, about sixty years of age with grey hair and glasses. An ordinary man, the type of man who does not stick in your mind. But there is that mark, on his nose. A big, ugly sore or wart.
‘No, I just don’t remember.’ And then he smiles. ‘So, if photos were taken, I don’t think it was me who did the job.’
‘Alright,’ says Cataldo.
But he cannot take his eyes from his nose and Nunzio realizes.
‘You’ve noticed that. It’s a burn. Did it this morning when I was lighting the gas ring – the tip of a match flew off and hit me just here.’ He touches the place on his nose.
‘It’s a shame because it looks really bad.’
‘Let’s just say it stands out.’
A few seconds of silence follow, and within himself Cataldo corrects the impression he had formed that it was a wart of some kind. Then Nunzio speaks: ‘Come back tomorrow evening for the article. Is that alright, or is it too late?’
‘No, that’s fine.’ He stops, however, and thinks. ‘But tomorrow is Thursday, I don’t want you to have to open up just for me…’
‘It’s no problem. One extra evening, just for an hour or so. Do come. Shall we say at nine o’clock?’
Cataldo thanks him, shakes his hand. And while he is saying goodbye he feels he has resolved something, at least for the moment. But outside, in the half-light, he suddenly presses the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other until they are white. And he wonders how long it will last, this feeling of impotence. Of waiting.
He has stopped off at the Michelangelo, even though he is not really hungry. It is the heat, he says to himself, almost as though realizing only now. But then he thinks how strange this is, because it was even hotter in Catania and he really ought to be used to it, but maybe it is a different type of heat. He orders some plain spaghetti, some ham and a large glass of Lambrusco. For a moment he had been tempted to order the heavier tigelle and borlenghi, which he knows is the house special, but then he had decided they might be too much and abandons the idea. The food comes quickly because there are not many people in the place and so he starts eating, without enthusiasm, and he fills his glass. It is all good, it’s just that he has no appetite. And he cannot get rid of those insistent, clear and annoying thoughts that have been with him all morning. And yet at home, even during his last leave, it was different. With his mother there cooking and serving for a start: cannelloni or caponata, pasta alla Norma, or pasta con le sarde. And the fish… here it’s all frozen, while down there, so close to the sea: marinated shrimps, octopus in wine, swordfish carpaccio, his favourite. And then the barbecues with the neighbours, on the beach…
Of course, once or twice he had eaten well in Modena. Once or twice, he could not deny that. There had been that Sunday at Muliere’s place, with his wife and kids. Tortellini with cream, cotechino and mashed potato and Barozzi cake. But how could Muliere compete with the sweets and ice-creams of Catania? You could not find anything as good as that if you did the rounds of this whole province. Spumone… cannoli, the sorbets, the cassata… there was never any need to watch his weight here in Modena and he always had to tighten his belt by a notch or two.
He continues chewing, but he is more thirsty than he is hungry and the quarter litre is almost finished. Even the wine is completely different. Personally he quite likes Lambrusco, of course, but it is almost like a soft drink when you taste it, compared to his own wines. Sometimes, towards the end of the summer, he had a real craving for something with more body, more of a man’s wine. A red from Randazzo, for example, or Riposto, or the Ciclopi, with their strong, lively and full body…
He looks at the red remaining in the green glass and finds himself wondering what made him move up here. A friend who had mentioned the job opportunities? Or Schininà’s son? But he was a salesman, travelling through, coming and going as he pleased – that was different. And all things considered such thoughts did not change anything. He was the one who had chosen to say farewell. Farewell to the silence of Sundays, to the August sun, to the trips in the country through the lemon groves, the lanes and the dry-stone walls leading down to the sea. Farewell to the siesta after lunch, to visiting the relatives. And farewell to her too.
None of this makes much sense. Not that it necessarily has to make sense. You cannot give life any other sense than actually living it. But when he stands up he can feel the nostalgia rising in his throat.
CHAPTER TEN
The invalid
Guiglia after suppertime. A neat town, with not many lights on, even in June. The silence is opaque and soft, apart from a moped now and then. The roads are hues of violet and leaden grey. There is silence even beyond the centre, here where Cataldo is driving. There is a row of te
rraced houses, with low gates and balconies above the entrance doors. Each home, strangely, is a slightly different colour from the others – pastel shades that bring the sea to mind, Liguria perhaps. But time has already turned them a little grey.
The road is deserted, all that is on it are the residents’ cars, parked in rows out front. Cataldo drives to the very end, till he reaches some land earmarked for more building, then he turns back slowly, looking at the house numbers, looking for the number he has in his head. At number 15 the bell is just to the left of the gate and under it is a metal-framed slit for the mail. He turns off the engine, looks at his watch, makes up his mind as he gets out of the car and then rings. For a second he stands there waiting, hands in pockets. Then he hears the voice through the door.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Police.’
The door opens slightly, a chain reflects the light. Cataldo makes out a pale face, halfway up the door. He shows his badge and waits in silence. The door almost closes, the chain is taken off.
‘Come in.’
The man who lets him in does everything on his own – wheels the chair by himself. He is about forty, looks older due to his disability, his grey hair and the bags under his eyes. But the eyes are certainly not those of an old man. Two bright, sharp lively eyes, thinks Cataldo. Disturbing in their intelligence.
‘I’m sorry to bother you at this time of day. But it’ll only take a few minutes…’
‘That’s not the problem. I’ve got plenty of time, as you can imagine. It’s just that I don’t understand why…’
‘Ah… the reason? Well, it’s not so difficult to imagine. Dr Zoboli’s death…’
‘Yes, but it was suicide…’
Cataldo does not stop. ‘And I’m doing the rounds of all his friends. Just to get an idea… about him, his character. We always do this, when we investigate… suicide or not.’
‘I see. But we weren’t really friends.’
‘Maybe not now, but you once were. At least back at school you were. In the same class – B – isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘And perhaps you were friends even after. I mean, once you’d finished school…’
Cataldo pauses now and observes. Calabrese looks uneasy at the idea of continuing the conversation. And Cataldo is careful not to help him in any way, conscious that this silence gives him more time to scrutinize, to place him in his environment. Looking beyond him, through into the living room, he sees a glass next to an armchair and a book, its pages open, waiting to be read.
‘Friends to the extent that, when Ramondini graduated, you all celebrated together. You, Zoboli, Miriam, Zanetti and Katia… with Don Lodi of course. Remember?’
‘Yes, I remember, but that doesn’t mean anything…’ He lowers his voice, seems to start thinking. ‘So many years have gone by…’
‘Eighteen.’
‘That many years? Anyway… yes, I remember.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was surprised that he invited me. We studied different subjects at university… we’d lost touch. And I’d also lost touch with Zoboli and Miriam – the intellectuals…’ He says it in a strange way, almost sarcastic. ‘And Ramondini was older than me, we weren’t in the same year at school…’
They have moved slowly into the living room and Calabrese invites Cataldo to sit, which he does on a chair at one end of the fine walnut table. The house is clean and tidy, he thinks, as he listens to the invalid’s voice:
‘That’s why I was surprised.’
‘And flattered?’
‘Well… yes. It was a chance to start the friendship again. We’d all studied together, right up to the end of school… we’d shared many things at an impressionable age, things you don’t forget easily.’
‘Why did you call them the intellectuals?’
‘Those two? Because it’s the truth. They were very pretentious, perhaps because they were good at literature – they started lecturing and they never stopped. Him especially, he was very much admired… with all the books he’d read and all the things he knew. He was the best at school, you can ask Don Lodi about that…’
‘And yet at Ramondini’s party everyone felt sorry for him.’
‘Ah… yes.’ He smiles, but in an almost melancholy way. ‘They’ve told you about that? It’s true, he started drinking, and he never usually did. That’s why I remember it. At the end of the evening he could barely stand…’
‘And he drove home in that state?’
‘Of course not. Miriam took him home. I don’t know when, exactly, but before the party finished. Yes, a bit before that.’
‘And she drove?’
‘No doubt about that. It was dark too… winter.’
‘So she did drive.’ Then, as if to himself, ‘But why did he drink so much?’ And he looks at Calabrese, who purses his lips, and waits for a moment before speaking.
‘Sometimes you drink to forget. Or out of envy.’
‘You think so?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve heard people say it.’
‘Ah… let’s see if I can guess.’ He crosses his legs and pretends to think, but in truth he already has an idea. ‘Usually people envy other people’s success, no?’ And he stares at him. ‘Ramondini?’
He nods. ‘A brilliant graduation, the beginning of a brilliant career…’
‘All his own work?’
Calabrese opens his mouth, then he closes it, embarrassed, before muttering, ‘That’s not for me to say.’
‘Or you don’t want to say. Let’s just leave it then. So Zoboli was a bit envious of Ramondini…’
‘But it should have been the other way round.’
‘Just a minute, I don’t understand. Why should Ramondini have envied Zoboli?’
‘Plenty of reasons.’
‘Give me just one.’
‘For example… his success with women.’
‘Are you thinking of Miriam?’
‘Well… yes. But not only her…’
‘And Ramondini?’ But Calabrese looks uneasy, so he adds, ‘No women? Just books and research?’
‘That’s the way it was. He’d never had a girlfriend, a love affair, that we knew of… apparently he was still a virgin.’ He says this quickly, blushing.
‘Oh really?’ Cataldo says. ‘But apart from this, he was interested in women?’ And for a moment he is undecided whether to speak clearly and to touch two fingers to his earlobe.
‘Don Lodi was the only person he was interested in.’
There is a moment’s silence. Calabrese, embarrassed, purses his lips again, and his cheeks are bright red. Cataldo thinks it odd that he should know so much, about everyone – a man who spends all his time at home, in a wheelchair.
‘You spoke about envy before… do people envy you?’
‘Me? For what?’
‘For your money, for example.’
‘Money, yes…’ and he smiles. ‘But who’d really envy me, Inspector? Have you taken a good look? Here, on my own all the time. Not even a nurse, or a cleaning lady…’
‘You don’t have one?’
‘No.’
‘Well… there are worse things. The more thoughts crowd your mind, the more solitude becomes a refuge. Almost necessary…’
‘You’re wrong. No one is happy to be alone. All the questions crop up, all the doubts you have inside. And you come to realize what a void you live in. Because we’re all full of nothing.’ But these last words are said under his breath, almost as though to himself.
Cataldo looks around. The conversation is beginning to depress him. Because in the other man’s manner – unexpressed, suffocated – there is a shade of malice or spite that is strangely disquieting. And in his eyes, at moments, there is an unhealthy expression, as though he had never managed to rid himself of some resentment, or as though he really did live on fragments of other peoples’ lives.
‘Who might have wanted to kill Zoboli?’ he asks suddenly, i
n the silence.
‘But didn’t he commit suicide?’
‘Yes, I’m just suggesting. If it weren’t suicide…’
‘Have you completed your enquiries?’
‘Almost. It won’t be long now.’
‘I see.’ And he thinks for a moment, ‘Well, if he didn’t kill himself… this is just a hypothesis, of course…’
‘Of course.’
‘Well… it could have been someone’s husband… someone who’d been betrayed, I mean…’ He was about say a cornuto, a cuckold with his horns, but that was too facile.
‘Or?’
‘Or… that guy from Turin, what’s his name… Marchisio, I think. There’s no one else I can think of…’
‘How do you know about him?’
‘Everyone knows, Inspector. He arrived on Monday, started nosing around, asking questions… it’s a small town, Guiglia.’
He decides not to ask who told him, which of the people he has already interviewed… he would only reply that he had heard it mentioned.
‘You know who he is, of course…’
‘I know everything, yes.’
‘You don’t think there could be, let’s say, professional motives behind all this?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not my world, I told you.’
‘I ask you that because of the envy. Between him and Ramondini, you mentioned that…’
‘I did, but when I think about it I don’t see it as a strong enough motive. Even though I don’t know the university world, research… the way it works…’
‘And the working relationships?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Alright.’ Cataldo sighs and then: ‘Let’s talk now about something you do know well. Tecnodomus. There are two partners… you and Zanetti. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Equal partners?’
‘Fifty-fifty.’
‘Okay. When did you buy into the business?’
‘In which year? 1983.’
‘Three years later,’ says Cataldo, under his breath.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking… and tell me, buying into Tecnodomus must have cost a bit…’
‘That’s true.’
Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 9