‘To begin with, I thank you all for having come and I promise I won’t steal much time. But it’s important that we meet, given the situation…’
‘Which means?’ Katia’s voice carries impatience, but Don Lodi pays no attention to the interruption and continues: ‘I know that Inspector Cataldo, a very capable man, is doing the rounds of all of us. And he’s asking each of us, myself included, about the others. Indeed, he started with me. And why? Because Zoboli took his own life? Evidently Cataldo doesn’t believe this, and we have to know just how much we believe it as well.’
Miriam, red in the face, seems to want to say something, but she thinks again. The other two are rigid in their silence, not even looking at one another. It is as if this observation has illuminated a hypothesis that is as terrible as it has been unsaid up to now. ‘So,’ continues Don Lodi, his voice a little too controlled, trying to appear natural, ‘I now wonder: why so many questions? Perhaps he’s already sure it’s murder and he feels that he has to look for a motive in Zoboli’s character, in his life and among his friends? Or does he even think that one of us killed him?’
‘But what are you saying? Are you mad?’ Katia blurts out suddenly. Miriam meanwhile swallows, her eyes on the table.
‘It’s just an idea.’
‘A stupid idea!’
‘Katia!’ The priest’s reproof is more affectionate than severe. ‘We must not fight. We have to keep calm and united.’ He emits a conciliatory sigh. ‘If I expressed myself badly, I apologise. I’m making hypotheses, no more than that…’
‘But why? If it was suicide.’
‘We don’t know that yet… we can’t know before the post-mortem results. And there’s another thing.’
During the pause that follows there is a mixture of various emotions: curiosity, anguish, anxiety. But above all it is fear that dominates. Like a contagion, they pass it on from one to another. Miriam sits, diffident, on the edge of her chair; her face is taut and every now and then she passes her tongue over her lips. Katia is composed, elegant as usual. But Ramondini, who has already noticed the careful, perfectly applied makeup, wonders if it is a gesture of defiance or a small, admirable attempt to impose an illusion of normality on their group’s apprehension.
‘We know that this outsider… this Marchisio, has come back here after eighteen years… straight out of prison after serving time for Cristoni’s death, a crime he has always maintained he had nothing to do with. So the fact is: why has he come back? To take revenge on us? And why on us? Well, there is an answer to this even though…’
He looks at them all, his eyes moving slowly, but no one speaks.
‘Because he claims to have recognized Zoboli’s face much later, when he was already in prison… says he saw Zoboli in the car that caused the accident… the car that then turned back while he was running away, and that it was Zoboli who took all that money…’
According to him…’ says Katia, irony in her voice.
‘Indeed, according to him Zoboli wasn’t driving and it was midnight. And Miriam,’ he stares at her, gestures towards her, ‘remembers that she was driving, but it was an hour earlier…’
Miriam frowns and for a moment she looks almost ugly.
‘It’s true. Giulio was with me, I was driving. But it wasn’t midnight, we left an hour earlier.’
‘From my party, yes. It was my graduation celebration, remember?’
Ramondini is still sitting, with his gaze fixed on the green of the garden outside. It is the first time he has spoken and everyone turns to look at him, almost as though actually realizing in that moment that he is here too.
‘It’s true. I swear,’ repeats Miriam obstinately and passionately. ‘And his death can’t have anything to do with that accident eighteen years ago!’
‘I don’t know,’ says the priest quietly, as though following his own train of thought. ‘Often the past is the key to the present. And everyone is responsible for his or her own past.’
And since they do not understand: ‘I was thinking about Cataldo, and that graduation party. Did you know he’s very interested in it? He’s especially interested in certain pictures, taken by someone from the tourist office and then published in Guiglia Oggi.’
‘It must have been Nunzio,’ says Katia. ‘He did everything at the paper. Doubtless Cataldo will have interviewed him already.’
‘And what does he want with that photo? Checking up on who was there and who wasn’t? Would that be of any use, after eighteen years?’
Don Lodi looks at the three one by one, as though inviting them to agree with what he is about to say: ‘For this reason I advise you to keep calm, to remain united. Just like back in school, before the exams. Remember? There is no problem that cannot be solved, as long as there is good will and mutual trust. Or even mutual fear,’ and he smiles, or at least tries to, ‘but I hope we’re not afraid.’
He breathes deeply, starts looking around again. Everyone’s eyes follow his, except for Miriam’s, which are fixed on a point on the table. No one speaks, however. And he surprises himself now, as he hears his own voice loud and clear in that silence: ‘You’d all known Giulio for a long time, you were his friends. That’s why I turn now to your consciences. I do not say this just for effect, believe me. If any of you knows something that might shed some light on his death, I beg you to speak. To confide in me. Now or in private, it makes no difference. But within our group first, then we speak to Cataldo. To keep quiet at this stage, as well as being an injustice could also be dangerous. Because…’ he stops for a moment, then starts again, with complete calm: ‘It doesn’t matter, you know better than I do… I simply repeat: if anyone knows anything, recount it and as soon as possible.’
‘But what can we possibly know about it! You’ve known us all our lives, haven’t you? Or do you really think that one of us is responsible? If that’s the way you see it, spit it out for God’s sake!’
Ramondini has spoken impulsively, losing control of his nerves, turning abruptly towards the priest. But it was just a momentary loss of control, and he is already regretting it: ‘Forgive me, Athos, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry… excuse me. I don’t know what came over me. My God… you’re right, we must stick together…’ And since Don Lodi offers no reply, he adds, his voice cracking: ‘You don’t believe it was a crime, right? You don’t really think Giulio was killed?’
The priest looks at him, his mouth covered with the palm of his hand. Then he replies slowly: ‘I don’t know. It’s not a geometry problem… it’s not a school test. It’s not enough just to keep studying it to give it some logical sense…’ And he almost seems to smile.
Miriam cannot stand it any more. First their hypocrisy, now these words. She stands up and shouts: ‘Enough! Please, enough! He didn’t kill himself, you all know that, even though none of you has the courage to say so!’
Don Lodi looks straight at her, and the others turn towards her as well, staring at her in consternation as she opens her mouth again, slowly, but says nothing, nothing to add to those words. For some moments, which seem to last an incredible length of time, she holds her breath, and her tears, but her face is strained and when she finally speaks again her voice has changed and is more confrontational: ‘But aren’t you ashamed? Do you really have to talk about his death as though it were a riddle, or a TV thriller? This is Giulio we’re talking about! Giulio, not an outsider! He’s dead and we’re here talking, as though we couldn’t care less.’
‘And what are we supposed to do? Do you want us to shut up? Do you want us to pretend nothing’s happened? In my opinion it makes sense to talk. He was my friend… had been for many years. And if I manage to keep calm, you can do it too, if you make the effort.’
Ramondini’s face is ablaze after these words. And Miriam’s laugh is as bitter as the tears she will not cry.
‘You! A friend of his? You’re the one who stole everything from him – the ideas, the notes! You made him work for nothing and then you came along and did
him out of all the credit. First with Giulio, then with others, the same story… flattery, promises, the same old story. And remember that just as I know these things, many others know them as well… the truth behind your fine academic career!’
‘And why should I have killed Giulio?’ He replies. ‘I really don’t understand… to prevent all this rubbish becoming public knowledge? Instead it’s you…’
‘Me?’
‘You’re the one with a motive, and a much bigger motive than mine.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘It’s the infidelity, isn’t it? Your husband had a lover… don’t tell me you didn’t know that. Don’t say that because no one here will believe you… And if it’s true that you knew… well, there’s nothing that sparks off hatred like a love betrayed.’
Suddenly the telephone rings. A diversion that interrupts the tension. Everyone turns towards Don Lodi, who gets up slowly, walks towards a small table and lifts the receiver.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ Then he turns his back, lowers his voice and no one hears anything, not a single word, apart from ‘I’m on my way,’ or ‘I’ll come,’ at the end of the call.
He hangs up and for a moment stands there near the telephone, looking at it as though it were something alive. Then he raises his eyes, sees everyone’s quizzical look and for a moment almost seems to want to tell them who it was and what they wanted. But he does not. Instead he says: ‘Good. Our frankness has been bitter, even offensive. But it took great honesty for it to be that way. Because we all want the truth, whatever that may be. Only the truth. And now, excuse me…’
They all stand up at the same time without looking at one another. Because this is everything – they have already said enough. Then they follow him to the door, nodding goodbye, embarrassed. No shaking of hands.
At the door they turn to look at the priest. ‘Everyone is responsible for his or her own past,’ he repeats under his breath. And then, for them: ‘If this affair isn’t resolved soon, it’s going to turn us all into much worse people.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Another dead man
Nine in the evening of that same Thursday. On entering, gripping the door handle, the heartbeat quickens. And it is not only felt in the chest, but it resounds in the head, the eyes, the veins in the throat, in the wrists. Another second and it will be impossible to turn back. Pushing the door, moving into the room. Ears listen for a squeak from the door, trying not to feel the hammering of the heart in the temples, and the sound of breathing. The room is in half-light. The glass chandelier is switched off. The only light comes from the lamp on the desk. And from the television, its volume turned down, its colours flickering on the white walls. As though the place were closed to the public, or as though whoever is inside is not expecting a visit.
He appears suddenly from under the desk, red in the face. Evidently something had fallen, he had bent over to look for it and now he is back on his feet, believing himself to be alone – Nunzio screws his eyes up instinctively, then smiles, though surprised. He walks round from behind the desk. He is not wearing a jacket because of the heat.
‘Hello! Do you need a book? One of ours?’
‘Yes. But are you open?’
‘No. That is, yes… don’t worry.’
‘Ah. Well… I’m looking for a history of Guiglia… the one by Rabetti, I think, the one written during the Second World War…’
‘Yes, we’ve got that. But there’s an even more recent one, if you’re interested… by Don Gavioli. Guiglia and its Ancient Marquisate,’ he recites, confidently, almost with pride. ‘I know because we published it, the tourist office.’
‘Ah… that’ll be fine. Thank you. I’ll take that one.’
Two things seem striking. The sound of the voice – calm, confident, while the hands sweat and the knees shake. And then that wart on Nunzio’s nose, right there on the tip – so big, standing out. It is strange, comes the thought, how in the midst of anxiety, one notices the smallest, the most insignificant things.
Nunzio smiles, satisfied. ‘Just a minute… come with me.’
He moves towards the other room, turning his back in the process. And it all happens in an instant. There on the desk, open at the very page, is the purpose of this visit. Then a vision of Nunzio’s back in the half-light, where a black Y shape indicates he is wearing a pair of braces. And now it has come… the moment.
The blow makes a sharp noise, like a bat hitting hard wood. A violent blow to the neck. But it is not accurate, not to the nape, which is what the trembling hand had sought to hit. Nunzio suddenly shifts sideways, crashing into the doorframe, then he falls to his knees, without understanding. And he holds his hand out in an instinctive gesture, like a vague plea, a silent invocation. The shadow halts, materializes above him. In one hand it holds something resembling a paperweight, which is then raised and lowered once again. Another crack, stronger than the first one, almost a dull smack. The blood gushes from the back of his neck now and the red flows over his white shirt. More blood comes from his mouth, forming just a line flowing from the corner of his mouth. Nunzio jerks, relaxes, then jerks again at the third blow. In his brain there is an explosion of white light, much stronger than any light bulb, a sunburst; and other blades of pain run through him, more flashes of light as he is there, face down, on the floor and he feels a warm liquid spreading underneath him. With extreme effort he lifts his head, as though trying to bring the presence above him into focus. But he cannot. Just one more flash of pain, a sense of fire. And the taste of his own blood on his tongue, between his lips. And his vision blurs. And an infinite tiredness, and no fear. ‘Why?’ he thinks, already in darkness.
The shadow breathes deeply and turns back to the desk. It knows what has to be done. The sound of the old paper being leafed through – like dry leaves. And then another sound – sharp, strident. And the hand goes to the pocket, clenched in a fist. That is it. Everything is done. No… the handkerchief, there, to remove, to wipe away… quickly, quicker… the prints. Time to go now, if possible – legs buckling, heart in mouth. At the threshold, for a moment that feels like a century, the breath is held. Then the shadow opens the door and waits for one more second before leaving. Hot air in the face, feels like the Sirocco. And sweat everywhere – across the forehead, down the back, under the clothes. Just keep moving, without running, towards the car parked nearby in Piazza Gramsci. As the car starts moving a dog barks far away. But no one comes to look.
It is twelve minutes past nine when Cataldo arrives. The slight delay is because of a phone call: he was already in his car when Petronio rang, wanting to know the latest developments. He has every right, of course, but with the whole day at his disposal, why at that time? Yup, that guy really knows how to be a pain in the backside. Now Cataldo is here crossing the garden, going up the steps. The door is closed but the handle turns. So he knocks softly, out of politeness, and then stands back to wait for Nunzio’s voice to tell him to come in. Nothing but silence from inside. He knocks again. Silence. So he presses his nose against the glass – the television’s rectangle of moving light illuminates the white walls with flashes and the lamp on the desk is on as well. Cataldo touches his nose for a second out of worry. Then he sighs and makes up his mind.
He pushes the door and enters. No movement, no sound, just the ticking of a clock somewhere. Strange, he thinks, that he had not heard it first time. But now he smells something too – the sweetish smell of blood, before he sees it. Now, slowly, his senses primed, he walks backwards towards the door, feels the wall, finds the switch and turns on the big light.
There between the two rooms, face down, is the body – arms and legs slightly askew, the head smashed. All around him on the floor there is blood, so much blood. There is even blood on the doorframe, on the books low down on the first shelf and even some distance away from the body – drops of dark blood that has not yet clotted. Cataldo suddenly thinks that he would never have imagined Nunzio had so much blood in
him. He moves closer, puts a hand under the chin and gently lifts. It is enough just to have a swift impression of Nunzio’s face – his lips pulled back in a grimace – to realize that what he sees is a massive cranial fracture, with the blood darkening, clotting. He cannot look any more and he lets the head fall before turning back, towards the desk, but at the same moment he remembers there is no phone up here. With a sigh he pulls out his mobile, but waits for a moment, looks around, before going outside to call. And he tries to let his gaze soak up every detail in the room. Because no detective, even the sharpest, ever knows right from the very beginning which are the essential pieces of information: information that may disappear, if it is not noted immediately, at the very beginning.
And on the desk is the purpose of his visit. To one side, stained red, is the Cimitile belltower. It is there on a sheet of headed paper and the blood has flowed in little streams over it, almost obliterating the address of the tourist office. And there, in the very centre of the desk, is a heavy, bound volume: Guiglia Oggi from 1980 and it is open – it is the one he has come to see. And he understands that Nunzio has kept his word, kept his promise. His last promise.
He holds his breath as he leans over the pages with just a little hope and with much fear. He realizes almost immediately that the page he is looking for simply is not there. He checks twice, carefully, as the tension rises – the date, the page numbers. Pages three and four are missing. So he folds the compact block of pages backwards towards the point where the binder stitched them, looking for proof of the fact that the page has been cut out. But it has not been cut with a knife or a razor blade – no, it has been ripped out. With the naked eye you can see some residue of paper, there where the edge of the page is still held by the stitching. A job done hastily, anxiously, by someone who beat him to it. By just a few minutes.
Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 11