‘A pad swipe. It picks up traces of gunpowder on the hand. The last time you used the gun was yesterday afternoon. And even if you were wearing gloves we’ll find something on your arm, on your face, on the clothes you were wearing.’ He takes a deep breath, reflects for a moment. ‘And maybe someone will have seen you last night at the Bandieri. A bit of a strange place for a priest to be…’
He does not mention the tape recorder he is carrying in his pocket, a Sony 30x45 that he switched on at the beginning of their conversation, something he has done in other cases.
‘It doesn’t matter. You knew I wouldn’t have denied it,’ he says, tiredly. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well it’s all over…’
Cataldo had hoped it would happen like this. He could not imagine Don Lodi reacting dramatically, attempting to escape… his face pressed to the floor, the cuffs on his wrists behind his back…
‘Yes, it’s just as well it’s over. For too many years I’ve loved a god who is not God… my god has been writing, publishing, managing other people’s writing, other people’s thoughts… a passion no less absorbing than faith.’
A slight smile seems to cross his lips. And so Cataldo says, ‘Ambition is a character flaw. I told you. Often our flaws are simply virtues that have got out of control.’
They look each other in the eye, without speaking, as they listen to the noise of the rain falling. It has started again, but it is just a quiet murmur.
And after a while the priest says, simply, ‘I’m sorry about Nunzio, about the others. It was absurd, cruel. But it wasn’t me who did it…’
And since Cataldo obviously does not understand, he adds, ‘No, it wasn’t me. It was fear.’
Who once said that men believe they are free only because they know nothing of the forces that govern their lives?
‘When I was young and at university,’ he seems to change the subject, suddenly, but he has not, ‘I studied archaeology. Christian archaeology… I chose to major in it. Well… what I wanted to say is that you would have been a good archaeologist. You have a gift for bringing the past to life. And each of us is responsible for our own past. But none of this matters now…’
He stands up, looks straight ahead. And the only thing expressed in his eyes is resignation. Then he looks at Cataldo.
‘You’re very intelligent,’ he says.
Cataldo thinks of Goethe, who thought that true kindness is the highest form of human intelligence.
Muliere and another officer, the same one who was there at the arrest last night, are in the unmarked car on the other side of the road, opposite the convent. The windscreen wipers are on, the tarmac is a black mirror.
Don Lodi is at the door with Cataldo behind him. Just a moment ago he looked at the library for the last time, the reading room, the brass plaque carrying the name of the Foundation. The Foundation that had been his dream. Who knows if he will ever come to think of himself as someone who dreamed the wrong dreams.
Now everything seems normal – his black jacket, his grey hat. He looks ready for a walk, except that it is raining and he does not have an umbrella. Only when they are on the pavement does he seem to have some doubt, which comes to him perhaps because people are passing by, talking to one another.
‘Inspector, are you coming as well?’
Cataldo shakes his head, twice.
Don Lodi puts his hand in his pocket and pulls something out in his clenched fist, which he then extends towards Cataldo, who does not understand but takes the object. And then, with no more hesitation, Don Lodi crosses the road alone towards the waiting car.
Muliere is at the steering wheel and he raises his left hand to signal to Cataldo that everything is alright, while the other officer gets out and opens one of the rear doors for the priest. Then the car slides away on the shiny tarmac. None of them turn to look out the car windows as they disappear.
Cataldo is back in the library now, looking out of the windows through the rain. He should be in his office, writing up his report. But he does not want to go, his mind is full of thoughts… he does not know, for example, what he is meant to do with the key. The key that the priest put in his hand. Perhaps in the end he will just give it to Petronio, let him sort it out. Yes, that is what he will do. That is the best thing. Let the past bury its dead, he had said to Marchisio the first time he met him. Yes, that is what he said a century ago. And Marchisio had not listened, and he had been right, even though this had led to three dead men. Even though nothing in this place would ever be the same again. In life there is no guilt that can escape the moment when it must be paid for. We pay for everything, always. Even within ourselves.
‘Good morning…’
Glasses, hair sticking up, rain-sprayed trousers. He is carrying an old-fashioned student’s briefcase, the kind you do not often see anymore. Cataldo had not heard him come in.
‘I’m looking for Professor Lodi. Don Athos Lodi.’
He is a young priest, must be about twenty-five. Tall, slim, smiling. He is already very interested in the library – the warm colours of the shelves, the ivory of the books inviting one to pick them up, leaf through them. Is this what Don Lodi looked like at that age?
‘I see. Who are you?’
‘I’m sorry. My name is Ottavio Gatti, I’m from Como.’
‘Looking for the Professor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know him? Do you have an appointment?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. But I’ve read a lot of his work…’
‘Ah…’
‘His essays. His research. That’s why I’d like to meet him. Professor Nuzzi, from the Università Cattolica sent me.’ He hesitates and then adds, ‘I’ve written a thesis on Rebora and Tolstoy…’
‘Do you speak Russian?’
‘Yes, reasonably well…’
‘Very interesting…’
‘I’ve reworked it and I’d like to show it to him…’
‘To have it published?’
‘That’s my dream… but it’s not just that. I’d really like to know what he thinks of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the Professor is an exceptional scholar… he deals with things in an extremely sensitive way, and with great intellectual honesty. Yes. Honesty. That’s what pervades his work. He must be like that in life as well.’
Cataldo looks at him without saying anything.
‘Are you one of his assistants?’ asks the young priest.
‘In a way.’
He asks no more questions. He looks around.
‘This is a nice place. I’d like to study here.’
So Cataldo puts his hand in his pocket. He offers the key, in his open palm.
‘What’s this?’
‘You can wait for him here, if you want.’
He is surprised, taken aback. ‘Thank you. So you think…’
‘Yes, he’ll be here,’ he says, smiling. ‘And I hope he likes your book.’
The young priest thanks Cataldo again as he leaves. Then he opens his case, pulls out a typescript and places it on the table. His heart is gripped by a mysterious trepidation, an indefinable excitement… something close to joy.
Table of Contents
The meeting
The stranger
The appointment
A dead man
Eighteen years ago
School mates
The priest
The beautiful woman
The shadows of the past
The invalid
Some certainty
Fear
Another dead man
Certain memories
It always returns
A third dead man
Behind the scenes
Coup de théâtre
Conscience
Two women
The arrest
The photograph
The truth
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Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 19