The Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Donna Amalia nodded contentedly, like a schoolteacher when a student shows that she’s paid attention to the lesson.

  “Exactly. Who moved in?”

  Romano started losing his patience.

  “Signo’, let me repeat: we don’t have time to waste. If you have something to say, go on and say it. If not, we can leave with our apologies for having disturbed you.”

  The woman looked at him with disgust.

  “The point, my dear . . . what did you say your rank was? Warrant officer? That’s exactly the point. Someone lives there, in that apartment. And that someone is being held prisoner.”

  “What do you mean, being held prisoner?”

  Donna Amalia clasped her hands together.

  “Oooh, Jesus! What do you think being held prisoner means? This person, or these people, who live in there, never leave the apartment. They never look out the window. They never open the windows. They don’t answer the buzzer. They’re prisoners, I’m telling you. And you need to ascertain the why and the wherefore, which is why I called you.”

  Romano sighed.

  “Signo’, the fact that someone doesn’t leave an apartment and doesn’t look out the window doesn’t mean that person is a prisoner. Even if we accept, for argument’s sake, that that’s what’s going on. Maybe the inhabitants of that apartment are leaving and returning, but they’re doing it at moments that, shall we say, elude your surveillance. And maybe they look out windows, who can say, on the other side of the building, where you can’t see them.”

  The woman shook her head firmly.

  “No. I can assure you that that’s not the way it is. I can’t walk, you know. I depend entirely and for everything on that Ukrainian slut who opened the door for you, and it isn’t easy. But my head still works perfectly, I spend my whole day here, and I assure you that something strange, something very strange, is going on in that apartment. I’ve been here for years and years. My sole pastime is looking out that window, and I’ve never, let me repeat never, focused on something that later proved not to be true. Once, just once, a woman peeked her head around the curtain: I saw her face, a young woman’s face, a beautiful face. The face of a madonna, she had. And there was fear in her eyes. I’m telling you, someone is holding that girl prisoner; and maybe there are other people in there, I wouldn’t be able to say. Now, if you want to check it out, check it out; if you don’t want to, go on back to your office. I’m at peace with my conscience, you two can do as you like as far as yours are concerned.”

  After her lengthy tirade, the woman heaved a sigh and picked up an embroidery frame that lay on a table near the armchair; she set to work, a gesture which explained the presence of all those doilies and also made it clear that the conversation was over.

  Romano looked at Di Nardo again, then said: “Signo’, a criminal complaint is a serious matter. You shouldn’t make them lightly and we certainly don’t take them lightly. You’ve filed one, and I hope that you thought carefully before calling 911; we have received it and we’re going to check it out. Thanks, and have a good day.”

  Without looking up from her work, the woman shouted in a shrill voice: “Irinaaa! See these gentlemen to the door, get moving!”

  XVIII

  They’ll come.

  They’ll come and they’ll start asking questions.

  They’ll delve into the words, into the expressions. They’ll try to understand the color of the feelings; they’ll sniff like dogs after the scent of a reason for hatred.

  Perhaps they’ll do a bad job of searching, because they won’t search for love. But in fact it is love, in many cases, that puts an end to life. Love is a powerful current, I would tell them; love is like a river, which flows along nice and calm, and then, around a bend that seems no different from any of the others, that seems no different from any of the other bends along the course a river follows from its source all the way to the sea, suddenly, there’s a cliff, and the river turns into a violent and terrible waterfall.

  You can live for love, I’d tell them. Love is a force that takes you by the hand and leads you to the end of the day, of the month, of the year, of the night. Love is a dream, a mere illusion: but you can treasure it and foster it, that illusion, you can make it grow until it’s big enough for you to live in.

  They’ll come, and maybe they’ll delve into the documents, in search of some foul-smelling trace made up of money and vested interests. And maybe they will find traces, and they’ll think they’re on the right trail.

  I would tell them to look elsewhere, to delve into caresses. Into sighs and flesh—that’s where I’d say to look. Because maybe the reason for everything is there, in an old acquaintance, in a gaze held for an extra fraction of a second. Because that is how an illusion is born, with a gaze and a fraction of a second. And you imagine something, and you cradle it in your arms like a newborn baby, helping it to grow, feeding it until it becomes so big that it takes up every bit of room there is.

  I would tell them that love is to blame for everything. That those who get in love’s way always run a terrible risk. Because love is powerful, and when it rushes down to the sea it doesn’t recognize obstacles, it uproots, it overturns, it undermines, it crushes; and then it carries away the pieces.

  I would tell them not to search for money, because the logic of love is much stronger than any mere pecuniary interest. And I would tell them that I tried to make her understand how absurd it is to try to stand in love’s way. I explained to her, speaking with my heart in my hand, that right around that last bend that resembles all the others, lies the abyss. That this wasn’t like the times before, that we were all now faced with real decisions. But she wouldn’t listen to what I said.

  We’ll watch them delve into the usual motivations, but they’ll be searching in the wrong direction. Because they won’t think of love, and all its reasons.

  I would tell them, if they only asked the right questions. I’d explain it to them, because it happened.

  Because I did it.

  But I won’t tell them, because they won’t search in the right direction. And the one who’ll pay is the one who ought to.

  Love will pay.

  XIX

  They really did take five minutes to reach the address that Ottavia Calabrese had given Lojacono. A shiny brass plate next to the front door of the luxurious building announced: “Arturo Festa, Notary.”

  It was early, not yet ten o’clock. The lieutenant wondered whether anyone was already in the office. He couldn’t reasonably linger to give the husband the news in person. He had his cell phone number: he could try to call him. But what he really wanted was to observe the reactions of the people who knew the notary well, when they heard the news of the murder.

  They went over to the doorman, a diminutive, middle-aged fellow who was sorting catalogues into the various mailboxes. Without even turning around, the man gestured to the foot of a flight of stairs with his head: “Mezzanine, Staircase A,” he said.

  Which meant that someone was already there.

  Aragona rang the doorbell, and from inside someone hit a button to open the door automatically. They walked into a small waiting room, and a young woman, short, pudgy, and wearing glasses, came toward them; her manner was businesslike: “Hi there. Can I help you?”

  Lojacono saluted and said: “Perhaps. Buongiorno, signorina. My name is Lojacono and this is Officer Aragona, from the Pizzofalcone police station. We’d like to speak with the notary Arturo Festa.”

  The young woman seemed unsurprised. It couldn’t have been unusual for the police to show up at this office.

  “I’m sorry, the notary isn’t in just now. Could you tell me what this is about? Did you have an appointment, have you spoken to him directly?”

  “When do you think that we could talk with him? This is a confidential matter, and it’s quite urgent. You are . . .”

 
; “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Imma, Imma Arace. I’m in charge of bills of exchange and promissory notes, the only part of the office that is open for business at this hour. The other employees come in later on; now it’s only me and the preparer, Rino. I’m sorry, but I really wouldn’t know how to help you.”

  “How many other people work in this office, signorina? And what time do they come in?”

  “There are two other employees, both women, and they get here by 10:30. We leave earlier, so their shift is staggered with respect to ours. You’d just have to wait . . .” she glanced at the clock, “half an hour, more or less, for the entire staff.”

  Lojacono and Aragona exchanged a glance.

  “Perhaps we could speak with the two of you, in that case. While we wait for the other office employees to come in, and for the notary himself. And, signorina, you really ought to tell me where the notary is.”

  Signorina Arace noticed the change in Lojacono’s tone of voice, now more emphatic and urgent. And she realized that these two police officers weren’t here to handle some confidential bureaucratic procedure: this must be something far more serious.

  “Please, come right this way.”

  She led them into a large room with wood-paneled walls, which contained six desks. Only one desk was occupied, by a stout bespectacled man with thick lenses who was sorting an array of promissory notes into separate little piles.

  The man narrowed his eyes when he heard the trio enter the room. The woman spoke to him in a worried voice.

  “Rino, these two gentleman are from the police and they’d like to talk with us. They were looking for the notary.”

  The man put down the promissory notes he was still holding and walked around the desk, coming to stand next to Imma. Side by side like that, they seemed like relatives: both of them tubby, both bespectacled, both frightened and surprised.

  “They were looking for the notary. The notary isn’t here, he’s out of town. Did you tell them that?”

  The young woman nodded, looking insulted: “Of course I told them, what kind of fool do you take me for? But they still want to talk with us.”

  “Still want to talk with us. But what can we tell them, if the notary isn’t here? They’ll just have to come back, is what they’ll have to do.”

  The girl had lost her patience. Clearly, Rino wasn’t the brightest bulb.

  “Then you try talking to them. I already told them, and I’ll tell you again. They said that they would wait.”

  “They would wait.”

  Aragona glanced at Lojacono: it seemed like a farce. The man’s habit of repeating the last few words that the young woman said was like an old-fashioned comedy routine straight out of the commedia dell’arte.

  The lieutenant broke the spell: “We need to speak with the notary, whom you certainly know how to get in touch with. We need to speak to him now.”

  The man ran a trembling hand over the comb-over that spread what little hair remained to him across the top of an otherwise bald head, as if checking to make sure every hair was in order.

  “Speak to him now. The notary is on Capri, for a conference. He ought to have been back yesterday, but with the choppy seas the hydrofoils weren’t running. So he’s stuck there and we don’t know when he’ll be able to get back. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”

  He looked over at his colleague uncertainly, and she dropped her eyes. Something isn’t right, thought Lojacono. He tried bluffing.

  “Okay, then we can get in touch with the police station there on the island. You must certainly be able to tell me the name and phone number of the hotel. I would imagine that for you the notary must always be available, isn’t that right, Signor . . .”

  The man opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he couldn’t think of what to say. The young woman threw him a lifeline: “De Lucia, Salvatore De Lucia. As I informed you, he prepares the promissory notes, he’s in charge of . . .”

  Aragona interrupted her, raising one hand: “You can explain all that later, signorina. Right now we just need to know where we can find the notary. And fast.”

  The officer’s abrasive tone further frightened the fat man, who stammered: “Actually . . . that’s classified information, where the notary is. Top secret.”

  He shot Imma a sidelong glance.

  Lojacono said: “Not anymore, it isn’t. Now you’d better tell me. You have to.”

  De Lucia looked down at the floor and murmured: “He’s in Sorrento, with . . . on vacation. He’ll be back today, later this morning. But please, I beg you, this can’t get out. No one can know, especially not his . . . his family.”

  He had blushed to a pathetic degree. His coworker glared at him in disgust, and Lojacono wondered whether her reaction was due to the fact that the man had revealed a secret or just that he’d tried to cover up the notary’s affair.

  “You can rest assured that this information will remain confidential,” Aragona told the two employees. “The notary’s wife, Signora Cecilia De Santis, was found dead this morning, in their apartment.”

  It was as if someone had unexpectedly fired a gun. The man stared at Aragona in disbelief, as if he’d just heard a very unfunny joke. The woman was the picture of surprise, eyes and mouth wide open like three capital O’s. Then she began to tremble, and finally she burst into sobs. De Lucia hesitantly raised his arm and put it around his coworker’s shoulders. Lojacono felt sorry for them both.

  “I’m sorry to have had to break the news to you like this, but it was to make you understand the urgency of the situation. Now, would you please tell me how to get in touch with the notary?”

  XX

  There seemed to be no way to reach the notary. His cell phone was turned off, and the two employees said they didn’t know the name of the hotel where he’d stayed that night and the night before because, according to the answers the police officers managed to wring out of the pair—grudging and monosyllabic though they were—the notary had left Saturday morning, that is, two days ago.

  Nothing, clearly, about who was traveling with him: but Lojacono got the impression that the two employees knew perfectly well who it was.

  There was nothing to do but wait. In the next hour, the other two employees came in, and they were immediately brought up-to-date on what had happened.

  The first was well over fifty years old, a wiry woman with thin lips and a pragmatic air; her name, which she reeled out as if it were some elaborate honorific, was Raffaela Rea, nicknamed Lina, and she ensured legal compliance after a deed had been drafted. After learning that Signora Festa was dead, she turned pale, sank into a chair, and stayed there. She stated that she had no idea of where the notary might be, and when she learned that De Lucia had revealed the truth, she shot him a glare that ought to have incinerated him on the spot.

  The second one, who showed up out of breath, was a petite, attractive, hyperactive blonde named Marina; she was in charge, as she explained immediately, of all electronic registrations—by now a major chunk of the work done by every notary office in Italy—and also of certifications. When she learned of the murder, she reacted with absolute astonishment and bewilderment; she shook her head back and forth, with a terribly sad expression, and went to sit gloomily at her desk. She was the first to emerge from her trance, and offered the two police officers a cup of coffee, which she made on a hot plate tucked away in a nook in the office.

  Lojacono wanted to keep an eye on them all, to keep anyone from secretly alerting the notary. While he waited, he called the precinct house, to report in and learn what Ottavia had found online.

  Calabrese herself answered the phone.

  “Oh, ciao, Lojacono. I was just about to call you. Palma spoke to the magistrate and let him know that you’re there; maybe he’ll swing by. The forensic squad is finishing its work and we left a squad car on site; if th
e notary decides to swing by his apartment before heading for the office, they’ll alert us and we’ll alert you.”

  “Did you find anything interesting online?”

  “Characters decidedly out of the ordinary, the signora and the notary. She’s mentioned on a huge number of sites—charitable work, involvement in drives, social programs. A true benefactress. From a few references I gathered that she’s from money—a lot of money. The notary, on the other hand, is a bit of a social butterfly; he’s always on the guest list: party here, party there, inaugurations, receptions. The odd thing is that the two of them are never—and I mean never—mentioned together; he goes his way, and she goes—or used to go—hers. Separate lives, in short. At least as far as I can tell from the Web. And one more thing: on a gossip site, in a fairly recent post, there was mention of the notary’s ‘new flame,’ and he, I might add, appears to be a very handsome man, at least based on the photos. Now, a new flame presupposes old flames: if you ask me, he’s a guy who leapfrogs around.”

  Lojacono was pleased with his colleague’s efficiency: as a member of the support staff, she was really quite useful.

  “Thanks, Ottavia. Will you take care of letting Palma know? We’re here, waiting for the notary.”

  “Sure, I’ll take care of it. Ah, Lojacono, a piece of advice: make sure nobody starts fooling around with the notary’s computer, even though we’ll have to wait for the magistrate to affix the official seals. We might find something interesting in it.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ah, did you know that Romano and Di Nardo went out to investigate a complaint? Fingers crossed, the idea of those two together scares me. Take care, see you later.”

  Lojacono allowed normal office work to proceed, as long as no one left. A few people came in to pay off promissory notes and checks, which Imma took care of; and De Lucia went on arranging his stacks of bills of exchange, but his hands were shaking and every so often he stopped to look off into the distance.