Three-Card Monte

by Marco Malvaldi

  “Congratulations, Tiziana. You made me spend an afternoon at home watching television, but I have to say it was worth it. It’s really great.”

  “Yes, it is,” Rimediotti said, appearing in the doorway of the bar. “And it’s so full of light, it really makes the place cheerful.”

  Two of them. I’ve only been open for three minutes and two of them are already here. Where were they, keeping watch out on the terrace?

  “It is cheerful, isn’t it?” Tiziana said. “I’m so relieved that you like it. Where are the others?”

  “Oh, they’ll be here soon . . . ” Rimediotti said, still looking at the wall.

  No sooner said than done. Simultaneously, or rather, almost simultaneously because otherwise they would have gotten stuck in the doorway, Ampelio and Del Tacca came in and looked around without saying anything.

  “Well?” Tiziana said with a smile. “Do you like it?”

  Still without saying anything, Ampelio went up to one of the two abstract paintings—a white background interrupted by a black line that twisted on itself to form two knots, which the artist had felt the need to fill with yellow and deep red, plus other scattered patches of color—and, craning his neck, started examining it.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a painting, Ampelio,” Tiziana said with a smile. “By Mirò. Man Facing Sun.”

  “Well, you can see he’s been too long in the sun, poor man,” Ampelio replied without taking his eyes off the painting. “He could at least have put a hat on. It must have gone to his head. Look what a mess he’s made.”

  “I’d have thought it strange if you’d actually liked something,” Tiziana said, still smiling.

  “Why, do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have put it there, would I? Aldo, you have a bit of artistic sense, you tell him.”

  “Oh, please,” Aldo replied, leaning on the counter. “Teaching Ampelio something about art is beyond my skills. Even though we’ve been to lots of museums.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ampelio said with a laugh. “Back in the good old days.”

  “Museums? You two?”

  “No, no, all four of us,” Del Tacca said. “All four of us, and our wives too. It was on those package tours, where they put you on a bus at four in the morning and make you do nearly two hundred miles all in one go to get to where you’re supposed to be. And don’t even think about stopping to go to the toilet, because then you’ll be late. Fortunately they sold pots on the bus, so if you couldn’t hold out you’d take a pot and there you were. My God, when I think about it! But my wife wouldn’t have missed one of those tours for the world, and the other wives were the same. We just had to tag along.”

  “I can imagine,” Tiziana said. “So why was Ampelio laughing just now?”

  “Because,” Ampelio said, “as long as you were there, you had to find some way to have fun.”

  “I don’t want to know,” Tiziana said in a tone of voice that suggested exactly the opposite.

  “It’s a bit difficult to explain,” Del Tacca said. “Aldo, do you still have the cassettes?”

  “Of course I have them. I still listen to them from time to time.”

  “Bring them in tomorrow. It’ll make it easier to tell the story. You’ll have to be patient, Tiziana, we could tell you all about it now, but without the cassettes it’d be pointless. Anyway, we used to go to museums, and now if we’re not careful they’ll put us in a museum. Because old people are no use to anyone anymore and just break everyone’s balls. Talking of old people, do we know anything about that Japanese professor?”

  “Still dead,” Ampelio said, continuing to wander about the bar.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, idiot,” Del Tacca retorted. “I was talking to Massimo.”

  “What do you mean, know anything?”

  “Massimo, don’t you start being a dickhead too, please. Weren’t you supposed to be going to the University this morning to look inside the computer?”

  What? How can this old geezer possibly know everything that happens?

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was in the newspaper.”

  “Pilade, don’t take the piss. Who told you?”

  “No, no, I’m not taking the piss. Gino, tell Doubting Thomas here.”

  Rimediotti took a newspaper, obviously already read and reread, from the back pocket of his pants, unfolded it, and began in his clear expressionless voice: “‘The mystery in the computer,’ question mark. ‘Pisa. A few hours after the unexpected death of Professor Kiminobu Asahara in unusual circumstances following a sudden illness, the investigators are now convinced that the death was not accidental. It has been ascertained beyond a doubt that in the hours immediately preceding his demise, the dead man had taken a large quantity of Tavor, and this drug appears to have been responsible for what proved to be a fatal respiratory arrest. But although the cause of death has been established, nothing else has emerged thus far from the investigation. The one clue available to the investigators seems to be the victim’s laptop computer, to which he himself made reference in the days before his death, implying that its contents could cause trouble to one of his colleagues. In the light of these facts, the professor’s laptop computer therefore assumes a key role in the case. In view of which, the investigators have arranged for a careful analysis of the contents of the said computer this morning, in collaboration with experts from the University, the outcome of which could be crucial to the investigation. It is in fact believed—’”

  “All right, Gino, we get the drift,” Del Tacca cut in.

  “I can finish if you like.”

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter.” Del Tacca looked at Massimo. “You see? It was in the paper.”

  “I see. I have to say it’s scary that not even the police can keep a secret in this town. It must be something in the air. But there’s nothing in that article about me.”

  “Massimo, we weren’t born yesterday,” Aldo said.

  “I know. I can see that.”

  “Are you calling me old? Elegant, you mean. Anyway, if I am old, you should give me a little respect and listen. Yesterday you were at the police station. This morning the laptop was taken to the University, to be shown to someone who would know what to do with it. Now, of all those who were at the police station yesterday, who was the only one who knows both the University and computers well enough to immediately find the right person for the job? Fusco?”

  These old-timers. I underestimate them sometimes.

  “Okay, okay, you got me. This morning I went to the University with Turturro, one of the officers from the station. We opened the computer, and the only thing interesting in it was two word documents. They seemed like notes. I say seemed because they were in Japanese. Fusco phoned me earlier to ask me if there was anything else in the computer.”

  “And what was in those notes?”

  “Who knows? Fusco wouldn’t say. But the fact that he asked me if there was anything else in the computer means there was nothing crucial.”

  “Not necessarily,” Aldo said. “If he wouldn’t tell you what was in the notes, then maybe it was something important.”

  “You’re also right. But the fact remains, I don’t know what was in those notes. And neither do any of you. So I think tonight you should talk about soccer, because there’s nothing new on the murder.”

  “Hold on, Massimo,” Del Tacca said. “If the notes were in Japanese, how did Fusco know what was in them?”

  “He had a Japanese read them. Someone from the conference, who was also at the interviews yesterday as another interpreter. In fact, if you turn around you can see him. He just sat down at the table under the elm.”

  A huge mistake. Tiziana and the old-timers turned to look at the table, where a young Japanese in a T-shirt and very narrow glasses had just sat down, af
ter opening his own laptop with great care.

  Now, every person interacts with other human beings according to the role he attributes to each of them. Faced with a teacher, there are those who listen and those whose minds wander, and at the sight of the Pope there are those who bow and those who get pissed off. In the same way, the presence of Kawaguchi caused somewhat different reactions inside the bar. Having classified the young man under the heading “customer,” Tiziana took the menu and a notebook and came out from behind the counter. The old-timers, on the other hand, had immediately put the Japanese under the heading “our correspondent from the scene of the crime,” and sat staring at him hungrily. The first to stir himself was Ampelio, who turned and said to Massimo, “Let’s ask him!”

  “All right,” Massimo said. “You go.”

  “But I don’t know a word of Japanese.”

  “That’s no problem. He speaks English. All scientists speak English.”

  “Massimo,” Aldo said, “you know Ampelio doesn’t even speak Italian properly. You’re the only one here who speaks English.”

  “That’s what I thought. So in your opinion, what should I do?”

  “Just go outside and ask him,” Ampelio said in the tone of someone thinking, God, you’re hard work.

  “Then I haven’t made myself clear. He’s a customer who’s just sat down to have a drink. I can’t just go and ask him what was written in Asahara’s notes. Maybe he wants to be left alone. Maybe he’s the murderer, and feeling cornered will take out a samurai sword and cut me in half. Anyway I can’t go and piss the customers off. That’s out of the question.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “How should I know? It isn’t my problem. Send Rimediotti. Maybe he could show him a portrait of Mussolini and remind him we used to be allies. Maybe he’ll be moved by that and you’ll have managed to make contact.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?” Rimediotti asked. “I don’t even like the Japanese.”

  “I don’t like them very much either,” Del Tacca said. “I always find them distant.”

  “Of course,” Aldo said. “They’re hard-working people. I wish I had only Japanese customers at the restaurant. They like eating, they’re very polite, they take photographs of the dishes, and in general they give you a satisfaction you don’t find elsewhere. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Japanese. Come on, Massimo, don’t make us beg, just go. For once, don’t be such a shirker.”

  “Nice try. Always resort to compliments in order to persuade people. There’s no way I’m going.”

  The old-timers looked at each other as if the ground had been pulled from under their feet. The air filled with an embarrassed silence. Massimo walked to the coffee machine, and asked everyone, “I’m making myself a coffee. Does anyone want one?”

  “Not me,” Ampelio said in a reproving tone. “I already have a bitter taste in my mouth.”

  “I’d love a coffee,” another voice said, as Massimo was turning to the machine to fill the filter. A not exactly unknown voice. And in fact, turning around, he saw the by now familiar face of Anton Snijders. The Dutchman hoisted himself onto a stool.

  “How would you like it?”

  “Macchiato, please.”

  “Macchiato, at this time of day?”

  “Yes, why not?” Snijders asked in a sincere tone. “Don’t you have any more milk?”

  It was no use, he couldn’t win. Massimo turned back to the machine. And as he inserted the filter holder, he heard Aldo’s voice addressing Snijders in an unexpectedly polite tone:

  “Professor, excuse me . . . ”

  “Go on.”

  “Could I ask you a favor?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, good. You speak English, don’t you?”

  Outside, at the table under the elm, Koichi Kawaguchi was puzzled. Ever since he had arrived in Pineta he had noticed this nice-looking café with the tables outside under the trees, and had seen that the café also had wi-fi, which was why, at the first opportunity, he had brought his laptop here, intending to read his mail in the shade while having a drink in peace and quiet. But, once he had looked inside the bar, the peace and quiet had hidden and was now refusing to come out. Basically, Koichi was starting to wonder how come, everywhere he went, that tall fellow with a face like a Taliban was also there. A waiter at the conference, an interpreter at the police station, and now a barman at the café. It wasn’t possible. In addition, Koichi had the distinct feeling that they were talking about him inside the bar, and he could have sworn that once or twice one of the old men in there had even pointed at him with his thumb.

  Maybe I’m imagining all this, he thought. But he wasn’t convinced.

  “I’ve got it,” Snijders said, after the old-timers had summed up the situation for him, while Massimo pretended to be the diligent barman who despises all this idle chatter. “The one person who knows what was written in the files is that young man out there.”

  “Precisely,” Aldo said, having apparently discovered hidden qualities in Snijders that he hadn’t noticed before and now being quite courteous.

  “Well, there’s no harm in asking, I suppose. What is it you say In Italy? Asking is allowed . . . ”

  “And answering is polite,” Rimediotti said.

  “That’s right. Well, I’ll finish my coffee and then I’ll go.”

  “Excuse me, Professor,” Ampelio said, “could I ask you something else?”

  “Go on.”

  “While you’re about it, could you also ask the guy if he’d be so kind as to move to another table?”

  EIGHT

  A few minutes had passed. Inside the bar, Massimo was getting everything ready for the evening aperitif. It was the end of May, and as was the case every year, the arrival of good weather caused whole gangs of idlers and layabouts, their ages ranging from the proud twenties to the grudgingly accepted forties, to emerge from their lethargy and enjoy a glass of something accompanied by free appetizers as the first stage in those fine summer evenings (aperitif-dinner-discotheque) that punctuated their pointless lives.

  Massimo had always attached a great deal of importance to this custom. Firstly, the more people came, the better it was, both in terms of income and in terms of popularity. Secondly, once the trays of appetizers had been prepared, you just had to pour the drinks and make sure that people paid, and for the barman, all things considered, it was a chaotic but pleasant hour. Especially if the barman was a divorced thirty-seven-year-old who, outside the bar, had the social life of a clam. In addition, the old-timers were usually at home at this hour, and Massimo’s mood could not help but improve. Usually.

  This evening, however, the old-timers were still there, at the table under the elm, absentmindedly playing canasta while waiting for Snijders to extort some fresh daily news from Kawaguchi. Snijders had indeed sauntered over to Kawaguchi’s table, had started talking, and had somehow got him to move to a round table near the tamarisks, and now the two were chatting away like old friends. After a while, out of the corner of his eye, Massimo saw Kawaguchi stand up, shake Snijders’ hand, and leave.

  Look, I may be becoming an old gossip, but who gives a damn. I’m the one who had the idea and took that computer to Carlo, I deserve a modicum of satisfaction. Massimo looked at the trays, judged them to be perfectly arranged, turned, and asked Tiziana in the most natural tone possible, “Tiziana, we still need the tabouleh and the tuna bites. Can you see to them? I’m going outside for a moment.”

  “Yes, bwana, Tiziana see to everything. Bwana not to worry, just go outside for nice gossip.”

  Massimo took a cigarette, went out, and went straight to the table under the elm, where Snijders had just joined the sprightly crew. He took a chair, sat down, and was greeted by Ampelio with a malevolent, “I thought you had work to do.”

  “Come on, Grandpa, don’t break
my balls,” Massimo replied, lighting his cigarette. “If the professor knows something, I don’t see what’s so bad about hearing it. Seeing that he’s telling you guys, in about thirty seconds the whole town will know about it anyway.”

  “He did say something,” Snijders said. “Oh, and please, my name is Anton. Professor’s too pompous. That young man and I had a nice conversation. About science to start with, just to be friendly. He’s doing some good work, as it happens. A bit strange, but very interesting.”

  To you, the old men’s eyes said. Not to us. Just come to the point, we have to go home for dinner and we don’t know anything yet.

  “Then we talked a little about the conference, and finally I asked him about the computer. Just like that, indirectly. He told me there was nothing in the files on the computer but haiku.”

  Silence. Then, after two or three seconds, Aldo started laughing.

  “Do you mind telling us the joke?” Pilade said. “Maybe we can have a laugh too.”

  “I’m sorry. But I think the guy’s pulling our legs. Haiku are poems.”

  “Poems?” Ampelio asked.

  Snijders nodded with a smile.

  “Poems,” Aldo went on. “They’re typically Japanese. I don’t know much about it, but I seem to remember they’re very short, just three lines, inspired by a seasonal theme like summer, spring—”

  “Yes, autumn and then winter,” Del Tacca cut in. “So now we have all the seasons. But wasn’t that Japanese guy just pulling your leg?”

  “I know what you mean,” Snijders said. “But I really don’t think he was. He also said that he seemed to remember that Asahara wrote poetry. It was a hobby of his.”

  “O.K. So what of it?”

  “Well, if the only thing on the computer was poems, then I don’t know what’s so important about that computer.”

  “But I know,” Massimo said.

  “Oh, so you know, do you?” Ampelio said.