“More than you, anyway. When we questioned the Japanese, one of Asahara’s colleagues said that he’d never seen that computer before, and that Asahara usually used a different one. The others confirmed that, but nobody was able to say if Asahara had brought two computers with him or only one.”
“What system did the computer use?” Snijders asked. “Do you know?”
“Yes. Of course. I saw the system folders. It was definitely Linux. What version, I don’t know.”
“No, I wasn’t thinking of the version. I was thinking that I heard Asahara’s seminar. It was very clearly done with PowerPoint.”
“Ah. I understand.”
“Congratulations,” Del Tacca said. “But we don’t understand a damn thing. Can someone explain?”
“It’s not complicated,” Massimo said. “In order to function, a computer needs what’s called an operating system, which is simply a collection of more or less complex commands that act as an interpreter between the user’s intentions and the computer itself. Usually, a computer has only one operating system, although in theory it’s possible to have more than one on the same machine. There are basically three operating systems around at the moment: Windows, Linux, and Macintosh. All clear so far?”
We’re not that stupid, said Aldo’s eyebrows.
“Now, Anton says that Asahara’s seminar used PowerPoint, which is a kind of editor that can be used on Windows and, with a few modifications, on Mac, but not on Linux. Linux has a very similar editor, which is called OpenOffice, but visually the two are easy to tell apart. That’s why, if Asahara’s seminar used PowerPoint, that means only one thing. That it had been prepared on another computer.”
“Ah,” Del Tacca said. “But can’t you move these things between computers of two different kinds?”
“In theory, yes, there’s a certain amount of compatibility, but for graphic presentations I don’t think that anybody of sound mind would even consider it. He’d be wasting a whole lot of time.”
What’s all this about sound mind? First I said it to Fusco, and now to Pilade. As if everyone who was sane had to behave like me.
“I see. So what you mean is that this guy had two computers with him.”
“That’s possible. Or else he prepared the seminar somewhere else, and brought it with him on a memory stick or something like that. Which seems the most likely thing to me. I don’t see why anybody needs to go around with two computers.”
“Lucky you,” Ampelio said. “I don’t even understand why you have to go around with one. You’re in Italy, you’re from another part of the world, and instead of having a look around, you bring your computer with you. Everybody takes their computer with them nowadays. First everyone took their cell phone with them, now everyone takes their computer. If we carry on like this, in three or four years we’ll have to go around with a wheelbarrow. Do me a favor.”
“Grandpa, this is a bit different. These people work with computers.”
“Good for them. When they’re at a conference they work, and when the conference takes a break they rush to their computers and carry on working. A good thing you people are there, what can I say? I remember my poor dad.”
“I’m sorry, but why?” Massimo asked, trying to imagine his great-grandfather Remo, whom he had never known, with his spade over his shoulder, stooped over a computer and surfing the Internet after a hard day in the fields.
“Because my dad always said that when they’re dying nobody ever complains that they didn’t work enough.”
It was 8:30, and the flood had receded, leaving only a few stragglers who sat around waiting to decide how to continue the evening. The old-timers had gone home to put their feet under their respective tables for a well-deserved dinner, Tiziana was going back and forth, bringing in the glasses and everything else from outside, and the only people still inside were Massimo and Snijders, the latter having spent the preceding hour sitting on the stool, chatting with a few conference delegates who had ended up in the bar.
Once they were alone, as if they had come to an agreement, they had started talking about the Asahara case, and had found themselves in agreement on the need to somehow find out if Asahara really had had two computers with him.
“There’s one thing we can do,” Snijders said. “We can phone the secretary of the conference, Signora Ricciardi, and ask if she remembers if Asahara had his own computer or not.”
“Hmmm. Maybe. Do you think she’d remember?”
“I don’t know. But let me explain. Usually there’s an official computer at the conference, but if someone wants to work with his own he connects it instead of the official one and uses that. So Asahara may either have given the organizers the slides of his conference on a memory stick, or used his own computer. Someone in the organization should know. I tried to ask my colleagues who were here before, I even told them why I was asking, but nobody can remember.”
There you go. Discretion above all, even for you. It’s no use, I get all the gossips.
“I see. Well, we could try. If you like, I have Signora Ricciardi’s cell phone number. You can call straight away if you want.”
“Isn’t it better if you call her?”
“No, trust me. I quarreled with that woman by phone every day for a week. I don’t feel up to calling, and if she heard my voice she’d probably hang up immediately.”
“All right. If you can give me the number . . . ”
”Here it is, on this piece of paper.”
“O.K., where’s the phone?”
“There, behind the ice cream counter.”
As Snijders went to the phone, Massimo started to let his mind wander. It struck him as strange that someone should have two computers with him. Grandpa was right, even one’s too many. Careful, Massimo. Never judge what other people might do on the basis of what you would do. For example, I’d never have cheated on my wife. Not that I ever had any opportunities. I never had them before, and I don’t think the situation’s going to improve as I get older. No, let’s think about the murder, that’s better. At least for once something bad happened to someone else. Maybe Asahara was someone who liked to think ahead. And, given that a laptop was stolen on the very first day of the conference, he wasn’t completely wrong. I’m not convinced, though. I don’t know, let’s hear what the Ricciardi woman said. If she remembers anything. But it’ll be difficult.
Instead of which, Snijders came back smiling from ear to ear. When he got to the counter, he sat down on the stool and started to nod.
“I was right. Signora Ricciardi remembers that Asahara came to the conference with his own computer. She says she remembers it well, because she had to look for an adaptor.”
“Of course, to adapt the plug on his machine to our sockets. The plugs vary from country to country.”
“Yes, God knows why. Anyway, there we are. Asahara had another computer. A computer that used Windows. I’m not a betting man, but I reckon there’s a good chance I’d win if I bet that that’s the computer we have to look at.” Snijders continued, nodding. “And I’m not the only one.”
“How do you mean?”
“Signora Ricciardi told me the police are in the hotel, searching all the rooms. I say they’re looking for that computer.”
“Quite likely,” Massimo said. “Which means we’re fucked.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Sorry, I spend so much time with these seventy-year-olds, I’m starting to talk like them. I meant that if there was another computer, God knows what’s happened to it by now. Even supposing the motive for the murder is connected to what Asahara said, if the culprit wanted to steal or destroy one of the files, whether or not he wanted to copy it, the first thing he’d have done, if he was clever, is throw the computer in the sea. Three days have gone by, he had plenty of time to do it. And I don’t think there are that many stupid people at a
chemistry conference.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that. But you’re right. So . . . ”
“So we go back to doing what we do best. You can be a scientist, I can be a barman. Because without that computer, the one possible shred of evidence goes up in smoke, and we don’t have anything to go on.”
Snijders sat there on the stool, visibly disappointed. He made a little grimace, then got off the stool.
“Are you going to dinner?” Massimo asked. He was starting to feel the need to be alone for a while, given that he had a few things to do. Since the bar is supposed to be mine, and since Tiziana is stopping every few seconds to admire the wall, clearly pleased with her handiwork, which means I can’t really count on her help, guess who’s going to be the only one to do any work tonight? Unfortunately, it seemed that Snijders did not have the slightest intention of leaving.
“No, when I’m alone I eat as it comes.” He glanced beyond the counter, at the cured meats on display in the back room. “Maybe a sandwich . . . Could I have a sandwich?”
“Of course. I’ll make you one right now. Venison ham, spinach, and walnut oil.”
“Do you have anything else?”
“Spinach, walnut oil, and venison ham. There are four other possibilities, but I’ll spare you those. Trust me, it’s very good.”
“All right.”
“Would you like something to drink with it?” Massimo asked, hoping the man wouldn’t want milk with his meal: something the Dutch, as he had learned in several years as a barman, were quite capable of.
“A beer, please.”
Thank God for that. Massimo went into the back room, put the ham into the slicer, and started to slice. As he was making the sandwich, Snijders went on, “is it far from here to San Gimignano?”
“It’s quite a way. At least two hours by car.”
“Oh, yes, that is far.”
“You could get there and back in a day without any problem. Although there are plenty of things to see around here, without having to go all the way to San Gimignano.”
“Yes, I’m sure there are,” Snijders replied, in a tone that suggested he was thinking: But I wanted to go to San Gimignano. “It’s just that, without the conference, there isn’t much to do here. And even the conference wasn’t very . . . ” Snijders made a strange noise with his mouth.
“Wasn’t it interesting? Maybe it was a bit off-topic for you.”
“Yes, that too, but not just that. These days I always seem to hear the same things. It’s rare to find a bit of imagination, of inventiveness. The Italians in particular are strange. When it comes to expertise, I mean.”
Yes, we’re very strange, my friend, when it comes to expertise. You’re in a country where models talk about soccer and priests talk about sex and families.
“In what way?”
“They aren’t original. Almost never, I mean. Lately I’ve seen people who are doing the same things they were doing twenty years ago. They refine the work, they perfect it. They do wonderful things sometimes. Very complex things. But always using the same models. I mean, I’m generalizing. There are exceptions. But they’re rare. And that’s not what science is. You need originality, new ideas. It’s industry that has to apply them. We have to do the research.”
Breaking news. New hot water spring discovered in the locality of Pineta by Professor Snijders from the University of Groningen.
“And I don’t understand the reason,” Snijders went on, clearly passionate about the subject. “Scientifically speaking, the Italians have always been strong. Well taught as students. Not like the Russians, or the Indians, but much better than the European average. It’s strange.”
Massimo felt cut to the quick. The subject had made his blood boil so many times, even involuntarily, that hearing it talked about set off a Pavlovian reflex in him.
“It is strange,” he said as he handed Snijders the sandwich on a plate. “You know why? Research in Italy isn’t original because it’s commissioned by dinosaurs. In Italy, forty-seven percent of full professors are over sixty. Sixty. Gioacchino Rossini couldn’t be original at sixty, and you want people like that to succeed?”
“But why don’t they retire?” Snijders asked with his mouth full. “Don’t they realize that they’re not doing any good?”
“No. They don’t realize. Because in this damned country we’re used to doing good in a morbid way. I’ll give you a simple example. A lot of the professors say, ‘I can’t retire now, even though I’m entitled to and even though I don’t want to do a damn thing anymore, because first I have to sort out my graduate student, my research fellow, or whatever I call my current slave.’ The concept is that since this person has done his thesis, his doctorate, and everything else with me as his supervisor, I have a kind of moral obligation to sort him out. Of course. The pity of it is that if only you packed your bags and left, you’d release enough money for three, and I mean three, researchers. But maybe then your protégé wouldn’t qualify. Especially if he’s a complete dickhead whose only gift is stubbornness. Because the fact is that in the last few years people haven’t gotten into university in Italy because they’re good. They’ve gotten in because they have nowhere else to go. And that’s the first problem.”
“Oh, you mean there’s a second problem?” Snijders asked, chewing on his sandwich.
“Oh, yes. The second problem is that there are too many young people. And too many of them are totally unsuited. I saw people who as undergraduates had difficulty passing exams being accepted as graduate students. And why was that? Because those candidates who were better than them had enough initiative to go abroad, or to go to work outside the university. Whereas those who couldn’t even wipe their own asses stayed, and started the whole rigmarole. The contract, the doctorate, the scholarship, the research fellowship, and all the rest of that crap. Let’s be clear, the professors have their fair share of blame in all this. Instead of setting a ceiling to guarantee quality, they’ve continued to take a fixed number of people, a number that’s too large in relation to what they’d be able to absorb in the future. So, along with good people who deserved to do their doctorate and stay to do research, they’ve collected the dead and the wounded. People who, after starting at the age of twenty-five, are twenty-eight by the time they’ve finished their doctorate, and thirty or thirty-two after the research fellowship. And at that point, unless they’re hired as guinea pigs by the pharmaceutical industry, they’re stuck, because right now industry doesn’t want a thirty-two-year-old graduate, not even one with a doctorate, and not even if he comes free and gift-wrapped. I should know. I’m one of them.”
“How do you mean?” Snijders asked, having in the meantime finished his sandwich, scarily, in about thirty seconds flat.
Massimo puffed briefly through his nose and smiled. If only you knew. “It’s rather a long story,” he said.
“Take as long as you like,” Snijders replied. “I need time to digest.”
I can believe that. Well, if that’s the way it is . . .
Massimo was quite reluctant to tell the story of how he had moved from a computer monitor to a bar counter. Firstly, because he didn’t believe that people could possibly be all that interested in what concerned him. Secondly, because he didn’t really think it put him in a good light.
“I graduated in mathematics in exactly four years. In November of the fourth year. And I started on my doctorate in January of the following year. I don’t how interested you are in the subject I was supposed to be studying, but anyway, it was to do with the mathematics of string theory.”
Snijders raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Don’t worry, you’re in good company. I don’t say that as a joke. The subject I was supposed to be dealing with was extremely complicated, and when I started my postgraduate studies I felt as if I’d wandered into a nightmare. The more I st
udied, the less I understood. Sometimes, I had the feeling I’d grasped something, then immediately afterwards, I found another article that demolished that idea. The worst thing in all this was that I had the impression that even my thesis supervisor, who as it happens was a physicist, didn’t understand a damn thing about what I was doing. Let’s be clear about this, I don’t blame him: he was quite an elderly man, and this particular subject was quite new and really complicated. But, after a while, the suspicion started to weigh on me. Then, one day, I went to him with a pile of articles and a page of questions. To cut a long story short, that was when I realized he didn’t understand anything about the subject either. Worse, the doubts I’d been having hadn’t even occurred to him. I was much further ahead than the person who should have been guiding me, and at the same time, I was completely in the dark. When I left his office, I looked at myself in the mirror. You know what the most important gift is for a mathematician?”
“I have no idea. Intelligence, maybe.”
“No. It’s important, but not by itself. No, the fundamental gift a mathematician needs is humility. The humility to admit when you haven’t understood something, and not try to fool yourself that you have. If you haven’t understood something, or you aren’t convinced, don’t take it as read. If you do that, you’ll only get hurt. You must be absolutely honest with yourself. Well, as far as mathematics was concerned I always tried to be honest with myself. And the only conclusion I could possibly reach was that I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t cut out for that kind of work, it was beyond my capabilities. If I’d continued, I’d have been wasting time and deceiving myself.”
Snijders looked at him. With one finger, he pointed at the bar. “So . . . ”
“Precisely. You see, I’m a fussy kind of person. Things have to be done the way I say, and if they aren’t, well, I tend to get upset. I’m pleased with myself when I do something well, and it doesn’t really matter what it is. Anyway, just before these things happened, I’d come into a bit of money. Not a fortune, but enough to open a bar. And I realized that I preferred life to a career. I chose to be an excellent barman, rather than a frustrated mathematician.”
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