Three-Card Monte

by Marco Malvaldi

  “And doesn’t it bother you? Don’t you think someone like you is wasted in a bar?”

  “It depends. Sometimes, if I think about the time I spent poring over my books, I could hit myself. But, if I am the person I am, I also owe it to everything that I studied. If ‘owe’ is the right word. But do I feel wasted? No, absolutely not. I’m much more useful to the world, doing a job I like, than one of those sons of bitches who ends up in an executive position, creates an unexplained deficit the size of the Grand Canyon, and then gives himself a massive golden handshake when he’s forced to resign. And besides, working in a bar isn’t so bad.”

  Snijders looked at him. He didn’t seem terribly convinced. “Really? Isn’t it a bit boring?”

  “Yes,” Massimo said, as he walked to the back room. “Sometimes it is. But I don’t mind that. And besides, sometimes a boring job can bring out the best in a person.”

  Snijders smiled. “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

  Not completely, Massimo thought. A boring job can bring out the best in a person. Don’t think about what you’re doing, go onto automatic pilot, and let your brain keep ticking over. When he developed the theory of relativity, Einstein was working in a patent office. Böll was a census gatherer, and Bulgakov a country doctor. Pessoa worked for the land registry office, I think. Borges was a librarian, and Cavafy an employee of the water company.

  Give an imaginative man a dull, repetitive job, one that puts him in contact with other people, and there’s a strong possibility you’ll produce a Nobel Prize winner. Often, left to his own devices, someone who isn’t constantly plagued by the anxiety of having to produce lets his thoughts settle of their own free will, so that they gradually sink to the bottom and crystallize, sometimes, into forms of rare beauty. Of course, I spend my free afternoons slumped on the couch playing computer games, but that’s another matter. I’m not a poet.

  Fortunately, while Massimo’s thoughts were in danger of moving in a depressing direction, Del Tacca came in, followed by Ampelio.

  “Good evening,” Pilade said, while Ampelio went and sat down at a table. “What are you two talking about?”

  “About the fact that Massimo is a perfect barman,” Snijders said, pointing emphatically at Massimo.

  “Who, him?” Ampelio said. “For heaven’s sake. And you listen to him?”

  “I’m not perfect,” Massimo admitted. “But I am way above average. What, the hell, I only use fresh produce. I have six different types of coffee. I have almost forty types of beer. This is the only bar within a radius of twelve miles that does granita with freshly squeezed fruit juice, and not with synthetic syrups. And now I have an orange wall, so I’m up-to-date on an aesthetic level too. I’d even have wi-fi, if a flock of elderly pains in the butt hadn’t made their nest on the one table where it works. Be that as it may, the fact remains that I’m the barman, that this is my bar, and that from today onwards, conversations about murders, deaths, and premeditated tragedies are banned. Now, can I get you anything?”

  NINE

  So. Now I have to go to the Internet café to get a signal. Then I have to phone the Ricciardi woman to find out when they’re planning to pay me, because even though the conference has been suspended I still did two days. Aldo should have done it, but there you are. He’s an artist in his soul and doesn’t think about money. Then I have to find a way to get that Venetian blind off the door of the bar. Is there anything else? Let’s see. Oh, yes, I have to go to the municipal police to get the permit for the tables. And then? It seems to me there’s something else, but I can’t remember what. You know what, who cares? It’ll probably come back to me. An hour after I was supposed to have done it, as usual.

  Walking to the Internet café, Massimo was repeating in his head the list of Things to Do Today, which constituted one of his usual nightmares.

  The fact was, Massimo’s memory was starting to work in a similar way to a pipe: events going back months or even years, whether important or not, furred up the walls of the pipe and were almost impossible to get rid of. Whereas information that Massimo acquired constantly in the course of the day, regardless of its importance, entered, ran through the pipe for a limited period, then came out the other end and was gone. At the same time, Massimo prided himself on having an excellent memory and so never wrote down what he was supposed to, which was why when he had a list of commitments to fulfill he went over them in his mind every thirty seconds, with results that didn’t always live up to expectations.

  On the other hand, Massimo was trying desperately not to think about the murder. And to do this, the only possible way was to find something to do to fill his brain and the day. Having discovered that Asahara’s computer contained absolutely nothing, Massimo had been forced to look reality in the face. The hypothesis they had all started from was already very flimsy, and they had nothing else to back it up with. So that was the end of it. But since Massimo hated leaving something half done or not understanding something, in order not to feel really pissed off he needed to find something else to occupy him. Starting with the problem that had been tormenting him in the background for some days now, in other words: why doesn’t the wi-fi work in my bar?

  That was why Massimo was on his way to the ConnectZone, the only Internet café in Pineta, with the aim of asking the owner if he too had had these problems, and if he had, how he had solved them. Broadly speaking, our hero hated asking favors of people if he didn’t know them very well, but the guy at the Internet café was an easygoing type, and Massimo liked him because whenever he came to the bar he’d take the newspapers, read them, and then put them back in their place perfectly folded, just as he had found them. Details, maybe, but Massimo couldn’t understand people who took the newspaper, separated the pages, and then after reading it flung it back together as best they could or just left it there all screwed up, as if the newspaper were theirs and not the bar’s.

  Reaching the Internet café, Massimo went in and looked around. Four or five people were sitting at the computers, among whom Massimo recognized two or three conference delegates: an obese American professor, Asahara’s Japanese colleague Dr. Kubo, and a German with a face like a hit man whom Massimo remembered well because, during the first coffee break, he had refilled his plate a dozen times. He went to the back room, where the owner’s wife was reading a book while nibbling at strawberries from a small bag.

  “Hello. I was looking for Davide.”

  “Hi. Davide isn’t here.”

  “Ah. Do you know when he will be?”

  “Oh, he won’t be in this morning because he’s at home waiting for the boiler man, our boiler broke down the other day and we’ve had only cold water for the past two days. Can I help in any way?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you can. It’s about my wireless connection. I installed it a week ago, but I’m having a few problems. Basically I can only get a signal in one spot. I wanted to know if you had similar problems.”

  “I see. Listen, I don’t really know. Davide set it all up, and we haven’t had any problems like that. Mind you, we don’t use the wireless connection much, people usually come and sit down at one of our desktops. But nobody’s ever complained about there not being any signal.”

  I knew it. Sometimes I get the feeling certain things happen only to me.

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, Davide will be here for lunch. I could ask him to go to your bar for a coffee after lunch, that way you can ask him yourself.”

  “Okay, let’s do that. Thanks.”

  Thing to Do Number One, still outstanding. Oh, well, never mind. Now what do I have to do? Oh yes, phone the Ricciardi woman, and then go to the municipal police. Or rather, wait: as I’m already out, first I’ll go to the police and then I’ll phone the witch.

  Massimo took a cigarette from the pack, looked at it, decided he’d smoke after going to the police, and put it back. Then he walked to the
crossing and started to cross the avenue. Having reached the middle, he stopped and closed his eyes.

  A cyclist with a mustache, who had taken it for granted that someone crossing the street wouldn’t suddenly stop, missed him by half an inch and turned without stopping to say something blasphemous but, given the circumstances, well-deserved. Massimo stood still in the middle of the roadway, with his eyes closed.

  After a few seconds, he heard the sound of a car horn interspersed with curses. He opened his eyes and saw that a column of seven or eight cars had formed by his side, their drivers understandably impatient to go where they had to go and with absolutely no desire to have barmen messing them around. Massimo ran to the sidewalk and carried on walking, trying not to take any notice of the insults being hurled in his direction. As he advanced, his breath came ever quicker and he felt his face tingle with emotion.

  Calm down, calm down. It may just be a coincidence. You may have it all wrong. Now go to the bar and think about it for a moment. There must be something I can do. First of all, though, I have to understand what it means. It means something, I’m sure of that. I’d bet my balls on it. Not that they’re any use to me these days anyway. Right, stop bullshitting and try to concentrate for a moment.

  While Massimo was trying to concentrate, the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver mechanically, and thanks entirely to his parasympathetic nervous system managed to come out with a distracted “Hello.”

  “Oh, you’re there, are you? I’ve been ready for half an hour.”

  “Grandpa?” Massimo said.

  “You’re a dickhead, you know that?” Ampelio continued. “You’ve been a dickhead for more than thirty years now. I’ve been waiting half an hour.”

  Oh, God. Today’s the twenty-fifth. The post office. I forgot to take Grandpa to the post office. That’s what it was.

  On the twenty-fifth of every month, Ampelio went to the post office to withdraw his well-earned pension. Which, to tell the truth, he could have had paid directly into his own post office account. Unfortunately every attempt to persuade the old man to have his pension paid into his account was rejected by him on the basis of the following sequence of arguments:

  1) The only money you have is what you spend, and if it’s in my account I won’t touch it.

  2) I’m already eighty-three and could kick the bucket tomorrow morning, and when I’m in hell I can do whatever I like with my money.

  3) You can all fuck off anyway.

  Given the untouchability of the Ampelian Weltanschauung, then, on the twenty-fifth of every month the Great Architect created on this Earth, Ampelio had to be picked up and taken to withdraw his pension. Ever since he had gotten his license, this had fallen to Massimo, for the simple reason that his first car had been a gift from none other than Ampelio himself. The twenty-fifth of every month. Including today.

  “Yes, Grandpa,” Massimo said, trying to navigate the uncommon situation of having to be nice to his grandfather. “You’ll have to be patient. I’ve had a bit of a tough morning, and I forgot.”

  “Oh, great! He forgot. Look, I’m the one who’s eighty-something. You’re fifty years younger than me. If there’s anyone here who has a right to forget things, it’s me, not you! The problem is, you only have a memory for the things that interest you. The bar, yes. Mathematics, yes. Soccer too. Your grandfather, no. Because you don’t give a damn about your grandfather! The day I die you’ll regret how you treated me. He forgot! Do me a favor . . . ”

  “Grandpa, why don’t you do me a favor for once and get someone else to take you to the post office. I’ll explain later, okay? Bye.”

  And he slammed the phone down.

  That’s it! I’ve got it. All it took was someone saying the right word. I’m going to have to say thank you to my grandfather. Of course, I may be wrong. There’s only one way to find out.

  Massimo took a deep breath, then picked up the phone again. As he was dialing the number he realized he was out of breath, and tried taking two or three deep breaths to calm down. At the third ring, a female voice answered:

  “Good morning, Department of Chemistry.”

  “Good morning.” Deep breath. “I’d like to speak to Carlo Pittaluga.”

  “One moment.”

  After a brief wait, luckily not disturbed by inane music, he heard Carlo’s voice:

  “Yes, hello.”

  “Hi, Carlo.” Extra deep breath. “Sorry to keep bothering you, but I need a favor. It’s vital that you do it immediately. Do you still have the stuff that was in the Japanese professor’s computer?”

  “The files? One moment, I may have deleted them but I’m not sure. I’ll have a look.”

  There was a brief silence, broken only by the frantic clicking of the mouse.

  “Yes, it’s all there. What do you want me to do? Shall I send it to you?”

  “No. You should try running the program.”

  “What?”

  “In one of the two folders there was a program in Fortran. A program for molecular dynamics. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, yes. Here it is. A simple little program. Probably for educational purposes.”

  “Good. Please, can you try to compile it and run it?”

  “Well . . . why not?” Carlo laughed. “What’s supposed to happen? Will it give us the name of the murderer?”

  “It’s possible. In a way. I’ll explain later. Will you call me when you’ve done it?”

  “All right. But I don’t know how long it’s going to take to run it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Try to compile it, anyway.”

  “Right away, sir. See you later.”

  Massimo put the phone down. He picked up the pack of cigarettes and took one out. Now I really need one. He lit it, took a few drags, and tried to relax. Pointless. He was in such an emotional state that he was shaking. He took another few drags, then stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. At that moment the telephone rang.

  Massimo picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

  “I see you’re still there.” It was Ampelio. “Who brought you up, King Kong? When I was young, if I’d slammed the phone down like that, you know what would have happened?”

  “Grandpa, when you were young they still used smoke signals. I need to keep the phone clear. I’ll pick you up in five minutes, okay? Bye.”

  And he hung up. After a moment, the phone rang again. This time Massimo picked up cautiously.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Massimo.” It was Carlo’s voice. “Listen, I tried to compile the program, but there’s a problem.”

  “What problem?” Massimo asked.

  “It doesn’t work. It’s too big. In fact, it’s ridiculously big. Theoretically, this program will require more than forty gigabytes.”

  Massimo moved the receiver away from his ear, while the shaking in his legs receded and the tightness in his chest vanished as if someone had magicked it away. He was surprised not to hear a triumphal march.

  I don’t believe it. I actually got it.

  After a few seconds, he heard Carlo’s voice again: “What should I do, reduce the size and send it?”

  “No, Carlo. It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect as it is.”

  “Oh. All right. Will you explain sometime?”

  “Of course. At least I hope so. Listen, I’ll call you later. Thanks.”

  After hanging up, Massimo was silent for about ten seconds. Of course, I’m still not one hundred percent sure. Actually, I’m not sure at all. It’s a theory. But right now there’s only one thing I can do.

  Massimo picked up the receiver for the umpteenth time and dialed a number. At the second ring, a mild voice replied, “Pineta Police Station.”

  “Good morning. This is Massimo Viviani. I’d like to speak to Inspector Fusco.”

  “One moment, please
.”

  BETWEEN NINE AND TEN

  Having phoned the police station, and come to an agreement with Fusco about what to do, there remained half an hour to go pick up his grandfather and take him to get his paws on his long-awaited pension. A task which, as can be imagined, Massimo hated and feared at the same time.

  Firstly, Ampelio liked to be taken to the post office early in the morning, by nine at the latest. There, he found a way of chatting with the people he knew (in other words, everybody) without somehow losing his place in the line, which he defended verbally and with distracted but intentional blows with his stick on the tibias of anyone trying to cut in front of him. After which, having pocketed the cash, he remained where he was, calmly talking to the cashier on duty, completely ignoring the counterpoint of comments—I’d happily kill people who do that, oh but the poor man’s old, I’m old too though I was young when I came in here, there should be a trap door in front of the counter so that when someone wastes time the cashier just pulls a lever and hey presto—coming thick and fast behind his back. As a result, in terms of time, the operation required no less than an hour and a half, during which the bar was in the hands of Tiziana on overtime pay.

  Secondly, the car ride was a genuine ordeal because Ampelio, although not himself at the wheel, always found a way to say something in his fine stentorian voice to any motorist whose driving did not satisfy his personal rules of correctness: the one who goes too fast (“Carry on, the trees seem solid enough”), the one who goes too slowly (“What are you carrying, eggs? Can you sell me a couple?”), the one who uses his horn too much (“Blow that thing when you go to see your mother, there’s always a traffic jam there”) and so on. Of course, if anyone took offense, it would be Massimo they got angry with, not that nice old man in the beret.

  Having picked up Ampelio outside his building, Massimo had just set off in the direction of the post office when Ampelio said, “Listen, Massimo, Pilade and I have been thinking.”