“I’m already shaking. Go on.”
“What do you mean, shaking, you moron? It’s in your own interest. Tell me, how would you feel if we left the table under the elm free?”
“I’d feel fine. Have you found another bar that’ll let you in?”
“What are you talking about? We’re staying there. We’ll just move to another spot.”
“And where would that be? The last time you all came inside you made me switch off the air-conditioning. And it was July, I don’t know if you remember.”
“Not outside and not inside. Behind.”
“Behind?”
“Well behind. In the open space next to Toncelli’s garden.”
The open space to which Ampelio was referring was a strip of ground, about three yards wide, that ran alongside the wall to the west of the bar, and which you reached through a door at the back. Shady certainly, given that it was overlooked on one side by the hedge of old Toncelli’s garden, but on the other long side it was completely hemmed in by the wall of the bar. Too narrow and too oppressive, in his judgment, to put tables there. But if they liked it . . .
“Well, if it’s okay for you it’s certainly okay for me. I’ll take a table for four and put it next to the door.”
“No, no, we don’t need tables. They’ll take up too much space.”
“But what else do you need the space for?”
“For the bowling green, right? If you put a table there, it’ll be too short. Without a table it’s almost 25 yards, it’s not quite regulation, but it’ll certainly do.”
“Do for whom? For you, maybe. Not for me.”
Bowls, can you imagine? I already have the four of you on my back all day long, morning and night, you’re part of the furniture by now. If I put in a bowling green as well, I’m done for. I’ll have all the pensioners in Pineta waiting in line inside the bar. I don’t have any desire to put denture adhesive next to the soap in the bathroom. I’ll stick landmines under that space. Forget about bowls.
“Listen to him! Tiziana puts those things up on the walls and he doesn’t say a word, but if I suggest something, no way. What difference will it make if you put in a bowling green? Will it frighten people away?”
“Grandpa, you’re changing the kind of bar this is. If we sell peanuts, our customers will be monkeys. If we put in a bowling green, our customers will be veterans of the Africa campaign. It’s the law of supply and demand. At the moment, I already have my daily dose of seniors to put up with. I have no intention of increasing it for the next thirty years.”
Ampelio grunted. In the meantime, they had arrived at the post office.
“You’re just being stupid, as far as I can see. All right, let me get out. Park the car, come inside, we’ll talk it over, and you’ll see I’m right.”
Massimo parked, let his grandfather get out, watched him walk toward the post office, then as soon as Ampelio was at a safe distance, he started the car again and set off in the direction of the police station.
That’s all I need right now, to talk about bowls.
*
Massimo was sitting in the now familiar armchair without casters, looking at Inspector Fusco. Who in his turn was looking at Massimo. This had been going on, in silence, for about thirty seconds.
A few minutes earlier, Massimo had arrived at the police station and had told Fusco what had occurred to him that morning and what he had asked Carlo to do. Then he had offered Fusco his explanation.
Now he was waiting.
After a few more seconds, Fusco got up out of his armchair with casters. “It’s a mess,” he said.
I know, Massimo thought.
“It’s a mess for various reasons,” Fusco continued, resting his buttocks on the windowsill. “Reason number one, because if you’re wrong we create an unprecedented diplomatic incident. And I screw up my career. Reason number two, because now it’s certain that the man was poisoned here, in Italy. So the case is ours without a shadow of a doubt. And beyond what you’ve just told me, I don’t have a scrap of a clue.”
Fusco looked at his fingers, then put his hands together and started to open and close his fingertips rhythmically. He didn’t seem too convinced.
“Listen, I can’t promise anything. We can try. Or rather, we have to try. But we need to tread very carefully. One wrong word and it could all blow up in our faces. The police interpreter has already gone back to Florence and I don’t have time to call him back. That’s why we have to do like the other time. But you have to realize that I can only start with general questions. To be able to ask more specific questions, I need something to grab onto, an inconsistency, something like that. You translate what I say, exactly, without adding a single word. Is that clear?”
“Of course.”
“All right, then. And if it all blows up, amen.” Fusco pressed the button on the intercom. “Galan? We need to summon a couple of people. Would you please go to the Santa Bona and kindly, and I mean kindly, ask Dr. Shin-Ichi Kubo and Dr. Koichi Kawaguchi to come with you to the station? Thanks. Is there something else? I see. Well, what do you want me to do? Let the municipal boys deal with it. I wouldn’t dream of interfering. Galan, if an old man blows his top outside the post office because he’s been abandoned and tries to assault a municipal policeman who only wants to calm him down, it’s nothing to do with us. We have things to do right now. Unless someone shoots someone else, we don’t give a damn.”
Sitting next to Fusco, in the same armchair (the same one as before, not the same one as Fusco), Massimo was looking down at the floor and waiting to start. Kawaguchi and Kubo had just arrived, with very different demeanors. Kawaguchi had sat down diligently to the right of Massimo and seemed much calmer than the previous time. Kubo, on the other hand, looked like someone who has slept little and badly, his eyes puffed with tiredness and his gestures nervous and uncoordinated. As soon as he had sat down, Fusco began.
“Before anything else, I apologize for summoning you again, but I need you to clarify a few aspects for us before you leave.”
Having heard the translation, Kubo nodded.
“As you will recall, on the basis of certain testimonies, our investigations centered on Professor Asahara’s laptop computer. Unfortunately, the contents of the laptop examined by us, which was indeed the professor’s, did not live up to our expectations. There is however one aspect that did seem worthy of note. Translate, please.”
More than translation was needed. Massimo freed Fusco’s remarks from the thick tangle of bureaucratic Italian and remolded them into acceptable colloquial English. After which, having heard the Japanese version, Kubo nodded for the second time.
“The aspect in question is the fact that a certain code was found in the Professor’s computer. This code,” Fusco went on, looking at Massimo with a conspiratorial air, “has been examined by our experts, who identified a number of peculiarities in it. Practically speaking, they found that a code programmed in that way could only have worked if run on computers equipped with an enormous memory. We have checked, and ascertained that the professor’s computer was not equipped with the appropriate amount of memory. Unless, obviously, the same computer had been somehow tampered with.”
Massimo translated, and while Koichi was translating, it seemed to Massimo that Kubo was turning slightly pale. This time he did not nod, but Fusco did not need any encouragement.
“At this point, Dr. Kubo,” he continued, lowering his gaze to the surface of the desk, “I must ask you if you have a laptop computer.”
Having heard the translation, Kubo nodded again and said something.
“He says yes, he has a laptop.”
“Good. Dr. Kubo, I must ask you in my official capacity for permission to examine your laptop. In particular, I need to verify if the memory in your laptop is compatible with that of the laptop belonging to the late Professor Asahara, and po
ssesses the characteristics required to run the code in question.”
Massimo translated, and held his breath. They were at the crucial point. Massimo had no idea how Kubo might react. If Massimo’s idea was wrong, he would probably burst out laughing. Or else he would look at them in polite Japanese surprise. Or maybe we’ll never know, because as soon as Koichi had finished translating Dr. Kubo stood up, as white as a sheet. He looked Fusco in the eyes, and said a few well-articulated words.
Koichi translated, in a subdued voice. Massimo looked at Koichi, who nodded, and then looked at Fusco. He spoke in a tone that he hoped was neutral.
“He says he wants to make a statement.”
Fusco looked at Massimo, and made a sign with his hand. There was no need to translate. Kubo began speaking in a determined voice, in short, concise sentences, at the end of each of which he looked at Koichi, who kept his gaze fixed on the floor. At the end, Koichi spoke.
As Koichi was speaking, Massimo felt two conflicting emotions.
On the one hand, there was a quiver of pride at the fact that he had been right. On the other, the awareness that the person in front of him, who was more or less the same age as him and didn’t seem like a criminal in any way, was confessing to a murder. And it was he, Massimo, who had identified him, he who had taken the initiative, talked to Fusco, told him what, in his opinion, had happened, and suggested questioning Shin-Ichi Kubo.
And instead of making him feel proud, it made him feel bad. As if he had interfered in something that was no concern of his, a joke intended for a stranger, and had taken the victim aside and blurted everything out to him. Given the circumstances, and to shrug off the impression that he was somehow responsible for this whole mess, Massimo also now spoke in bureaucratic language.
“Dr. Kubo declares that he gave Professor Asahara a large dose of a benzodiazepine, and admits that in this way he caused his death. He maintains that at the moment he carried out this act he was unaware that the Professor suffered from myasthenia, and that he did not intend in any way to provoke death. Doctor Kubo’s intention was to make Professor Asahara feel slightly ill, in order to distract his attention from the laptop computer in his possession, and in this way to steal its memory. The memory of the computer in question is of an experimental type, constructed using revolutionary technology and having more than sixty gigabytes at its disposal. This memory had been entrusted by the manufacturer to Professor Asahara as an expert in digital calculations, with the aim of testing its performance in calculating molecular simulations. Dr. Kubo stole it in order to hand it over to a technician from a competing company, which had promised Dr. Kubo a job as director of the calculations center in its Tokyo branch if he succeeded in handing over the memory.”
EPILOGUE
The following morning, when Massimo entered the bar, he was confronted with a somewhat curious scene. Standing behind the counter, with the catalogue of an art exhibition open in front of her and the earphones of the Walkman in her ears, Tiziana was doubled over with laughter, while the old-timers watched her, highly pleased with themselves. It wasn’t difficult to grasp what was going on: quite simply, the four of them were getting Tiziana to relive what they considered one of their most successful jokes. That is, the fake museum audio guide.
This trick had been performed regularly years before, in the course of those so-called excursions with the pots, whenever the excursion in question involved a visit to a museum. First, you bought in advance a catalogue of the museum to be visited, after which some particularly significant paintings were chosen, which were commented on by Aldo in his wonderfully musical voice on a normal audiocassette, of which several copies were then made. Each of these copies was put in a Walkman, which the old-timers distributed to the people taking part in the excursion, pretending that they were the official audio guides of the museum.
Obviously, the comments contained in the cassettes weren’t exactly in keeping with the canons of art history and criticism. Massimo, for example, remembered in detail the commentary on the painting that Tiziana was looking at, a canvas by Rembrandt showing a fearsome-looking old lady in bonnet and ruff, which began thus:
“Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn, Portrait of My Mother-in-Law. In this work, the master of Leiden effectively portrays his wife Geltrude’s mother, Edelfriede Van Gunsteren, remembered by chroniclers of the period as one of the most terrifying ball-breakers in the whole of northern Europe. The woman, a housewife of humble origins, lived at her son-in-law’s expense, sharing his house, criticizing his work and lifestyle from morning to night, and often complaining at mealtimes, while choosing the best morsels for herself, about the fact that her daughter had not married the rich tulip merchant Jacobsen. For his part, Rembrandt hated the woman and, in the presence of friends, invariably referred to her as ‘a brothel cast-off’; but, since he dearly loved his wife, he was forced, when in her presence, to treat her with respect and, when she asked him, to paint her portrait. Rembrandt’s real feelings emerge powerfully from the colors he chooses to depict the old bitch: of particular note is the chiaroscuro with which Rembrandt emphasizes her double chin and her greedy, calculating expression, befitting the madam of a fourth-rate brothel, a place to which the master hoped she would soon return.”
While Tiziana continued laughing, the quartet greeted Massimo enthusiastically.
“All hail Miss Marple!” said Del Tacca, getting up out of his chair, which was quite unusual for him.
“Welcome back, son,” Ampelio said with a smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I can imagine what you’ve been waiting for, Massimo thought. The newspaper lay on the table, open at the crime pages, which carried an account of how, the previous day, in the course of a police interview, Dr. Shin-Ichi Kubo, thirty-four years old, had confessed to being responsible for the death of Professor Asahara.
Once again, Massimo found himself thinking that there was something unnatural in the speed with which the results of the investigation, however partial, managed to cover the distance between the police station and the newspaper offices. The conclusion that Massimo had drawn was that the diligent Officer Galan, with his seminarian’s air, was a little too fond of using the wrong confessional.
Massimo, for his part, had absolutely no desire to speak about the case. The sense of guilt he had felt the day before had kept him company all night long. It had been a terrible night in fact, and he had the sensation that he had not closed his eyes once. Stupid, I know, but there it is, and it isn’t going to be easy to get rid of it.
The old-timers, on the other hand, were already in their positions, bristling with curiosity. As Massimo went behind the counter, Aldo piped up:
“Massimo, there’s one thing I’m curious about.”
“Of course,” Massimo said. “You want to know when they’re going to pay us for catering the conference. Unfortunately, I haven’t phoned the Ricciardi woman yet.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Ricciardi woman,” Aldo said. “What I’d like to know is if what’s written in the newspaper is completely true.”
“Usually no. However, in this case, yes. That fellow Shin-Ichi Kubo admitted killing his chief. Involuntarily, it seems. His intention was to make him sick by giving him a few Tavor pills. Unfortunately, he didn’t know his chief had that illness, myasthenia. That’s why what happened happened.”
“And that’s also written in the newspaper,” Aldo replied. “But what I don’t understand is what exactly the man wanted to do.”
Massimo took a deep breath, resisting the temptation to tell Aldo to go to hell. For a moment, he thought about how he could explain to the group of old codgers that he didn’t want to talk about the case because it upset him. On the other hand, there was also his personal pride, the awareness that he’d had a good intuition (which was only to be expected) and a certain degree of courage (which was surprising). After a brief battle, the sense of guilt wi
thdrew to a corner and the pride took center stage.
“All right, let’s start from the beginning. What’s the purpose of a computer? Grandpa, it’s a rhetorical question. If you try to interrupt, I’ll put poison in your grappa.”
Ampelio closed his mouth.
“A computer is for counting. That’s its purpose. Counting. Computer means calculator. All the other things you can do with a computer—write emails, watch porn movies, go on the Internet to download porn movies, and so on—are offshoots of that basic ability. Having said that, though, it’s clear that the purpose for which an object exists is dictated by the way in which we use it. And a portable computer like a laptop is basically a means of communication. Surfing the Internet, making presentations, writing reports or novels, all while you’re away from home.”
Massimo sat down on a chair, but got up again almost immediately. To make this kind of speech, he needed to move about. To walk, to gesticulate, to do whatever, but to move. Meanwhile, Tiziana had closed the catalogue and taken the earphones out of her ears.
“When I spoke with Fusco two days ago, he told me that none of the programs you need to do these things were on that computer. Which means that for all practical purposes, it was useless. And, from the usual point of view, he was right. But from a general point of view, no. The computer could be used to perform its primary role. In other words, count.”
The old-timers nodded.
“So: Professor Asahara’s laptop could be used for counting. And it had one peculiarity: a brand-new kind of memory. A memory with a much larger capacity than those in common use. That was what Asahara was referring to, surely, when he said, more or less as a joke, that there was something in his computer that would destroy Watanabe. For some kinds of calculation like those that Watanabe makes, that memory would have a revolutionary impact. Everything clear so far?”
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