Out of Season
Page 27
“Is this going to mean trouble for you?”
“There’s going to be an investigation. An adjunct is going to be sent up, and he’ll get to work on it. What can I tell you?”
“I’m here if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks, Ernè. . . .”
For the first time, Ernesto shook Rocco’s hand.
“The person you’re looking for, could it be someone out of your past?”
“Yeah, something like that. Only that’s like sticking your nose into a bottomless black hole.”
“Take a red thread with you.”
They exchanged a smile. “Yes. No matter what, that’s where I’m going to have to search.”
He’d always thought it, he’d always known it. Sooner or later the filth would overflow, coming in the window and dirtying everything. And now, there it was, in front of him, a sea of mud and shit he could dive into, wallow in, camouflage himself with in order to identify the shadow who had crept into his home and taken the life of Adele Talamonti, thirty-nine years old, and with a much longer life expectancy ahead of her. She was dead, and it was his fault. She had died in his place.
That was his curse.
Sitting on a low wall outside the hospital, Rocco waited. The afternoon had settled over the city, and with it, the traffic noises. No rain, no wind, just a stack of clouds that came and went incessantly in the midst of the mountain summits. A baby blue Mini Minor pulled up and parked a few steps away from him. The first to get out was Sebastiano. Then Furio, who locked the car.
They walked toward him. Moving slowly. Sebastiano, tall, with a head of curly hair and the body of a bear squeezed into a too-small short leather overcoat. Furio, unshaven, with sunglasses, black gloves, and tight jeans. Rocco got up and went to meet them. Seba threw open his arms. He hugged him so hard it took Rocco’s breath away. The big man was shaking, sobbing, and he clutched at Rocco as if he were the only buoy on a stormy sea. Furio lit a cigarette. Once his two friends had finished their impassioned hug, Furio too exchanged a more restrained but still brotherly hug with the deputy chief.
All three of them were crying.
“Let’s go see Adele,” said Sebastiano.
Alberto had opened the door to the morgue without a word. Only Seba went in, and he walked over to the sheet-covered corpse. Furio and Rocco stood in the door. The last thing either of them wanted was to see Adele. They wanted to remember her the way she’d been when she was alive. The medical examiner lifted the sheet. Rocco watched as an earthquake shook his friend’s broad back. Sebastiano took Adele’s hand, raised it to his face, and kissed it. Then he laid the hand back down. He turned around. He no longer had eyes. In their place were a pair of dark wells. He said nothing. They left the morgue. Rocco exchanged a glance with Fumagalli, who had already laid the sheet back over Adele Talamonti’s corpse, then he turned and, with Furio, followed his friend out.
“I’m taking her to Rome.”
Sitting on a bench, they smoked cigarettes and looked at the buildings.
“As soon as the proper authorities issue their approval,” said Rocco. “Do you believe me when I say that I wish it had been me instead of her?”
“I just need to know who the fuck it was,” Sebastiano muttered through clenched teeth.
“Could it have been someone from here?” were the first words out of Furio’s mouth since he’d set foot in Aosta.
“No. No way.”
“So this is something from Rome?”
“I think so. And the fact that Adele should have had to pay the price for my bullshit is a knife to the heart.”
“For our bullshit. Who says it’s not our fault, too?” asked Furio, flicking the cigarette butt far away.
“In that case, they would have settled matters down in Rome. They wouldn’t have come all the way up here. It seems as if anyone who gets involved with me, winds up paying for it sooner or later.” And Rocco put his face in his hands.
“I’m the one who killed Adele,” said Sebastiano. “She should have stayed clear of me. I always knew it. Now what am I going to tell her mother? Her father? I just feel sick. And I can’t even manage to vomit. What am I going to do now?” He’d asked it as a question but Seba wasn’t talking to his friends. Or even to himself. It was hard to know who he was mad at. “Is it hard to forget, Rocco?”
“It’s very hard. It’s practically impossible.”
“I’d like to bury Adele near Marina.”
“Certainly. She can have my spot.”
“Swear to me that if you find out who did it, you’ll leave them to me.”
Rocco didn’t answer.
“Swear to me!”
Rocco nodded.
“I want to hear you say it, Rocco!”
“I swear to you, Seba.”
After dropping Sebastiano and Furio off at the residential hotel, Deputy Chief Schiavone was sitting at the Chalet bar, in front of the Roman arch. Lupa lay in his arms, sleeping peacefully. She smelled of popcorn.
“So who is she?” Marina asks me.
“She’s Lupa. Do you like her?”
She pets her. “Her tummy is pink,” she says.
“Right. And so is her nose.”
“Is she going to pee and poop in the apartment?”
“No. Don’t ask me how or why, but she’s perfectly trained. She goes outside to poop and pee.”
She looks at her with her enormous eyes. Marina’s enormous eyes.
I got lost in them the first time, and I never did find the exit.
“What are you planning to do?” she asks me. She’s not talking about the dog anymore.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to go after him or will you wait for him here?”
“I don’t feel like thinking about it.”
“Do you have any idea of who it might be?”
“No. And something strange happens to me. When I think about it, I can’t seem to concentrate. My thoughts all just scatter.”
“That happens when you think about things from the past. Look, Lupa woke up!”
It’s true. She’s opened her eyes. Only now that a ray of sunlight catches them do I realize that they have golden highlights. “Look at the sky, Marina. It’s beautiful. Blue as can be.”
“Not a cloud in sight. You’ll see all the flowers that bloom.”
“You think?”
“That’s what happens. Snow helps. Because it has nitrogen. Soon your jaw will drop. You know what? Looking at you like this, in profile, you resemble your father.”
“Do you think that’s odd?”
“No. Don’t take this the wrong way. But he was much more handsome than you. He was taller than you, he had blue eyes, and he had much better manners.”
I laugh. “Did you know him all that well?”
“Not well enough. But when I fell in love with you, I looked at him and said to myself: if that’s what he’ll look like when he gets old, then I’m there with bells on!”
“And how did it go?”
“I don’t know. How did it go?”
“It went that I’m getting old all by myself.”
“Why don’t you let me go, Rocco?”
“I can’t, Marina.”
“It’s been seven years.”
“Don’t ask me again.”
“Please, Rocco. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Me either, I can’t take it anymore either.”
“You see? The sun has set, but it’s not nighttime yet. Look at the people out in the street. They don’t have shadows anymore. And it seems as if they’re flying. They lose their substance. They seem like dreams, like fog. Abandoned rags.”
“It’s true. Memories have no substance either. But there they are.”
She looks at me seriously. I don’t like it when Marina looks at me seriously. “Memories slip away, my love. Day by day, you might not even realize it, but they slip away. The beautiful ones, and the terrible ones with them. The night devours them,
and they drift off, mingling with other people’s memories. Soon enough you can’t even find them, try as you might. Until you too become just another memory. And then everything will become much easier for you.”
“Give me your hand.”
She reaches out to me. Lupa wants down. She shakes herself, she takes a little run. She chases a pigeon that takes to the air, but she’s not fast enough to catch it. She barks in her sharp, sweet doggy voice. She comes back to me. She wags her tail and tilts her head. Soon it will be dark. Lupa wants her dinner.
Acknowledgments
I am both obliged and pleased to thank Paola and Giampi, my family (Toni, Laura, Giovanna, Francesco, and Marco) the first and toughest readers of the manuscript, the acumen of Valentina, the invaluable efforts of Mattia, the indispensable support of Marcella, Maurizio, and Francesca. A special thanks goes out to Olivia and Antonio (daje—you know we can do it!). A warm welcome to Emma, my number 5, and a fraternal embrace to Picchio “don’t-worry-I’ll-be-there-any-minute,” to Pietro “sure enough,” and last but not least, to Fabrizio “na-ssediata-nun-te-la-toglie-nessuno: Signor No-One-Can-Keep-You-From-Sitting-Down-For-A-Second.” A. M.
About the Author
ANTONIO MANZINI is an actor, screenwriter, director, and author. He studied under Andrea Camilleri at the National Academy of Dramatic Arts in Rome. He is the author of five murder mysteries featuring Deputy Police Chief Rocco Schiavone, including Black Run, Adam’s Rib, and Out of Season. Manzini lives in Italy.
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Also by Antonio Manzini
Black Run
Adam’s Rib
Copyright
out of season. Copyright © 2018 by Antonio Manzini. English language translation copyright © 2018 by HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published as Non è stagione in Italy, January 12, 2015, by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.
first u.s. edition published 2018.
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover illustrations by Yuko Shimiz
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-269650-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269649-6 (pbk.)
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