The Night of the Moths

by Riccardo Bruni

  “You don’t know how right you are.” Enrico smiles.

  “They all act like nothing happened, until something comes up that reminds them of that night and then they lower their eyes, shake their heads, and change the subject.”

  “That’s the way grown-ups deal with certain things.”

  “It’s the wrong way.”

  “It’s a way to make things disappear. It comes in handy when you yourself would like to disappear and can’t.”

  “Would you like to disappear?”

  Enrico thinks it over a bit before answering. “Let’s say that at times it would all be easier, being able to.”

  “Still, it’s a little like sweeping it under the rug.”

  “You think so?”

  “Even if only for that girl, Alice. Last year a group, they’re called the Speedballs, played at the high school dance and dedicated a song to Alice Bastiani. It was a number that Jeff Buckley sang, but I think someone else wrote it. ‘Hallelujah’ it’s called, like those religious things. There were a lot of kids who didn’t know who Alice Bastiani was. And when I told my parents, they thought it was normal that no one knew anything about it, and that in fact it was inappropriate to dedicate a song to her, because in the end it’s something that happened a long time ago. It’s that kind of attitude that I just don’t get.”

  “Besides that, it’s a beautiful song.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Anyway, the one who wrote it is Leonard Cohen.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “What?”

  “That they dedicated a song to a girl who . . . I mean, Alice was your girlfriend, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He smiles. “And I think she would have liked the Speedballs.”

  “They’re not that great, but they make a big racket and the singer isn’t so bad.”

  “And Alice’s brother, Sandro, do you know him?”

  A question Chiara wasn’t expecting. “He’s a junkie. The hard stuff too. He’s been in a lot of hot water, thefts and things like that. He lives in that house that’s falling apart, with his mother. Apparently she doesn’t leave her room anymore. She’s a mess, no longer in her right mind.”

  “And him?”

  “I don’t know, is there something in particular you want to know?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “That won’t be difficult. You know the Fuorimano, the pub on the other side of the Aurelia?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s usually there in the afternoon. He plays the slot machines, drinks one Campari after another, and waits for evening to shoot up. If you catch him soon, you’ll be able to talk to him, later he starts getting too drunk.”

  They stay there a while longer. Chiara hands him an earbud, and they listen to a few Coldplay songs together as the sun gets even hotter. Unfortunately, there are no more cigarettes. Chris’s voice, however, is interrupted by the arrival of a text. It’s Valentina.

  She slaughtered us.

  Chiara realizes that it’s twelve thirty. The message just arrived, maybe the phone was out of range.

  “I think I’d better go.”

  “Isn’t it too early for a student who went to school?”

  “I have to go catch the bus to arrive home on time, and the bus stop is far away.”

  “I can’t give you a ride. I came on foot.”

  “No problem.”

  Chiara gets up and puts on her jacket, but it’s hot and she doesn’t zip it up. She slings the backpack over one shoulder, waves good-bye, and starts walking. After a few steps, however, she turns to Enrico.

  “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Sure.”

  “I think it would have been fun to be your girlfriend.”

  “You would have had a free pizza every morning.”

  Chiara smiles and continues walking. She knows Enrico may be following her with his eyes so she tries to walk properly, without dragging her feet as she usually does.

  And she’s right. Enrico watches her as she walks away. Usually he can never see any resemblance between parents and their children, but he thinks she seems to have something of Betti, although he couldn’t say what exactly. He tries to enjoy the sun a little longer before going to look for Sandro. He has to do it. He has to find out if there are things he doesn’t know, because there’s still that question, which he never spoke about to anyone.

  He remembers it so clearly; the sky was turning dark and there was the sound of that car door closing. A stupid argument. Alice had changed her mind and said she wouldn’t go to live with him. Everything was all set, he’d wanted to tell her. That summer he had arrived a little late because he had found an apartment with a terrace, for outdoor suppers the way she liked it. He’d wanted to tell her about that. That, and a lot of other plans he’d come up with, trips and things they could do together. But something in her had changed and he didn’t know what it was. Then the question that had popped out just like that, without his ever intending it: Is there someone else?

  There was a time when he was actually certain of it. At other times, however, he’d had the impression that she was offended by the accusation, and had stormed out of the car for that reason. Eventually, though, he realized that the only real fact was that she had never answered the question. Should he have told someone? But who? That marshal who was itching to smash in his face because of some marijuana? And what would he have said?

  He’d carried it with him, locked inside somewhere.

  Was that what the message sent from Alice’s number was referring to? Was that what he didn’t know? Was there a chance that Alice had spoken to her brother about something like that?

  Enrico was sure of one thing at least. This time he wasn’t leaving without knowing all the answers.

  Three

  “I hope Rigoni kicks your ass Monday, because today you dodged something really hellacious.”

  On the bus Valentina slides over to the window to make room for Chiara, handing her an earbud so they can listen to the same song as they talk. Lana Del Rey welcomes her back with “Born to Die,” which by now Valentina is categorically obsessed with. They wait for the end of the song in an almost liturgical silence, as its last mournful notes fade out.

  “I met Enrico Sarti at the beach,” Chiara says as soon as Vale’s playlist moves on to the next selection, “Back to Black” by Amy Winehouse, which she isn’t interested in hearing.

  “The guy who was at your parents’ for dinner last night?”

  “Yeah, him. Alice’s boyfriend.”

  “Did you talk about the murder?”

  Amy starts singing, but Vale also seems more interested in other things.

  “That too.”

  “Awesome!”

  “Not so much.”

  “Meaning?”

  “All in all, he’s a normal guy with a huge guilt complex. He seemed sad more than anything else. But in a . . . how should I put it . . . sweet way.”

  “He’s sad, in other words, sweet, there on the beach . . . Kia, did you fuck him?”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Nothing, I just want to know, so I’ll at least understand what follows better.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, okay, it was just to get the whole picture.”

  “There’s nothing to get. We talked about a few things and we had lunch. That’s all.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “Not even a blow job?”

  This time she can’t help it and bursts out laughing. A woman with a somewhat weary look turns toward them. Her expression says “I really wish you would stop that,” but that only makes it more fun.

  Chiara gets off at her stop, like any normal day, and walks home, down the street with the little houses, one next to the other, each with a small garden and flower pots and a lawn and a doormat that says “WELCOME.” When she arrives at her house, she sees her parents getting out of the car. They don’t no
tice her. Her mother is walking swiftly, head down. She does that when she’s really pissed off. Chiara hides behind a parked car. Her father follows Betti. He too seems all worked up. She’s busted. They called the school and they know everything. Shit. Now what?

  She approaches the house, trying to stay hidden behind the low wall. She hears the door slam and sees them in the kitchen. They’re arguing. She has to know what they’re saying. If they caught her, she’ll call Valentina and disappear somewhere. Otherwise they’ll keep her home all weekend, and she has to go out with Gibo tonight. She runs around the house and enters through the back gate. She reaches the French doors to the kitchen, but they’re locked from the inside. She dashes back around the house to the front door. Her parents are a few steps away, but inside.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” her father is saying. “I won’t have you making a scene when I’m at work. If you have something to say to me, wait till I come home and tell me. You have to stop acting like a hysteric.”

  “Last night you still weren’t home at four a.m. I took the pills because I had an anxiety attack, and this morning you weren’t here. I tried calling you everywhere, but you didn’t answer, and now you’re telling me I shouldn’t ask where the fuck you spent the night?”

  “I came home and you were sleeping. I was with Enrico.”

  “You weren’t with Enrico. Don’t bullshit me.”

  Betti must be losing it to talk like that. The good news is that they’re not talking about her and school. But she doesn’t go in yet. She knows that if she opens the door, they will stop fighting, and she wants to know what’s going on.

  “Listen to me, Betti. You have to calm down. I was with Enrico and he told me something. So I had a few things to do. It’s something important.”

  “What?”

  “I brought him the stuff he had left at the house, remember? Among all those things was his phone. I didn’t remember it, but he turned it on and saw that someone had sent him two messages after the funeral, from Alice’s phone.”

  Silence.

  Chiara does her best to squeeze between the front door and the kitchen window to avoid being seen.

  “What does it mean?” her mother asks.

  “That someone had Alice’s phone.”

  “Alice’s phone?”

  “You heard me.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But is it the phone that . . .”

  “That’s the one, Betti.”

  “And someone found it?”

  “Apparently.”

  “That’s not possible, I . . .”

  “Betti, it’s true.”

  Silence.

  “Who?”

  “Sandro, maybe,” her father says.

  “Sandro?”

  “The other day Enrico spotted someone in the garden, and before I got there I saw Sandro’s car. When Enrico told me about the messages, I asked the security agency to increase the patrols to the area. And last night the security guard on duty caught Sandro in the car, spying on Enrico’s house again. When he saw the guard, he drove off, but the guy got his license plate number.”

  Silence again. Chiara isn’t able to see them from where she’s crouched. But she hears the sound of a cabinet door opening, glasses, water running in the sink.

  “Is Enrico worried?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’d just like to know what that junkie wants from him.”

  “You couldn’t have been talking to the agency until four a.m.”

  “Actually, I took a little drive afterward. I needed to think. It’s not so inconceivable that Enrico’s return stirred things up for me a bit, is it?”

  “You think you’re the only one?”

  “No, but that makes no difference.”

  Silence. Chiara is still holding her breath.

  “I’ll start the water for the pasta,” Betti says. “Chiara will be home any minute. Let’s try to calm down.”

  The clatter of dishes, tap water running into the pot, drawers and cabinet doors slamming, cutlery brought to the table. They don’t say anything more. Chiara opens the door.

  “Be right there,” she says, running up the stairs.

  “The pasta will be ready in fifteen minutes!” her mother shouts after her.

  Chiara goes to her room and shuts the door behind her. She grabs her iPhone and brings up WhatsApp to send a message to Margherita.

  Ciao, Marghe, you’re missing something. Enrico Sarti, the guy Alice was going with, is back in town. I think he’s here to sell the house or something like that. This morning I met him on the beach and we talked. He’s a nice guy, we had lunch together.

  Maybe it’s best to leave out the part about the beach for now. She deletes the last two sentences and begins again.

  It seems that Sandro, Alice’s brother, is spying on him. They caught him around his house a few times. Apparently, it has to do with a couple of messages that Enrico received from Alice’s phone after she died. I heard the old folks talking about it. They don’t know I heard them. It sounds as if Sandro wants something.

  And this morning when she met Enrico, he in fact asked her about Sandro. Those two will meet and something will happen, but that’s more complicated to write because of the beach where she shouldn’t have been.

  The old fogeys seem very worried. If you ask me, there’s something serious going on. Gotta go now, Mom is already freaking out as it is over this thing, and if the pasta gets cold on the table, it’s the end of the world. I’ll keep you posted. I feel like I’m in that DVD series you let me watch, remember? The one with the girl they find dead on the shore and then that guy comes to town and investigates?

  She brings up Google because she can’t remember the title. The girl’s name was Laura Palmer. Found it.

  Twin Peaks, remember? The guy who in the end was a demon who took possession of people and controlled them and made them do all those things . . . As soon as a dwarf who speaks backward appears, I’ll let you know. XXX.

  She goes downstairs. Her parents are in the kitchen. They smile at her. The pasta is on the table, and the whole scene reminds her of one of those commercials where the family is smiling happily around a bowl of steaming pasta, which the mother places on the table, and everyone looks on, excited, as if they hadn’t eaten for a month.

  “How was school this morning?” Betti asks.

  “The usual.”

  But she has the feeling that if she had told them a classmate had pulled out a bazooka and staged a massacre, the effect would have been the same. Her parents seem distracted. Usually when her mother, who is the weird one, acts like that, she and her father look at each other and laugh. But this time it’s different. He too seems worried. Something’s wrong in the pasta commercial.

  “So then,” Betti asks again, “how was school this morning?”

  Something is definitely wrong.

  Four

  There are three rows, each composed of five slots that fill from time to time with oranges, pineapples, cherries, watermelons, and various colored letters. The crushed fruit is the joker and doubles each time someone wins. The farmer is the only figure that moves, and he has a shit-eating grin that makes you want to stick him in a filthy toilet and flush him down, just to wipe away that asshole smile. There are numerous winning combinations, but for Sandro Bastiani, the only victory is when, with twenty euros worth of tokens, he is able to pass the time with some Campari and a couple of cigarettes.

  The dirty ashtray is sitting on the machine, the glass next to it. His hands move over the keys to decide on what to bet and choose which slots to keep and which to spin. His fingernails are black, and if his hands stay still too long, they start to shake. The heroin craving starts in the early afternoon, not long after his coffee, but it’s too early. The nightmares have to be kept at bay for a while longer. He has to wait a few more hours in order to spend a quiet night. Otherwise he w
ill need another ride on the merry-go-round to face the night, and his supply is running out and won’t be replenished until Tuesday. Twenty euros worth of tokens, ten euros to cover three Camparis and a bag of peanuts, he has cigarettes for tonight, and all he has to do is wait for the hours to slip away as painlessly as possible until it’s time to shoot up.

  Perched on the stool in front of the slot machine, Sandro resembles a scarecrow. He’s wearing a tight black leather jacket, to protect him from a cold that comes from within and doesn’t let up. Filthy jeans that are now too big for what’s left of him. Shoes untied because of the tormenting pain in his feet.

  He tries to stay far enough away from the luminous screen so as not to spot his reflection, because every time he sees it, it scares him. He’s a bad X-ray of Alessandro as he used to be, of whom nothing remains but some expired leftovers.

  The room with the slot machines is a small space with yellowish, smoke-filmed walls and the indelible stench of sour sweat. There is a door leading to the back that lets the cold in, along with the continuous smack of a deflated ball thrown against a wall by a boy who has nothing else to do, and the afternoon light that has begun to turn orange.

  Tonight there are some additional worries to chase off with oranges, pineapples, cherries, watermelons, and various colored letters that revolve and spin away. Enrico Sarti is back and Sandro wants to see how he is. Whether time had destroyed him too, or whether the only one left shattered is the inveterate, psychedelic gambler of Happy Farm here.

  Three smiling pineapples reload some credits. The farmer cheers, waving his straw hat and pitchfork. The boy’s ball keeps slamming against the wall, the cold creeps in, the Campari is finished, and all that remains is the orange slice to suck on, as the farm’s merry little tune funnels away the minutes, one after the other.

  But the finale comes soon. And it’s unexpected. It appears behind him, gliding through the door silently, the way ghosts always do.

  “Hello, Sandro.”

  Enrico has found him.

  The last slot is still spinning—with a cherry, three of a kind would recharge some credits—but it’s no use: just a watermelon. The farmer’s face is aggrieved, the button for the stakes and the one to activate the slots begin flashing in turn.