Rocco didn’t like the priest’s tone of voice. It was clear that this shepherd of souls placed no trust in him or in the officers who were with him. Certainly, when he thought of Deruta and D’Intino, how could he blame this minister of God? Still, the irony that veined the priest’s voice was starting to irritate him.
“We’ve seen them at work, no? The deputy police chief and his dauntless officers.”
Now the priest was taking it too far. But Rocco stood motionless, listening with his arms folded across his chest, the eyes of the entire community focused on him.
“Perhaps now and again they employ methods that are somewhat unorthodox, our guardians of law and order . . .”
Rocco shot a glance at the postmaster, who bowed his head. The little man had gone and spilled the beans to the priest about the slap in the face.
Piece of shit, Rocco thought to himself.
“But we also know that the path to the truth is paved at times with hardships and pitfalls.”
He was tempted to break in and give the priest a piece of his mind, but he was playing on a hostile field. And after all, an open quarrel in the middle of a funeral sermon struck even him as out of line.
“And so we place our faith in them, certain that as soon as possible we shall have results. Am I right?”
This time he’d addressed him personally. The echo of the question amplified through the microphone was accompanied by the rustling of every head in the church turning to look at him. Rocco Schiavone smiled and cleared his throat. “You are right, Padre,” he replied. “Much sooner than you might expect.”
The priest bowed his head ever so slightly, looked out at his flock, and went on. “Luisa has asked to say a few words about our brother Leone,” he said, stepping back from the microphone just as Luisa Pec was standing up from her seat. She walked to the lectern amid general silence. She had dark circles under her eyes. A black sweater and a pair of jeans were her mourning attire. Luisa took a deep breath and began.
“Leone isn’t a Catholic.”
A murmur ran through the church.
“Excuse me. He wasn’t a Catholic. And this funeral was held at the devout insistence of the Miccichè family, with my support, because even though I have personally embraced another religion, I still feel strong ties to my original roots.”
What the fuck, thought Rocco, but he said nothing. Even if he was an atheist, he still remembered that he was in a church.
“The words that Don Giorgio has given us here today were beautiful and heartfelt. And it’s true, a funeral is helpful—it’s a balm to the soul. A person might think that by sharing their sorrow with others they will suffer less. But that’s not how it is. Grief, like everything, is subjective. It has various layers; everyone knows that and experiences grief differently.” She cleared her throat. But it wasn’t an emotional knot in her throat; very simply, some saliva had gone down the wrong way. “Leone was my husband. And I’m carrying his child. That is why . . .”
“Stop right there!” shouted Rocco, freezing the entire churchful of people to the spot. Padre Giorgio opened his eyes wide. Everyone turned their heads to stare at the deputy police chief. Luisa, too, stopped speaking and clutched at the microphone. “Just one thing, Luisa. Please stick to the truth, grazie.” Then Rocco nodded his head as if to say, “You can go on,” and sat waiting.
All heads now swiveled in Luisa Pec’s direction. “But I am speaking the truth!”
“There’s only one person here who knows the truth,” said Rocco, and once again the congregation all turned to look at him. It was like watching the Wimbledon finals. “For those who believe—and we’re talking about Truth with a capital T—we have Don Giorgio,” and he pointed to the priest. “While for those who are less demanding, like me, those who believe only in what they can see and understand, in that case the repository of that truth, that truth with a lowercase t, I mean, well, in that case, they have me.”
“Please, Mr. Deputy Police Chief, we’re in the house of the Lord,” Don Giorgio broke in.
“That’s just the point, Padre. Here, of all places, and in the presence of Leone’s coffin, lies are an abomination, and nothing but the truth should be spoken. You said so yourself only a little while ago. Leone was murdered. Everyone here knows it—we all know it. And God knows it better than any of us. I know it, too. The only difference is that, unlike the rest of you, I know who did it.”
A buzz of excited conversation rushed through the pews lining the center aisle. Heads swiveled excitedly to get a better glimpse, to speak to a neighbor. Till that moment, the audience had been calm and relaxed, sober in its grief, like the surface of a calm lake. But suddenly, swept by shivers of curiosity, that smooth surface had been broken and small jets of spray and foaming waves sprang up. Officer Pierron, who now understood, backed up and left the church, hurrying outside. Omar Borghetti looked around, speaking in a low voice into the ear of his cross-eyed colleague, who was shaking his head. Annarita was clutching her husband’s arm, eagerly gobbling up every detail with her eyes, ears, and nose, noting words, movements, and even smells. Amedeo Gunelli was staring at the deputy police chief, terrified that Rocco Schiavone might suddenly speak his name and place him at the center of attention.
“This is no place to hold a trial. This is a place of prayer,” thundered the priest, and his voice rose all the way to the ceiling, where a triumphant Christ spread his arms to gather in the souls of the innocent.
“Certainly, Padre. Certainly. And in that case, by all means, pray. But don’t say things that have nothing to do with the truth.”
Now the audience was divided, unsure whether to stare at the widow, Rocco, or Padre Giorgio.
Luisa moved away from the pulpit and sat down again. Rocco leaned against the column and folded his arms across his chest. By rights, Padre Giorgio had the floor once again, and he slowly walked to the altar, followed by the altar boy, swinging the censer on a chain, wafting clouds of incense over poor Leone’s coffin. But the audience continued to murmur. Suddenly out of that thicket of voices, one more powerful than all the rest made itself heard: “So who was it?”
“Yes, we want to know. Who was it?”
An elderly gentleman rose to his feet. “I’m an old man, and there’s one thing I know for sure. Certainly the church is a place of prayer, that’s true. But it’s also a place of community. And the community wants to know. Who did this? I want to know—we all want to know!”
Padre Giorgio froze, caught off guard. He looked out at his congregation, and he looked at Rocco. The altar boy stood there, with the chain holding the censer dangling in his hand, the plume of incense smoke rising straight up toward the ceiling. “Please, Ignazio,” said Padre Giorgio to the old man, “please! We’re here to remember Leone, not to hold a trial.”
But the elderly Ignazio wasn’t giving up that easily. “Padre, the best way to honor Leone’s memory is to throw whoever murdered him behind bars. Just a short while ago, you thanked the police for the work they’ve done. Well, here’s a representative of the law who tells us that he knows who took Leone’s life. If there’s one thing that’s sacred, it’s life. God alone can take a life. And if that sinner is here in our midst, well, let me tell you from the bottom of my heart: he has no right to be here in the house of the Lord!”
“True!”
“Very true! Bravo, Ignazio!”
“Take the wine away from him!” called a voice from the choir.
At that point Rocco spoke up, doing his best to calm the audience with both hands. “Padre Giorgio is right: this is poor Leone’s funeral. It’s not the place to hold a trial. Please, Padre, go on with the service and please excuse me. And I beg all of you to forgive me for my inappropriate outburst.” Then, just as he had entered, Rocco left the church, but this time without having to use his voice to clear his way, because the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
“Dottor Schiavone!” Padre Giorgio’s voice echoed like the trumpet of the
Last Judgment. “Do you know who did it?”
Rocco stopped. He turned to face the altar. The eyes of the audience were hundreds of pinpoints fixed on his face. He was about to answer the priest when a woman’s voice caught everyone’s attention. “Excuse me. Can I get through? Excuse me.” Now the audience turned around to look back at the church doors. The Wimbledon finals were still under way. “Excuse me, let me through.” And at last, among the faithful, standing by the doors, they saw the uniform and the tense face of Inspector Caterina Rispoli. The instant she realized that there were hundreds of people staring at her, she blushed. Her eyes sought those of Rocco, who was standing just a few yards away from her. “Everyone please forgive me. Dottore?”
The woman handed the deputy police chief an envelope. The priest stood there, waiting for an answer to his question. Rocco opened the envelope and read the contents amid general silence. Then he looked up toward the altar, at Padre Giorgio. “Yes, Padre, I know. And the guilty parties are right here, in the house of the Lord, where—as Ignazio said—they don’t belong. Though, actually, as far as I’m concerned, they’re perfectly welcome to be here, but I think that for the faithful, like Ignazio, it’s grossly offensive. No?”
“Who are they?!” shouted an impatient voice, unable to remain silent a minute longer.
He could hear the breathing and the sighs; he could sense the tension in the eyes and nerves of that entire levelheaded, hardworking community raised to an extreme level. Amedeo Gunelli turned his head to look at his neighbors; the postmaster sat with both hands over his mouth. Signor and Signora Miccichè were now on their feet, glaring at the crowd in an accusatory manner. Annarita kept her eyes on the floor and shook her head slowly back and forth. Rocco retraced his footsteps, followed now by Inspector Rispoli. As he headed for the altar, he walked past Omar Borghetti. He stopped. The man turned pale. But Rocco held out his hand to shake Omar’s. “I owe you an apology.”
Omar smiled faintly. “No problem, Dottore. The slap in the face was to get a sample of my blood, wasn’t it?”
Rocco nodded and went on walking as Omar heaved a sigh of relief and his cross-eyed co-worker slapped him several times on the back. The deputy police chief went past Signor and Signora Miccichè. He went past the priest as the eyes of the faithful clung to him like so many hungry bloodsuckers. Hundreds of eyes, eyes that were about to have their curiosity satisfied. Not even at the penalty shoot-out between Italy and France in the 2006 World Cup Final had Rocco sensed such tension. He stopped in front of Luisa Pec. He looked at her. Then, with a slow, one-handed gesture, he said, “Please come with me.”
Luisa’s eyes opened wide. The priest clutched at the microphone, and a chorus of shrill whistles broke the surreal silence. Domenico Miccichè turned pale. His wife collapsed into her pew. The faithful, as if complying with a specific command from a choreographer, all clapped their hands to their mouths. Luisa slowly stood up. She nodded twice, then slowly trailed after the policemen. Rocco shot an accusatory glare at Annarita, then walked around to the opposite side of the aisle. When he got to the middle, he stopped once again. Again, silence. The only sounds came in from the street: a bus horn and, in the distance, a child’s joyful cry. Rocco looked at Amedeo Gunelli, whose jaw dropped in fright. Then the policeman swiveled his gaze over to Luigi Bionaz, the head snowcat operator. “Luigi Bionaz, would you please be so good as to come with me.”
Luigi looked anxiously around at his neighbors. “Are you crazy or what?”
“Signor Bionaz, please don’t force me to use methods that would be far worse than cursing in church.”
“I . . .”
But now there was a vacuum around Luigi. It was as if he were infected with the plague, and even Amedeo slid his ass down the bench, a good yard away from his former employer and benefactor. “None of this makes any sense. I wouldn’t have . . . Leone and I were friends!”
“Take a lesson from the widow,” whispered Rocco. “You can come tell us about your motives at police headquarters. Move it!”
Luigi stood up. Everyone in the pew snapped to attention, standing up to allow him to file out. Slowly, and without the traditional excuse-me’s, he made his way, walking sideways past his colleagues and townsfolk. But no one said a word, no one patted his arm in solidarity. Nothing. They simply stood and watched him walk toward the deputy police chief in the most absolute silence. “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” said Luigi.
“That’s certainly your right.”
At last Luigi emerged from the pew and started walking toward the exit, along with Luisa, Rocco, and Inspector Rispoli. A few steps before he reached the wooden double doors, Rocco stopped and turned to look back at the priest and the congregation. “I’m not in the habit of doing this kind of thing. But you asked me to.” He nodded his head farewell to the audience and left the house of God without crossing himself.
Italo had managed to inch the car to within sixty feet or so of the front steps of the church. Behind him was the squad car, with Casella at the wheel; this was the car in which Inspector Rispoli had come up. The people outside had no idea what was happening. In particular, why the widow and Luigi were leaving the church before the coffin had. But news spread like an ebola outbreak, and when Rocco and Luisa climbed into the police BMW, and Luigi Bionaz and Rispoli got into the squad car driven by Casella, even the people who had been standing outside understood and began whispering, round-eyed and incredulous. Onlookers started snapping pictures with their phones, while others just stood scratching their heads. They clustered around the police cars like moths around a lamp at night. Rocco looked at them through the windshield. “Go, Italo. Let’s get out of here.”
Italo put the car in gear, and the cluster of men and women parted to let them through. To add a little drama to the scene, or perhaps just because regulations technically required it, Casella turned on the siren. Rocco picked up the radio handset and immediately called the squad car behind them. “Casella, either you turn off that siren or I’ll shove it down your throat.”
Not even a second later, the siren faded away, and at last Rocco could smoke a Camel in blessed peace.
“Couldn’t you have waited until we got him to the graveyard?” asked Luisa.
“If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have even let you get into that church. But I got there too late,” Rocco replied. “And now I’d appreciate a golden silence until we get down to Aosta,” he said as he took a drag on his cigarette and spat the stream of smoke out the aperture atop the window he’d lowered half an inch.
The chief of police seemed giddy as he went on paying compliments to Rocco Schiavone, unable to stop. “Not even enough time to finish the funeral before you’d nailed them both!”
“Thanks, Chief,” replied Rocco, trying to change the subject, but the chief insisted. The receiver was hot and sweaty. Rocco undid the top two buttons of his shirt. The chief had already called a press conference despite the late hour; he wanted to finally crow about his victory to “those guys” from the press; he wanted to annihilate them, to crush underfoot their chatter and their skepticism with undeniable results; he wanted to scoff at newsprint that was only good for lining birdcages the next day. And he wanted Rocco to take part. But that was the last thing Rocco wanted to do. Spotlights gave him worse acid than even the most indigestible meal.
He used every tactic at his disposal to worm out of that situation, until Corsi finally issued a peremptory command. “Schiavone! I expect you to be present at that press conference in exactly twenty minutes.”
“Shitty line of work,” snarled the deputy police chief as he jabbed as hard as he could on the red OFF button. And the usual unpleasant sensation of guilt descended over his senses, his weary, chilled-to-the-bone body. This was how it always was. Every time he wrapped up a case, he felt filthy, foul, in need of a shower or a couple of days away. As if he were the murderer. As if it were somehow his fault that those two idiots had killed Leone. It’s just that you can’t touch horror without b
ecoming part of it. And he knew that. He necessarily had to plunge his hands into that viscous slime, into that disgusting swamp, if he wanted to catch crocodiles. And in order to do so, he was inevitably obliged to transform himself into a creature of those unclean places. He had to get dirty. Mud became his abode, the stench of decay his deodorant. But the marsh—with dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, the venomous snakes, the gray sand that so resembled an elephant’s diarrhea—Rocco just couldn’t find any way of bringing himself to like it. It was the ugliest, darkest part of his life, and going back there was painful and exhausting. And all this—the investigations, the murders and the murderers, the falsehoods—it all forced him to reexamine his reckonings. He, who was struggling to leave behind the ugliest things he’d lived through. Who was trying to forget the evil committed and the evil received. The blood, the screams, the dead—who presented themselves behind his eyelids every time he shut his eyes. Every time he had someone like Luisa Pec or Luigi Bionaz in front of him. Sons of bitches, filthy individuals, the fauna to be found in those swamps. Who dragged him down with them, down into the quicksand of life, forcing him back into the swamps. And it was worse than a nightmare. Because there’s one good thing about nightmares: they usually vanish in the first light of dawn. But the swamp was always there. Real, tangible, alive, and pernicious. Awaiting him. In the swamp, Rocco Schiavone was no different from all the others. No better and no worse. In the swamp, the boundary between good and evil, between right and wrong, no longer exists. And there are no nuances in the swamp. Either you plunge in headfirst or you stay out. There is no middle ground.
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