Temporary Perfections
( Guido Guerrieri - 4 )
Gianrico Carofiglio
Gianrico Carofiglio
Temporary Perfections
1.
It all began with an innocent phone call from an old college classmate.
Sabino Fornelli is a civil lawyer. If one of his clients runs into criminal problems, Sabino calls and gives me the case. Then he washes his hands of it. Like many civil lawyers, he thinks of the criminal court system as a dangerous and disreputable place. He tries to steer clear of it.
One March afternoon, while I was absorbed in an appeal I was scheduled to argue the following day before the Court of Cassation, I received a call from Sabino Fornelli. We hadn’t spoken in months.
“Ciao, Guerrieri, how are you?”
“Fine, how about you?”
“Same as ever. My son’s doing a semester abroad, in the U.S.”
“Great. Wonderful idea, that’ll be a memorable experience.”
“It’s been a memorable experience for me, certainly. My wife’s been driving me crazy since the day he left. She’s been worried sick about him.”
We went back and forth for a few more minutes, exchanging the usual platitudes, and then he got to the point of his call: Two clients of his wanted to see me about a sensitive and urgent matter. He spoke the words “sensitive and urgent” in a hushed voice that struck me as slightly ridiculous. The most serious case Fornelli had referred to me so far was a dramatic little affair involving obscenities and insults, a beating, and a breaking-and-entering charge.
Basically, given our past history, I couldn’t take it too seriously when Sabino Fornelli called any case he sent my way “sensitive and urgent.”
“I’m going to Rome tomorrow, Sabino, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back. The next day is Saturday.” I glanced quickly at my appointment book. “Ask them to stop by late on Monday, some time after eight. What’s the case?”
He didn’t speak for a moment.
“Fine, some time after eight. I’m going to come, too. We’ll tell you all about it in person. That’ll be easier.”
Now it was my turn not to speak for a moment. Fornelli had never come to my office with any of his referrals. I was about to ask him why he was doing it this time, and why he couldn’t tell me anything over the phone, but something stopped me. Instead, I just said that it was fine and I’d expect them in my office at 8:30 on Monday. Then we both hung up.
I sat there for a minute, wondering what this was about. I couldn’t think of an explanation, so I went back to my appeal.
2.
I like appearing before the Court of Cassation in Rome. It’s Italy’s highest court, and the judges are almost always well informed. They rarely fall asleep during hearings, and the chief magistrates, with the occasional exception, are courteous, even when they’re ordering you to keep it short and not to waste the court’s time.
The Court of Cassation is different from the criminal courts and especially the appellate courts. When you appear before the Court of Cassation, you feel you’re in an orderly world, part of a justice system that works. That’s just a feeling, of course, because the world is not orderly and justice is not served. Still, it’s a nice feeling to have, and I’m usually in a good mood when I have to argue a case before the Court of Cassation, even though it means I have to get up earlier than usual.
It was a beautiful day, chilly and bright. The airplane took off and landed on time, defying the prevailing pessimistic expectations about air travel.
During the taxi ride from the airport to the courthouse, I had an unusual experience. The cab was just pulling away from the terminal when I noticed a dozen or so paperbacks piled on the passenger seat. I’m always curious to see which books people have in their homes, so I was even more curious about these books, found unexpectedly in the front seat of a cab. I glanced at the covers. There were a couple of mass-market detective novels, but also Simenon’s Red Lights, Fenoglio’s A Private Affair, and even a book of poetry by Garcia Lorca.
“What are you doing with those books?”
“I read them, between fares.”
Fair enough-a stupid question deserves a short answer. What does anyone do with books but read them?
“I asked because it’s a little… unusual to see books in a taxi, especially so many of them.”
“That’s not true, actually. Lots of cab drivers like to read.”
He spoke an almost unaccented Italian, and he seemed to choose his words deliberately. He handled his words with caution, as if they were delicate-even slightly dangerous-objects. As if they were razor sharp.
“I’m sure you’re right. But you have a whole library up there.”
“That’s because I like to read several books at once. I switch depending on my mood. So I bring a lot of books with me, and then I forget to take home the ones I finish, and before you know it I’ve got a whole pile of them.”
“I like to read several books at once, too. What are you reading now?”
“A Simenon novel. One reason I like it is that part of it takes place in a car, and I spend all my time in a car. That helps me appreciate it. Also, some Garcia Lorca poems. I really like poetry, but it’s pretty challenging. And when I’m tired, I read that one.” He pointed at one of the mass-market mysteries. He named neither the title nor the author of the last book, and rightly so, I thought. I felt as if there were a complete aesthetic-precise, incisive, and well-defined-in the way he had discussed, and tacitly classified, his current reading list. I liked that. I tried to get a look at his face, from the elusive glances I caught of his profile as he drove and from his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was about thirty-five and pale, with a hint of shyness to his eyes.
“How did you become such an avid reader?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.”
“Until I was twenty-eight, I’d never picked up a book in my life outside of school. And I had a speech defect: I stuttered. I had a very bad stutter. You know, a stutter can ruin your life.”
I nodded. Then I realized he couldn’t see me.
“Yes, I can imagine. But you speak perfectly,” I said. As I said it, though, I thought of his cautious way of speaking, the way he handled the words with care.
“After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to see a speech therapist, and I took a course to get rid of my stutter. During the course we read books aloud.”
“And that’s how you got started?”
“Yes, that’s how I discovered books. I finished the course, but I kept on reading. People say everything happens for a reason. Maybe I stuttered because I was meant to discover books. I don’t know. But now my life is completely different from the way it used to be. I can’t even remember how I used to spend my days.”
“Well, that’s a great story. I wish something like that would happen to me.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you like to read?”
“No, no, I love it. It’s probably my favorite thing. What I meant was I wish my life would change in some fantastic way like yours did.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. We were quiet as the car sped along the bus-and-taxi lane of the Via Ostiense.
We made it all the way to Piazza Cavour without hitting traffic once. My friend the book-reading cabbie stopped the car, turned off the ignition, and turned around to look at me. I thought he was about to tell me how much I owed him. I reached for my wallet.
“I’m reminded of a Paul Valery quote.”
“Yes?”
“It goes something like, ‘The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.’ ”
We sat there for a
few seconds, looking at one another. There was something more complex than shyness in the man’s eyes. It was as if he were accustomed to fear, and he had disciplined himself to control that fear, in the knowledge that it would always be with him, waiting. I think my eyes displayed astonishment. I tried to remember if I’d ever read anything by Valery. I wasn’t sure.
“I thought that line might help you, considering what you just said. About change. I don’t know if other people feel this way, but I like to share the things I read. When I repeat a line that I’ve read, or an idea, or a verse, I sort of feel a little as if I were the author. I love that.”
He said the last few words almost as if he were apologizing. As if he had realized that he might have been a little pushy. I hastened to reassure him.
“Thanks very much. I’ve done the same thing since I was a boy. But I don’t think I could have described it so clearly and so well.”
Before I got out of the car, I shook hands with him. As I was heading off for my appointment, I knew I would rather have stayed there, talking about books and other things. I was at least an hour early. I knew every detail of the case, and there was no need to go over my papers, so I decided to go for a walk. I crossed the Tiber, making my way over the Ponte Cavour. The river water was greenish yellow, glittering with quicksilver flashes of light, a delight to behold. There weren’t many people around, only the occasional muffled sounds of cars and faint voices-background noises. I had the powerful and wonderfully irrational impression that this almost complete silence had been imposed for my own personal enjoyment. Someone said that moments of happiness take us by surprise and sometimes-often-go completely unnoticed. We only realize that we were happy afterward, which is pretty stupid. As I was walking toward the Ara Pacis, a memory from many years ago came to me.
I was studying for my exams with two friends, shortly before I was to graduate. In fact, the three of us had become friends because we studied together, wrote our theses at the same time, and graduated in the same class. These are things that create a bond, at least for a while, in certain cases. We were actually very different and had little in common, starting with our plans for the future. That is, they had plans for the future, while I didn’t. They had decided to study law because they wanted to become magistrates, without a shadow of a doubt, with relentless determination. I had enrolled to study law because I didn’t know what else to do.
I had mixed feelings about their determination. Part of me looked down on it. I thought my friends had narrow outlooks and predictable aspirations. But another part of me envied them their unambiguous plans, their clear vision of a desirable future. It was something I didn’t really understand, something I failed to grasp, and which seemed to offer comfort. An antidote to the lurking anxiety that tinged my unfocused vision of the world.
Right after graduating, without even taking a real vacation, they immediately applied themselves seriously to studying for the magistrates exam. I applied myself seriously to wasting time. I spent my days as an intern in a civil law firm, a waste of time, and I fantasized about taking courses at foreign universities, though what kind of courses they might be remained vague. I was considering enrolling in the department of literature. I was pondering the idea of writing a novel that would change both my life and the lives of its large audience of readers, though luckily I never wrote a single page. In other words, I had my feet firmly on the ground and a head filled with clear ideas.
Because of these clear ideas, when the magistrates examination was announced, I decided on the spur of the moment that I would apply to take the test, too. When I told Andrea and Sergio, we shared a moment of odd, slightly embarrassing silence. Then they asked me what on earth I was thinking, since they knew perfectly well that I hadn’t cracked a book since the day I’d received my degree. I told them I planned to study for the three months leading up to the written exam and give it a shot. Maybe, while I studied for that exam, I’d figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
I really did try to study during those few months, secretly cherishing the hope of a stroke of luck, a shortcut, a magical solution. The lazy man’s dream.
Then, one February morning, in the middle of the stupid decade of the 1980s, Andrea Colaianni, Sergio Carofiglio, and Guido Guerrieri set off in Andrea’s father’s old Alfa Romeo. They headed to Rome to take a battery of written examinations for the position of entry-level magistrate in the Italian judiciary.
I remember bits and pieces of that trip to Rome, an assortment of images-gas stations, an espresso and a cigarette and a piss, half an hour of impressively hard rain high in the Apennines-but the only memory I have of the whole episode is a feeling of lightness, an absence of responsibility. I had studied a little, but I hadn’t really made an investment, not the way my friends had. I had nothing to lose, and if I failed to pass, as was all too likely, no one could call me a failure.
“Why are you doing this, anyway, Guerrieri?” Andrea asked me again as we drove, after turning down the car stereo. We were listening to a mix tape I’d made for the trip; songs like “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?,” “I Don’t Want to Talk About It,” “Love Letters in the Sand,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Time Passages.” When Andrea asked me that question, I believe Billy Joel was playing “Piano Man.”
“I don’t really know. It’s a shot in the dark, a game, whatever. Of course, even if I luck out, I don’t think I’ll see being a magistrate as my mission in life. I don’t have your burning ambition.”
It was the kind of thing that drove Andrea crazy, because it was right on target.
“What the fuck does that mean? What does burning ambition mean? Who has a mission in life? This is the kind of work I want to do. It interests me, and I think I’ll enjoy it.” He stopped and corrected himself immediately, to keep from jinxing himself. “I would enjoy it. And it would be a chance to do something useful.”
“Same for me. I think the only way you can change society, change the world, is from the inside. I believe that if you work as a magistrate-if you do a good job, of course-you can help change the world. Cleanse it of corruption, crime, and rot,” Sergio said.
It was his words that stuck in my memory, and when I think back on them I feel something ambiguous, a mixture of tenderness and horror, at how those naive aspirations were swallowed whole by the voracious crevasses of life.
I was about to deliver a rebuttal, but then I thought I really had no right. I was an interloper in their dreams. So I shrugged and turned up the sound on the tape deck, just as Billy Joel’s voice faded and the opening guitar riff of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” played. Outside, a massive thunderstorm had just ended.
The civil service test involved three written examinations: civil law, criminal law, and administrative law. The order in which the tests were administered was assigned randomly each year.
That year, the first exam was on administrative law. That was a subject I knew absolutely nothing about, and so I withdrew from the civil service exam after three hours, renouncing my secret and irrational hopes. The sliding door that leads to the world of adulthood wasn’t destined to open for me just then, so I went to sit in the waiting room. I would remain in that waiting room for quite some time to come.
There have been times, in the years since, when I’ve wondered what my life would have been like if, by some fluke, I had passed that exam.
I would have left Bari. I might have become a different person, and I might never have returned home. That’s what happened to Andrea Colaianni, who passed the exam; he moved far away and became a prosecuting magistrate, but in time he was forced to rein in his dreams of changing the world, for real, on his own.
Sergio Carofiglio didn’t pass. He wanted to become a magistrate even more than Colaianni did, if that was possible, but he failed the written exams. He sat for the exams a second time, and then even a third, the maximum number the law allowed. We were no longer close by the time I heard that he had failed the thi
rd and final time, but I stopped to think about the devastating feelings of defeat and failure he must have experienced. Then he met a girl whose father was a manufacturer from the Veneto region, got married, and went to live somewhere around Rovigo, where he worked for his father-in-law and drowned his bitterness and broken dreams in the northern fog. Or maybe that’s just how I imagined it; maybe he’s actually rich and happy. Maybe not becoming a magistrate was the best thing that ever happened to him.
I stayed in Rome, after withdrawing from the civil service exam. My room in the pensione was paid up for three nights, that is, for the entire period of the written examinations. And so, while my friends were struggling with criminal law and civil law, I enjoyed, to my own surprise, the most wonderful Roman holiday of my life. With nothing I had to do and nowhere I had to be, I strolled for hours, bought half-price books, stretched out comfortably on the park benches in Villa Borghese, read, and even wrote. I wrote horrifying poems that, fortunately, have been lost over the years. On the Spanish Steps, I made friends with two overweight American girls. We went out for pizza together, but I politely declined an invitation to continue the evening back in their apartment, because I thought I’d glimpsed a conspiratorial glance passing between them. Reckoning that they tipped the scales at one hundred seventy-five to two hundred pounds each, I decided that, as the saying goes, to trust is good, but not to trust is better.
The world was teeming with endless possibilities in that warm and unexpected Roman February, as I teetered between the no-longer of my life as a child and the not-yet of my life as a man. It was a brief, euphoric, temporary moment in time. It was wonderful to stand, poised, in that moment. And only what is temporary can be perfect.
I remembered these things during the course of an hour that, by some strange alchemy, seemed as timeless and sweet as the days I had enjoyed twenty years earlier. I had the irrational, exhilarating sensation that the tape was about to rewind, and that I was about to be offered a new beginning. I felt a shiver, a vibration. It was beautiful.
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