“No one ever tells the whole truth, especially when they’re talking about themselves. But if you ask a question like that, it means that in one way or another, you know that and you’ve done your best. So, if I had to guess, I’d say you probably told me something pretty close to the so-called truth.”
She looked at me with an expression that mixed curiosity and concern, as if she’d just heard something with unexpected consequences.
“Really? No one ever tells the truth?”
“The whole truth, no, no one ever does. The ones who tell you that they’re being completely honest-and they may even believe it-are the most dangerous. They don’t know that lying is inevitable. They have no self-awareness, and they’re prisoners of themselves.”
“Prisoners of themselves. I like the sound of that.”
“That’s right, prisoners of themselves, and incapable of figuring out who they really are. You just go ahead and ask one of those people who claim always to tell the truth how he does his work, what his personal strengths and weaknesses are, how he interacts with other people, or anything else that has to do with his, or her, self-image. You’ll discover something interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“They don’t know how to answer. They give rote answers and rely on stereotypes, or they describe the qualities they wish they possessed but don’t. Qualities that correspond to the false image that they have of themselves. Have you ever heard of Alan Watts?”
“No.”
“He was an English philosopher. He studied eastern cultures, and he wrote a beautiful book about Zen. Watts wrote that an honest person is someone who knows that he is a complete impostor and is nonchalant about it. According to that definition, I’m halfway there. I know that I’m an impostor, but I still can’t quite pull off the nonchalant part.”
“You are completely crazy.”
“I hope I can take that as a compliment.”
“You can.”
“I think it’s time to go to sleep,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“That’s right, you have a serious person’s job. You can’t stay in bed until noon like I do.”
“I’ll walk you back to your car.”
“There’s no need. That is, unless you need a ride home. I don’t know where you live, but if it’s far away, let’s go back to the car and I’ll take you home.”
“I live just a short walk from here.”
“Then there’s no need for you to come all the way back to the car.”
“Well, thanks for the talk, and for everything.”
“Thank you.”
“Baskerville is a good sort of demon after all.”
“Right.”
After a moment’s hesitation she leaned toward me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Luckily, Pino chose not to view this as an act of hostility, so he didn’t rip me limb from limb.
“See you.
“Bye.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous.”
“What?”
“I’m blushing.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” When I really make an effort, I manage to say some truly idiotic things.
“Well, now I really should go.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right walking back by yourself?”
I said the words, and then my eyes met Pino’s.
He had the kind of patient expression reserved for those who aren’t necessarily bad, but clearly are not very bright.
19.
The next day, I asked Maria Teresa to step into my office. I still relied on her for anything having to do with clients and files that had been archived prior to Pasquale’s arrival. She knew exactly and immediately how to find things and she remembered every file that had come through the office.
“Do you remember Quintavalle? He was a member of that little group…”
“Of course I remember him. I’m never happy when we take on drug dealers as clients, but at least he was a well-mannered and likable young man.”
“That’s right, he was likable. We haven’t heard from him in years now.”
“Either they never caught him again or he’s stopped dealing, which would make me very happy.”
“Or else he has a new lawyer.”
“Impossible. You literally saved his life that time. Winning a plea bargain with the evidence they had against him…”
“Do you remember who the prosecutor was?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you have to admit it wasn’t all that amazing an achievement. He’d sell his parents into slavery if it would clear a case off his desk. Anyway, do we have Quintavalle’s phone number lying around somewhere? I need to talk to him.”
“It’s definitely in his file, unless he has a new number.” Maria Teresa is perfectly aware of how drug dealers operate. They frequently change their cell phones and SIM cards to elude police monitoring, so their phone numbers tend to be somewhat unstable. That, however, applies to their work phones. Their personal phones tend to have a longer half-life.
I asked her to take a look in the file, and five minutes later there was a piece of paper with his phone number on my desk.
Quintavalle answered on the second ring.
“ Buon giorno, this is Guido Guerrieri, I’d like-”
“Counselor Guerrieri, buon giorno! What a pleasure. What an honor. To what do I owe the pleasure? I didn’t forget to pay last time, did I?”
“Damiano, how are you?”
“Doing fine, Counselor. And you?”
I hate it when people say they’re doing fine, but from Quintavalle it didn’t bother me particularly.
“Doing fine myself, thanks. I need to ask you something, but I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Would you mind terribly dropping by my office?”
“Of course, it’s no problem at all. When would you like me to drop by?”
“If you could come by today, you’d be doing me a favor.”
“How about seven o’clock?”
“A little later would be better, that way I’ll be done with my appointments and we can talk without being interrupted.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at eight.”
“Thanks. And… Damiano?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve moved. We’re not at the old address anymore.”
“I know, I know. I’ll see you there at eight o’clock.”
When I talk with someone like Damiano Quintavalle-a professional criminal, who makes a living from his illicit activities-I’m even more doubtful than usual of my ability to decipher the world and distinguish between so-called good and so-called evil.
In the first place, Quintavalle is an intelligent young man. He comes from a normal family. He attended college, though he never got a degree. He reads the newspaper and occasionally reads books. Also, as Maria Teresa said, he’s nice. Funny, without being vulgar. Well-mannered. Courteous.
But he earns his living by dealing coke.
He’s one of those dealers who operate on their own or with a very small group; they tend to make house calls, like the client whose case I had appealed to the Court of Cassation, unsuccessfully, the week before. Quintavalle gets a call, for instance, about a special party. He shows up at the party as an invited guest, then he fills the order, gets his money (with a substantial bonus for home delivery), and leaves. Or else he travels around Italy making deliveries to wealthy purchasers who are reluctant to dirty their hands by having contact with ordinary drug dealers.
The police and prosecutors have gone after him repeatedly, but he is fanatically cautious, he’s very careful about his cell phones, and he’s only been caught with drugs in his possession once. The quantity was small, so he got off with a few weeks in jail and a highly advantageous plea bargain. Quintavalle has a wife who owns and runs a profumeria and a son who’s in middle school. Quintavalle’s son is a great kid; his one shortcoming is that he wants to be a lawyer when he grows up. He thinks his father is a businessman who travels frequently for work.
And in a way, he’s right.
Quintavalle walked into the office at eight o’clock on the dot. I jumped up to greet him-I’ll admit that I don’t do this for all my clients-and clasped his hand.
“Counselor, how are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Pretty good, though these aren’t easy times.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting old, but I sense a threat, an imminent danger.” That’s exactly what he said: “an imminent danger.” It’s not the sort of expression commonly used by a professional drug dealer.
“As if something terrible might happen any day now. That they might arrest me with ironclad evidence of everything I’ve done over the years. Or-much more likely-one of the thugs who run the city now might come to tell me that I can’t work independently anymore, that I have to work for him.”
“What thugs?”
“That’s right, you don’t take on cases involving organized crime, so you might not know about it, but things are grim here in town. There are new gangs in the city, and they want to take charge of everything. They’ve formed an alliance to monopolize all the neighborhoods, and in particular they want to control extortion, loan sharking, and, of course, drug dealing. If someone really does come around and tell me that I have to work for them, well, that would be the time that I finally quit this racket and find an honest job.”
“That wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know. Maybe there’s nothing happening. Maybe it’s just your subconscious telling you that it’s time to quit dealing.”
“Right. My wife tells me more or less the same thing. The problem is that with a normal job, you just don’t make the kind of money I’ve gotten used to.”
“You have the shop. You wouldn’t starve to death. And your son is growing up.”
“Right, maybe that’s the real reason. I’m not afraid of prison, but I couldn’t stand it if my son found out how I make a living. Anyway, I doubt that you asked me to come in so we could chat about my future. What can I do for you?”
“To tell the truth, I’m not even sure what it is that I need. I don’t quite know where to start.”
“Try starting from the beginning.”
It was good advice. I did as he suggested and told him the whole story. I told him that I was trying to figure out what had happened to Manuela-he’d never heard of her-and that the only lead I had involved Michele Cantalupi, who was a regular and fairly heavy user of cocaine. That was why I had called him and wanted his help. Did he know Cantalupi, had he ever had him as a customer, and in general had he ever heard of him in his dealings?
“Michele Cantalupi?”
“Yes. I don’t know if this is helpful, but they tell me he’s good-looking.”
“Michele. It sounds familiar, but after all, it’s not an unusual name. Do you have a picture of him?”
“No, I don’t. I can try to get my hands on one. But never mind the photograph. There’s something I want you to tell me. If this guy was dealing to people in the upper echelons of society, would you know him?”
“Not necessarily. Of course, I know lots of people in town, but Bari is a big city and there are a lot more people consuming-and therefore selling-cocaine than you might imagine. There are times when I deliver fifty grams of cocaine to a party, and then find out they used it all up. That night, at the party.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about how the system works?”
“No, of course not. You’re my lawyer, and anyway, it’s for something important. Ask me anything you like.”
“Say a young man goes to these kinds of parties. How would he evolve from a mere user to a…”
I realized that for some reason I was embarrassed to use the term “drug dealer,” as if I might offend Quintavalle, who was in fact in that line of work, by using a slightly distasteful phrase. He noticed my discomfort.
“A drug dealer. Really, Counselor, don’t worry about it, I’m not offended. It’s a fairly typical process. Let’s imagine that there’s a group of people who want to buy a certain quantity of drugs, to divide up, or even to use all together, as friends. They take up a collection and then one of them goes and meets with the dealer. By the way, the Italian Court of Cassation has ruled that the purchase of drugs for group personal consumption is not a crime under the law and… well, I guess I don’t have to tell you that. In other words, this one guy is making the buy for his little group of friends and at a certain point it occurs to him that he could make a little profit on the arrangement. So he starts to buy the drugs on his own and sells them just to his friends at a mark-up. Then word starts getting around: This guy can get drugs in a hurry. If you need some coke, he’s the guy to call. He gradually builds up a network of customers, he gets to know more and more suppliers, maybe he goes out of town to buy the product because it’s better or cheaper somewhere else, and anyway, out of town is always better, and that’s how someone turns into a drug dealer.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“More or less. There were some other things going on, but they’re probably of no interest to you.”
I nodded and did my best to put on a knowledgeable expression. I was trying not to look baffled, but after that conversation I knew nothing more than I had before. For a few seconds I felt-with excruciating intensity-like a perfect and inexcusable fake. Then the sensation ebbed, leaving me with nothing more than an underlying wave of nausea, faint but inexorable.
“Okay, Damiano, thanks. I’ll try to get my hands on a photograph of this guy, and when I do I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay, in the meantime I’ll see what I can remember, and I’ll ask around a little bit.”
“Don’t put yourself in any danger, please.”
Quintavalle gave me a smile, stood up, and said good-bye.
The smile meant that he appreciated my concern, but that it was entirely superfluous. For many years, he’d made it his business and his way of life to stay out of the line of fire.
20.
At that point, I was faced with the problem of how to ask Fornelli for a picture of Cantalupi, and it struck me as absurdly challenging.
The minute I asked him for it, he, very reasonably, would ask me why I wanted it. I didn’t feel like answering that question, because I didn’t want to explain what I was doing. Not right now, anyway. Maybe I was embarrassed to tell him that I’d started digging around in the world of drug dealers, where I obviously had a number of useful contacts. Maybe I was afraid that my ambitions as a would-be private investigator might blow up in my face with an actionable defamation of someone-Cantalupi-who might have absolutely nothing to do with Manuela’s disappearance or with dealing drugs. Or maybe I was uncomfortable with the idea that Fornelli might speak to Manuela’s parents and, in order to explain his request, tell them that there was good news-that Guerrieri, that old bloodhound, was on someone’s trail. That he might get their hopes up for no good reason. Or maybe it was much simpler. Maybe I just didn’t want Quintavalle to take a look at the photograph and say that he had no idea who the guy was, bringing a sudden end to my brilliant investigative lead.
So I let the weekend go by without calling him.
On Monday, I was returning to my office after a hearing that had dragged on longer than expected. It was too late for lunch but also too early for my first appointment, so I went over to the Feltrinelli bookshop, had a cappuccino, and bought a book. It was called The Mysteries of Bari, and the flap copy promised that the book revealed a number of the most incredible urban legends of Bari, with descriptions of the unsettling historic events that had engendered those legends.
As I walked out of the bookstore, planning to loaf around for another half an hour or so, I saw Signore Ferraro, Manuela’s father, coming toward me.
He was walking briskly, looking straight ahead, directly at me, and for a moment I thought he was coming to tell me something. I put on the expression you use to say hello to someone, and
the muscles in my right arm tensed in preparation for a handshake.
But Ferraro literally looked right through me, and a few seconds later he strode past me, without seeing me. His expression-which appeared vigilant but in reality was distracted, remote-gave me the shivers.
I turned and watched him for a few seconds and then, almost against my will, I began to follow him.
At first I followed him cautiously, but before long I saw that he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to his surroundings. He never looked behind him, and he never looked to either side. He walked at a good pace, and the gaze that had pierced me without seeing me was directed straight ahead, into the void. Or maybe somewhere even worse.
We reached Via Sparano and he turned right, toward the train station.
I didn’t even bother to ask myself just what I thought I was doing, or why. I was in the throes of a feverish instinct that drove me to follow him, without thinking about it.
Once I was sure that he wouldn’t have noticed me even if I had jumped in front of him, right into his path-he would simply have walked around me and continued on his way-I became more daring and started following right behind him, practically walking at his side, just a couple of yards away from him.
Someone watching the scene from a certain distance might even have thought that we were walking together.
As we walked, a remarkable thing happened. I felt as if I could envision the entire scene-including myself-from an outside vantage point. It was a strange, dissociated vision, as if I were standing on a balcony on the second or third floor of a building behind us.
I didn’t like what I saw. Sometimes you see a photograph that has been manipulated on a computer: Everything is black and white, but in the middle there’s a patch of color-an object, a detail, or a person. The scene I was looking at was the other way around. Everything was normal, in full color, except for a weird entity in the middle, in black-and-white, almost glowing, and deeply sad. That entity was Manuela’s father.
It only lasted for a few seconds, but it made the blood run ice-cold in my veins, as if I were trapped in a nightmare.
Temporary Perfections gg-4 Page 14