So my client received a summons to appear at the district attorney’s office, on charges of malfeasance and falsification, and I recommended that he invoke his right not to answer their questions. The evidence against him was minimal, and if he agreed to answer the questions of the prosecutor-who was a very smart young woman, unquestionably much more intelligent than he was-he would likely only make matters worse.
In this case, as in many others that I found myself handling, I had the distinct impression that I was on the wrong side. And in this case, as in many others, I wondered if I really wanted to defend my client. I told myself that I didn’t want to, and then I accepted the case anyway. It was something I really should have discussed with my psychiatrist, if only I’d had one.
As I rode my bike over to the court building, I decided that this was the worst possible morning to see my client: He was clearly guilty of a crime that I considered particularly heinous. He was an unctuous windbag, and worst of all, he wore tasseled loafers.
There are only a few matters on which I am unforgiving. These include tasseled loafers, but also cords for sunglasses, Cartier pens, money clips, fake leather shoulder bags, cable-knit cardigans, solid-gold bracelets for men, and breath sprays.
Given these convictions of mine, when we met as arranged outside the office of the prosecuting attorney, a few minutes before the interview was scheduled to begin, I wasn’t in the cheeriest of spirits. After the conventional hellos and other conversational boilerplate-devoid of any genuine warmth (at least on my part)-he told me that he had serious doubts about the tactic of choosing to avail himself of his right not to answer any questions. He thought that he could explain everything, and that it struck him that refusing to answer was tantamount to an admission of guilt and in any case the behavior of a criminal, hardly in keeping with his prestigious position.
Your prestigious position as a windbag and a sticky-fingered academic who’s slimed his way to the top, I hissed at him in my mind, while somewhere inside me a totally misplaced wave of anger was rising. After all, my client was simply expressing a legitimate doubt about our tactics. Unfortunately for him, he was the wrong person, on the wrong morning, and, worst of all, wearing the wrong shoes.
“I thought we’d already talked this over, Professor. Knowing the prosecutor and considering the current status of the case, I would reiterate my advice: you should take full advantage of your legal right not to respond to questions. Of course, that is entirely your decision, so if you decide not to act accordingly I can hardly interfere. If you do so, however, let me state here and now that I believe you would be committing a grave mistake, and I would certainly reserve the right to resign from the case immediately.”
After I was done talking, I was as surprised as he was at how aggressive I’d been. He stood there for a moment without speaking, taken aback, almost frightened, unsure what to do now. Under different circumstances, his arrogance and pomposity would have come into play, and he would have given me a large and indignant piece of his mind. But we were in the district attorney’s office, one of the most intimidating places in the world. He was the accused, and I was his attorney. He wasn’t in a very good position to take a hard line with me. So he just took a deep breath.
“All right, Counselor, we’ll do as you recommend.”
At that point, since I’m no paragon of consistency, I felt guilty. I’d mistreated him, abusing my position of power: something no one should ever do. I spoke in a more gentle voice, as if he and I were on the same side.
“It’s the right thing, Professor. Then we’ll see what the prosecutor decides to do next, and if we need time to draw up a long and detailed written statement and submit it as a response, we’ll have it.”
A short while later we entered the prosecutor’s office and declared that we were availing ourselves of the right not to answer. Five minutes after that I was back out on the street, heading for my office.
I was locking my bike to a lamp post near the front door of my building when I noticed a large black dog with a daunting but very familiar silhouette trotting down the sidewalk.
When I recognized him, I felt a surge of happiness. Baskerville. Nadia couldn’t be far behind, I assumed, and I whistled to the dog as I looked around for his owner.
The huge beast loped over to me and when he was close enough, reared up on his hind legs, placing both forepaws on my chest. His tail was wagging frantically and I beamed-proud of my unexpected popularity with a dog-at what good friends Baskerville and I had become in such a short time. To return his cordial greeting, I reached up and scratched him on the head, behind both ears, the way I had the night we first met.
Behind both ears?
Baskerville only has one ear, I said to myself. And so that tail-wagging behemoth with both paws planted on my chest and his nose just inches from my face wasn’t Baskerville. I gulped uncomfortably, struggling to read the dog’s expression and figure out whether, having greeted me joyfully, he was now ready to rip me limb from limb. But the monster did seem friendly, and he was licking my hands. I was wondering how I could disengage from my new friend’s embrace without hurting his feelings when a skinny young man hurried around the corner and came toward us. When he reached us, the first thing he did was to snap a leash onto the dog’s collar and pull him away. Then, as he struggled to catch his breath, he spoke to me.
“I’m so sorry, forgive me. We let him off the leash in the store, and a customer left the door open, and he got out. He’s always trying to get out. He’s just a puppy. He’s not even a year old yet. I hope he didn’t scare you.”
“No, not a bit,” I said, which was a half truth. When it dawned on me that this dog wasn’t Baskerville, I have to admit an icy shiver ran down my spine, but I didn’t think it was necessary to give this young man all the details.
“Rocco’s a gentle dog. He loves children. We got a Corso because we wanted a guard dog, but I’m afraid he’s a big softie.”
I gave him a knowing smile but said nothing more. The young man seemed a little too chatty and I didn’t want to encourage him; the next thing you know he’d be telling me the story of his life, starting with his first pet hamster. So I said good-bye to him and to Rocco, and as they headed off down the sidewalk I leaned down to snap my bicycle lock shut.
The little padlock made its usual reassuring click. I stood up, and a thought popped into my brain. This new thought was buzzing around, from one side of my head to the other. It was just out of reach, though, and I couldn’t quite articulate it.
I tried to reconstruct the last few minutes.
The dog had trotted toward me. I’d whistled for him, expecting Nadia to come around the corner any minute. The dog greeted me enthusiastically. I scratched the dog’s ears, and that was when I’d realized it wasn’t Baskerville. A second later the dog’s owner appeared and… wait, wait, back up, Guerrieri.
I’d scratched the dog behind its ears and that was when I realized it wasn’t Baskerville. That was exactly when this new thought occurred to me. I frantically tried to put the idea into words.
Pino, also known (to me) as Baskerville, was identified by the fact that he was missing an ear. So he was identified by an absence. A non-presence.
Deep thoughts, I said to myself in an attempt at sarcastic wit. The barb fell flat. There really was something important there that I couldn’t quite grasp.
Baskerville. A missing ear. Something that’s missing explains everything. What? Something missing.
Baskerville.
Sherlock Holmes.
The dog didn’t bark.
The phrase formed in my head, suddenly, and began blinking like a neon sign in the desert.
A dog failing to bark was the famous “curious incident of the dog in the night-time” in the Sherlock Holmes story The Hound of the Baskervilles. Or maybe it was another book. I needed to check immediately, even though I wasn’t yet sure why.
I went upstairs to the office; no one was there. They were all out visiting c
ourt clerks and taking care of business. I was glad to be alone. I made myself an espresso, turned on my computer and Googled “Holmes” and “the dog did nothing.”
The phrase wasn’t in The Hound of the Baskervilles; it was in “Silver Blaze.” As I read, I remembered. The short story was about the theft of a thoroughbred racehorse that Holmes solved by observing “the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” The curious incident in question was the fact that the dog had not barked. Therefore, the horse thief was someone the dog knew well.
The key to the mystery was something that didn’t happen. Something that should have been there but wasn’t.
What did all this have to do with my investigation?
What was missing, that should have been there?
When the answer began to take shape, a bout of nausea came along with it, like a sudden wave of seasickness.
I picked up the file, pulled out Manuela’s phone records, and examined them again. I paged through them, and I found clear confirmation of my hypothesis-that is, I failed to find what ought to have been there. I noticed an absence I’d failed to notice until that instant. The nausea grew and spread, becoming so intense that I was sure I’d vomit any minute.
The dog didn’t bark. And I knew that dog very well.
I turned on my cell phone and found four calls from Caterina’s number.
34.
I wondered if it would be best to wait. Then I immediately decided it would not.
So I called Caterina. She answered on the second ring, sounding cheerful.
“Ciao, Gigi. How nice to see your name on my cell phone.”
“Ciao, how are you?”
“Fine. In fact, now that you’ve called me, I feel wonderful. I saw that you called me last night, but I turned off my phone. I was exhausted.” She paused, giggled, then resumed speaking. “I went right to bed like a five-year-old girl. This morning I tried to call you several times, but I couldn’t get through.”
“I was in court. I just got back to my office. Listen, I was thinking…”
“Yes?”
“What do you say if I come by and pick you up and we go get something to eat somewhere along the coast?”
“I’d say yes, what a fantastic idea. I’ll run and get ready. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. I’ll wait for you downstairs, in front of my building.”
I pulled up exactly twenty minutes later, the time it took to get the car out of the garage and drive to her house. I was just double parking to wait for her when she emerged from the apartment building. She was all smiles as she climbed into the car. She leaned over, kissed me, then fastened her seat belt. She seemed to be in an excellent mood, even happy. She was truly beautiful. Mental images of our night in Rome flickered before my eyes for a moment, like still images edited for subliminal effect into a feature film about something else-a movie that did not have a happy ending. It took my breath away, sadness and desire mixing cruelly.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Where would you like to go?”
“How about we go to La Forcatella and eat some sea urchin?”
La Forcatella is a little fishing village on the coast to the south of the city, just beyond the line between the provinces of Bari and Brindisi. It’s famous for its excellent sea urchin.
The car ran with silent precision along a highway surrounded by fields. The clouds were magnificent and clean; the scene looked like an Ansel Adams photograph. Spring was bursting out all around us, and it communicated a thrilling, dangerous euphoria. I did my best to focus on my driving and on the individual acts involved-shifting up and down, gently hugging the curves, glancing up at my rearview mirror-and I tried not to think.
There weren’t a lot of people in the restaurant, so we were able to get a table overlooking the water. Just a few feet from us, the waves lapped delicately at the rocks. The air was fragrant, and on the horizon a clear and perfect boundary was visible where the deep blue of the sea pressed up against the light blue of the sky.
Damn, I thought to myself as I sat across the table from her.
We ordered fifty sea urchins and a carafe of ice-cold wine. A little later, we ordered another fifty and another carafe. The sea urchins were plump and delicious, their orange flesh offering up their mysterious taste. Between the sea urchins and that cold, light wine, my head began to spin slightly.
Caterina was talking, but I paid no attention to her words. I listened to the sound of her voice. I watched the expressions on her face. I looked at her mouth. I wished I could have a photograph to remember her by.
An absurd thought-but it set a chain of other thoughts in motion, including the idea of just dropping everything. For a few minutes, in fact, I thought that was what I’d do. I’d forget what I’d figured out. For those few minutes, I experienced a feeling of complete mastery, a perfect, unstable equilibrium. The kind of perfection that belongs only to things that are temporary, destined to end shortly.
I remembered a holiday road trip in France, many years earlier, with Sara and some friends. We arrived in Biarritz and fell in love with the beach town’s timeless atmosphere, so we decided to stay. That was where I first took a few surfing lessons. After trying countless times, I finally managed to stand up on the board and ride a wave for three, maybe four seconds. In that instant I understood why surfers-real surfers-are obsessed, why the only thing they care about is getting up on a wave and riding it for as long as possible. To hell with everything else. Nothing could be more perfect than that temporary experience.
As I sat listening to the sound of Caterina’s voice and savoring the sweet and salty taste of the last few sea urchins, I felt as if I were on a surfboard, riding the wave of time, for an endless, perfect instant.
I wondered what it would be like to remember that moment. That’s when I fell off the wave and remembered why I was there.
Soon after that, we got up from the table.
“What have you decided to do next?” she asked, as we were walking toward the car.
“About what?”
“About your investigation. You mentioned that you wanted to show pictures of Michele to a drug dealer.”
“Oh, right. I was thinking of doing that, but I’m still trying to figure everything out. Turns out, it might not be necessary. I thought of something else.”
“What?”
“Let’s get in the car and I’ll tell you about it.”
The car was parked facing the beach, in a gravel lot that’s always packed with cars in the summer. That afternoon, it was deserted.
“First I want to smoke a cigarette,” she said, pulling her colorful cigarette case out of her purse.
“You can smoke in the car, if you want.”
“No, I hate the smell of cigarette smoke in my own car, so I can only imagine how gross it must be for someone who doesn’t even smoke.”
I was about to tell her that I’d been a smoker for years, and that I hated the smell of smoke in the car, too, even back then. Then I decided that the time had come to deal with things.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Go on,” she said, exhaling her first drag of smoke.
“As far as you know, did Manuela have two cell phones?”
35.
The smoke went down the wrong way and she coughed violently, in shock and confusion. As if she were in a bad play.
“What do you mean, two cell phones?”
“Did Manuela just have one cell phone, or did she have more than one?”
“I… I think she only had one. Why do you want to know?”
“Are you sure? Think carefully.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
Now her voice took on a note of impatience and grew almost aggressive.
“I was told that Manuela may have had two phones, and I thought you’d probably know.”
“Who told you that?”
“What does that matter? Do you know whether or not she had two phone numbers?”
“I don’t know. I only called her on one number.”
“Do you know that number by heart?”
“No, why would I? It was saved in my cell phone. I didn’t need to memorize it.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Have what?”
“Manuela’s phone number, saved.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but she knew it wasn’t good. She decided to get angry.
“Can I ask what the fuck you’re trying to find out? What the fuck is the meaning of these questions?”
“Have you gotten a new cell phone, since Manuela’s disappearance?”
“No. Could you tell me…”
“Did you erase Manuela from your phone?”
“No, of course not.”
“Can I take look at the contacts saved in your cell phone?”
She looked at me with an incredulous expression that rapidly deteriorated into a grimace of rage as she flicked what was left of her cigarette onto the ground.
“Fuck you. Unlock this car, get in, and drive me home.”
I punched the remote door lock with my thumb, and the doors clicked open, with a soft and inevitable thunk. She pulled the door open and got in the car immediately. I got in and sat next to her a few seconds later, but I wished I were somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
For a minute, or maybe longer, neither of us spoke.
“May I ask why you’re not starting the car?”
“I need you to tell me about Manuela’s second cell phone.”
“And I need you to leave me alone and take me home. I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing.”
“If you want me to, I’ll take you home, but the minute I drop you off I have to go to the Carabinieri, you understand that, right?”
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