That memory could have triggered a bout of sadness. Instead, it gave me a faint, inexplicable sense of excitement, as if the past were suddenly no longer past and instead formed a sort of extended present, simultaneous and welcoming. Sitting in that café, waiting to meet with a coke dealer, I felt for an instant as if my mind had embraced the synchronic mystery of time and memory.
Then the coke dealer arrived, and that odd enchantment vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.
We ordered two cappuccinos and sat silently until the waiter brought them to our table and vanished down the stairs, leaving us alone. Only then did we begin talking.
“So, Damiano?”
“I asked around, and I may have found something.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s a young gay guy I know who sells coke in clubs and discos. Actually, he’s sort of a hybrid dealer/user: Basically, he sells coke to pay for his personal use. He told me that he does know a certain Michele who often has plenty of cocaine. He said that sometimes he bought small amounts from him, and that other times he sold coke to Michele. This is fairly normal between small-time dealers: They go back and forth—when one guy has it he’ll sell to the other, and vice versa.”
“Why do you think this could be the Michele we’re looking for?”
“You told me your Michele is handsome, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“My gay friend said this Michele was a prime hunk of meat. His exact words.”
“Let me guess: The problem is that he doesn’t know his last name.”
“No, he doesn’t, but if we could just show him a picture …”
Right. If we could just show him a picture. I had to stop wasting time and find a way to get that picture. I’d have to call Fornelli. Or maybe, I thought, maybe Caterina could get me a photograph of Michele. That reminded me that I needed to call her to arrange our departure the following day.
“Counselor?”
“Yes?”
“Can I be sure that this guy isn’t going to get in trouble because of the things he’s telling me?”
“You mean this gay friend of yours?”
“Well, he’s not actually a friend, but yes, I mean him.”
“Don’t worry, Damiano. The only thing I care about is finding out what happened to Manuela. You and I never even had this conversation, as far as I’m concerned.”
Quintavalle seemed relieved.
“Sorry to ask, but—”
I raised my hand to stop him. Of course I understood his concern perfectly. For someone in his line of work, just asking questions could be dangerous. I thanked him, told him that I’d try to find a picture of Michele and I’d call him when I did. Then we both left the bar and went back to our respective—more and less legitimate—jobs.
I called Caterina on my way back to my office. I told her that I’d reserved an 11:00 A.M. flight to Rome the next morning and that I’d come by and pick her up on my way to the airport at 9:30. I asked her if her address was still the same as the one listed in the transcripts of the interviews with the Carabinieri; she said, yes, that was the address, but to make things easier we could just meet in front of the Teatro Petruzzelli. I felt an unmistakable wave of relief at the idea that I wouldn’t have to go to her house and risk that her mother or father—who were probably more or less the same age I was—might see me, realize that their daughter was consorting with a middle-aged cradle robber, and decide to take drastic steps, possibly involving pipe wrenches or baseball bats or other instruments of dissuasion.
I remembered the picture of Michele just as I was about to hang up.
“Oh, Caterina?”
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of Michele Cantalupi, would you?”
She didn’t answer right away, and if silence can have an intonation, her silence was followed by a big question mark.
“What do you need it for?” she said at last.
“I need to show it to someone. Anyway, we’d better not talk about it on the phone. I’ll explain tomorrow. You think you can find one?”
“I’ll take a look, but I don’t think I have one.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow.”
25.
When I got back to my office, tasks and meetings oozed around me like some kind of amoeba out of a sci-fi film. This slimy, gelatinous creature held me captive until late that evening, when it finally decided I wasn’t particularly digestible and expelled me, in the physical and moral state of a half-digested zombie. Moreover, since the trip to Rome the following day wasn’t part of my planned workflow, I had to arrange for substitutes to attend my hearings and I had to reschedule my appointments.
When I got home, I was exhausted. I took a few halfhearted jabs at Mister Bag, just to reassure him that we were still friends, but I couldn’t bring myself to do a proper workout. I wasted more water than I should have on a long hot shower, with the bathroom door wide open and Bruce Springsteen playing at full volume. At eleven o’clock I was back on the street, riding my bike. I was wearing my old black leather jacket, faded jeans, and a pair of track shoes. All in all, I looked exactly like what I was: a middle-aged man, well into his forties, dressing like a kid, as if that allowed him to thumb his nose at time.
I told myself that I knew perfectly well what I was doing, and that I didn’t care a bit. Even if I understood the mechanism behind it, it still put me in a good mood.
When I walked into the Chelsea Hotel, I recognized a number of regular customers. They recognized me, too, and a few even nodded hello. I was that strange guy who wasn’t gay but still dropped by frequently to eat, drink, and listen to music. There was a feeling of familiarity that I really liked, as if that place had somehow become partly mine. A sense of safety.
I looked around, but Nadia wasn’t there. I was disappointed. I thought of asking the bartender where she was, but her expression—as welcoming as a punch in the nose—dissuaded me.
So I sat down and ordered a plate of orecchiette with wild mushrooms and a glass of Primitivo. I managed to focus only on the food and the wine.
Nadia arrived just as I was leaving.
“Ciao, Guido,” she said cheerfully. “I was out at a friend’s birthday party. She’s a sweet girl, but she has the most amazingly dull friends you can imagine. The catering was ghastly: baked pasta in aluminum foil trays. I swear. One of your fellow lawyers, a guy with a gut and dandruff, tried to get my number. You’re not already leaving, are you?”
“Well, yes, it’s past midnight.” I realized there was a hint of resentment in my voice, as if the fact that she hadn’t been there when I arrived was a deliberate act of rudeness on her part. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice.
“Of course, I always forget that other people have jobs and have to get up in the morning.”
“Actually, I can sleep in a little bit tomorrow morning. I’m going to Rome for work, and the flight is at eleven.”
“Then stay a little longer. I still have to recover from that party. I’ll let you taste something I think you’ll like.”
“Another type of absinthe?”
“Something better. Give me a minute to see if they need my help. I doubt they do. Then I’ll come sit with you.”
Five minutes later she was at my table with two glasses and a bottle with an attractive, old-fashioned-looking label.
“You’ve eaten, right? This isn’t something you want to drink on an empty stomach.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an Irish whiskey called The Knot. Try it and tell me what you think.”
It didn’t taste like a whiskey. It had the scent of rum and it reminded me of Southern Comfort, without being sticky sweet.
“It’s good,” I said, after draining my glass. She filled it again and poured herself a generous serving as well.
“Sometimes I think I’m getting a little too fond of this stuff.”
> “Sometimes I think the same thing myself.”
“Okay, we’ll hash out that problem some other evening. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So, you’re going to Rome tomorrow. I’ve got to get there one of these days. See a couple of old girlfriends and spend a little money.”
I was trying to figure out how I could bring up the topic of my investigation and the questions I wanted to ask her, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. I pretended to focus on my whiskey, admiring its pale golden hue, but I must have seemed about as authentic as Monopoly money.
“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” she inquired, sparing me at least a little effort. For a moment I wondered if I should tell her a lie, any old lie; I told myself that would be a terrible idea.
“Well, actually, yes, there is.”
“Then go ahead and ask.”
I told her, as concisely as I could, the whole story, leaving out any details that weren’t, in my opinion, absolutely essential. Among the nonessential details I skipped were the details of my trip to Rome. For instance, the fact that I wouldn’t be going alone.
But when the time came to ask the question I’d come to ask, I couldn’t keep myself from looking around warily.
“And so I was wondering if any of the regulars here at the Chelsea might have anything to do with that world—the world of cocaine and drug dealing, I mean. Let me be clear: I don’t have any specific ideas, no suspicions. When my client told me that he’d found out some information from a gay friend of his, it occurred to me that I might ask you and see if anything useful came up.”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to tell you. If any of my customers uses or buys or sells cocaine—and I’d guess the likelihood is high—I don’t know anything about it. Obviously, nobody snorts it here—they’d have some explaining to do to Hans and Pino—and we haven’t noticed any suspicious activity, nothing to indicate that anyone is using this place as a base to sell coke. I don’t know anything about drugs, these days.”
“Why do you say ‘these days’?”
“Well, in the first half of my life—in my other life—white powder made an occasional appearance. A number of my clients liked coke, and I knew a few people who sold it, though I never used it, much less bought it. Anyway, I’m talking about a long time ago, years ago. It’s a world I had a few brushes with, but it’s light-years away now. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Don’t worry. It was a stupid idea, the kind of idea only an amateur investigator would come up with.”
We went on chatting while the bar slowly emptied out. Then the staff went home, one by one, and in the end we were sitting there alone, with most of the lights turned off, and the music still playing, turned down low. She went and fetched Pino/Baskerville from the car and let him come in and sit with us. He seemed to remember me, because he came over and let me pet him and then stretched out on the floor under our table.
“I like to sit here, after the place shuts down, with Pino. The bar changes—it becomes a different place. And then I can smoke because when it’s closed it’s no longer a public place. It’s my place, and I can do what I want. Pino doesn’t mind cigarette smoke, or at least he never objects.”
“Can I say something incredibly stupid?”
“Be my guest.”
“It seems incredible to me that until just a couple of years ago it was okay to smoke in bars and restaurants. I have a hard time even picturing it. I have to make an effort to remember that there were cigarettes, and that some places you walked into the air was practically unbreathable. It’s as if the regulations against smoking interfered with my memories and manipulated them somehow.”
“I’m not sure I follow you on that last part.”
“Let me give you an example. This afternoon, I was sitting in a bar waiting for someone. While I was sitting there by myself, I thought back and remembered a time, years and years ago, when I was sitting in that same bar with my friends. It was a memory from my time in college, and for sure at least three people who were there with me were smokers. I’m certain on that afternoon we were smoking. And yet the scene, as I saw it in my mind, had no cigarettes. It’s as if the prohibition of smoking in public places had a sort of retroactive effect on my memories.”
“A retroactive effect on your memories. You say some odd things. Nice, though. Why did you happen to remember that particular afternoon?”
“We were talking about novels and characters. Each one of us named the character we identified with most.”
“Who did you pick?”
“Captain Fracasse.”
“Would you say the same thing today?”
“No, I doubt it. Captain Fracasse is still one of my favorite characters from literature, but if I had to play the same game today, I’d pick someone else.”
“Who would you pick?”
“Charlie Brown.”
She burst into laughter, a short, sharp explosion.
“Come on, really.”
“Charlie Brown, really.”
She stopped laughing and looked me in the eye to see if I was joking or not. She decided I wasn’t joking.
“But you said characters from literature.”
“You know what Umberto Eco said about Charles Schulz?”
“What?”
“I’m not sure if I remember it word for word, but I’m pretty sure this was the concept: ‘If poetry means the capacity of carrying tenderness, pity, and wickedness to moments of extreme transparence, as if things passed through a light and there were no telling any more what substance they are made of, then Schulz is a poet.’ And I would add to that: Schulz was a genius.”
“Why Charlie Brown, though?”
“Well, as you probably know, Charlie Brown is a prototypical loser. His baseball team always loses. The other kids make fun of him, and he’s hopelessly in love with a little girl—the Little Red-Haired Girl—even though he’s never been able to talk to her. She doesn’t even know Charlie Brown exists.”
“But what does a loser like Charlie Brown have to do with someone like you? I don’t get it.”
“Wait, let me finish. Have you read the one where he goes to summer camp with a paper bag over his head, with holes cut out for his eyes?”
“No.”
“When Charlie Brown puts the paper bag with eye holes over his head, suddenly, inexplicably, he becomes popular. All the kids at the camp go to him for advice and help. He becomes another person. I haven’t read many books that I identified with so intensely as that series of Peanuts comic strips. The Charlie Brown who became someone only when his head was covered with a paper bag is me.”
She sat in silence, looking at me. Underneath the table the dog wriggled on his back, making low sounds of pleasure like a giant purring cat. Keith Carradine was softly singing “I’m Easy.”
“I like to read, but it’s always been easier for me to identify with characters in movies. I think I like movies more than anything in the world. I like everything about going to the movies, and the moment I like best is when they turn off the house lights and the film is about to begin.”
She was right. It’s a perfect moment when the lights go down and everything’s about to begin. For a little while neither of us spoke. I let my eyes roam over the film posters hanging on the walls.
“Where do you get these posters?” I asked after a couple of minutes.
“They’re almost all originals. Only a few of the oldest ones are reproductions. I started collecting them years ago, and back then to find them you had to go around to junk shops, old film distribution companies, and bookstores that specialized in cinema. Now you can find anything you want on the Internet. But I still prefer going around to dusty old shops to look for posters.”
There were posters from every era: from La Dolce Vita to Manhattan, from Cinema Paradiso to Dead Poets Society, with a picture of Robin Williams being lifted in triumph by his students, against a yellow background that looked like emb
ossed gold.
“Call me corny, but at the end of that movie, when the boys climb onto their desks, it was all I could do not to cry,” I said, pointing at the poster.
“I’m way cornier than you, then. I sobbed like a little girl. And then, when I saw the movie again, I cried just as hard as the first time.”
“There’s a line I always remember from that movie—”
“O Captain! My Captain!”
“ ‘Our fearful trip is done.’ But that’s not the part I meant.”
“Which one, then?”
“Something that Robin Williams as Keating says to his students: ‘No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.’ ”
“It would be nice if it were true.”
“Maybe it is true.”
She gave me a serious look, the look of someone hearing something she liked.
“I like movies that make you cry.”
“So do I.”
“I can name more than you can.”
“Want to have a contest?”
“Sure. You go first.”
“Il Postino with Massimo Troisi and Philippe Noiret.”
“Benigni’s Life Is Beautiful. My favorite scene is the one that echoes Chaplin’s The Great Dictator.”
“If we’re talking about Chaplin, then City Lights.”
“Beau Geste.”
“With Gary Cooper?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. It’s the classic melodrama.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
“Chariots of Fire. My favorite scene is when the trainer, Mussabini, can’t bring himself to go to the stadium. He looks out his hotel window, sees the Union Jack going up the flagpole, and realizes that Abrahams has won. He starts crying with joy and punches his fist through his straw hat.”
“Million Dollar Baby. Clint Eastwood is a genius. Plus, he’s definitely my type.”
“Braveheart with Mel Gibson. The execution scene. He’s on the scaffold, and he yells ‘Freedom!’ while the executioner stands by with his axe at the ready. Just a few seconds before he’s executed, he sees the woman he loves moving through the crowd. She looks at him from a distance and smiles at him, and he smiles back, just as the axe is falling.”
Temporary Perfections Page 17