Temporary Perfections

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  The school bell rang, furious and cheerful, and moments later a clamorous flood of boys and girls surged out into the street. I spotted her almost immediately in that chaotic rush of sweaters, jackets, scarves, backpacks, wool caps, and dark hair, but looking back, I can’t remember her face. If I force myself to focus on the face, all I can come up with is a visual cliché of adolescent beauty—blonde, blue-eyed, high cheekbones, a luminous complexion, and fine features.

  I was about fifty yards from her. I started smiling, and then the smile faded from my face, like in a cartoon. Pushing his way upstream through the crowd of students pouring out of the school, and ahead of me—in every sense of the word—another boy was moving toward her, then reached her, then kissed her, and finally took her by the hand.

  I don’t know what happened after that, because I instinctively darted into the nearest apartment building lobby with an open door, my cheeks burning from the shame of that visual slap, my stomach churning with despair.

  I stood in the lobby for a good ten minutes and ventured out only once I was certain that Barbara, together with someone who all evidence suggested was her boyfriend, had disappeared, and there was no longer any risk that someone—anyone—might see me in that state.

  Because in the meantime, I had begun crying, silently, with a swarm of words and questions buzzing around in my head. Why had she gone to the movies with me the day before? Why had she kissed me? How can anyone be so cruel?

  I was terribly unhappy for many weeks. After I started to recover, I ran into her, on the Via Sparano. I saw her from a distance. She was with two girlfriends, while I was alone, standing in front of the display window of the Laterza bookshop.

  I straightened up, squared my shoulders, and did my best to look proud and unconcerned.

  I told myself to be strong, act like I didn’t care, and barely nod to her as we passed. Not scornfully—I had to do better than that. Indifferently. She would probably turn and slow down, but I wouldn’t stop. I’d keep walking, dignified and detached.

  What the hell.

  We’d gone to the movies one time and exchanged a kiss. So what? That certainly didn’t mean we were married. It was the sort of thing that happened all the time, between modern, freethinking young women and men. We went out, saw a movie, kissed, said good-bye, and went on with our lives. No problem.

  By this point we were quite close to each other, but she hadn’t seen me yet. She was deep in conversation with her friends and talking animatedly and suddenly, for no good reason, I assumed that meant she and that boy had broken up. In that case—I said to myself—maybe I shouldn’t be too harsh, too pitiless. After all, she’d treated me badly, but it was the kind of thing that happened. Maybe I should give her a second chance. The best thing to do, in that case, was to assume an expression that was dignified, but not hostile. Maybe I could even let the beginnings of a smile form on my lips. She must have realized what a mistake she’d made, and I could be magnanimous and give her a second chance.

  She only noticed me as we were about to cross paths. “Ciao,” she said distractedly as we passed, and then she plunged back into the conversation with her friends. I was miserable for weeks—again—after that chance encounter. I decided that I’d never look at another girl as long as I lived and that I’d be unhappy forever.

  I heard someone knocking on my hotel room door, and I realized I hadn’t even changed out of my bathrobe yet.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Are you ready?”

  “No, sorry. I had a few phone calls to make. I’m running a little late.”

  “Why don’t you let me in?”

  “Because I’m not dressed. Go down to the lobby and I’ll catch up with you in five minutes.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. What, are you shy?”

  “That’s right, I’m shy. Go on down to the lobby and I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

  As I was tossing my robe onto the bed, I thought I heard a burst of laughter moving away down the hotel corridor.

  But maybe it was my imagination.

  29.

  I was down in the lobby five minutes later, as promised. Caterina was on the phone, and she snapped her phone shut as I walked toward her.

  “I just spoke to Nicoletta. She’s waiting for us at her house. She said she canceled all her appointments this afternoon. We can drop by whenever we like.”

  “Did you say that she lives over near Via Ostiense?”

  “That’s right, right next to the Pyramid of Cestius. So let’s go get a bite to eat, then we’ll get a cab and go to her house. Sound okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You decide where to eat for lunch. I’ll pick the place for dinner, okay?”

  That was okay, so we went to a restaurant that I knew, near the Court of Cassation. We agreed that even though we were working that afternoon, we could have a glass of wine—just one glass. Then we agreed that drinking just one glass of wine is sort of depressing, so we should order a whole bottle. After all, we didn’t have to drink the whole thing. The restaurant was crowded, no one was paying any attention to us, and before we knew it we’d drunk the whole bottle. I was starting to relax.

  Caterina said, “I’m ditzy sometimes, I know. I say things I shouldn’t and I only realize afterwards what I’ve done.”

  She looked at me, evidently expecting a response of some kind, and I had the distinct impression that her meek confession was just one more component of a perfectly calibrated game of seduction.

  After she realized I wasn’t going to answer her half-asked question, she decided she needed to provoke me further. So she ran a finger over the back of the hand I was resting on the tabletop. It would not be accurate to say that this met with absolute indifference on my part.

  “But in a way it’s your fault.”

  I took the bait.

  “Why is it my fault?”

  “All the men I know try to get me into bed, but you seem completely uninterested. I can’t say that I like it.”

  “I’m glad that you broached this topic. It gives me a chance to provide some clarification,” I began, in a ridiculously condescending tone of voice.

  “Go ahead, clarify away,” she said with a smile. She continued stroking the back of my hand. Although I tried, I didn’t have the mental fortitude to pull my hand away.

  “You’re very beautiful, but for a variety of reasons I cannot even take into consideration the idea of … how should I put this …”

  “Say it in your own words.”

  “Well, that is, I cannot even take into consideration the idea of courting you, much less allow the prospect that something might happen between us.”

  The prospect that something might happen between us?

  Guerrieri, listen to the ridiculous fucking way you speak. The next time you take a girl out on a date, are you going to ask her if she would be inclined to take into consideration the prospect of establishing a relationship that might entail intermittent sexual congress? With that exact wording, of course, and reserving the right to cancel that contract by providing notice in writing.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, first and foremost, I’m working on a case, and it’s never a good idea to mix professional and private matters.”

  Well put. A profound truth. Unfortunately, I happen to know that in the not-too-distant past, Guerrieri, you’ve been pretty flexible on that point.

  “And second?”

  “And second, aside from the work aspect, I’m twenty years older than you are.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s wrong. There’s a vast gap in both age and experience, and there’s a risk that someone could get hurt.”

  “You mean I could get hurt?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Well, you’re pretty full of yourself. Pompous ass. Maybe you’re the one who could get hurt.”

  “That’s another possibility that I would just as soon avoid. So in either case, I see a numb
er of excellent reasons to let matters drop. And now I would say it’s time for us to get going.”

  I thought I’d emerged with my dignity intact, that I’d acquitted myself graciously and well. As she stood up, however, she stuck her tongue out at me, and once again I had the feeling that I was playing a game that was slipping out of my control.

  It took Nicoletta more than a minute to come to the door.

  She was a tall, skinny young woman, pale and attractive, but dull looking. The kind who always looks much better with the right clothing and the right makeup. She had an expression that was neither amiable nor particularly intelligent. Caterina gave her a hug, wrapping her arms around her and holding her tight for what seemed like a long time. Then she introduced us. Nicoletta’s handshake was limp. The apartment smelled faintly of mothballs. There was no sign of anyone living there besides Nicoletta.

  We walked down a dimly lit hallway to the kitchen and sat down around an old Formica kitchen table. There was something impersonal and a little stale about the apartment. There was something disagreeable—though hard to pin down—about its tenant. I thought a good investigator would ask to take a look at Manuela’s bedroom, even though all her things had probably been removed some time ago and there was probably a new roommate living in it now.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Nicoletta offered in the tone of someone who is obliged to provide the minimum required level of hospitality—but no more. We accepted, and she served us coffee in a mismatched set of old chipped demitasses and saucers. After finishing her espresso, Caterina lit a cigarette, leaving her cigarette case on the table. Nicoletta took one, too, and lit it with a series of overly feminine gestures entirely in keeping with her feeble handshake.

  “All right, Nico. Counselor Guerrieri is going to ask you a few questions. Don’t worry, and answer them to the best of your ability. You’re not in any trouble. Like I told you, Counselor Guerrieri is a lawyer hired by Manu’s parents to find out if there are any leads that the prosecutors or the Carabinieri might have overlooked. That’s why he needs to talk to me, to you, in other words, to anybody who was close to Manu. But I repeat, you have no reason for concern of any kind.”

  Caterina had taken on the posture and even the tone of voice of a cop with years of experience. It was an amazing thing to see.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Nicoletta, with a less-than-enthusiastic expression on her face. Now it was my turn.

  “First of all, let me thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I’ll try not to take up any more of your time than necessary.”

  She nodded, though it wasn’t clear whether she meant it as a gesture of courtesy or to indicate that it was best not to take up too much of her time. I asked her more or less the same questions I had asked Caterina, and she gave me more or less the same answers. Then we came to the point.

  “Now, Nicoletta, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to tell me a few things about Manuela’s ex-boyfriend, Michele Cantalupi.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  I wondered for a second if I should circle around a little bit and approach the subject slowly. But I told myself there was no reason to beat around the bush.

  “Everything you can tell me about him and drugs. Before you say anything more, let me remind you that this conversation is completely confidential, and that I won’t repeat anything you’re about to tell me to anyone—least of all, to the police. I’m just trying to figure out whether and how Michele Cantalupi might have had anything to do, directly or indirectly, with Manuela’s disappearance.”

  “I have no idea whether Michele had anything to do with Manuela’s disappearance.”

  “Tell me about the cocaine.”

  Nicoletta hesitated, then she looked over at Caterina, who nodded her head as if giving permission. Nicoletta sighed and answered.

  “Well, let me begin by saying that I only know what happened while Manuela and Michele were dating.”

  “Are you talking about what happened with cocaine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “He always had cocaine.”

  “Did he have a lot?”

  “I never saw how much he had, but he always had it.”

  Something about the way she answered that question told me that she wasn’t telling the truth. I felt sure that Nicoletta had seen the cocaine, and she’d seen that there was a lot of it.

  “Did he bring it here, to your apartment?”

  She hesitated again, then nodded.

  “Was Manuela using?”

  “I think so.”

  “You only think so?”

  “She used it sometimes.”

  “Here?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Together with Michele?”

  “That’s right.”

  Based on the way she answered me and the growing tension I could sense, I decided to change the subject, for a few minutes anyway.

  “After she broke up with Michele, Manuela was dating someone else here in Rome, wasn’t she?”

  She relaxed visibly.

  “She went out with a guy for a few weeks, but she wasn’t serious about him.”

  “Did you meet this guy?”

  “I only met him once. He came over for dinner one evening.”

  “How long did they date?”

  “They stopped seeing each other before the summer. Manuela didn’t really like him. She just went out with him a few times because she was bored. It was a way of passing the time.”

  “Were there any repercussions to that relationship?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was it an easy breakup, or was there a lot of conflict, the way there was with Michele?”

  “The two of them were never even together. They went out a few times, that’s all. It wasn’t a relationship, just a few dates. I think that after a few weeks Manuela told him that she didn’t want to see him again. It just ended. No conflict at all.”

  “When you and Caterina spoke, you both theorized that Michele might have had something to do with Manuela’s disappearance. Is that right?”

  Nicoletta looked over at Caterina, who once again nodded, giving her permission to answer.

  “Yes, but that was just something we said. Michele is a violent guy, and their relationship ended on an ugly note.…”

  “Is he a drug dealer?”

  “I don’t know, I swear.”

  I had a sudden idea.

  “Did Manuela ever have cocaine of her own, independent of Cantalupi? Did she ever bring coke here, even when he wasn’t in Rome?”

  Caterina shifted in her chair, changing position, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that she seemed less at ease. Nicoletta slouched and the expression on her face was unmistakable: She knew she should never have agreed to talk with me. It had been a mistake, and she was already regretting it.

  “Let me ask you again: Did Manuela have a way of getting cocaine, independent of Cantalupi? This information could be very important.”

  Still no answer.

  “She brought some here, and you both used it, on more than one occasion. Isn’t that right?”

  After another long pause, she finally spoke.

  “Once or twice,” she said in a voice I could barely hear.

  “Did that happen after she broke up with Cantalupi?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Manuela knew how to get cocaine without having to rely on Cantalupi. Did she get it in Rome or Bari?”

  “I don’t know how or where she got it, I swear.”

  She was starting to make me mad. If the things she was telling me—and everything that she was still keeping from me—had been reported to the Carabinieri months ago, maybe the investigation would have gone differently. I didn’t like this one bit.

  “I swear I have no idea where she got the coke,” she said again.

  “And you didn’t say a word to the Carabinieri about all this
. Didn’t it occur to you that this information could have been helpful to their investigation? It could have made a difference.”

  “I didn’t know who she was getting her coke from. Even if I’d said something to the Carabinieri, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  It took all my self-control to suppress a growing wave of anger inside me. I wanted so badly to tell her what an idiot she was. If the Carabinieri had known that Manuela was involved in drug dealing, however tangentially, they would have shifted their investigation in that direction. Maybe that wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least there might have been a chance to find out what happened to her.

  “You didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to admit that you’d used cocaine. You didn’t want your parents to know, isn’t that right?”

  She nodded. Now that I thought about it, I decided that stupidity had nothing to do with her behavior. Nicoletta was a small-minded, selfish coward, and the only reason she said nothing to the Carabinieri was to avoid any inconvenience to herself. That her close friend, roommate, companion in studies and everyday life, had vanished into thin air meant less to her than the mere risk that she might have to do some explaining to her parents about doing a line or two—was it a line or two?—of cocaine.

  “I need to understand something, Nicoletta, and I’m going to ask you to tell me the truth, without holding anything back. I need to know if Manuela continued to get cocaine from the same people after she and Michele broke up. By ‘same people,’ I mean the people she met through Michele.”

  “I swear that I don’t know how she got it. I asked once, and she told me to mind my own business.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was kind of mean about it. She let me know it was none of my business and asking could be dangerous.”

  “Is that what you understood her to mean, or is that what Manuela actually said to you?”

  “I don’t remember her exact words, but that was certainly how she made it sound.”

  A few minutes of complete silence followed. Caterina lit another cigarette. Nicoletta rubbed a hand over her face and sighed deeply. For a minute I thought she was about to burst into tears, but she didn’t. I was trying to think of anything else I might be able to get out of her. Nothing came to mind, so I asked if I could see Manuela’s bedroom.