The Silence of the Wave

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  A new pause. Silence, apart from her breathing at the other end of the line.

  “Listen, you wouldn’t have half an hour to spare, would you? We could meet, I could tell you in person, and then maybe you could talk to Giacomo. Talking to him, you’d be able to tell if it’s a serious matter or not.”

  Do I have half an hour? I don’t just have half an hour, I have all the time in the world. For months now, I’ve had all the time in the world and I’ll have even more if they throw me out of the Carabinieri. That was what he thought, word for word, but he didn’t say it. And yet for the first time the thought of being discharged for good scared him. For a long time he had thought it didn’t matter; the idea of abandoning the uniform left him indifferent. Now just the possibility of it dismayed him.

  “Yes, I have half an hour. Where shall we meet?”

  * * *

  This time she was punctual. In fact, she was early, because when Roberto arrived, at three on the dot, she was already there, sitting at the same table as the last time.

  When she saw him, Emma stood up, came to him and kissed him on the cheeks. Maybe it was the embrace, maybe it was the two kisses—kisses with the lips on the cheeks, not in the more conventional way, with one cheek pressed against the other—maybe it was something else, but Roberto felt himself go red and a small electrical charge went through his body. He immediately felt embarrassed, irritated with himself for his own awkwardness.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure, he was about to reply. But he restrained himself and it seemed to him that he had done the right thing. It was as if he were trying to learn again how to behave, he thought.

  “Tell me about Giacomo.”

  “Yes. Well, the fact is, I don’t really know where to begin. Maybe it’s just a young boy’s imagination and I’m only telling you about it because I want to be reassured.”

  “Don’t worry. Just tell me and we’ll try to figure out what to do.”

  The waitress came and took their orders. Roberto felt good, alert, alive.

  “Last night Giacomo asked me if I knew any policemen. I asked him why, and he said there’s a girl in his school who’s in danger. ‘Someone’s hurting her and I don’t know what to do to help her,’ he said.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “Apparently … apparently some boys the same age, or maybe a bit older, are forcing her to have sex.”

  “Who’s his source?”

  He realized he had spoken as if he were in a briefing.

  “I mean, how did he find out?”

  “He says he heard rumors at school.”

  “But has he talked to this girl? Did she confide in him, did she tell him something?”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Why?”

  “He says she asked him for help, but …”

  “But?”

  “He says she asked him for help in a dream.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s what he said: the girl asked him for help in a dream. But he sounded so genuine when he told me this that I thought I ought to do something. Then I told myself I did know a policeman, or rather a carabiniere, that having a chat doesn’t cost anything, and that I’d feel much calmer if I heard the opinion of a … well, someone like you. I also thought of asking the doctor for advice—we’ve often talked about Giacomo—but then I thought it was better to call you.”

  Roberto let a few minutes pass, trying to focus his thoughts, without much success.

  “You say they’re in the same class?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Giacomo hasn’t tried talking to her?”

  Emma shrugged and shook her head.

  “All right,” he said finally, “let me talk to the boy and we’ll see what emerges.”

  “If you like, we can go home now.”

  “Let’s go.”

  26

  The first thing that struck Roberto was the smell. He’d never been good at naming smells—who is?—but there was something sharp and clean in the air you breathed in that apartment.

  They entered a living room with a table, a big TV set, a bookcase, fresh flowers in a tall vase made of transparent colored plastic, a beautiful old leather sofa, prints and photographs in black and white on the walls. Roberto felt a strong desire to belong to what was around him, to be admitted to it, and at the same time he was assailed by a painful awareness of not being up to it, of being forever excluded.

  “Giacomo’s in his room. I’ll go and get him.”

  Left alone, Roberto found himself doing something he didn’t usually do: inspecting the books on the shelves. A few weeks earlier, he wouldn’t even have noticed them. Now they aroused his curiosity. He pulled one out, looked at it cautiously, as if it were an object with which he still had to familiarize himself, and then put it back in its place. He did the same thing with another book, then another. He was holding one whose title had attracted his attention—Heart of Darkness—when Emma came back into the room. Behind her was a thin young boy with dark eyes. In Roberto’s head the apparition of Estela took shape again, sitting on the bed, with the invisible child in the darkness. It lasted a few seconds, like a sudden sharp pain.

  “This is Giacomo,” Emma said. “Giacomo, this is Roberto.”

  Roberto held out his hand to the boy and felt it being gripped surprisingly firmly.

  “Roberto’s a carabiniere.”

  Then the three of them stood there, saying nothing, until Roberto broke the silence.

  “You told me Giacomo wanted to talk to me. Maybe it’d be easier if we were alone for a few minutes. If you don’t mind.”

  Emma looked around, dumbfounded, searching for something to say but not finding it. Then she shrugged, told them to call her when they were finished, and left the room.

  Roberto looked at the boy, and the boy sustained his gaze.

  “Shall we sit down?”

  They both sat down on the sofa. Roberto felt the cracks in the leather beneath his hands and was surprised at the way all his senses—touch, at this particular moment—were coming back to life.

  “I don’t think you’re the kind of person who beats around the bush,” Roberto said.

  “So you’re a carabiniere?”

  He’d been right.

  “Yes, I’m a marshal.”

  “What do you do exactly?”

  “I’m a detective, I deal with organized crime.” No point being too specific, like saying that he used to deal with organized crime but would never be doing so again.

  The answer didn’t seem to impress the boy.

  “How do you know my mother?”

  “Her car broke down once, I saw her, stopped, and helped her to get it started. Then we happened to meet again. We’ve chatted a few times. Today she called me and told me you’d asked to speak to a policeman or a carabiniere. I think I’m the only person she knows in that line of work, that’s why she turned to me.”

  The boy scratched his head: he had exhausted the preliminaries and did not know how to carry on.

  “From what your mother told me, you know something about a problem a school friend of yours has.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Giacomo told his story, and he did so in a brief, precise way, in the tone of an officer reporting on an investigation. There was a rumor going around school about a pornography and prostitution ring. Apparently, it was run by a group of older boys, maybe from high school. There were girls forced to have sex and let themselves be filmed, and among them was a classmate of his—Giacomo told him her name—who was desperately in need of help.

  “Who told you these things?”

  “People from school, but I don’t know any of their names,” he said, touching his face in the kind of gesture common in those not telling the whole truth. It doesn’t matter, Roberto thought. The boy was protecting his sources. Like any self-respecting detective.
>
  “Have you tried to talk about it with the girl—Ginevra you told me her name was, right?”

  “I tried.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So how can you be so sure she’s involved with this ring and needs help?”

  Giacomo hesitated before replying.

  “I know you’re going to think this is crazy, but I had a dream. And in that dream Ginevra asked for help. She was desperate.”

  Actually, even though he didn’t say so, Roberto didn’t really think it was crazy at all. In fact, without even realizing it, he started to react like a carabiniere and to think about what he might be able to do. Maybe because—dream or no dream—rumors like that needed to be checked out anyway. When there are stories circulating that won’t go away, the likeliest explanation is that they contain at least some truth. All the best investigations come out of rumors that won’t go away.

  It struck him he might be able to stand outside the school, have Giacomo point out the girl to him, take a look at her, see where she went and then, on the basis of what emerged—if anything did emerge—play it by ear. Improvise. As he had always done. With all the free time he had, what did it cost him? Worst case scenario, it would all amount to nothing.

  “All right, Giacomo. I’m going to look into this, but I need your help.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “What time do you leave school tomorrow?”

  “One o’clock.”

  “At one o’clock tomorrow I’ll be standing outside your school. When you come out, try to stand close to this girl so that I know which one she is. When you see me, make sure I’ve understood who the girl is—I’ll give you a sign—and then just go home. I’ll see to the rest. Oh, and, of course, don’t tell anyone about this conversation of ours. Agreed?”

  Giacomo said all right and then sat there looking at him, as if something were still hanging in the air.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why are you thanking me?”

  “For listening to me and not treating me like a child.”

  Roberto made a sign with his head that was like a bow, a gesture of respect.

  “I think we should call your mother now. See you tomorrow outside school at one o’clock. All right?”

  “All right.”

  They called Emma. When she came back in she said nothing, but her face was full of questions.

  27

  An hour later Roberto was with the doctor. It seemed as if months had passed since the last time.

  “I don’t know what to talk about today.”

  “Then don’t talk about anything.”

  “I feel … I can’t really say how I feel.”

  “Maybe a bit uncomfortable?”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “It’s a new situation—it’s normal you should feel like this.”

  “Is it because of what I told you last time?”

  “It’s because of several things, including what we told each other last time. Overall, it was rather an atypical session.”

  Roberto rubbed his face with his hands.

  “You said it’s a new situation, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know something?”

  “What?”

  “I have the impression that all at once words—I mean normal words that I knew perfectly, like situation—have a clearer, more precise meaning.”

  “That’s because the world is starting to make sense again. And in case it wasn’t clear: that’s good news.”

  “Does that mean I’m getting better?”

  “Yes, I’d say it does mean you’re getting better. In the next few days we’ll start reducing the dosage of the medication.”

  “I’m sorry about what you told me last time … about your son.”

  The doctor gave a little smile.

  “I shouldn’t say this because it’s completely against the rules, but talking to you about him did me a lot of good.”

  * * *

  At the door, the doctor shook his hand and said he was pleased with the way things were going.

  “I’ve met a patient of yours,” Roberto said. “A woman.”

  “I know.”

  “I assumed you did.”

  “I think it’s a good thing.”

  Roberto stood there looking at him.

  “A good thing,” the doctor repeated, then smiled, said good-bye, and went back inside.

  * * *

  The next morning, he woke up in a changeable mood: a mixture of joy and slight anxiety. He did some exercise, took a shower, and then dressed, paying attention to what he was putting on, trying to concentrate on every single movement. Starting with the trousers, first one leg then the other, keeping his balance without looking for something to hold on to; taking a shirt he had ironed over the weekend, feeling smug for a few seconds because the ironing had been done well, putting first one arm and then the other in; sitting down on the edge of the bed and going on to the socks, after making sure they matched and didn’t have any holes; trying on the new shoes he had bought a few days earlier; doing up the belt and realizing he could push it to a hole he had never used; putting on the jacket, with a final glance in the mirror.

  It was absurd, he thought, but he had liked getting dressed. Maybe because he had done it with due care and attention? He opened his wallet, took out his ID, and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. Obviously the question was the photograph. It wasn’t actually all that old, but it looked like someone else. Who was this guy in uniform, without a beard, without deep lines on his forehead, and with the cool gaze of someone who’s afraid of nothing? At what moment had he disappeared to give way to someone else? Where was he now? Because he must be somewhere, maybe in a parallel world to which you just had to find the door, Roberto thought, taking an unreasonable and beneficial comfort from this absurd thought.

  He left home with joy and anxiety whirling around together, and went and had breakfast in the bar where he had twice met Emma. He had a cappuccino and a croissant, smoked a single cigarette, and watched the people passing, enjoying the idleness for the first time in longer than he could remember.

  It was a bright morning, but not hot. A perfect spring day, Roberto thought as he walked, calm and alert, looking around him, seeing what was around. Getting his eyes back in working order.

  A few minutes before one he was outside the school.

  * * *

  The angry growl of the bell could even be heard on the street. About thirty seconds passed, thirty seconds of suspense during which it seemed as if the sound had had no effect, and then the children started pouring out of the building. Giacomo appeared almost immediately, walking next to a blonde girl, staying close to her until his eyes met Roberto’s. Then he stopped, with the slightly dismayed expression of someone who has performed his task and has no possibility of influencing what will happen next. Even if he wanted to. One moment you’re indispensable, the next you’re irrelevant. Roberto looked at him and guessed what he must be feeling. Then he turned and set off.

  Ginevra was walking fast, glancing behind her every now and again. She came to a bus stop and joined the small crowd that was waiting. Roberto approached. Several buses stopped and left again. Then one arrived and the girl got on, and Roberto got on behind her. He didn’t have a ticket. If they stop me I’ll show my ID, he told himself. On the bus Roberto studied the girl. Pretty, but nothing amazing.

  Ginevra got off after three stops, walked for a few more minutes, reached a posh-looking apartment block, opened the front door with a key, and disappeared inside.

  Roberto checked the names by the bells, to make sure this was where the girl lived. The surname Giacomo had given him was there. Just to respect the rules of surveillance, he waited on the opposite pavement for half an hour. In that half-hour only one elderly l
ady entered the building and nobody came out. It was about two when Roberto decided it was time to go.

  28

  “Emma?”

  “Roberto.”

  “Er … how are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Fine. I went to Giacomo’s school.”

  “Yes, he told me. Did you … did you find out anything?”

  “I followed the girl home, but nothing happened.”

  “Roberto?” She had lowered her voice.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think of this story?”

  Pause. Roberto did not know what to think. Not yet, at least.

  “Roberto, are you there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll go back to the school tomorrow and see what happens. If anything happens.”

  Emma was silent for a while, then: “Will you call me afterward?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Another silence. Was she asking him to call her only because she wanted to be informed about what had happened? Or was there another reason?

  “Say hello to Giacomo for me. Tell him I’m dealing with it.”

  “He’ll be pleased. He liked you. That doesn’t happen often.”

  * * *

  The following morning passed in the same way, at the same contradictory rhythm, both lazy and active. For no very clear reason, Roberto had brought a small pair of binoculars and a camera with him. They were unlikely to be needed, but taking them didn’t cost anything, he had told himself as he left home with an old khaki bag over his shoulder, feeling slightly ridiculous.

  Giacomo came out of school almost running, and slowed down when he saw Roberto. They exchanged a rapid glance. Then the boy turned and went away.

  Immediately afterward, Ginevra came out and the sequence was identical to that of the day before. Bus ride, getting off, a short stretch on foot, going into the building.

  Roberto waited outside for a while, starting to feel stupid. What the hell was he doing? Why this ridiculous private investigation, like an amateur sleuth with his bag over his shoulder? He left, suddenly worried that someone might see him and ask him what he was doing there.