Donato suddenly stands up from the bed. That’s not the way it’ll be, he tells himself. It’ll all go well, I’ll take the exam, I’ll do exceptionally well, and the three of us will go out to dinner together. And we’ll talk about the future.
So now, let’s get started with this last revision session.
CHAPTER 16
Sweetheart, my darling,
What’s that phrase they use in the movies? That’s a wrap!
What a pity that I won’t be able to see you until it’s all over. I wish I could tell you in detail how things went. You would have been so proud of me. It all went according to plan, down to the tiniest detail. And even if it hadn’t, I was ready to take care of unexpected developments. I could feel my mind whirring away like a well-oiled machine. Not that I was worried I might lack the courage, for instance, or suddenly panic—none of that. Ten years is a long time to spend thinking it over every day, picturing every single aspect. If there are doubts, you’ve resolved them by the time you’re ready.
So I got there at ten o’clock. I figured that this was the perfect time, that there would be hardly anyone passing on the street at that time of night, and everyone would be watching television or eating dinner. In the previous few days I’d noticed that the last tenant to return home at night was always the same guy: he lives in a third-floor flat, and he always arrives on foot with a canvas bag. No idea what he does. Anyway, after nine-thirty no one uses the courtyard.
The boy always parks (or I should say “used to park,” shouldn’t I, my darling?) his scooter in the same place, right in the corner, where the little nook is located. I have to admit that this was a bit of good luck. But no matter what, I figured it out: if you take care, if you walk with your head down, shuffling your feet, if you act like you’re old and tired, then people look the other way. In other words, you become invisible. And invisible is what I’ve made myself, and that’s what I intend to remain until the end. Good, isn’t it?
So anyway, I wriggled into my little nook. It stank of piss and that was actually convenient too. If by some unlikely chance I was seen, I’d have pretended I was taking a leak. But no one saw me.
I stood there, waiting. It takes as long as it takes, haven’t I always told you that?
Without haste, I screwed the tube onto the barrel of the gun. Everything fit nicely into my counterfeit bag, even my packet of tissues. This eye is always weepy, but you know, I’ve grown used to it. The lady doctor back home told me, the last time I went in for a checkup, that it’s a chronic condition by now and there’s nothing that she can do. And anyway, what does it matter? I felt like laughing in her face on my way out of the clinic.
So what I did is I screwed the tube onto the gun, as I was telling you. It’s simply spectacular, I’ve tried it lots of times at home, and what you hear is a sound like someone snapping their fingers. I’ve destroyed so many cushions, you can’t even imagine. One time, towards the end, I even thought of using it on her, so that I wouldn’t have to listen to her breath rattling away anymore. But then how would I have been able to finish what I needed to do so that I could see you again?
I put on my reading glasses, because I reckoned that when I extended my arm he’d be about a foot away when he lowered his head to lock the chain. The night before I’d given it a try, and he didn’t even sense the air from my hand. He was whistling a tune, all pleased with himself. I wonder why. He was happy yesterday too. At that age, my darling, everyone’s happy; there’s no other way to be.
I keep wandering off topic, but it’s because I’m so happy myself. At last, I’ve begun.
I’d been ready and waiting for two hours by the time he got there. Completely ready. In fact, every so often I had to put the gun back into my bag because my arm was getting tired. I’d rehearsed every detail so many times in my head that when I did it, it was as if I was merely thinking it one more time. He dropped his keys, he had to pick them up and that gave me a little extra time, three or four seconds longer than it usually took him. I aimed, just think, right at the corner of the angle that the barber razored in to shape that ridiculous hairdo of his. Then I walked away from there, and I only came back after a small crowd had assembled to see what had happened.
Then the police came. First one car, then two more. People were elbowing each other and talking, and I was there, with my shoulder bag, listening in. You know, my darling, everyone detests the cops. They really hate them. And I didn’t sense any pity in the crowd for the boy; all they were wondering was who he was, but everyone was happy that it hadn’t happened to them. People are surely strange.
When the first car pulled up, two men got out, and I noticed one of them in particular. He moved slowly, unhurriedly, as if he were listening to a familiar piece of music. He went over to the nook and picked up something off the ground—I imagine the shell casing. Then he followed the same trajectory I had covered, looking at the ground as he went.
Don’t you worry about me, my darling. No one was watching me, as usual. You know, I never would have thought it, but apparently this is a city that really minds its own business. And I took care to set my feet down on their sides, to scrape my shoes off thoroughly: there were no prints. Still, the policeman followed in exactly the same direction.
Then he looked up at the little crowd of people where I was standing, and luckily I didn’t move. His eyes are narrow, you know, as if he were Chinese.
Then the others arrived, including a woman; I imagine she’s the assistant DA (but are prosecutors so young nowadays?). And they sent him away. That’s good, I thought. He seemed like the only one there that could figure anything out.
So anyway, sweetheart, my darling, everything is proceeding according to plan. I’m really quite satisfied.
Now it’s time to get started on the girl.
CHAPTER 17
So, you’ve decided you want to be a cop after all, eh?” said Giuffrè. “I heard you were a regular Serpico. And that you went head-to-head with none other than Di Vincenzo, himself, in person.”
Lojacono didn’t even look up from the monitor. What a miserable hand: all low numbers in different suits. This time you’re fucked, he thought to himself. This damned computer: it beat him systematically.
“I’m no Serpico. I happened to be here when a nighttime emergency call came in, so I responded. And I reported what I saw.”
Giuffrè had no intention of letting it drop; he was like a dog with a bone. For once, he was the only guy in police headquarters to be speaking to the man of the hour, the subject of every conversation in the station.
“Say, do you even know what they call you? The Montalbano of the booby hatch. Doesn’t seem like a good thing, letting other people make fun of you behind your back, does it? So why don’t you tell me about your phenomenal hunches, and I’ll teach them all a thing or two.”
“What hunches are you talking about, Giuffrè? Have you lost your mind? I saw a couple of tissues that weren’t wet and I picked up a shell casing. Where’s the guesswork in that? You go ahead and tell those morons that there’s no Inspector Montalbano–and by the way he doesn’t exist where I come from either–nor is there any loony bin. And tell them not to bust my balls, or I’ll be busting theirs in return, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. You know what I want to know? Who the boy was.”
Giuffrè shrugged. “Some kid named Mirko Lorusso, aged sixteen or thereabouts. Only child, no father, mother works as a homecare nurse. A two-bit delinquent; he probably stole money from some Camorrista and was duly punished. S’hanna ’mpara’ ’a piccerille, as we say here—a matter of teaching kids good manners.”
Lojacono had been dealt another terrible hand by his computer: a two of clubs, a three of diamonds, and a seven, a four, and a nine of hearts.
“The Camorra has nothing to do with it. Whoever killed him had some other reason.”
Giuffrè shook his head in wonderment. “Mamma mia, so you really do want to be a policeman when you grow up. Who are you now–Inspec
tor Maigret? Come on, Sherlock, tell me how you know the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
Lojacono finally tore his eyes away from the monitor, having lost once again.
“First: the .22. It’s already an inaccurate and troublesome gun to start with, and you add the fact that he probably had a silencer on the thing because the courtyard is small and it echoes. Second: where the kid lives, with the risk of someone happening by and spoiling everything. Third: no easy escape route. A motorcycle or a car can’t get out of there without being noticed: it’s a blind alley. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to ride up to the scooter on a fast bike, in any old place, and shoot three or four times to make sure? Which is the typical procedure when it comes to settling a score. Fourth: his age. Could such a young kid have done something serious enough to deserve this kind of death sentence? And if he had, why would he come home all relaxed and let himself be killed where they knew they could find him? I’ll say it again: if you ask me, the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
The sergeant sat there openmouthed. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes looked enormous.
“And you thought all these things in the two minutes that you were there? And you didn’t say anything to anyone?”
Lojacono shrugged his shoulders. “No one asked me. They told me to get out of there as fast as I could, so I left. You know that orders are meant to be obeyed, don’t you? After all, these are my own personal considerations, nothing more. But maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. Maybe it’s the Camorra settling some accounts.”
“Whatever the case, I really like the way you think. And I’ll tell you what I’d like even more: if these dickheads would stop assuming that no one working in here has any idea what they’re doing. And then there’s Di Vincenzo, who really strikes me as the princess and the pea with all his haughtiness—I’d love to see how he cracks this case. Because, fine, I understand this is a working-class neighborhood, but up till now we haven’t seen a lot of murders here. And a kid only makes it worse; people get upset about that. You’ll see—they’ll be breathing down his neck.”
Lojacono shook his head. “It’s the mother’s tragedy. You should have seen her—she was all torn up. Now you say they were alone, and that helps me understand. She lost everything. Her whole life ended, in a split second, in that courtyard. She was the very picture of grief, the poor woman.”
Giuffrè went on with the thread of his thought. “Good old Di Vincenzo has a tough piece of work on his hands with this prosecutor. Piras is a feisty young fighting chicken, and he’s not going to be able to manage her.”
Lojacono remembered the attractive young woman. “Yes, I saw her. She showed up right away. Why, do you know her?”
“Sure I know her. When I was driving around that MP—he was a lawyer, you know—I met her a couple of times when we gave her a lift in the car. Dottoressa Laura Piras, from Cagliari, thirty or so. She’s small, but quite the babe. Be warned, if she catches you looking at her tits—which are remarkable, as you no doubt saw for yourself—she’s capable of ripping your eyes out of your head. She’s determined, there’s no stopping her, and she’s on a career path that’s pointing straight up. I’ll bet you she’ll have Di Vincenzo dancing a quickstep.”
“So is she married? Does she have children?”
Giuffrè started snickering. “Oh, what’s this, now you’ve got the hots for Piras? So there’s life in those trousers of yours. I’m glad to hear it! People who don’t have any weakness of the flesh frankly scare me. Anyway, the answer is no. Even though everyone gives it a try, even the Honorable MP himself. I can’t tell you what a fool she made him look, right in front of me, or I guess I should say right behind me because I was driving. She told him to keep his hand where it belonged or she’d rip it right off his wrist.”
Lojacono gave him a chilly glance. “Don’t get all excited, there’s no weakness of the flesh. It’s just that I assume that someone who has children has a better chance of understanding what it means to lose such a young boy. And I was hoping that she could understand it. That’s all.”
“You’re right about that. Even if my son’s a big provolone of a lunkhead, and I sweat blood to send him to college, I still think of him first and always. And juvenile delinquent though he might have been, this kid was only sixteen years old. Oh Mother of God, the woman is here about the cats again. Let’s see what’s happened since last time. Prego, Signo’. Take a seat.”
CHAPTER 18
Allegra walks out of the front entrance of the school, snickering, “And the best thing is that no one can see me but him. God, it makes me laugh! Did you see the look on his face?”
Giada has long since learned that her girlfriend is capable of anything, but this latest thing is especially upsetting.
“Yes, but seriously, aren’t you scared to do it? What if he gets pissed off and tells the principal or, even worse, your parents? Do you realize you could be excluded from every school in the city?”
Allegra stops and turns gracefully to look at her. “Are you joking? There’s no telling the trouble he’d get himself into. My word against his, but it would be simple to make him look like a dirty old fiend, which, by the way, is what he would be, if he only had the nerve to take a step forward. Believe me, I have him by the balls; there’s nothing he can do.”
“This totally freaks me out. I don’t understand how you work up the nerve to do these things. I mean, even the thought of it: you take a seat in the front row, you slip off your panties, and you start swinging your legs open and shut. Isn’t it kind of gross?”
Allegra blithely dispenses with her objections. “But why should it be? First of all, I’m not letting him touch it, I’m just letting him look at it. And it kills me to watch him! First he turns red, then white, then he comes out in spots. Then he looks up, then to the side, everywhere but there; he starts babbling, then he takes a hundred quick glances at it, you know, he goes completely stupid, and he doesn’t even understand the lecture on ancient Greek that he’s supposed to be explaining to us. And when it’s all said and done, have you seen my grades? Eight out of ten, as smooth as silk, and you know I never even bought the textbook.”
Giada shakes her head, laughing. “You’re going to get arrested sooner or later, I guarantee it. Leave aside the fact that you’ll have him on your conscience. I mean, he’s ancient, he must be at least fifty, and you’re going to give him a heart attack. Plus he’s a priest. You’ll go straight to hell is what’ll happen.”
Allegra dismisses her objections with a delicate gesture of her hand. “Priest or no priest, he’s a leering, drooling old man and he’ll never have the courage to take action. The other day he even said to me: ‘Signorina, when you have time we should talk. You have need of spiritual comfort.’ Oh right, as if! I already know the kind of spiritual comfort he has in mind for me; you wouldn’t catch me dead alone with him. Anyway, whatever, you want to come to my house? I’ll give you a ride.”
“No way. The other day we came this close to dying in a car crash. Whenever I’m in the car, you talk to me instead of watching the road. No thanks. I’ll take the bus.”
“All right, do what you want. If you insist on being a pathetic loser, be my guest. Go to hell, talk to you later.”
“Go to hell, see you later.”
Giada doesn’t mind taking the bus; it’s taller than the wall that runs alongside the road and she can take in the whole panorama on both sides of the hill. On one side, Nisida, the beach at Bagnoli that’s gradually emerging from the ruins of the old factory that’s being knocked down; and on the other side, the bright blue bay, crisscrossed by the wakes of boats. When all’s said and done, she decides, this is a beautiful city. When viewed from a distance.
She has a fuzzy memory of a day when her father took her running down by the sea. She was small, and he’d pretend to leave her behind, then he’d stop and stand there, laughing. She treasures that memory, tucked away in a corner of her mind. She pulls it out every now and then
, secretly, when she’s alone.
She boards the bus and sits in the front, as usual. She thinks about her mother. Yesterday they had another fight and in the end, like always, her mother broke down in tears. You can’t have an argument with her mother; before you know it, tears well up in her eyes, whatever you say, like turning on a tap. And she’ll say: you’re the only thing that matters in my life. The only thing.
Giada doesn’t like that sense of responsibility. It keeps her from feeling free to have fun, like any ordinary kid her age. The thought of her mother, who practically lives only for her, paralyzes her.
With her head resting on the filthy glass, she thinks back to the argument. She wants to stop going to violin lessons, she doesn’t feel any particular aptitude, and that old bitch of a music teacher scheduled her lesson from eight to nine at night, so when she comes home the park is deserted and it kind of scares her. Her mother retorted that in that case she should be scared on Saturday nights too, when she comes home at midnight. And Giada shot back that everyone else in the world, comes home at four in the morning on Saturdays, while she is the only one who has to be home by midnight, and anyway, at that time of night on a Saturday there’s lots more people around than on a Wednesday night at nine o’clock. And then her mother said that if that bastard of a father of yours, instead of going to America with his girlfriend, had stayed here to be a father, he could have helped you with school. And then she broke down crying. As usual.
Recalling this, Giada sighs gently. She decides that she has a lot of life left to live, that she wants nothing more than to live it, and she doesn’t understand why they won’t just let her.
Almost her stop. She looks up. The bus is empty. No, wait, there’s someone all the way in the back; an old man, maybe.
The Crocodile (World Noir) Page 5