Blue Bear_or the Impossibility of Anonymity

by Joseph Grady

  “So you’re telling me the murder weapon was a gun?” she asked.

  “I did not say that.”

  “So it wasn’t a gun?”

  “I am the question maker, not you!” he shouted.

  He then plied her with seemingly endless questions about the victim. This part was harder for Lucy, but just slightly.

  “When did you first meet Eugenio Galli.”

  “I’ve never met him.”

  She didn’t flinch at all. I was impressed. In the end, if we want to take things extremely literally, she wasn’t exactly lying. She had run into him and she did have a brief conversation with him. But could she say that they had really met? In any case, Luca plied her with endless questions about a non-existing relationship. She was a fantastic liar. At the end, I was almost convinced it was true.

  Around one in the morning, he finally left the room. Lucy set her head on the table and pretended to sleep, forcing herself to relax every muscle in her body one at a time. Just minutes later, Luca returned, slamming the door as loudly as possible. Lucy didn’t budge. He grabbed onto her hair — in that sensitive spot where the hair meets the neck — and pulled her up, removing a small clump of curls as he yanked back. Following that sharp sting, a few seconds later, every muscle from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes snapped into tension, as he threw a scalding hot splash of tea on that same spot on her neck.

  Lucy cringed. It burned. Badly. Luca lit a cigarette and walked in slow circles around the room, stopping on every lap behind Lucy to flick the ashes on the back of her neck. She wiped the salt water from the side of her face as soon as it leaked out, but kept a blank expression. When he finished, he extinguished the cherry on her leather headband, and dropped the filter down the back of her shirt.

  He took his seat across from Lucy. She breathed deep and told herself her neck didn’t burn at all. She leaned back, tried to look comfortable, crossed her arms and legs and forced a large smile across her lips, looking straight back at him. Luca hid his clenched fists under the table. But he could not hide his red face, or the vein, which was now popping out of his forehead. She had correctly read his pithy violence for what it was: a clear sign of how desperate he had become. He had been working her for hours with no results whatsoever. Now both of them knew he was desperate, and she told him as much with her smile. His little display of power had completely backfired.

  The interrogation took yet another unexpected turn when Luca wanted to know every imaginable detail about every single piece of furniture in Lucy’s room, most of which had been recovered from defunct residents of Palazzo Mortimer whose heirs had failed to recover their belongings. Here too, she gave a very broad interpretation to honesty.

  As the night went on, Luca’s diction, grammar and pronunciation had all begun to suffer. His English skills started the evening at about the same level as Marlon Brando’s Vito Corleone in the 1950’s, but as the hours dragged on, he was rapidly approaching the level of Roberto De Niro’s interpretation of the same character, fresh off the boat in the 1920’s. On her side of the table, Lucy began to mumble and speak more quickly. At certain points, it became clear to her that Luca did not understand her for entire sentences at a time. However, he never once admitted to this, and never asked her to repeat anything. So she took a risk, following my suggestion, but taking it much farther than what I had imagined.

  “The old lamp on your desk, from where had you gotten it?”

  “Oh, that’s just a reflupper dox that I froopled from Brian.”

  Luca nodded, looked at the mirror, and took notes on his pad of paper.

  “Okay, and when did you froople said dox from Brian?”

  “Recently, I think. Maybe even just twelve or fourteen parsecs ago.”

  He wrote that down too, and wiped off the perspiration that was now forming on his forehead. “Okay. And is it normal for all of you to go froopling furniture amongst yourselves?”

  “Well, I prefer to glozzom, but Brian likes to jellop. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Okay. Yes. Yes. That makes sense,” said Luca. “So the furniture is just borrowed and shared?”

  “No. None of it is borrowed. Like I just said, it’s glozzomed or jellopped. You understand, right?”

  Luca looked at the mirror. “Right. Of course.”

  The interrogation went on this way for at least another hour, both of them talking complete nonsense about all of the furniture in Lucy’s room. At no point did she ever give a response that did not include at least one completely non-existent english sounding word. And she did it all with a completely straight face. Luca never let on that he did not understand. Her gamble was absolutely crazy and reckless, but I don’t know if I’ve ever been more proud of her.

  At one point, Luca looked down at his notes and pointed at her in triumph, having finally caught her in a contradiction. “That sounds great, but explain to me why you said the wardrobe which you gruntled from a dead scrittle was flabulous, but now you affirm that it’s a puffalope. This is clearly contradictory. Which one is it?”

  “Well, do you mean flabulous in the British or American usage? I guess you’re right. In Europe you’d probably say that it’s more of a grob than anything else, wouldn’t you?”

  Luca stared blankly at her, finally showing signs of miscomprehension. Lucy glanced at the mirror, and so did Luca. “Yes, I guess that’s right,” he agreed, jotting down her answer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IL GIORNALISTA

  At a quarter to three in the morning, Luca finally gave up and left, promising to return early in the morning. I slept soundly on the floor next to Lucy. She tossed and turned for a few hours, until, as promised, Luca came back to the cell, accompanied by two officers. The fluorescent lights struggled to flicker on so early in the morning. Luca looked down, exhausted and defeated.

  “Take this.” He slipped a sheet of paper full of seals, stamps and loads of Italian legal jargon into the gap in the bars, where her tray of cold dinner still sat untouched. “You are free to leave prison for now. However, it is absolutely forbidden for you to leave the province of Rome. You are on — how do you say in America? — the probation? Understood?”

  Lucy propped herself up on one elbow, and pulled the ratty prison blanket higher up on herself. She squinted back at him.

  “Understood?”

  “I can go?”

  “Get the… just get out of here.”

  Luca swiveled on his heal, and stormed off. Only a few minutes later, she was alone on the sidewalk outside the police facility, without a clue where she was. The streets were empty, her running shorts and t-shirt did little to protect against the chill, and she had no money for a bus ticket. The eastern sky was just beginning to grow lighter. She turned around a few times, getting her bearings about her. She tucked her passport firmly in the front pocket, checked to make sure the keys were still zipped into the back pocket, and gave her sore legs a few stretches. Wherever she went, she’d have to run to stay warm.

  She jogged to the end of the block and would have crossed, if there were not a pair of headlights careening down the street in her direction. A black limo slammed on its brakes right in front of her and a short, stout, blond man came out of the back door, with hand outstretched to introduce himself.

  “Good morning, Ms. Fox. My name is Dr. Mârek Mikulaštik. My firm represents your father’s legal interests in the Europe. Please board vehicle.” His voice was loud, and never once changed in volume or tone through all his speech.

  She shook his hand, got into the back middle seat of the limo beside him, closed the door and looked up to find six tired middle aged Italian men in suits staring back at her.

  “May I introduce you to legal team,” said Marek, holding out a brand new, perfectly fitting, black fleece jacket, followed by a pastry and a cappuccino. “Dr. Pietro Paiusco, Dr. Nicola Robotti, Dr. Andrea Sidotti, Dr. Simone Valentini, Dr. Marco Vignolo, and Dr. Matteo Torresetti.”

  “È un pi
acere, grazie,” said Lucy, snuggling herself into the warm jacket.

  They all smiled back, “Piacere nostro.”

  “And this is nurse Chiara Carbone from hospital,” said Dr. Mikulaštik. “She will document injury.”

  A woman in scrubs, who was sitting next to her, pushed back Lucy’s head, and started applying all kinds of stinging ointments to her neck, while one of the lawyers snapped pictures of the burns.

  “These men are finest legal minds in Rome,” said Dr. Mikulaštik. “I flew to Rome from Prague last evening for to assemble team, and we spend all night working hard in order to provide for your release. Roman police department perpetrated several errors of clerical and procedural nature in process of arrest, and we have possible accusation ready of police brutality. We have just filed sixteen injunctions, which shall delay your case in legal process for at least one year.”

  The Czech lawyer’s words were not easy to follow, especially with the stinging on her neck. The nurse finished and sat back, and Lucy tried to look out the windows and bite her lips. The limo raced through Piazza Venezia, just down the street from the Roman forums and the coliseum in front of the giant white marble Italian unification monument, the Altare della Patria. She had only ever seen these things from the comfort of a privately owned vehicle a handful of times. Every morning, coming to and from class, she was sardined into a city bus, where it was hard to fight for a place near the window.

  Dr. Mikulaštik handed her three large packets full of documents, but her hands were already full, so he just set them on her lap. “These are relevant case materials. You will find all of injunction documentation, sworn statement from barista at coffee bar, memory stick containing surveillance footage of you from coffee bar on Monday afternoon, sworn statement from your friend Brian, and memory stick with audio recording of entire interrogation last night, as well as our own transcript of said interrogation. There are three copies of everything. One is for you to keep on your person at all times. One for Brian. A third is to be placed in a safe.”

  The car stopped outside of a building along Via del Corso. All of the lawyers and the nurse climbed out one by one, each shaking her hand before exiting the vehicle.

  The car set off again, and so did Dr. Mikulaštik, “Of course, you will not be staying in the Italy. If media decide speak about your case, it will be too difficult to maintain injunctions.” He placed three more things on top of the envelopes. “These are keys to grey Fiat Panda rental car with Swiss license plates. She is parked on Via del Gianicolo near your residency. Here is fake American passport with your picture — your new name is Emily Green. Please memorize information regarding your new identity in passport. And finally, here is one-way ticket for a flight departing tomorrow night from Zürich to Denver. Drive from Rome to Zürich will last about nine hours, so you must depart quite early tomorrow in morning. There should not be difficulty at Swiss border, but just in case, here is my card.”

  “But the police told me I can’t leave the province of Rome. How could I go back to America?”

  “Sure. Strictly speaking, it is not exactly legal for you to leave. Once you are in the America, though, there is almost nothing that they can do to you. It is much safer for you outside the country. You are indeed clearly innocent, but the circumstances are volatile enough that your exit from Europe is necessitated.”

  “But with a violation of the terms of my probation, how do I get back into Europe?”

  “Coming back to Europe is out of the question. Tomorrow is the last day for you in Schengen zone. But do not tell anyone of your intentions for departure. You must leave quietly without the noticement of others.”

  The limo stopped in front of Palazzo Mortimer.

  “Remember,” said Dr. Mikulaštik, “call me if anything whatsoever is to happen. I wish you the best, Ms. Fox.”

  He took the still full cappuccino cup and the untouched pastry from her with his left hand and shook her with his right. She put everything she could into the pockets of her new jacket and her track shorts. She barely got her feet on the ground before the car drove off.

  To her right, dozens of rapid-fire explosions, clicking, and flashing set off. A man was slowly jogging towards her on the sidewalk.

  “Ms. Fox, Ms. Fox!” he yelled. What appeared to be three Italian supermodels with cameras firing were following at a short distance behind the man. “Ms. Fox, could I speak with you for a moment?”

  He was probably in his mid to late forties. He had a few days’ worth of beard stubble, dark black scruffy unkept hair with grey patches on the side, and very square glasses. He looked skinny even in a large black coat, black pants, and a grey scarf, but somehow he still had a double chin. While his height was average — slightly taller than Lucy — the women following him with their cameras, on the other hand, were exceptionally tall and skinny, and they were dressed to kill in the latest fall fashions. The man couldn’t believe his luck when Lucy didn’t run away. When he got close, the cameras stopped firing and he held out his right hand towards Lucy.

  “Hi, my name is Cristiano Ludovici.”

  She looked at the hand, but did not shake it.

  “I work for La Repubblica. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  She considered the hand for another second and shook her head, running up to the front door of Palazzo Mortimer. Gambetti had yet to arrive, so the door was still locked. Lucy fumbled with one hand to open the zipper in the small back pocket of her track shorts to get the key. The cameras relaunched their attack from their position on the sidewalk outside the front gate. She was about to insert the key, when a thought occurred to her. She paused, turned around and looked back at them. Cristiano held up his hand, and the photographers lowered their weapons.

  Lucy returned the key to her track shorts and zipped the back pocket shut. She sauntered down the little driveway, stopped in front of Cristiano, and looked up and down the road. It looked empty.

  “Are you the only journalist here?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Can we talk first off the record?”

  “Of course.”

  She led him in silence up Via del Gianicolo, around the other side of the hospital to an overlook from the Janiculum hill. There was an outdoor coffee bar and snack shop that wasn’t going to open for another twenty minutes. The only people around were the occasional hospital staff passing by to get to work early. The photographers went to the other side of the overlook and took turns snapping and comparing photos of the Roman skyline at dawn.

  Lucy and Cristiano sat down opposite one another just as the tip of the sun peaked over the Apennines on the opposite end of the city. Her running shorts were not long enough to protect her bare legs from contact with the frigid metal chair. At first she pretended not to care, but as she sat back and hit a damp spot on the seat, she involuntarily shivered and scooted up as far forward as possible in the chair, crossing her legs and arms. Across from her, Cristiano leaned back, warm and comfortable in his puffy black coat and grey scarf. He lit a Lucky Strike and offered one to Lucy, who used every ounce of moral strength left in her to smile and politely decline.

  Cristiano waited for her to begin the conversation, so she forced her way through a few minutes of small talk. He was from Milan, but had gone to journalism school in New York. He rooted for AC Milan and the Yankees. She did not care much for Italian soccer. The Yankees response, though, did not inspire trust. But if he could be trusted, perhaps he could be valuable. Small talk ended up going nowhere resulting in establishing said trust, so Lucy took an Italian approach. Direct.

  “How can I trust you?”

  “I work for La Repubblica. We are a professional sophisticated news source, not a tabloid. If we make promises, we keep them.”

  Lucy turned around and looked at the photographers — who were now playing with each others’ hair and checking their make up in small mirrors — and back at Cristiano. “Professional?”

  “Absolutely
. Professional. I’ve been able to get much better shots ever since I started recruiting photographers from modeling agencies instead of photography schools. In homicide news stories, readers aren’t interested in clean artistic shots. They want grungy shots with murder suspects looking at the camera. They want to look the killers in the eye. A professional photographer can guarantee a beautiful shot, but they cannot guarantee that the target will be looking at the camera. A beautiful model can, because her job is not to look at the subject, but to get the subject to look at her. They may not be as skilled, but in the end, they produce a much better final product. And if that’s not professional, I don’t know what is.”

  “Do you know who else is covering this story?”

  “There’s one guy from Corriere, but I get the feeling he’s busy with other projects.”

  “Does he know about me?”

  “As far as I know, I’m the only journalist who knows about your arrest so far.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t be one hundred percent sure. But in my experience, I’d say it’s a foregone conclusion that no one else knows about your arrest. Think about it. It’s a murder case, so that’s interesting for the Roman tabloids, to a certain point. A standard murder might appear on page five or six, and the story about Eugenio’s murder already did appear yesterday in most newspapers. But it’s obvious that neither the tabloids nor the international outlets know that you are the main suspect. At least they don’t know yet. Maybe they know your name, but they certainly don’t know that you’re a beautiful young American girl. If they did, there would be fifty or sixty photographers stationed outside that door, and I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “Come on? You think this case is really that interesting?”