‘No thanks. I’m going to take a shower and then go have a chat with Avvocato Bonotto. I want to get hold of some more information on Giraldi.’
My place was dark and cool. The high ceilings and thick walls, reminders that the building had once been a barn, kept out the worst of the summer heat. I took a bottle of fizzy mineral water from the fridge—never could stand the flat stuff—and poured two fingers of fifteen-year-old Roger Groult into a glass. Virna was away, so what the hell. I switched on the TV to watch the regional news. In Padova, a gay-rights center had been set on fire. Rival criminal gangs, all of North African origin, had clashed near the train station. A couple of gang members had ended up in ER, with stab wounds. In the Vicenza area, a police quick-response team had uncovered yet more sweatshops employing Chinese laborers in conditions of semi-slavery. Near Treviso, on the other hand, a gang of Albanians had attacked an isolated villa. I switched off the TV, picked up another remote, and selected a Bob Dylan CD. ‘Tombstone Blues’ poured out of the speakers.
The shower made me long for a fuck, but another glass of Calvados made the longing subside. I got dressed, put the rope flower in my pocket, and walked out into the street, plunging into torrid 2 P.M. heat. I found Renato Bonotto in a city-center eatery that sold exorbitantly priced salads. As always, he was on his own, seated at his usual table, looking slim and elegant. He was a skillful lawyer: even investigating magistrates respected him for his fair-mindedness. I had first met him when a client of his had been framed as the offloader for a consignment of Colombian cocaine, and ever since then he’d made regular use of me as an investigator.
‘Ciao, Marco,’ he greeted me. ‘Can I get you something?’
‘Thanks. I think I’ll have a tramezzino.’
‘To what do I owe the visit?’
‘You sent me a rather strange client.’
‘Giraldi . . . the sadomasochist?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I don’t know the man personally; he was referred to me by a colleague in Varese.’
‘So you’ve never actually met him?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I trust my colleague implicitly.’
‘Look, what do you know about this guy?’
‘Just what he told you, more or less.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘That he made a mistake not going immediately to the police, but now it’s too late. They’d throw him straight in jail.’
‘Did he give your colleague in Varese the same version you got?’
‘Sure. I checked before I handed him your name.’
I ate my sandwich in silence while Bonotto conducted a conversation on his cell phone, then I shook his hand and left. My Skoda was parked full in the sun and my shirt stuck to my shoulders the moment I leaned back in the seat. Ten minutes later I was on the autostrada heading for Varese. My associates wouldn’t have approved. Giraldi might be under police surveillance and the cops would be very interested indeed to discover he had a connection with three ex-cons. But I needed to see where Helena had lived to get a clearer picture of the woman we were looking for. That photograph of her in the S and M pose didn’t tell me anything; it just made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much the pegs crushing her nipples as the expression of pleasure on her face.
Mariano and Helena Giraldi had a house on a new development in the middle of the countryside. I drove past a couple of times looking for signs of surveillance, but couldn’t see any. No suspicious-looking cars or vans parked in the street. Almost every house was protected by CCTV and large, dangerous-looking dogs. Giraldi’s place seemed deserted, but there was a white Mercedes in the drive. I parked in a parallel street and approached on foot to a chorus of barking dogs. At the front gate, I pressed the buzzer. I didn’t have to wait long. Giraldi came out and attached his Argentine dog, a huge beast with watery and decidedly unfriendly eyes, to a chain.
‘Any news?’ he asked, as he opened the gate.
‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Just visiting,’ I snapped back. I couldn’t stand the guy.
He showed me into a large, expensively but tastelessly furnished lounge.
I stared at him. He was in an even worse state than the last time I’d seen him. His face looked ravaged with stress. He hadn’t had a shave for days, his eyes were bloodshot and ringed with deep, dark shadows.
His cell phone rang, and the house suddenly echoed to an electronic version of one of the previous summer’s pop songs. Giraldi glanced absent-mindedly at the number on the display. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, switching off the phone.
‘I want you to sit down while I take a look around.’
‘Why?’
‘The only thing I know about your wife is that photo of her in the two-million-lire-a-session slave pose. I want to know the rest.’
Mariano Giraldi flopped in an armchair. ‘Do as you please,’ he muttered, with a wave of his hand.
I went upstairs, opened a door at random, and walked into a bathroom in which every single object clearly belonged to a man. Helena’s bathroom was opposite. I went in, opened her cupboard and rifled through the creams and perfumes. Nothing but brand-name products. Helena treated her body kindly. There were two bedrooms, too. I rummaged through Helena’s bedside cabinets and her wardrobe, which was full to bursting with dresses and only two pairs of trousers. The woman liked showing her legs. She had a well-assorted and sophisticated range of underwear. But there wasn’t a single item that would make you think of sadomasochism. I supposed Giraldi had had a clear-out after the kidnapping.
I went back downstairs and inspected the kitchen, then went down to the basement. Part of it was used as a garage and contained an Alfa Romeo coupé–Helena’s. The remainder consisted of a large room, completely empty. The walls had recently been repainted in some shade of beige. I took out my car keys and scratched at the paint. A layer of white emerged, then, below that, one of black. Looking closer at the ceiling and walls, I saw that a number of holes had recently been filled. I imagined a pitch-black room fitted with some wooden contraptions. Helena and Mariano’s erotic playroom.
‘I see you dismantled your dungeon in a bit of a hurry,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa opposite Giraldi.
‘I was afraid the police would come and search the house.’
I lit a cigarette. ‘So what else did you get rid of?’
‘A couple of objects and some items of clothing.’
‘There aren’t any contraceptives in the house. How come?’
‘That’s none of your business. Concentrate on finding my wife.’
‘I asked you a question. If you don’t answer it, I’ll hang on to your money and you can go fuck yourself.’
‘Our sexual relations were . . . incomplete,’ he said, staring at the marble-tiled floor.
‘Meaning?’
‘Helena didn’t want to be penetrated.’
‘I get it. And that was okay with you, was it?’
‘I respected her desires.’
‘What I want to know is whether you were happy just to jerk off or if you felt the need to stick your dick in some other place.’
‘No need to be offensive.’
‘Fine. Was the question clear enough or do I have to reword it?’
‘I understand what you want to know. Helena is bisexual. We had a three-way relationship, involving another woman.’
‘Within the S and M scene?’
‘That’s right. She was a slave.’
‘So that’s what the room in the basement was for,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘And was it with this other woman that you had penetrative sex?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long had this arrangement lasted?’
‘Since before we got married. The other woman has been my slave for years.’
‘Signor Giraldi, you really are full of surprises. How many more have you got in store for me?’
Giraldi continued to stare at the floor in silence. His face had become a stone mask. He realized how vulnerable and defenseless he had become. I could see now why he hadn’t gone and told the police about the kidnapping. They’d have turned him inside out, trampled all over the way he lived and made a mockery of his right to fuck any damn way he felt fit.
‘I don’t give a shit about your sexual tastes. The way I see it, consenting adults are entitled to have fun any way they like. The thing is, your wife has been kidnapped and I need to know everything there is to know about her. Then, once we’ve fulfilled our side of the contract, my associates and I will forget the whole thing. Just like we always do.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I want to meet the other slave.’
‘Why? She can’t help you in any way.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘No way. This one’s my decision. You’re not meeting her.’
‘Are you scared she might tell me something I’m not supposed to know?’
‘It’s just a waste of time. Anyway, as I’m paying you have to do what I say.’
I gave him a sidelong grin. ‘That’s not the way it works. Once we’ve accepted a case, we pursue our investigations in whatever way we deem fit and our clients just have to get used to it. So, right now, either you call this woman or I call my associate. You know, the nasty one.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Sure am. For the sake of your wife.’
Giraldi reached for his phone. ‘Use mine,’ I said, handing him my cell phone. ‘There may be a tap on yours.’
‘Antonina, it’s me. As soon as you get off work, come straight over to my place . . . I don’t give a fuck about your husband; think up some excuse.’ The authoritarian tone he’d assumed hardly seemed to belong to the same grief-stricken man I’d been speaking with a moment earlier.
I pointed this out to him, but he shrugged it off. It was just the way he was accustomed to talking to that woman, he explained. A simple matter of roles. I decided to play up mine and demanded he show me his photograph collection—I’d noticed a Polaroid camera in a drawer—and he got up and fetched a thick leather-bound photo album from the chimney. I advised him to think up a better hiding place. The cops would have found it in a matter of minutes. I began to flick through the album: Helena tied and strung up in every imaginable position. Helena in a clinch with the other slave. Ropes, chains, leather masks, and the women’s skin shiny with sweat. Giraldi didn’t make a single appearance. There was even a poem signed by a certain Barbie Slave.
My head against Your bare belly
Your hands in my hair
Master . . .
Your games flutter over me, like butterflies over a meadow.
Your voice that slips hot inside me . . .
Making me a gift of sensations . . .
Master,
I love Your eyes, which bind me to You.
I love Your mouth, which marks my heart,
I love Your hands that touch my soul.
Master,
In Your castle Your slave
waits to fulfill Your desire . . .
As the moon is pierced
By the rays of the rising sun,
to remind the world of the regality
of its Master,
I await to be pierced by Your love,
to show to the whole world
the beauty of our love.
Total horseshit, I thought, handing the photograph album back to its owner. In Italy everyone feels they’re a poet. Even when it comes to saying how sweet it is to have their asses whipped.
‘Satisfied?’ Giraldi asked icily.
‘Yes. I wanted to be sure no one else was involved. Given that you still claim you know of no motive for the kidnapping, I’m forced to lift your carpets and search for dirt.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Less and less.’
The doorbell rang. A young woman’s face, framed with a bob of thick black hair, appeared on the little screen above the buzzer. Giraldi let her in and the dog wagged its tail merrily: clearly a regular visitor. When she saw me, she blanched.
‘This is one of the people helping me look for Helena,’ Giraldi hurried to explain. ‘He wants to ask you a few questions.’
‘Why?’ she asked, her voice quavering. ‘I don’t know anything.’
I observed her. She was short but fairly well-proportioned, with two skinny legs sticking out of a short, peach-colored, low-necked dress. Her face was plain and there was a scar from an operation on her upper lip. She must have been in her early thirties. She was frightened, and to make her talk I decided to adopt the same tone Giraldi had used with her.
‘Are you Barbie Slave?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Antonina Gattuso.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your husband’s full name?’
‘Silvio Cavedoni.’
‘Any children?’
‘A little girl.’
‘You got a job?’
‘I work in an office.’
‘You have a relationship with Giraldi and his wife, is that correct?’
‘No. We’re only friends.’
‘Bullshit. I’ve seen the photos. Do you want me to show them to your husband and work colleagues?’
The threat had no effect. She looked at Giraldi, who with a nod of his head commanded her to answer my question.
‘Yes. We used to meet here.’
‘Just the three of you?’
She didn’t reply and again looked over at Giraldi. ‘Answer!’ I screamed.
‘Occasionally Master Mariano orders me to have sex with other masters. As a punishment. When I behave badly . . .’
I turned to Giraldi. ‘Go take a shower,’ I barked.
‘I’m telling you: this stuff has got nothing whatever to do with Helena’s kidnapping.’
‘Get out of here. I want to talk with this lady alone.’
Giraldi obeyed reluctantly. On his way out, he gave his slave a long, hard stare. It was a warning not to say too much.
‘Sit in that armchair,’ I ordered the woman, going to stand behind her. An old police trick. ‘Why did you call him “Master”?’
‘Because Mariano is my master. He has been training me to become a true slave.’
‘For how long?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Are you a slow learner or what?’
‘You have no idea . . . It can take an entire lifetime to attain perfection.’
‘What are your feelings for Giraldi?’
‘Devotion, love, and gratitude. I owe him everything. I was unhappy and unsatisfied until he chose me. Now I’m a complete woman.’
‘Because he whips you and ties you up?’
‘That’s only one aspect. I need to feel humiliated and submissive.’
‘Well, what about your husband?’
‘He’s never understood me. We were already engaged to be married when I met Master Mariano.’
‘And he’s never had any suspicions?’
‘No.’
‘You’re telling me you’ve been on the S and M scene for eleven years and he knows nothing about it.’
‘That’s normal. Everyone involved in S and M leads a double life.’
‘In other words, you’re a wife, a mother, an office-worker, and then once a week you become a slave?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you love your husband?’
‘Sure.’
‘So you love two
men.’
She shook her head. ‘They’re different kinds of love. They complement one another.’
‘And are you happy like this?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then why are you frightened?’
‘Because of what’s happened to Helena,’ she replied, after a brief hesitation.
‘Are you afraid you’ll be kidnapped, too?’
‘No. I’m afraid of the police. I’m scared they’ll find out everything and it’ll all become public knowledge. My whole life, and that of my family, too, would be destroyed.’
‘So you don’t give a damn about Helena.’
‘She’s Master Mariano’s wife.’
‘But you made love with the woman.’
‘That was part of the training.’
‘You mean you didn’t enjoy it?’
‘If my Master enjoyed it then I enjoyed it, too.’
‘What do you know about the kidnapping?’
‘Nothing. Only what Master has told me.’
I took the rope flower from my pocket, walked round to the front of the armchair and showed it her. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No, I don’t.’
I pointed to the door. ‘You can go, and if you’re really worried about your reputation, stay away from Master Mariano until Helena’s been found.’
She didn’t need to be told twice. I sat down in the armchair, lit another cigarette, and began to think. Antonina Gattuso hadn’t been able to tell me anything useful about the kidnapping, but she had enabled me to understand a lot about the kind of relationships people on the S and M scene had with one another. Playing a role was not a performance they put on just to have some enjoyable sex. There was something deeper that drove people to construct perfectly organized double lives. It was vital that nobody outside the S and M scene should know a thing, not even their nearest and dearest. Discovery would destroy their lives totally. What Antonina had said might seem like the ravings of some pathetic half-wit, but it wasn’t like that. Somehow, she had found in this relationship of absolute physical and psychological dependency on Master Mariano an equilibrium that made her life easier to live. She had even said she was happy.
The Master of Knots Page 4