Daniele’s facial muscles stiffen.
“You haven’t even unwrapped my gift.”
“I can do it at the restaurant.”
“Yes, but I would have preferred it if you did it when I gave it to you.”
Sara lets her reply wait a while, then retrieves her purse from the back seat, exasperated.
“Okay! I’ll open it now, just to make you happy!”
She pulls the package out of her purse, unwraps it nervously, looks inside, closes it again.
“Well. It’s exquisite. Thank you.”
She places the gift back in her purse, puts the purse back on the seat and looks out the window, rigid.
“If this is how the evening is going to go,” he says after a while, “we might as well end it right now.”
Sara turns to Daniele, hesitating over his remark.
“Yes, maybe that’s a good idea.”
“It’s come to this, then.”
“Could be.”
“You’re feeling this way because of that policeman this morning, right?”
“If that’s what you think, you haven’t understood a thing.”
“What is it I don’t understand?”
“That I can’t go on lying. I told Vanini that as far as I’m concerned it was unthinkable that you might have known the truth. Do you have any idea how such a thing makes me feel?” Daniele takes a deep breath. A dispirited sigh escapes him.
“Sara, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you.”
“I’m the one who shouldn’t have let you.”
“But what choice did I have? It was me they wanted. In the end all it meant was operating on a patient.”
“Please, at least stop justifying yourself, I can’t stand it.”
“All right,” Daniele bursts out, exasperated, “I bowed my head. I did what they wanted. Do you feel better now that I’ve told you?”
“No.”
Daniele looks at her, mortified.
“I thought you understood me. That you were on my side.”
“I thought so too.”
Daniele glues his eyes on the road and doesn’t say another word. He floors the accelerator to release his frustration.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a while.
“You know what, Sara?” Daniele explodes angrily. “Go to the police and tell them everything. Ruin my life and yours, if that makes you feel better!”
“You know very well I won’t do that.”
“Then what do you want from me? Stop persecuting me and leave me in peace!”
The car speeds along the asphalt. The lights of approaching cars flash by faster and faster. Sara looks around, frightened.
“Slow down,” she says.
Daniele doesn’t even seem to hear her.
“Daniele, please, slow down,” Sara repeats, terrified. She can’t even scream when the headlights of the oncoming truck blind her. Daniele brakes at the last minute, avoiding a collision.
The truck’s horn is a deafening reproach.
The car flips over and leaps off the road like a spring-action toy.
From the driver’s seat, the truck driver stares at the scene in horror, as if counting the ricochets that precede the smash-up.
Sara reopens her eyes in a place flooded with light. The sight of a metal cabinet crammed with medicines, and especially the familiar hospital smell, are comforting to her.
“What happened?” she asks the doctor on duty, who appears relieved to see her come to.
“You were in an accident. But you were very fortunate.” Sara jolts up nervously.
“Daniele. How is he. Where is he.”
The doctor lowers his eyes.
Sara grabs him by the arm.
“What’s happened to him.”
The doctor looks at her, uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry.”
Who knows how she manages to get through the night. Sara asks for a sedative, her colleague gives it to her and stays with her for a long time, he doesn’t seem to trust leaving her alone. She would rather he leave, she tells him she feels fine, that she is able to go home. I would prefer that you remain here at least for tonight, he replies, and Sara doesn’t feel up to insisting. And so they talk. The doctor (his name is Giulio) tells her about his daughter, whom he hardly ever sees because of the separation, and about how difficult it’s become to brush his teeth in the morning looking at the little girl’s toothbrush that has been left in its usual glass, and at first Sara doesn’t understand this thing about the toothbrush in the glass and is ashamed to look at him because it seems comical and a little odd to her, but later it hits her with such sadness that she bursts into tears and can’t stop crying until Giulio embraces her and whispers words in her ear that she doesn’t hear but that do her good, nonetheless.
Then Giulio goes on to talk about other things and she follows him up to a certain point but she is very tired, all she wants is to be alone and not hear any voices or sounds, so she closes her eyes. Giulio then lowers his voice, speaking more and more softly like you do when reading fairy tales to children who are about to slip off into sleep, until he thinks she is asleep, then he goes away. After that Sara gets up, goes to the window and remains standing there watching the sky beyond the glass take all night to turn pale.
She is still at the window when a girl comes in whom she recognizes immediately.
Beautiful, young, grieving and unforgiving. She has almost none of Daniele’s features. She doesn’t look anything like him, except for her expression, just like his, as she looks around. Sara instinctively pulls her hair back, as if wanting to expose her face before facing an accusation.
Mirella stops in the middle of the room and accuses her with her eyes. Sara offers no resistance.
“I hope you’re satisfied now,” the girl says curtly, breaking the silence.
“Me?” Sara replies, stunned. “Satisfied?”
“First you took him away from my mother. Now from me. At his best moment.”
Sara bites her lip.
“I loved him, Mirella.”
“Don’t call me by name. We’re not friends.”
Sara’s eyes tear up.
“I’m sorry,” she says, mortified.
“You should have been the one to die, not him.”
Sara begins to cry.
“Please, don’t torment me, leave me in peace . . .”
“You were fighting. That’s why he drove off the road, isn’t it?”
Sara stares at her, her face streaked with tears, shaken by the certainty of the girl’s assertion.
“It was an accident,” she replies, in despair.
“It’s all your fault.”
“Please, just go,” Sara sobs, “leave me alone . . .”
Her cry is interrupted by the voice of a young doctor who enters the room.
“What’s going on here?”
Mirella turns around and studies him. The man looks at her resentfully.
“Who are you?”
Mirella doesn’t answer.
“Alfredo!” Sara exclaims, relieved by the appearance of a friendly face.
The doctor moves past the girl and goes to Sara, taking her hand. Sara pulls him to her and holds him close. He returns her embrace, though without taking his eyes off Mirella, who slowly starts toward the door.
“I asked you who you are,” he repeats threateningly.
“Ask your colleague who I am,” Mirella retorts harshly.
He’s about to answer back, but Sara draws him to her.
“Let her go, Alfredo, please. It’s not important.”
Mirella leaves.
Alfredo strokes Sara’s hair, reassuring her.
“Who is that girl?”
“Daniele’s daughter,” Sara replies with some effort.
Alfredo’s eyes take on a faint gleam, as if he were recalling some resemblance. Then he looks at Sara sympathetically.
“I’m so sorry, Sara.”
“Thank you,” sh
e says rubbing her eyes with her wrist; then she changes the subject to suppress her emotion.
“I wasn’t injured, you see?”
“I see, yes,” he replies, as if referring to a lucky escape. “The X-rays too. It’s some kind of miracle.”
“I’m going home today.”
“Would you like me to take you?”
Sara looks at him, pleased by his suggestion.
“It wouldn’t upset your day, would it?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Look, I have no intention of killing myself,” Sara responds with a smile on her lips.
“Forgive me, it’s just that I don’t trust the way you’re accepting this. I’m worried about you.”
“I know. But there’s no reason to be, really.”
“Why don’t you come and sleep at our house? Gloria would be very happy to have you.”
“No, seriously, thank you . . . It’s best if I see it through alone.”
She opens the door and is about to step out.
“Sara.”
“Yes?”
“The funeral is tomorrow. Did you know?”
She looks at him and doesn’t reply.
“If you want, I’ll come and pick you up,” Alfredo says.
“Thank you, but I’m not going.”
“You have every right to be there.”
“No, I don’t feel up to it. Thank you anyway, Alfredo. You’ve been very sweet. You know, it’s hard to go back home, after a death.”
Alfredo rears his head back and narrows his eyes.
“What did you say?” he asks, caught off-guard.
Sara brings a hand to her forehead. A slight dizziness overcomes her.
“I don’t know, I don’t understand . . . I don’t know how such a thing popped into my head,” she says, confused. “I’m sorry.”
“Sara”, Alfredo says, as if he wanted to add something more.
But she is already out of the car, and rapidly heading for the front door.
The funeral takes place with a narrow circle of mourners, in the early afternoon. Sara leaves the house late, and stations herself on the sidewalk in front of the church, when the mass is over. Alfredo had called her several times during the evening to make sure she was okay, and something he said had persuaded her: “You were in hiding for two and a half years, isn’t that enough?”
Sara didn’t think it would hurt so much to see her colleagues as one by one they came out of the church. Many with their heads lowered, some expressionless, some clearly annoyed by the length of the mass. There is also the town mayor, who awaits Daniele’s family in the churchyard.
Alfredo comes out, and seeing her, smiles and goes toward her.
“You could have told me you were coming.”
“So you too could stand out here and suffer for no reason?”
“Don’t be silly. To begin with I would have come to pick you . . . hey, what’s wrong?”
All of a sudden Sara’s eyes zoom in, like a bloodhound tracking a scent, on the people lined up to pay their respects to Daniele’s family.
“How dare he come here, that guy?” she says, grinding her teeth. The last time she saw the man whom she has just recognized he was talking to Daniele in the hospital parking lot, the day before the Mafia boss’s operation. Alfredo turns his head toward the group of people standing in front of the church.
“Saggese, you mean? I don’t know. I have no idea. In church we were all embarrassed, in fact.”
They both pause to look at him, their eyes taking in the crude elegance, the false nonchalance, the vulgar confidence of his attitude.
“Will you look at that arrogance.”
“Ignore him, Sara, it’s better that way.”
Paola and Mirella, deeply moved, are accepting the attorney’s condolences now.
“And to think I was ashamed to come.” Sara remarks in disgust.
“You see, I was right, wasn’t I?” Alfredo says.
Saggese says goodbye to Daniele’s family and starts toward the nearby parking lot.
“You were absolutely right,” Sara replies, and staring straight ahead begins following Saggese.
“Wait, where are you going?” Alfredo says.
But Sara doesn’t even hear him. Completely unconcerned about the looks from Daniele’s family as they notice her presence, she follows Saggese to his car. The attorney turns his head aside as he disconnects the car’s burglar alarm with a touch of his thumb on the remote control device.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Vallicelli.”
Then he turns around, ready to face her.
Sara looks him in the eye. She’s so indignant she can’t even speak.
“You’re not very good at following people, you know?”
Maybe it’s the insolence of his wisecrack that restores her ability to give it right back to him.
“You, on the other hand, know all about subterfuge, don’t you?”
Saggese frowns.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Where did you get the gall to come here?”
“I always go to the funerals of those who cause me to lose a trial.”
“Your irony is inappropriate, attorney.”
“And your attitude isn’t?”
“I was also in that car.”
“I know. In fact I’m glad to see that you’re uninjured.”
Several of Sara’s colleagues pass nearby, also heading toward their cars. Seeing her talking with the lawyer of the mafioso who thrust the hospital into the national spotlight, they exchange disapproving glances. Sara takes note of their attitude, but continues the wrangling.
“Do you know how the accident happened?”
“No, I really don’t think I can answer that question.”
“Because we were arguing.”
“I don’t see why you’re telling me this . . .”
“Because the argument was about Sabato Smeraldo.”
“I don’t know why . . .”
“Because Smeraldo, the boss they arrested in France, the one we operated on in our hospital for lung cancer, is an illustrious client of yours. Just think, I administered the anesthesia to him.”
“A fact I learned from the newspapers, actually.”
“Really.”
“What do you expect me to say, doctor?”
“That it was you who planned it all. Choosing a quiet town, far from the glare of publicity, perfect for being admitted to a hospital under a false name; a skilled oncologist, above suspicion since he had been your adversary in a trial a short time earlier . . . by the way, congratulations on the alibi: you really showed foresight; assisted by a team unaware of everything . . . it’s only too bad they arrested him, otherwise we would never have known that such a famous patient had been in our hospital.”
“Quite a good scenario, doctor. May I ask you a question?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Does it really embarrass you so much to have operated on a member of the Mafia?”
“Maybe you’re used to not paying much attention to who your clients are, Saggese, but I am.”
“Are you being serious? Because if it’s a joke it’s not funny.”
“Should I be proud of having treated a dangerous criminal?”
“Absolutely.”
For a moment Sara is confused.
“I didn’t know who that man was.”
“Whether you knew it or not has no importance whatsoever. What do you do, treat only those with a clean record? When they bring you a patient, do you look at his rap sheet instead of his X-rays?”
“Look Saggese, you’re the last person to give me lessons in professional ethics.”
“Do you think you’re so different from me, doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re wrong. We do the same thing, you and I. We’re paid to wash our hands of our clients’ troubles. We’re not called upon to make judgments about their past, or about their present, or their actio
ns, or their choices. We’re not asked to concern ourselves with them, but to deal with the problem they have.”
“You’re very clever about justifying yourself morally. But you know what ruins it? That it’s clear you don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“Whether I believe what I say doesn’t count. What counts is that what I say is flawless.”
“Your way of thinking is chilling.”
“Yours, on the other hand, is merely hypocritical.”
“How dare you!” Sara threatens, losing her temper.
She raises a hand to slap him.
Saggese intercepts it in mid-air. He grips her forearm and moves closer, speaking just inches from her face, half-menacing and half-seductive.
“I wondered how much longer it would take you to lose your temper,” he says between his teeth, grazing her lips.”
“I’ll wipe that arrogant smile off your face, so help me God.”
The lawyer lets her go.
“That’s good to hear. That way I’ll get to see you again.”
He gets in his car and drives off.
Sara stays where she is, immobilized by frustration.
When she hears someone behind her call her name, it’s as if she were being released from a spell.
“Doctor Vallicelli.”
Sara turns around. It’s Vanini.
“Good afternoon, Commissioner,” she says, clearly uneasy about having been seen in Saggese’s company.
“How are you?” Vanini asks.
“How do you think I am?”
“It’s a routine question, automatic, even though . . . I realize . . .”
“I’m sorry, I’m very tense.”
“It’s all right. I’m very sorry about the doctor.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m glad you’re not injured.”
“Thank you for that too. Excuse me, I have to go now.”
“Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“Maybe this is not a good time, but I have to ask you a question.”
“You’re right, Commissioner. It’s not a good time.”
“They pay me to be inopportune, doctor. What did you want from Saggese? You seemed somewhat heated, talking with him.”
Sara hesitates a moment, then manages to find a plausible explanation.
“I found his presence at the funeral inappropriate, after what happened.”
Vanini stops to consider her response.
“He should not have fostered suspicions that he and Daniele were associated, especially not in public,” Sara goes on.
The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 63