The Mammoth Book Best International Crime

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “You all agree with him?” Silence.

  There are days when jogging doesn’t clear your mind. They’re the days when your thoughts act up. And even if you take them out running, trying to exhaust them, there’s no way. They keep right at you, like children who persist in repeating the same complaint.

  Along the gardens of Villa De Capoa, Sara is pursued by Daniele’s death (still too unreal for her to really believe), fear of the man in the vest, Saggese’s sardonic grin, and being thrown out of the surgical procedure which, of them all, is curiously the thing that causes her the most pain right now.

  “I get it,” she seems to say, even turning around from time to time to face them, “you’re right, leave me alone, please.” Then she stops at a bench, tired of running away.

  Sleep is gently claiming her, when she hears voices speaking English. That’s not right, she thinks to herself, annoyed. That word means something else.

  A little further on, a tourist in a running suit is trying to understand something being said by a girl who is waving her arms about wildly, inventing words.

  Sara gets up, and goes over to them.

  “I speak English, can I help you?” she says.

  The girl doesn’t even turn around. The tourist continues trying to interpret her gestures.

  “Hey,” Sara says, irritated by their lack of response, “did you hear what I said?” The girl outlines an imaginary square with her fingers. The tourist follows her gesture, bewildered.

  “Squa-re. Mu-ni-ci-pal-i-ty,” she pronounces it in syllables.

  “Ohhh,” the tourist bursts out, and finally smiles.

  Sara takes a step back, appalled.

  “Why don’t you answer me?” she asks, her voice breaking.

  And she continues shrinking back as the girl goes on with her explanation, which the tourist now seems to be starting to understand.

  “I’m here,” Sara shouts in despair.

  But the two strangers don’t see her. They don’t hear her.

  Sara would like to go on screaming but she can’t, stifled by a knot that tightens her throat.

  Another voice comes, from further off.

  “Doctor.” And then again: “Sara.”

  Sara opens her eyes. The hands holding her shoulders, the face watching her up close, the mouth speaking to her, are those of Commissioner Vanini.

  “Doctor. Calm down, everything is all right.”

  Distraught and eager for reality, Sara grasps him tightly, breathing heavily.

  Though somewhat uneasily, Vanini takes her in his arms.

  “You had a dream, doctor. It was just a dream,” he whispers in her ear, and draws her out of the dream without jolting her.

  Sara disengages herself from his embrace, embarrassed.

  “You were shouting: ‘I’m here! I’m here!’ ”

  “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Vanini says, smoothing his hair back. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Take a breath. Inhale deeply and then exhale, slowly. There, that’s right.”

  “I must really be exhausted,” Sara comments, regaining some color, “if I fell asleep on a park bench. And then too, the nightmares . . .”

  “You’re under a lot of pressure, doctor. Too many things have happened to you. You should get away for awhile.”

  “Yes, maybe so. But you, what are you doing here?”

  “I tried to call you several times, but your cell phone was turned off. So I went looking for you and, well, I found you. I wanted to let you know that Saggese had come to police headquarters, to issue an injunction against you.”

  “Issue an injunction against me? What does that mean? Did he file a complaint against me?”

  “No, let’s say it’s a watered-down complaint, a kind of warning. As if he were sending a message warning you never to do that again. And that’s the reason I’m here. To tell you not to repeat what happened at the courthouse.”

  “Why did he do it, if it’s not a real complaint?”

  “To put his denunciation on record, in case it might be useful someday. A little like keeping the return receipt of a registered letter, if that makes any sense. Lawyers are like that, they always have to have their papers in order.”

  “It’s absurd that he should be the one to have the upper hand,” Sara says, practically speaking to herself.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that I find him arrogant, that’s all.”

  “Enough with the convenient answers, doctor. Tell me the truth. Why did you accuse him of having you followed?”

  “Because I believe he did.”

  “Why should he have done that?”

  “To frighten me.”

  “Nobody has a reason to frighten someone, unless he himself is afraid of something. What do you know that Saggese doesn’t want known?”

  “Okay, you’re right,” Sara replies, driven into a corner by his logic. “Maybe it wasn’t Saggese who had me followed. Maybe that man wasn’t even following me. Maybe it was my imagination that invented him.”

  “Why do you continue to be so secretive, Doctor? Do you think I haven’t figured out how things stand?”

  “You can’t prove anything if I don’t talk.”

  “Finally you’re being sincere,” Vanini says relieved.

  And as if she has heard enough, she gets up from the bench and starts to walk away.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Sara says.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now I know that sooner or later you’ll tell me the truth.” Sara looks at him, puzzled.

  “Do you know what’s about to begin?” Vanini says, abruptly changing the subject.

  “No, what?”

  “What! Don’t you know what day this is?”

  “I’ve lost track of the days, Commissioner. I can’t tell them apart anymore.”

  “It’s Corpus Domini.”

  Sara brightens.

  “Really?”

  “It skipped your mind. And yet it’s always been a very special day for you.”

  “How do you know that?” Sara asks, surprised.

  Vanini smiles, and goes away without answering.

  Sara has loved the procession of the Misteri since she was a child. Her grandfather always took her, and explained the Mysteries to her. She watched, with curiosity and fear, and held his hand tightly as all those costumed figures tossed about, suspended in air. Sometimes a child dressed up as an angel passed in front of a window and wanted something to drink. A woman would then give him some water.

  “Look at the machines, sweetheart.”

  “What’s a machine, grandpa?”

  “It’s a trick, but you can see it. Look, it’s like a hidden shaft, like on a carousel. It supports the Mysteries.”

  “And what are the Mysteries?”

  “They’re angels, or devils. Or saints. or madonnas. They’re men and women. Or old people. Above all children. Look, they’re swimming through the air. But it’s because they’re secured with a sling stuffed with cotton-wool and leather, they can’t fall.”

  The procession of the Mysteries would make its way through the old town. Sara followed the passage of the bearers who carried the machines and came to know the painted faces, the bent, crooked bodies, the dangling saints, the devils who jeered at the crowd: she watched and learned, not knowing that they were martyrs and miracles in the flesh, living representations of the Old and New Testaments. Her grandfather explained it all to her, but a little at a time. He wanted her to like it, even before she understood it.

  Sara doesn’t even go home to change her clothes. She goes straight to the procession just as she is, in her tracksuit and sneakers, so she can see it right away, following the Commissioner’s suggestion.

  When she joins the crowd, the Mystery of Abraham is passing by.

  The old man is standing on the machine. He has a long
beard, a sword in his fist, and a little angel clinging to his arm, preventing him from lowering the blade on his son crouched at his feet, whom God has ordered him to sacrifice.

  Sara is enchanted. She stares at the baby angel whose frail efforts prevent the killing. Just behind is the lamb meant to take Isaac’s place.

  It gnashes its teeth as the machine goes by, offering itself to the crowd that lines the street. And she finally realizes what she has to do.

  “I don’t know what you need it for, doctor, but you’d do best to forget it.”

  The man Sara has come to see has a workshop just outside the city. He’s working as a mechanic again, after having served a sentence for robbery. When Sara called him, after exchanging just a few words with her he asked: “What happened?” And it was plain that he had already known.

  “It’s pointless for you to try and change my mind,” she persists, “I’ve made my decision. Just tell me yes or no.”

  “You can ask anything of me after what you did for my daughter, you know that. But if I have to help you ruin your life, I want to at least tell you that what you’re doing is an idiotic thing.”

  “So, it’s a yes?”

  “You know you’re taking a big risk if you don’t know how to use it.”

  “You can teach me.”

  “Me?”

  “You said I could ask anything of you.”

  The man sighs.

  “You must really have a heartfelt interest in this business, doctor.”

  “You’re right. I really do.”

  The man searches her eyes. Sara holds his gaze unwaveringly.

  “Look, if you want I’ll do this job for you. Seriously.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “For you, yes.”

  “You’re very kind, but no. It’s a personal matter.”

  The man nods, resigned. And without another word opens the metal tool cabinet, leans forward stretching his calves, removes a false bottom, and takes out a gun.

  “Okay, then. Let’s get started.”

  The indicator light blinks intermittently on the face of the telephone. Irritated, attorney Saggese grumbles and picks up the receiver.

  “What now?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the secretary replies, “there’s a call for you. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Who ‘says’?” he snaps back impatiently.

  “A Doctor Vallicelli. I think she’s the same one who called the other day, when you were in court.”

  Saggese goes silent, you’d think someone had pressed the Hold button.

  “Sir?” the secretary asks.

  Processing the fact takes a few seconds, evidently.

  “Put her on.”

  The connection is interrupted, followed by a brief sequence of beeps which signal that the call is being put through.

  The attorney sits down at his desk.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Sara Vallicelli.”

  “Yes. They told me.”

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No,” he replies shortly. But there’s a sense of waiting in that no.

  “Well, I . . . thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “I wasn’t at all certain that you would take my call.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t at all certain.”

  Sara lets him enjoy full satisfaction, before she goes on.

  “Look, though it may seem inappropriate, I apologize for how I attacked you at the courthouse.”

  “What is it, did Vanini inform you of the injunction? Mind you, it’s not as if I filed a complaint against you.”

  “Yes, the Commissioner explained that.”

  “I could have.”

  “I know.”

  “And this is what made you change your mind about me?”

  “I think so.”

  Saggese thinks it over a minute.

  “You embarrassed me in front of my interns.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was very distasteful.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know why I let you get away with it.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  A brief silence ensues.

  “I have an idea why,” Saggese says.

  Sara doesn’t speak.

  “Do you want to hear it?” he continues.

  Sara is gleeful. She didn’t think it would be this easy. She can just see him, at the other end of the phone line, arrogant and smug.

  “Please, just accept my apologies and we’ll say goodbye. I feel too embarrassed to appreciate your kindness.”

  “Naturally I accept them.”

  “All right, then . . . thank you. I’m grateful. Really. You’ve taken a big load off my mind.”

  “Just a minute. Wait.”

  Sara clenches her fist. A foot even jerks out, striking the floor involuntarily.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s one condition.”

  “A condition?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I’ll accept your apology if you’ll accept my invitation to dinner.”

  Sara shrewdly remains silent.

  “Well then?” he asks after a moment.

  “I really didn’t expect this.”

  “Just say yes.”

  Sara takes one last pause.

  “Why not?”

  The restaurant is a little out of the way, simple, not very crowded. Saggese requested a table at the back of the room. The waiters came over to welcome them with the copious deference that is reserved for special customers. A sparkling prosecco arrives, strictly de rigueur. They toast. Sara can’t manage to look at him directly.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever be having dinner with you.”

  “Well, me neither you know.”

  “And to think I had to issue an injunction against you, to persuade you to see me in a different light.”

  “Yes, it’s curious but it was that which made me realize that I had used you as a scapegoat for this entire situation.”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that. Because I couldn’t stand having you hate me.”

  A brief silence follows, during which Saggese ravishes her with his eyes.

  Sara couldn’t choose a better time to change the subject.

  “Aren’t they going to take our order here?” she asks squirming around nervously, as if the chair were suddenly too small for her.

  Saggese continues staring at her, confident that he has hit on the path to seduction.

  “No, they choose it all. You’ll like it.”

  “If you say so,” Sara replies toying with her silverware. “I don’t really feel like eating anyway.”

  “Me neither, you know.”

  “Then why did you take me to dinner? You like doing things the old-fashioned way?”

  Saggese laughs heartily.

  “You know, one of the things that has always attracted me to you is that you can be very funny.”

  “It’s instinctive, when I feel uncomfortable.”

  “So you feel uncomfortable now,” the idiot says.

  “A little,” Sara says, lowering her eyes.

  Saggese leans forward, trying to see her face up close.

  “Sara.”

  She doesn’t answer. She continues staring at her plate. She bites her lip.

  He lowers his voice.

  “Look at me, please.”

  Sara complies, little by little.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  Sara brings a hand to her forehead, pretending to be dizzy.

  “Look, I . . . it’s all happening so fast, I think . . . I need a breath of air.”

  “Do you feel all right?”

  “Yes, I . . . I just need to go outside a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  “But of course, let’s go,” Saggese replies, delighted at the idea that dessert may actually precede the antipasto.

  Sara picks up her
purse and gets up.

  Saggese signals to the headwaiter, to request a brief postponement of the dinner service; then he leaves the restaurant to catch up with his conquest, who has meanwhile entered the parking lot.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Sara walks a few feet ahead of him. She holds her purse in her right hand. The parking lot is half-empty and poorly lit. Further on, the highway. There’s no one around.

  “Sara,” Saggese repeats.

  She continues walking.

  “Why don’t you answer me?” he says, becoming aware, at that moment, of the unmistakable sensation of having made a gross mistake.

  Still ahead of him, Sara opens her purse, pulls out the gun, turns around, drops the purse, and aims the weapon at him, holding it with both hands.

  At first, Saggese seems disappointed. A matter of seconds, before anxiety grips him. He turns a moment towards the entrance to the restaurant. It’s already too far away.

  “That’s all it was?” he says, trying to maintain control. “Make me believe you like me so you can shove a gun in my face?”

  Sara trembles, but her eyes flash courage.

  “Shut up.”

  “I don’t believe you’re capable of using it.”

  By way of response, she cocks the trigger.

  Saggese pales.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Everyone saw us, in the restaurant.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Look, is it because of the guy in the vest? I just wanted to scare you, I swear.”

  “You ruined my life. It’s your fault that Daniele is dead . . .”

  “I only did what they told me. Smeraldo needed an operation, and I had to find the best way. That’s it. I’m a paper pusher, Sara, nothing more.”

  “You talk like a Nazi camp guard. ‘All I did was carry out orders’, ‘I’m not responsible’: you’re really despicable, you know that?”

  “And Dalisi?” Saggese throws it up to her. “Did you find him despicable too?”

  “Don’t you even dare speak his name, you bastard!”

  “You think he was a hard-ass?” Saggese presses her. “That it was difficult for me to persuade him? As soon as I told him that he was the man who had to operate, he gave in.”

  “Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more of your filthy lies!”

  Saggese continues on mercilessly however, probably hoping to make her stop by hammering away at her.

  “He could have refused. Or reported it. Done his duty as a citizen. And as a doctor. Instead he was afraid, so he looked the other way. Like everyone else.”