The Measure of Time

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  At this point it was up to me to object. It was a clever question, and a dangerous one.

  “Objection, Your Honour, it’s not possible to introduce —”

  Marinelli interrupted me. “Avvocato Guerrieri, this is a line of questioning you yourself initiated. The prosecution is entitled to take it further. Then we can each draw our own conclusions. Objection overruled. Please answer.”

  “In both cases the defendants were found guilty.”

  “Partly on the basis of the forensics evidence.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Thank you, I have no further questions.”

  For a moment I thought of asking him some questions about those two cases. Ask him for further details, explore the differences there probably were between those cases and ours. Then I decided against it. Firstly, I didn’t know what territory I would be stepping into: I had no idea what those cases had been about, I’d be asking questions blindly and didn’t know what might emerge. Secondly, I would be giving the impression that Gastoni’s questions had upset me because they might weaken the theory I was constructing at this hearing.

  Marinelli adjourned until the following Monday, when we would call our other witnesses. That is, Lorenza, the woman from the cafe, and Rafaschieri, who had run a gym with Gaglione.

  On Wednesday the defendant would testify, then, unless anything new emerged that required further checks, no further witnesses would be called and we would adjourn until the following week, after Easter, for closing statements.

  I put my papers in my briefcase together with my folded robe and turned to go. Consuelo had already rushed off to be present at a preliminary hearing we’d both forgotten about.

  Lorenza was at the back of the courtroom; she must have just come in. She looked at me as if she was about to say something. But if she was, it went no further.

  Lorenza

  By now it was summer.

  Once – it might actually have been the night of the solstice – we went to the villa of a friend of hers, just outside Polignano. There was a little gate from which you had direct access to the sea. The air was sharp, and a light wind was blowing that at times made you shiver and gave you a sense that this was an unrepeatable moment.

  After eating – somebody had prepared a huge tiella of potatoes, rice and mussels – I’d gone and sat down a few paces from the water with a cigarette and a glass of wine.

  Lorenza joined me, took my cigarette from me, put it out and passed me a joint she’d just rolled. For several minutes we shared the pot and the wine in silence.

  “When I was a little girl I sometimes stopped and listened to my heart and thought the beating was the footsteps of the Lord of Time.”

  “The Lord of Time? Was that something you’d read about or seen in a cartoon?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I’d listen to his footsteps – in other words, the beating of my heart – and expect they would stop at any moment and the Lord of Time would appear and say that I had to make three wishes. I absolutely had to be ready to make them immediately, because otherwise terrible things would happen – none of the wishes would ever come true, the Lord of Time would stop walking, I wouldn’t hear his footsteps any more, and time and the world would disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  “Yes. The salvation of time and the world depended on my ability to make three wishes as quickly as possible. It seems strange, but it’s not at all easy. You always have the impression they’re the wrong ones. Either too big and impersonal, or too small and wretched.”

  “What wishes did you think of?”

  “I wavered between all sorts of things. I want to always be with Elisabetta – my best friend at the time. I want Mum and Dad to stop always quarrelling and for Dad not to walk out – something that happened a lot when I was thirteen. I want to become a famous children’s writer, with a big villa by the sea, right on the beach. I think that came from an American film I’d seen where there was a woman writer with a villa on the beach.”

  “Up until what age did you think about the Lord of Time?”

  “I had a dream. He was there even though I couldn’t see him. I felt his presence. I knew he was coming, and I knew he was something halfway between the Scarecrow and the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, the first book I remember reading. I had to make the three wishes.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “No.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I woke up. Feeling very sad. Since then I haven’t heard the footsteps of the Lord of Time. Less than a month later I became a young lady, as my grandmother put it.”

  She stopped speaking and gave me a kiss, with a tenderness that wasn’t like her.

  “Who knows how we’ll end up?” she said. She let a few seconds go by, then continued without waiting for me to answer. “Anyway, all this” – she made a vague gesture that took in the sea, the night, but also the wine, the pot, the two of us, everything – “nobody will ever take it from us. It’s ours for ever.”

  From the villa came the muffled strains of “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” At that precise moment, the first time I’d heard her use the word “us” when talking about her and me, I knew – for no particular reason, therefore with absolute certainty – that she would soon vanish from my life.

  Sometimes she’d mention the novel she was writing. When I asked her to tell me about it, though, she would change the subject, retreating as if realizing that she’d exposed herself, shown a vulnerability she couldn’t bear.

  One Saturday morning – it was July by now – she phoned me and told me to pack a small bag, and make sure I included swimming trunks. She would pick me up in her car in half an hour. Before I could ask her where we were going she hung up.

  We went to Santa Maria di Leuca in her beat-up old Alfasud. We took a room in a pensione on the promenade, then hired a small boat and made love out at sea. We were still there, surrounded by the motionless, limpid water, with the sun going down, when she told me about the time she and a friend of hers had gone to Othonoi in a motorboat.

  “Where’s Othonoi?”

  “It’s the nearest Greek island, in the Strait of Otranto. It’s only about fifty miles from here.”

  “And how long did it take you to get there?”

  “Two hours, more or less. It was a fast motorboat. We got there in the afternoon, had dinner there, slept in a fisherman’s house, and the next day came back to Santa Maria di Leuca.”

  “And what does your friend who rides fast motorboats do?”

  She shrugged, became evasive again and changed the subject. I thought about her mysterious, adventurous life, full of real, concrete things, including real men. Men capable of taking a motorboat out into the open sea, maybe of facing a storm. The adult version of those fearless boys who’d obsessed me during my years as a shy, rather clumsy adolescent. Those who drove motorbikes along dirt tracks, who played soccer well, dribbling easily, who dived elegantly into the sea from the tops of rocks.

  I had never been gifted at sports. I’d become quite good at boxing only because I’d really committed myself, almost as if my life depended on it. Maybe, in a way, it did.

  I thought about these things while Lorenza was lying in the bow of the boat with her eyes closed, her head resting on a rolled-up towel. The boat swayed gently, the sun was setting, and little flying fish gave off silver flashes as they jumped.

  20

  She was dressed in jeans, a blue blazer and a man’s white shirt. She looked scared and at the same time daring. For the first time since I’d seen her again, I thought I caught a glimpse of the way she’d been when she was young. I think it was due to the conflicting feelings shown in her face, her eyes, her posture, the way she displayed both incurable fear and defiant courage.

  Judge Marinelli motioned to her to sit down. “You are the mother of the accused, signora, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume you already know that according to artic
le 199 of the code of criminal procedure you have the right to refrain from testifying. Should you decide not to avail yourself of this right, you will be under the obligation to tell the truth, just like any other witness, with all the legal consequences for any false or partial testimony. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to avail yourself of the right to refrain from testifying?”

  “No, I want to testify.”

  “All right, then. First of all you have to swear to tell the truth.”

  The bailiff approached her and gave her the card with the oath.

  She read it in a firm voice and after the last words she raised her eyes from the card and looked at the judge.

  “The witness is yours, Avvocato Guerrieri. Please proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honour. Good morning, signora, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Then, if she deems it necessary, the assistant prosecutor will do the same. Before we begin, let me just say that if something isn’t clear, I’d simply ask you to say so. Don’t force yourself to answer questions you haven’t fully understood. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said, accompanying the answer with a slight nod.

  “I’d like to begin immediately with a question not directly relating to the events about which you will have to testify, but which is important for evaluating your reliability. Have you ever been subject to criminal proceedings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us for what crime?”

  “I was accused by the Treasury Police of aiding and abetting and of resisting an officer of the law.”

  “When did the events over which you were accused take place?”

  “It was July 1987.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Gastoni leapt to her feet, spreading all around her a perfume I knew but couldn’t identify.

  “Your Honour, frankly I don’t understand what we’re talking about. The witness was called to testify about a particular circumstance, that is, the supposed presence of her son at home at the time of the murder of which he is accused and for which he was convicted. But now we have defence counsel questioning her about events that happened almost thirty years ago and that have no relevance to the object of this hearing.”

  Marinelli turned to me. “Avvocato Guerrieri, can you explain the relevance of this question to the thema probandum?”

  “The witness testified at the original trial. Her testimony was undervalued, almost to the point of being declared false, basically for two reasons. The first was that she is the mother of the accused, and therefore her testimony would not be credible until proved otherwise. I won’t linger for the moment on the weakness of this argument, I’ll leave that for my closing statement. What interests us now is the second argument. It was the assistant prosecutor at the original trial who introduced the question of the witness’s criminal record. It was partly because of that record that the court declared the witness unreliable. The argument, in very broad terms, was this: the witness was charged with obstructing justice and only escaped the charge thanks to the amnesty of 1990. This, according to the ruling, suggested an inclination to obstruct the course of justice and therefore the unreliability of her testimony. The witness was not asked to explain the events that led to these proceedings, and the ruling not to proceed, produced in court by the prosecution, mentions only the charges and the non-existence of grounds for acquittal. So today it’s vital we understand what events these were if we want to evaluate the correctness of the judges’ ruling.”

  Marinelli glanced through the papers in the case file, exchanged a few words in a low voice with the associate judge, then again addressed me.

  “Very well, Avvocato Guerrieri, you may continue. But let’s not hold a trial now on the charge of aiding and abetting.”

  “Of course, Your Honour, I just need to elicit the witness’s version of events to ascertain how well that ruling holds up. So, Signora Delle Foglie, let’s go back to the point where we were interrupted. Can you tell us what you remember of the events that gave rise to the charges of aiding and abetting and of resisting an officer of the law?”

  “Yes. I was with a group of friends on a beach, near Torre Canne. We’d spent all day by the sea, it was hot and we’d decided to stay there until after the sun went down.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “The usual things people did on a summer evening in those days. Eating, drinking. Smoking.”

  “What were you smoking?”

  “Some cigarettes, some grass. Or maybe it was hashish.”

  “Did the composition of the group remain the same throughout, or were there people who left and people who arrived?”

  “There were people who left and people who arrived.”

  And where had I been that evening? I knew I would never be able to remember, and for a moment my mind wandered, thinking of all the things in the past that had disappeared.

  “How many of you were there, more or less?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Ten or so, maybe.”

  “What happened while you were all there in a group on the beach?”

  “After a while, about the time it was getting dark, I’d say, there was a sudden commotion. Lots of yelling, people running … I couldn’t tell you the details because I’d gone for a walk and saw it all from a distance.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I went back to the group, that is, towards the fracas. A friend of ours was running away and two guys I’d never seen before were following him. It was a nasty scene and I thought they were fascists.”

  “Why did you think they were fascists?”

  “Many of us, especially in the previous few years, had been politically active. And there had been attacks by fascists, various clashes with them. Although to tell the truth it hadn’t happened for a while. But in that frantic situation it was the only thing I could think of. I had no idea what was happening. Don’t forget, we’re talking about seconds.”

  “Go on.”

  “One of the two reached our friend and started hitting him.”

  “How far away were you?”

  “By now I was quite near. About ten yards, maybe.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I joined them and pulled the guy I didn’t know by the shirt … or the T-shirt, I’m not sure. Anyway, I pulled him from behind, to make him stop. He lost his balance and our friend started running again.”

  “And then?”

  “Then the other one arrived, stopped me and handcuffed me, while the one I’d caused to fall started following our friend again. To cut a long story short, he caught up with him and stopped him. They arrested him for possession of drugs and me for resisting an officer of the law.”

  “Were they carabinieri, State Police, Treasury Police?”

  “They were Treasury Police.”

  “When did you find out they were Treasury Police?”

  “When I was already handcuffed.”

  “You mean they hadn’t identified themselves before that?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I was a long way away and all I heard was shouting. It was only after they handcuffed me that they told me they were Treasury Police and that I was in big trouble.”

  “Did they take you to their station?”

  “Yes, I was there for a couple of hours and then I was released. Our friend, on the other hand, was transferred to prison.”

  “So first they handcuffed you, then they let you go. Do you know why?”

  “They told me I was lucky, that they’d called the duty magistrate to tell him what had happened and he’d told them not to arrest me.”

  “Were you ever put on trial?”

  “Years later I received a summons. I took it to a lawyer and he told me I had nothing to worry about because there was an amnesty and the whole thing would be dismissed, something like that. I replied that I hadn’t done anything illegal, so I didn’t understand why I should have an amn
esty.”

  “Did the lawyer explain to you that you had the right to refuse the amnesty?”

  “No, or at least I don’t remember.”

  “In your son’s original trial, you were asked by the prosecution if you had ever been subject to criminal proceedings. You answered no, even though there had been these charges. Why didn’t you mention them?”

  “When he said proceedings, I thought he meant a hearing like this, in court, with a judge. I never had that. Like I said, I didn’t get that summons until years after the episode on the beach, and the lawyer assured me there was nothing to worry about, that the case would be dismissed without any need to do anything. I forgot all about it.”

  Up until this point, Marinelli had been quite patient, I have to admit. He asked me how much longer we would be discussing this matter, and if I thought I could now go on to the main subject of the testimony.

  “I’ve finished, Your Honour. One final question and I’ll go on to something else. Signora, all the things you’ve told us now, and which we can easily confirm, if the court so wishes, by obtaining the file on that old case – did you mention any of them at your son’s trial?”

  “No.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I was surprised and confused. I hadn’t expected them to bring up that old business. I answered the prosecutor’s questions without really understanding what it had to do with the trial. Nobody asked me to explain and it wasn’t until I heard the prosecutor’s summing-up and read the ruling that I realized I was considered an unreliable witness because I had a criminal record.”

  There. Unreliable witness. I had suggested she use the word “unreliable” about herself. Giving ourselves a label that corresponds to the negative opinions other people have of us, or the fears we arouse in them, helps – or may help – to defuse their unfavourable implications. If I say I know you consider me a bad lawyer who’s inclined to make misleading arguments, I reduce the negative, prejudicial force of this opinion. Bringing it to the surface, making it explicit, I make it debatable, lessen its ability to work beneath the surface of your awareness as an insurmountable precondition of your judgement. Stating that nobody had asked her for any explanation also suggested, without overdoing it, some form of negligence on the part of the original defence counsel. He hadn’t dealt with a problem that actually should have been faced head-on, and in that way had left an unfavourable opinion of the witness to fester, an opinion that had then been translated into a judgement of unreliability in the ruling.