They said goodbye and walked in opposite directions.
June 21 – 09:20
Brembati welcomed the news of Manuel Bracconieri being put in solitary confinement quite suspiciously.
The man had a clean record, and so far had distinguished for his more than mild, almost catatonic, conduct, resigned by now to the sentence that would earn him no less than twenty-five years of prison.
Why this sudden explosion of violence that had sent two of his fellow inmates to the infirmary?
The fact had happened at night.
Bracconieri had simply left his bed and assaulted with his bare hands the man sleeping under it, then the one who occupied one of two single beds, until the fourth prisoner had intervened and, trying to block him, had shouted loudly, alarming the whole block. Summing up the damages, he had managed to break a nose, a cheekbone, a jaw, an eyebrow arch, and half a dozen teeth.
All with fists and elbows.
What made the brutality of that episode even more discomforting, according to the report of the fourth prisoner, was that all the while Bracconieri was weeping bitterly, mumbling incomprehensible words.
Now he was in solitary confinement in an eight-square-meters cell, he had no one to talk to and he had a bog where to shit without being watched.
The only way not to think about the surprise that his old cellmates would prepare for him when he would be reinstated with the rest of the prisoners, was to focus on the crazy burning that tore open his chest.
Rather than healing, the wounds seemed to be gaining inches, sending such painful fits that he would have rather been massacred by his old cellmates than prolong that agony.
The new medications had been useless. His flesh throbbed and no scab was forming. In its place there was a mushy and purulent layer of yellowish secretion which edges, red and raised, made him jump at the slightest touch.
The nurse, after yet another check, had called the doctor for a consultation, and the two of them together, perplexed, had stood there, staring fascinated at the sores that did not heal. Their brilliant conclusion had been trying a new medicine.
After checking again the wounds and reapplying the large patch over his left nipple, Manuel lay on the mattress, slightly thicker than a cracker. He had done well to follow the advice of the woman. Something would happen soon, he could feel it inside himself, just like when an illness is about to burst out. His body was trying to tell him. Someone else’s blood had begun to flow in his veins. Infected blood. The end of the month was close. Full moon. He had been wounded by a wolf. Stuff for movies. For bad Z-list horror novels.
Staring at the dark patch of moisture that had appeared in a corner of the ceiling like an evil omen of death, he felt the anxiety mount in him, oppressing him.
What would happen?
Although his only hope might be demonstrating that he had become like the man he had killed in self-defence, he could not banish the memory of those sparkling eyes that stared at him as he pressed the trigger of the rifle.
He didn’t want to turn into a monster.
If the pain from the wounds was already unbearable, what would he suffer when the actual metamorphosis began?
The lights in the corridor were switched off, throwing the cell in the darkness.
A prisoner shouted: "Good night, assholes!", then started to laugh hysterically.
Sleep didn’t come to Manuel for a long time, and when it did it was the only consolation of the day.
The next morning he was awakened by the sound of the metal keys the jailer was fitting in the lock. With eyes still clouded from sleep, he saw the guard open the cell door.
"You're lucky, you’re going back to your friends!"
Manuel sat up, leaning against the wall.
"What happens?" he asked sheepishly.
"What happens is that moisture is bad for bones. There’s a big leak upstairs and you can’t stay here. Cheer up," the guard said, standing in the doorframe.
Manuel looked up at the ceiling.
The patch of moisture he had noticed the night before had grown and started to drip.
"For that?" he asked without looking down.
"That is against health regulations. Get up."
"I have been put in solitary confinement just two days ago," he said, looking back at the jailer.
"And now you’re out of it. You’ll be in company again, since we’re running out of cells. Lately they’re not behaving out there."
The guard approached Manuel, who cowered against the wall like a bug expecting to be crushed.
"If you move me there will be casualties," he said quickly, raising his knees to the chest. The guard snapped his fingers at the jailers who were waiting outside, ready to intervene if necessary. They were two and they looked identical. They immobilized Manuel as the other handcuffed him.
He made no resistance. It would have been useless.
Within two minutes he was placed in a cell on the second floor, occupied by a small, lean, swarthy man who greeted him with a creepy, satisfied smile.
Manuel did not care, he had grown accustomed to that kind of characters. He looked through the bars of the window. The clouds that the night before seemed like sponges swollen with dirty water had disappeared, and the sky was a blue so intense it seemed painted.
July 12 – 11:40
Usually it was Luca to buy rabbits.
He went to Campagnano, about twenty miles from Rome, at a farm whose owner had been a client of his a few years ago. He sold them to him at half the price and never inquired about why he needed so many and so often.
Alida had gone to Campagnano with him a couple of times, but that Saturday she would go there alone. She had never paid attention to the road, given that Luca was always driving when they went out together, but getting there wasn’t going to a problem: the destination was stored in the GPS.
The phone rang as soon as she opened the door. She stopped at the doorstep, left the door ajar and answered the kitchen phone.
"Hello, may I speak to Alida?" a man asked, with warmth and a touch of shyness.
The voice of Riccardo cheered her up immediately, and she almost had the impulse to ask him to go with her.
"It's me! It was a close call, I'm going out." Then she thought about what he would say when he saw what she was purchasing, and decided that it was better not to.
"I didn’t recognize you. We’ll talk when you come back then, I have gotten a number!" Riccardo said with satisfaction.
"Welcome back to Earth!"
Riccardo laughed.
"Wait, I take a pen," Alida said, finding a pencil next to the remote of the small TV she kept on as background when she cooked. Riccardo dictated his number and she wrote it on a post-it notes.
"Is this the number of your aunt?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, dejected.
"Is she happy that you came back?"
"Yes, she is happy, she doesn’t stop cooking."
"Then take advantage of that, I found you a little wasted." It wasn’t true. He had looked in great shape; broad shoulders, muscular arms, no visible belly. In prison, he must have trained a lot.
"I am, this is why I wanted to ask if you’d like to go out, I need to walk to work off what she's stuffing me with."
There was a moment of silence in which a faint embarrassment flickered. Riccardo was the one to speak first: "If you’re busy no problem, I don’t know your schedule. For now, mine would leave me plenty of time to complete the vessel of your father that you disintegrated."
Alida was stunned, then burst out in a laugh so clear that she was surprised to be still able to make such a joyful sound.
"How can you remember it?"
"Why? You, too, remembered my aunt, and then you told me just more or less twenty-two years ago."
"I remember your aunt because she unwittingly ruined my childhood." Perhaps she had been too honest. She tried to say something to make the statement less bitter, but she could only find words that would have been out of place.<
br />
Riccardo came to her aid speaking rapidly: "I'd like to see you again, really, have a chat, a glass of wine. Only if it’s fine with you, I don’t want to bother you, after all I don’t even know if you're married."
"No, not anymore," Alida answered.
"Then you got my number" Riccardo snapped. "If you call and my aunt answers, try to speak as loud as you can. I found her deafer than she was."
Alida giggled again. When she hung up, she felt strong and full of energy like she hadn’t been for a long time.
In Campagnano she bought twelve white-haired New Zealander rabbits that the seller split into two large cages, six in each. She also took new bags of food and a bag of sawdust to spread on the floor to absorb the blood.
The discretion of the seller, who clearly had not read the newspapers, ceased that day. He inquired about Luca’s health, since he had let her go there alone, and Alida improvised that he was in bed with a fever. There were no more questions, she paid quickly and backtracked along Via Cassia towards home.
She parked the car in the garage and had to bring the cages to her apartment one at a time. They were heavy and the rabbits, moving, unbalanced the weight, making them hard to carry.
She freed the new arrivals into the room and engaged in filling the food tanks with crushed seeds and bread. There was water enough.
When she found herself with nothing to do, in that quiet and perfectly tidy apartment, she was hit by a depressing empty feeling that she decided to fight with blows of strawberry milkshake and yogurt.
She went to the kitchen, put the blender on the shelf of the sideboard, and her attention focused on Riccardo’s number.
The first digits were 5 and 8.
Trastevere.
It would have been nice to walk through the cool lanes after a good dinner at an outdoor restaurant.
She took her time for a short while, and finally called.
The voice of a woman with a strong Roman accent answered.
Alida greeted her warmly and asked to talk to Riccardo, enunciating every word and speaking twice as loud as she would have done normally.
July 12 – 20:16
"The last time a woman came under my house she had a truncheon and was going to Rebibbia" Riccardo joked while getting in Alida’s Yaris.
"I was thinking about a less crowded place, a pizzeria, for example," she said, starting the engine.
It was a relaxing and entertaining evening. Alida had to admit that Riccardo had the rare power to put her in a good mood. Two years older than her, he was a man who was still a boy and knew no middle ground. He said what was going through his head with great spontaneity, did not worry about the judgment of others, and listened attentively, smiling often, as if what he had experienced had slipped off him without a trace.
After the dinner Alida, who badly needed someone to positively affect her, could say she had found it at the same time when her life seemed to have sunk for good.
Riccardo asked no questions about Alida’s love life. He was afraid to do like that time when, playing in the garden of the orphanage, he had raised a rock and found a coiled snake.
It was Alida’s look to suggest him that.
Sometimes it was veiled by a dark patina. The glow of the black pupils was overshadowed by a fresh pain, hard to identify. She would open up if she wanted to. They stood in silence, waiting for the coffees and enjoying the cool evening. They had chosen an outdoor pizzeria, and Riccardo took the opportunity to light a cigarette. After the first breath he pointed to the sky beyond the shoulders of Alida, who turned and was kissed by the moon.
"I missed it as much as the sun," Riccardo said breathing deeply, as if he could benefit from the moonlight.
Alida put on a forced smile. "I would gladly do without it."
"How can you say such a thing? It’s wonderful, and it thrills me when it’s full. Doesn’t it happen to you?"
"It’s not full" Alida corrected him coldly.
Riccardo looked at her, puzzled. "Are you sure?"
"You can trust me, it’s missing a quarter."
Riccardo looked more carefully at the moon. "You're right, it’s missing a piece, but it's imperceptible."
Alida fiddled with her napkin.
"Are you okay?" Riccardo asked.
Alida opened her mouth, not knowing what to say, and in that moment the waiter put the coffees on the table, saving her from embarrassment.
Riccardo took the opportunity to ask for the bill.
"Sorry, you were about to say something," he said after the waiter had gone.
Alida shook her head, feeling uncomfortable, and wriggled out of the impasse by asking him to tell her more about his past, to talk about some of his stories.
"You want me to talk about women?"
"Why not?" Alida said, resting her elbows on the table.
Riccardo chuckled, thought for a while, then told her of when he had been on the verge of marriage with an American. He was drifting on his memories, but Alida saw nothing but a mouth moving soundlessly. The view of the moon had deeply shaken her, like the presence of an enemy eavesdropping her secrets.
The bill came. Riccardo did his best to pay for both, but had to yield to the insistence of Alida, who managed to pay her share.
They left the restaurant, walking towards the car.
The moon was no longer behind Alida but straight in front of her.
A shudder shook her. Riccardo saw it and put an arm around her. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her tight, and not because he hadn’t felt a woman's body against him for years. That woman intrigued him. She was still a child, yet it was as if she had aged prematurely.
Under Riccardo's house, before he got out of the car, Alida reached up with the speed of a robin on a crumb of bread, and kissed him with the same delicacy as twenty years ago.
A light kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Riccardo wished her good night and got out of the Yaris.
Alida went along Viale Trastevere, climbed up the slope of Belle Arti and reached Parioli.
It did not matter how many bends she took or how many corners she rounded; the moon was always visible in the middle of the sky. If it disappeared for a moment behind a building, it stuck out even more dazzling at the next intersection.
Alida went home and listened to the voice mail while sipping a glass of mineral water.
"Mrs. Menozzatti, this is inspector Brembati. I wanted to ask if you can meet me. I have something to ask you. Call me whenever you can, thank you."
Alida stood motionless in front of the phone, sure that something serious had happened after she had talked with Bracconieri.
Maybe he listened to me and managed to be put in solitary confinement.
Before going to bed she deleted the message of the inspector. She was bothered by having his voice recorded on her phone.
July 15 – 12:31
Manuel Bracconieri had lost count of the days. He only knew that it was Friday because it was written on the blackboard in the refectory.
While eating without tasting any flavour, and not for lack of trying, he carefully looked around, his gaze passing over the heads of the inmates bent on their trays. The buzz coming from them between a spoonful of food and a bite of bread was low and constant. A quiet prayer that did not reach the ceiling, let alone heaven.
Affixed to a column behind two wardens, Manuel saw a calendar.
He had to check.
He had to know when it would happen.
"Do you ever think about the darkness?"
Manuel looked at a balding man, with lips as thick as those of a groper, who could not stop fiddling with the spoon in his dish, as if he had lost something among the fusilli. "The darkness inside our body, do you ever think about it?" he continued. Manuel ignored him.
The guards had not moved from the column. Hoping was useless. They would leave only after the last prisoner had raised his bottom off the chair.
"I believe that in our body there is no com
plete darkness. In the stomach, lungs, between bones, there must be a little light. Light that filters from the outside, you understand me?"
Manuel continued to pretend not to hear.
"One day I was about to find out, I was almost there, but they found out before I could look into Sandra. I told her, I told her so often that sooner or later I would look inside her." The man took a spoonful of fusilli, sucking one between his moist lips.
Manuel stood up leaving his dish half finished, he piled up the tray in the proper container and walked over to the guards, who instinctively shook their truncheons.
"Walk away," the tallest said.
"Yes, go take a walk," his colleague added.
"Do you have a cigarette?" Manuel asked, quickly watching the column. He had been lucky: the calendar was one of those displaying moon phases as well.
"Do I look like a tobacconist?" the guard growled.
Manuel pointed his thumb to the room, over his shoulder. "Does this look like a refectory? Yet they give us food," he said, focusing on the days of the last week of June.
It could not be earlier than that. The visit of Mrs. Menozzatti had been on the 22. He remembered that because, as they were bringing him back to his cell, he had been able to read the date on the screen of a television tuned on weather forecasts. Another week had passed so, if the cycle of food in the refectory was unchanged, it should be the last day of the month.
"Either you walk away on your own or we move you after we settle you on a wheelchair," the guard threatened, taking a step forward.
Manuel stepped aside just long enough to see the calendar a couple of seconds longer.
Next to number 31, Friday, stood out a black-filled circle.
July 15 – 23:49
"Wow! Some activity at last!" The pervert in the cell warmed up as soon as Manuel took off his undershirt and threw it on the floor.
His skin had started going on fire.
"I was wondering when you would make me have some fun!"
"Shut up!" Bracconieri growled, leaning forward with his head between his knees.
He could not sit still, it was as if someone had placed a layer of burning coals under his mattress.
He got up, walked over to the bars at the window and gripped them hard. He needed air. The night only allowed him a faint puff of warm wind that helped to increase his breathlessness.
He looked at his cellmate, who was staring at him with sparkling eyes. "Call the guards," he said breathlessly, "you're in danger. Do you understand?"
"What game do you want to play? Are you planning an updated version of cops and robbers?" the prisoner croaked with a watering mouth.
"Have them move you to another cell as soon as possible."
The little man smiled, showing a row of small and perfectly aligned teeth.
"Aren’t you going to shed those?" he asked, pointing wantonly at Manuel pants. He reached out to touch them, but Bracconieri drove his hand away with a sharp blow, emitting a strangled sound.
"I like you so aggressive, come on, let me see something more."
With great pleasure, thought Manuel, while a twinge of pain crossed his back from the first to the last vertebra.
He looked at the window. The clouds had thinned and the moon floated in the sky, a cyclopean eye in the middle of the bars crossing it like the dark alleys of an ancient city. Mitigating the darkness of the cell, its rays opened small sores on Manuel’s skin, from which shaggy hairs started to grow.
He grunted.
The checked Moon Page 7
