Cold for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  After all, he said, it’s not going to be my stomach that kills me. You know that, my love. It’s the unwelcome guest who dictates the countdown.

  The guest. That’s what he called it, confidentially, as if it were an old friend who had come to spend a few days with him. Only, this guest had been there for more than a few days, and wasn’t going to be leaving, unless it was the two of them leaving together.

  The guest.

  As if he’d summoned him by evoking the guest’s name, he was forced to rush to the bathroom. As usual, it was difficult and painful to pee; the toilet was spattered with blood. The guest. His prostate cancer.

  He kept it hidden, just as he did his depression, just as he did his deranged habit of conversing with a wife who had been dead for years. Because if they knew, they’d force him into retirement, turn him into a shell inside of which a battle would play out, a battle whose outcome had already been decided. Time. It was just a matter of time.

  He went back into the kitchen and plastered an off-kilter smile on his lips. He didn’t want Carmen to see him looking sad.

  He was positive that his wife was still there, inhabiting that apartment, as lighthearted and cheerful as before she’d fallen sick, before she’d dried up and withered away in that bed and finally decided that it was no longer worth the trouble of living. He was sure that she was watching him, listening to what he said, gently and sweetly empathetic. He was sure that she was reading his facial expressions, every single line and wrinkle on his face, the way she did when she still had eyes and hands.

  Because love, Pisanelli thought to himself, is an enormous thing. Something far too beautiful, profound, and important to depend on anything as fleeting as life.

  I have so many things to tell you, sweetheart. We had an intense day, at the office. Sit down and listen to me while I cook the pasta.

  He was home again.

  Let’s go home.

  Let’s leave the cold, the wind, and people’s stupidity behind us. Let’s go home, where everything is safe and quiet. Where there’s no danger.

  Let’s go home, surrounded by our furniture, in the spaces that we know so well that we could move through them, blindfolded and in pitch darkness.

  Let’s go home. Where we’re safe and sound.

  The only place where we can feel calm and untroubled. And where we can pursue that destructive illusion that we call happiness.

  Even though it was cold out, bitterly cold, Francesco Romano couldn’t seem to bring himself to walk in through the main entrance of the apartment building where he lived. The wind was relentlessly pounding the corner of the deserted street and the baffled policeman offered the strange spectacle of a massive, scowling man with his house keys in hand. He seemed like a modern statue, of the kind that are meant to express the malaise of the contemporary individual in the face of reality.

  Let’s go home, Palma had said. As if that were an easy thing. As if it were comfortable.

  To Francesco Romano, that home had been just one person: Giorgia, his wife. The woman who had been at his side since their time together at the university. The woman who had stood beside him throughout his career. The woman who had supported him, who had done her best to tame his spiky personality.

  Do I have a spiky personality? Romano wondered. Maybe I do. If everyone says so, and if no one feels any need to fall back on euphemisms, there must be a certain element of truth to it. A spiky personality, a difficult character. And yet he was capable of being cheerful and kind, and deep in his heart he felt compassion for the weak, for those who suffer the abuse of the powerful, of bullies. That’s why he had chosen to become a policeman: he detested injustice. Every time he witnessed an act of bullying, he felt the need to remedy that injustice. Does someone like that have a spiky personality? No, that just couldn’t be.

  If it hadn’t been for those moments.

  The wind strengthened, almost as if ready to engage in a test of wills with that man who dared to defy its icy breath. But he didn’t budge.

  Those moments. He’d read that they’re sometimes described as a red veil, as rage descends over the eyes. That’s not the way it was for him: those were his moments of greatest clarity and lucidity, when a force, at once extraneous and familiar, started to surge under his skin until it reached his short, powerful fingers. The moments when someone else took control of him from within, sweeping away with a single gesture self-restraint, principles, conventional behaviors, and superstructures. Those moments in which rage reigned all-powerful as queen in Francesco Romano’s heart and mind.

  He’d felt it, that day, as he read Martina’s essays, imagining that filthy disgusting pig slipping into his daughter’s bed. If he’d had that swine within reach, he might not be able to control himself again.

  Romano and Giorgia had no children. They’d tried, and she in particular had always dreamed of being a mother, and he had gone along with her wishes. The tests hadn’t turned up any problems. There was nothing wrong with him or with her. The doctor had shrugged and said: sometimes, two people can just be incompatible.

  Incompatible. But how could two people who had grown up together be incompatible? Two people who had never lived apart for even so long as three days? Who loved each other with all their hearts?

  Let me correct that, thought Romano: who had loved each other with all their hearts.

  A car went by. From the window, a young man shouted: go home, why don’t you, can’t you see she’s not coming? A voice slurred by alcohol, laughter from inside the car, the screech of tires as the car revved away. You too, you asshole, you’re telling me to go home, too. And just where would my home be?

  Because sometimes it happens at home, too. Maybe you’re just having a shitty period and things are going badly at work. Maybe you’re given a suspension because a criminal dares to laugh in your face and so you grab him by the throat; I’d like to see how anyone else would have handled it. And maybe you get transferred to the absolute asshole of the city, treated no differently, in terms of comments and mockery, than people who peddled confiscated narcotics.

  At a time like that, it’s no surprise that a guy could be irritable. Sensitive, upset. That he might react disproportionately to a perfectly normal argument.

  That he might give his wife a smack in the face.

  Why did you leave, Giorgia? Why didn’t you give me one last chance? Why couldn’t you understand that it was a very particular time for me, that I was wounded and desperate? Why can’t you understand that I need you?

  Let’s go home, Palma had said. But that wasn’t his home. Not without Giorgia.

  He realized that he was colder inside than out. He’d look around for a bar that was still open. He’d drink a beer, at least one. To muster the courage to unlock that front door and climb the two flights of stairs.

  Otherwise, he’d sleep in his car, and maybe he’d even die of the cold. That way, maybe, Giorgia would finally understand.

  Let’s go home.

  That’s where everything goes the way it’s supposed to. That’s where nothing ever changes, because there’s plenty of human warmth and your imperfections are known and accepted. Because there, at least, they love you.

  Let’s go home.

  Aragona walked up to the reception desk and said: “Ciao, Peppi’. What’s the word, this evening?”

  The desk clerk returned his greeting with professional aplomb.

  “Buonasera, Signore. Everything’s fine, thanks. Shall I have some dinner sent up to your room?”

  The Hotel Mediterraneo, Aragona mused. It might not exactly be home, but you certainly can’t argue with the cool factor of living in a first-class hotel, can you?

  “Thanks, I’d certainly appreciate that. I haven’t had a second all day to eat so much as a panino. The city’s just deteriorating, and if it weren’t for us, the thin line standing up against the swelling cr
iminal tide . . . ”

  The man nodded, sympathetically.

  “Certainly, Signore. And we honest citizens are only too grateful. Let me make a quick call down to the kitchen. They ought to be open, even at this hour. There’s been a party.”

  Aragona sighed, removing his eyeglasses with a dramatic sweeping gesture: “Why, of course. People throw parties. They have fun. Blithely unaware of the dangers out in the streets. Just think, today two kids were murdered in their home. Just around the corner from the police station.”

  The desk clerk’s eyes opened wide.

  “For real? And you’re investigating it, Signore?”

  “That’s not something I can talk about, Peppi’. These are confidential matters, what do you think? The evildoers and malefactors might follow us home, come to where we live, and even, perhaps, try to blackmail us by threatening those who work nearby. Even by threatening a hotel desk clerk.”

  The man ran his finger under his collar, clearly ill at ease. He looked around the deserted lobby, circumspectly.

  “Really? Does that actually happen? Agreed, then, Signore. I won’t ask a thing, in that case.”

  Aragona shot him a conspiratorial glance.

  “That’s right, now you’re talking. Buonanotte, Peppi’.”

  And he headed off toward the elevator that he would ride up to his room, on the eleventh floor.

  Living in that hotel was a luxury that he’d have a hard time explaining to his fellow officers. And in fact, they knew nothing about it. His room, with breakfast included, devoured his entire salary, but then Marco could rely on the sizable monthly wire transfer that his mother sent him from his hometown, without informing his father. It wouldn’t be easy to give up the comforts that living in that commodious hotel offered him.

  And then there was Irina. Irina, the lovely blonde waitress who served him breakfast on the roof garden, whose smile was enough to give meaning to his entire day. Irina, who would greet him the next morning, just a few hours away now, with those wonderful, musical words: What can I bring you, sir?

  He, dark and smoldering, would take off his glasses and run his hand through his hair to make sure that the inconvenient, vulgar bald spot that was spreading at the vertex of his head would remain unseen. He’d stare at her, with an intense gaze, and in a deep and knowing voice, he’d finally utter the words that he felt certain she was awaiting with tender concern: an espresso doppio ristretto in an oversized mug.

  Whereupon, Corporal Marco Aragona, tireless crimefighter, would be ready for new, life-threatening adventures.

  Let’s go home.

  At home, those who love us will be waiting for us. This world is tough, difficult, suspicious, a road paved with hatred and pain. Under the domestic roof, we’ll find love, the sweetness of our family.

  Let’s go home. Because at home our family is waiting for us, the true nurturing nest, the one in which we feel protected. At home, we’ll find those who understand us, who know us. The people from whom we have no secrets.

  Let’s go home.

  Alex tried to make as little noise as possible, but she immediately spotted the glow of light from the kitchen. She pushed open the door and there was her father, in pajamas and dressing gown, sitting at the table in front of a cup of tea.

  “Ciao, Papà. How come you’re still up?”

  An obvious question, and she knew the answer by heart.

  And sure enough, that answer came promptly.

  “Do you think there’s any way I can fall asleep until I know you’re home? Anyway, as you know, I’m used to it. I wish I had . . . ”

  . . . a penny for every . . .

  “ . . . a penny for every night I . . . ”

  . . . I went without sleep . . .

  “ . . . I went without sleep while on duty in my career. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, Papà, I had a sandwich a few hours ago at the police station. You know, we have a case that—”

  The General raised a hand: “No. I don’t want you to tell me a thing. I said nothing about my missions for years, so now I wouldn’t dream of indiscreetly trespassing on the details of your work. Just tell me . . . ”

  . . . whether you’re all right and . . .

  “ . . . whether you’re all right and if you need any help. That’s all I want to know.”

  “I’m fine, Papà. And I can handle things on my own, thanks.”

  The General imparted a quick, proud smile.

  “I know. That’s the way you’ve always been, ever since you were a little girl. Strong and stubborn. I’ve tried never to meddle because I think that children . . . ”

  . . . grow up faster if . . .

  “ . . . grow up faster if their parents let them handle things all on their own. And you know perfectly well that . . . ”

  . . . oh, God, please don’t say it, Papà. Don’t say it again.

  “ . . . I have full and implicit faith in you. I’m sure you would never disappoint me. Isn’t that right?”

  I wish you were here, Rosaria Martone. With your bronzed skin, your wonderful smile. With your ravenous kisses and your blessed hands that know how to give me so much pleasure. I really would like to see you face-to-face with the General as he asks you whether you would ever disappoint him.

  “Yes, Papà.”

  The man stood up, gratified. Before heading off to bed, he gave Alex a rapid pat on the cheek.

  She shut off the kitchen light and started weeping, silently, in the dark.

  Yes, let’s go home.

  Because there’s nothing else left to do, out in the world. Because the world has finally come to a halt, and for the next few hours nothing at all will happen.

  Now, yes, we can go home.

  Ottavia knocked lightly on Palma’s door. They were the only two people left in the office.

  “May I come in? Commissario, everyone has left. I left the computer turned on so the database could update.”

  Palma looked up from the papers that he was compiling. He had deep creases of exhaustion around his eyes, but with that thick tousled head of hair, with his collar loosened and tie pulled low and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he still seemed like a young man.

  “Thanks, Ottavia. You were at your best today. You collected a great deal of useful information. It really was a stroke of luck to find you already here.”

  The woman blushed.

  “You’re always too kind, sir. I’m just doing my duty. It would be such a shame if the police station were to be closed.”

  Palma stared at her for a long time, without uttering a word. She was so pretty, so womanly. At the same time, she filled him with tenderness and something else he was too scared to delve into.

  “You just can’t bring yourself to speak to me in the informal, to call me by my first name, can you? I really wish you would. You’re the first one in here in the morning and the last to leave at night, we see each other every day in this vale of tears: don’t you think we should become friends?”

  Ottavia replied with a warm, full voice that plucked at the strings of his heart.

  “Maybe, little by little, I think I can do it. It’s a matter of time, like for anything else. Right?”

  Palma swept back his hair, uneasily.

  “Yes, I guess so. I imagine it’s a matter of time. We’ll do our best to shake this curse of the Bastards of Pizzofalcone off our backs. And then, if they choose to shut us down all the same, at least we’ll have clean consciences.”

  The woman gave him a worried look; he seemed even wearier than usual.

  “We’ll pull out of it, you’ll see, sir. We’re all good cops, and we know our jobs. Some of us are even outstanding cops. And deep down, after all, that lunatic Marco might have a point: It’s not so bad being the Bastards. It’s a sort of trademark.”

  Palma shook
his head.

  “Aragona . . . If we ever manage to straighten him out then, yes, it will all have been worth it. But now you’d better get home. It’s late, I don’t like the idea of you out all alone at this hour.”

  In Ottavia’s mind’s eyes, she pictured the members of her family. Her son, Riccardo, shut off to the larger world, a boy who could only repeat that one monotonous word: Mamma, Mamma, Mamma. A hammering accusation against the distance she kept, as if he could read her mind, as if he knew that he was nothing but her damned cross to bear, the one obstacle that for almost fourteen years now had been preventing her from becoming the woman she wished she could be. Her husband, Gaetano, smiling and solicitous, always thoughtfully tending to the most trivial details in order to make her happy, Gaetano who almost seemed to be taking on the guilt for Riccardo’s problems. Gaetano, unaware that she, Ottavia, no longer loved him, if, that is, she ever had.

  Home, she thought. If it hadn’t been for the knowing, alert eyes of her dog Sid, home would have been the last place on earth she would have wanted to shut herself in that evening.

  “Never fear, Commissario. I have a pistol in my handbag, and I know how to use it. What do you think, that after spending all that time in front of a computer, I’ve turned so soft and flabby that I’ve forgotten I’m a cop?”

  Palma couldn’t help but run his eyes over the woman’s gentle but lithe curves.

  “I might think anything of you, Ottavia, except that you’ve gone soft and flabby. Trust me on that.”

  Palma’s voice, which had come out a little hoarse, made her start. It really was time to get out of here, she decided.

  “You go home, too, though, sir. I don’t want to see that you’ve slept in the office again. We’ve got some frantic days ahead of us, with this double homicide case, those two kids, and we can’t afford to have a chief who’s out of order, not up to snuff. So is that a promise?”

  That woman really was enchanting.