Europa Editions
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
The translator would like to thank Martha Tennent Hamilton—who paid the price.
Translation by Lawrence Venuti
Original Title: L’oscura immensità della morte
Copyright © 2004 by Edizioni e/o
First publication 2006 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
ISBN 978-1-60945-978-9 (US)
ISBN 978-1-60945-976-5 (World)
Massimo Carlotto
DEATH’S DARK ABYSS
Translated from the Italian
by Lawrence Venuti
A pardon is not the reward for a confession.
It is an opportunity for clemency which considers the general interest in ending a specific sentence, and only a demagogic
confusion of ideas would allow any importance to be assigned to the victim’s forgiveness. A pardon concerns the relationship between an individual convict and the exigencies of the law.
The sentence gives the victim all that is his due.
GIUSEPPE MARIA BERRUTI
Judge of the Court of Cassation
(La Repubblica, 3 January 2003)
There are avengers who, if science might discover a way, would prolong the lives of criminals for a thousand years and thus enable them to serve out the thousand-year sentence they were given. Besides, has not God already done this very thing by laying
the foundations for eternity so that reprobates
can suffer the eternal pains of hell?
RAFAEL SÁNCHEZ FERLOSIO
PROLOGUE
1989—a city in northeastern Italy. The defendant had a split lip, two black eyes, and a broken nose bulging with styptic swabs that stuck out of his nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. He was being held up by two officers from the penitentiary police who had to help him to his seat. He was a mess. The judge looked at the lawyer, irritated, trying to determine whether he would request an adjournment of the interrogation. The lawyer reassured him with a shrug. His client had plenty of other problems to worry about. Relieved, the judge dictated to the court clerk the personal particulars of those present and asked the defendant if he intended to submit to questioning.
Raffaello Beggiato turned towards the counselor who encouraged him with a theatrical wave. “Yeah,” he answered with effort. His mouth hurt. He lost a few teeth when the cops pounded him, and he bit his tongue when they squeezed his balls. But he wasn’t about to whine. The beating was part of the treatment reserved for criminals caught red-handed. The intensity varied according to the crime. And his was the kind of crime that authorized anybody who wore a uniform to break his face. While he was at the police station, in the room where they handcuffed him to a chair, bulls from the other departments dropped by just for the pleasure of kicking his ass or spitting in his face. Beggiato didn’t get riled by it. Besides, he knew the rules of the game. He only hoped they’d cart him off to jail fast. Nobody would touch him there, and he could concentrate on finding a way out. With any luck, the janitor in the solitary lock-up would be an old acquaintance who’d score some coke for him. He needed it to get his strength back and clear his head. But nobody turned up, and the corporal in the infirmary had refused to give him a painkiller. He’d spent four hours stretched out on a cot, staring at the bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling, suffering like a dog and obsessing about the interrogation. It finally sank in that not even a few lines would inspire a decent solution.
The judge outlined the case, but the defendant didn’t listen. He knew how things had gone down. He and his sidekick had studied the job for a couple weeks. It seemed like child’s play. They decided to dress the same and add a touch of originality to the robbery: they bought two silk balaclavas, the kind motorcyclists wear, and two black velvet suits. They’d gotten hold of the weapons a while ago and had already used them to clean out a couple post offices along with the registers at three supermarkets. On the appointed day they waited for the jeweler and his wife to unlock the steel-plated door upon returning from lunch. They suddenly came up from behind and pushed their way into the shop. The dealer sputtered the usual bullshit, but he didn’t put up a fight and opened the old Conforti safe without a word. It was crammed with worked gold and top-grade stones. Jewels new and “antique”—a sophisticated term the dealer used to cover up a shady pawnbroking business. This merchandise didn’t show up in any register and would be discreetly omitted from the list of stolen valuables.
He and his sidekick took about ten minutes to empty the bags. Long enough for a police patrol to get there. The wife had pressed an alarm button they knew nothing about. The mastermind had sworn there wasn’t any hidden alarm, but the fact is, he didn’t check. Never trust guys with clean records who start committing crimes to pay off gambling debts. They face life as if it were a crap game, relying on luck and the odds.
They looked each other in the eye. “Fuck the cops,” his partner said.
“Fuck everybody,” he said.
The haul was the kind that sets you up for life, and it was worth the risk. Maybe, just maybe, if they hadn’t been coked out of their brains, they would’ve surrendered and minimized the damage. But right then they were thinking at the speed of light, boldly moving in an orbit far beyond common sense.
He grabbed the jeweler’s wife by the neck and pushed her out of the shop, aiming his gun at her head. His sidekick had knocked out the dealer and made his exit, carrying the bags filled with the goods. Everybody started shouting. Them, the cops, the hostage, bystanders. They didn’t know what to do. A yellow car suddenly wheeled out of a cross street and wound up smack dab in the middle of the mess, separating the good guys from the bad guys.
They made the most of it. After throwing the hostage to the ground, they sprinted for the car and pulled open the door. At the wheel sat a woman, her face twisted with shock; in the rear was a child asking his mamma what was happening.
A few seconds were enough to commandeer the car and take off with the new hostages. Several hundred meters later the car was blocked by back-up patrols. He climbed out with the little boy, threatening to shoot if they weren’t allowed to pass. When he was convinced the cops didn’t intend to lie down and roll over, he squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered between the neck and shoulder and pierced the body, exiting from the other side. The kid flopped down on the asphalt. For a moment the mother’s scream outstripped every other noise.
The cops’ jaws dropped. They must’ve thought he wasn’t a professional and didn’t play by the rules. Killing the boy wasn’t necessary; they just had to sling around some threats, and they would’ve been allowed to go. Till the next move. They weren’t in America, where people get shot at the drop of a hat. This was a quiet city in the northeast, and the body laid out in the street belonged to a blond kid who’d just gotten out of school.
“Now they won’t want to deal anymore,” was all his sidekick had to say.
Beggiato was wise to him—and knew the guy would get a charge from shooting him in the back. But he still needed Beggiato to make a getaway.
They took advantage of the momentary confusion to take off again, but the cops were everywhere. The woman was ready to cash in. She started swinging at them, shouting she wanted to die. The car skidded, and he was forced to give her what she wanted. A shot in the belly at close range. Then
they slipped down a blind alley. The low wall that closed off their path was easily scaled, and his partner jumped to the other side. Beggiato passed him the bags with the take, wasting precious time. Three police cars arrived at top speed. He had no other choice but to surrender or die. He chose life. He threw down his gun, took off the balaclava, and dropped to his knees, raising his hands high over his head.
“The woman passed away an hour ago,” the judge informed him. “The doctors could not save her. The child, however, died instantly.”
Beggiato said nothing. He’d already taken the woman’s death as a foregone conclusion.
“You are a previous offender,” the judge continued. “It is pointless to explain what you are facing. The only reasonable course to adopt, if you are seeking any degree of clemency, is to confess your accomplice’s name.”
The defendant delicately ran his tongue over the stump of a broken tooth. “I wasn’t the shooter.”
“That is of little importance,” replied the judge. “The penal code does not distinguish between material perpetrators and accomplices.”
Beggiato watched the lawyer as he began to study the toes of his shoes with particular attentiveness. The decision to squeal or pay for both himself and his partner was his alone. If he decided to talk, his jail time would be decreased, but he’d have to give up his share of the loot—as well as the respect his name had earned him among thieves. And he really didn’t feel like paying for his crime with a bad rep. He couldn’t get out of this situation cheaply.
He decided to put on an attitude. After all, he’d clocked in exactly ten years as a crook. He removed the swabs from his nose to speak more clearly. “I can’t give up that name.” His tone was cocky. “If I did, even your honor knows that when I get out I couldn’t enjoy my share of the loot.”
The judge smiled, satisfied. Beggiato was an utter fool. That statement would provoke indignation and a desire for revenge in the jurors at the Court of Assizes. Before continuing, he made sure the clerk had gotten it into the record, word for word.
“You, sir, shall have no opportunity to enjoy a single euro of the loot. Aggravated robbery, unlawful restraint, resisting arrest, double homicide—an eight-year-old child and his mother. I shall recommend and obtain a sentence of life imprisonment without much difficulty.”
The defendant knew the judge had spoken the truth. And without the least exaggeration. That day he’d made a series of fuck-ups. The biggest one was not letting himself be gunned down in the alley. He stood up and asked to go back to the jailhouse. At this point, words had lost their meaning.
When Beggiato left, the judge addressed the lawyer. “Convince him to talk, and I’ll recommend thirty years.”
“I’ll try in a few days. Right now he’s in no state to think rationally.”
“You’re not planning to have him take the stand to sway the court?”
“Don’t you worry. If he doesn’t confess, I’ll withdraw from the case. The crime is hateful, and I don’t want to get crucified by the newspapers.”
SILVANO
A quick glance at the mailbox before heading home—my routine on week days. Mine was the first in a bank of six gold-colored aluminum boxes, each with a glass slot and a name computer-printed by the condo’s managing agent. Right away I saw the lone envelope was a letter. Nobody had written to me in years; just bills and flyers stuffed in the box every once in a while. The lawyer’s name, typed in flowing letters, gave no clue. Back inside the apartment I placed the envelope on the kitchen table, slid my meal from the rosticceria into the microwave, and went to change. That day had been a real grind. I resoled and replaced the heels on a rack of shoes. And I duplicated a bunch of keys. Every month started off like this. As soon as people pocketed their pay, they hit the shopping centers to spend it. My shop was planted right in front of the supermarket check-out lanes; it was impossible to miss the sign, “Heels in a Jiffy.” The customers dropped off their shoes or keys and picked them up after they filled their carts.
The timer announced the food was hot. From the fridge I grabbed a carton of wine, the cheese, and the utensils. I switched on the TV. I steered clear of the news and surfed for a decent program. Picked a quiz show. A pile of euros if you guessed the right answers. The host was simpatico enough, a guy with a belly; the contestant was a woman, a teacher from down south, thin as a rail. Her voice had an annoying nasal twang. She got eliminated before I polished off the lasagna. During the commercial I opened the letter. I calmly wiped the knife with a paper napkin and slipped it under the edge of the flap.
Dear Signor Contin,
My client, Signor Raffaello Beggiato, has entrusted me with drafting a petition for pardon. The process requires that the parties who suffered loss or injury state an opinion concerning this request. Enclosed you will find a letter in which my client asks for your forgiveness. While I realize that this new chapter in the judicial proceedings can only revive painful memories for you, I urge you to read it with a profound sense of humanity. Signor Beggiato has served more than fifteen years of his sentence. He is now stricken with a grave form of cancer whose course does not seem to offer any hope of recovery. My client’s wish is to be able to end his life in freedom. In the hope that you can understand Signor Beggiato’s human drama and see your way clear to forgive him, I send you my sincerest regards.
Alfonso De Bastiani, Esquire
My hands were shaking. I took a long swig of wine. Then the quiz show came back with another contestant. A computer technician from Viterbo. I couldn’t focus on the question, but the applause from the audience told me he guessed the answer. The host went over the ground rules in the competition, then announced another commercial break. I took the other letter out of the envelope.
Dear Signor Contin,
I dare to make this appeal to you only because I am desperate. I have learned that I am sick with cancer and there is no hope. Up to now I have served fifteen years. I know this is not much for the terrible crimes I am guilty of, but the sickness will put an end to the sentence too. I beg you to forgive me and make a statement that favors a pardon. My only wish is to be able to die a free man. I realize I am asking you to have pity on somebody who stole the dearest objects of your affection. But you are different from me, and you are certainly capable of such a noble gesture.
Raffaello Beggiato
The quiz show came back again. The next question hinged on an episode in the private life of a famous singer. The kind that drives kids crazy. The contestant turned a whiter shade of pale. Gone was his confidence—and his smile. He didn’t know the answer. I snatched the remote and turned off the TV.
I read Beggiato’s letter again. That fucking son-of-a-bitch murderer was asking me to pity him? I balled up the letters and threw them in the trash. Pity was a feeling that belonged to another life, before death had put mine under wraps. So cancer was killing him: that was nothing but an act of justice. And it was just that Beggiato should suffer to the very end. In jail, obviously. Surrounded by lifers and guards, with no loved ones and no comforting words. His death wasn’t going to ease the pain that had ruled my life for fifteen years, invading my time, my thoughts, my daily routines. The pain throbbed like a festering wound, but it made me feel alive and helped me get my bearings in the dark immensity of death. The news about the murderer’s fate fired my curiosity. How would Beggiato kick? Over the years I’d learned how to categorize different ways of dying. Some people die in their sleep and never notice a thing. Others pass to a better life suddenly, in the very instant it takes for a thought to form. But this happens only with adults. At eight years old, my son Enrico definitely knew what death was, but he was too scared to be aware of the risk. He heard the shot and felt the burning trail the bullet dug into his body, and his life ceased after a handful of seconds. At least that’s what the coroner told me, and when I asked him if my son had enough time to see death’s darkness, he rested a hand on my shoulder, rattling off some words that fit the occasion. And yet my questio
n wasn’t senseless. I was with Clara when she died in the hospital: she’d seen the darkness.
“Everything’s gone dark, Silvano,” she said in a loud voice, squeezing my hand tight. “I can’t see anymore, I’m scared, scared, help me, it’s so dark.”
Darkness, fear. Death’s dark abyss. Some, like Clara, die after a drawn-out agony. It’s the worst way to go. Their facial features get twisted, their limbs shrink. This was the end fate should save for Raffaello Beggiato, the murderer.
I straightened up the kitchen. Then I opened a drawer and took out the photos of Clara and Enrico. They were not mementoes of happy times. Those were buried in the boxes that preserved my former life, stored in a rented garage. The only photos I’ve kept within reach were shot on the steel table at the coroner’s. I studied my wife’s and son’s chests, cut open and plundered by scapels. The pain throbbed more intensely, and a twinge rose from my stomach to my throat. But the thought of Beggiato’s illness helped me dodge my usual tears. That miserable fuck thought I was capable of noble gestures. To forgive you need to have feelings, a life. All I had left was in my hand at that moment.
Once upon a time I’d been a man who was content with his lot in life. I was a sales agent for top-drawer wines. I had a secretary and tooled around in a Mercedes. I had a wife and son. Friends and relatives. Clara was a beautiful woman. I fell in love with her at a party, and we were married in two years. I loved her body and her joie de vivre. Enrico arrived three years later. A sweet, carefree kid. Thirteen years together. Then Enrico and Clara crossed paths with Beggiato and his accomplice, and everything was over. For them and me.
That day I happened to be in an enoteca. I was selling one of the prime oak-aged cabernets when my secretary phoned.
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