Death's Dark Abyss

by Massimo Carlotto

  When I’m cut loose, the nights’ll never be like this. I’ll be able to stroll along the beach, get laid, amuse myself, maybe even sleep like a rock. In jail, whenever you manage to fall asleep, it’s always off and on.

  Here the darkness reminds you the red stamp on your file reads, “sentence ends: never.” You’re fucked. Then you think what a shithead you were to ruin yourself like this. And the memories stop you from getting any rest. Every night I think about that woman and kid. I really don’t know how I could’ve pulled the trigger. But it’s done and over with and I can’t do a thing for them now. I’m really sorry about it, though. To survive in jail I act hard, but inside I’m sorry for throwing everything away on a life of crime. I could’ve had a different life. I had every opportunity. I chose to be a crook, nobody forced me, and if it’d been my lot to kill a cop or get plugged full of lead, I never would’ve thought about killing two innocent bystanders. It’s true I was coked out of my brain, but how the fuck did I go and shoot an eight-year-old and his mamma? I ask them to forgive me every night and Sunday mornings at mass. I don’t believe in God but I go anyway. It’s the only time when the other jailbirds chill out and you can relax.

  In Brazil I don’t want to have anything to do with the criminal element. The last crime I commit will be going on the lam with a fake passport. I’d rather not do it but I don’t have any alternative. With the suspended sentence I’d always risk going back to jail and I don’t want to die locked up in a cell in some clinic. If I think about it, I feel like screaming. But I can’t do that here. They report you, then cart you off to solitary confinement, and beat the fuck out of you with clubs. Even if you have cancer.

  For fifteen years I’ve been on good behavior in the hope I could use it to get a better deal in prison, get out half days. Years ago you could still hope. Even if you got life. I got ready to toe the line, wasn’t going to break out, wouldn’t go after my share of the loot. My partner could keep the whole thing. On work furlough you’d have a job, you could start living again, and I would’ve been satisfied ’cause I’m not the guy I was before, I’m a changed man that has no intention of getting into trouble. But the politicians fucked up the penal reform and now we got ministers—like the current one—who make public statements about our prisons being like four-star hotels. Asshole. I’d like to see his son in here.

  At this point very few inmates leave before their sentence is up or with a pass and when they diagnosed my sickness I was kind of happy. First thing that came to mind was, all things considered, it offered me a chance to get out. Then I gave it more thought and finally, when my mother came to visit, I told her to find me a lawyer. My mother. Poor woman. She’s my third victim. She’s never given up on me. Ever since my father kicked, she’s always taken care of me. Now she’s sixty-one and she keeps working part-time to make sure I got cigarettes and whatnot. For a stretch I worked too. There was this bicycle factory that hired damn near every inmate but then the cost of our labor no longer made us competitive and now they make the bikes in China. Luckily I still got mamma’s money orders.

  But when will that motherfucking nurse get here? I’m getting more and more nervous. I can’t breathe. Chill, chill, screw this prison, stop thinking about it. . . . How the fuck do you stop thinking? For fifteen years I’ve done nothing but think. The thoughts come on one after another and you can’t stop them, can’t even put them in order. And you got to keep everything inside; you can’t confide in nobody. Otherwise they’ll take you for a pushover and use you. Everybody acts hard but they’re as desperate as me. Yes, desperate is definitely the right word. I got a life sentence and cancer—what else could I be?

  The guard just opened the gate. The nurse’s hit this block. Finally. Four cells and he’s at mine. Less than two minutes. The time it takes to dole out the drops to the other guys.

  Here he goes. Bravo, he keeps holding the bottle upside down. Didn’t even look inside the cell. To him I’m just a plastic cup on the edge of the peephole.

  One sip and it’s done. Night, you bastard, I fucked you this time too. Tomorrow’s Tuesday. 7:00, housecleaning. Same routine every other day: a quick lick with a rag and ammonia. 7:30, the breakfast cart comes by. I only take milk. The moka’s on the burner, ready to go . . .

  SILVANO

  “It hasn’t even been a month yet, and you’re dying to see me?” asked Giorgia Valente when she opened the door. “I’ve come to give you some news about your ex-boyfriend.”

  “It’ll cost you the same.”

  “He’s sick with cancer. Looks hopeless.”

  “Sooner or later it happens to everybody.”

  “He wants a pardon. He’s asked me to forgive him.”

  “And you won’t do it.”

  “I don’t even think about it.”

  “Naturally. Now get a move on, you’re wasting time, I got a client showing up in fifteen minutes.”

  Another letter from the lawyer. Hardly a week has passed, and already he’s breaking my balls. “Please forgive me if I press you, but Signor Beggiato’s condition is deteriorating . . .”

  I phoned the lawyer who represented me at the trial. He told me I didn’t have to reply. The process provided that my statement on the motion would be taken by an official. I should expect a visit from the carabinieri.

  The Church arrived before the Military. The next morning I found a priest waiting for me at the shop. A thinnish guy in his fifties who seemed sharp.

  “I’m Don Silvio, the prison chaplain.”

  “I bet you want to talk about Raffaello Beggiato.”

  “He’s sick. He doesn’t have long to live.”

  “I’ve heard all about it.”

  He ran a hand over his tired face. “I understand your resentment,” he said, “and I won’t give you the usual sermon about the meaning of forgiveness. But I want you to know something. Beggiato isn’t the same man he was before. Prison has profoundly changed him—”

  “Fine, then may your God forgive him.”

  “Within two years Beggiato will be dead. Try to trust him.”

  “Don’t you realize what trash you’re talking? Trust Beggiato? Why? He gets out, enjoys the money from the robbery, and dies peacefully.”

  I lingered over my last words: “enjoys the money from the robbery.” I stopped listening to the chaplain. If Beggiato managed to get out of prison, maybe he’d get in touch with his accomplice. He needed hospital care and would certainly try to collect his share if only to secure the best possible treatment for himself. These were no more than hypotheses, but what other means was left to identify his accomplice? No. There was another means. Easier and faster.

  The chaplain touched my arm. “Do you feel O.K.?”

  “Yes, what were you saying?”

  “I was asking you to think about what I told you. If you need me,” he said, handing me his card, “you can reach me at this number.”

  That day I worked without putting my mind to it. After so long I had a real opportunity to discover the other murderer’s identity. The real murderer, as Beggiato had always maintained. The snake who killed my wife and son. The ghost who haunted my thoughts for fifteen years. Carrying out my plan seemed like a snap, but in reality it wasn’t.

  Just before I closed up the shop, I felt ready to make the first move. When I punched in Don Silvio’s number, my hands were shaking a bit. He was surprised and pleased to hear from me. We set up an appointment for the following morning, same time.

  That night I slept little and badly. I dreamed of Enrico. He must’ve been two years old. I held him in my arms and sang him a little song that told the story of Croco and Diles.

  “I don’t know if that will be possible,” said the priest, disappointed. Maybe he was expecting an unconditional forgiveness.

  “But I have to meet him. It’s essential for me to determine whether he’s really changed or stayed the criminal I saw at the trial.”

  “You’re right, and I’m very pleased you want to take such an
important step. But to obtain an interview authorization is necessary, and it remains to be seen whether Beggiato is willing to meet you.”

  “If he’s changed, he’ll undoubtedly want to show it.”

  “I’ll do everything I possibly can to help you. First of all, I’ll find out about the procedure and let you know.”

  When he was about to shake my hand, he changed his mind and gave me a hug. I watched him as he walked away. “Get busy, priest,” I thought. “Do something useful for the victims instead of helping the murderers.”

  After dinner, I switched off the TV and grabbed a pen and paper.

  Dear Signor De Bastiani,

  Please forgive the delay in my reply. I think you can comprehend the doubts that have made me hesitate before such an important decision. I have not received any news of your client for many years, and his request for forgiveness has taken me by surprise. The illness, however serious, cannot be sufficient to incline me towards forgiveness. What particularly interests me is to know whether Raffaello Beggiato, after fifteen years in prison, has in fact repented of his crime. As I have already indicated to Don Silvio, the prison chaplain, I wish to have a meeting with your client before making a final decision. I want to look him in the eyes when he asks my forgiveness for killing my son Enrico and my wife Clara.

  Yours sincerely,

  Silvano Contin

  Now the lawyer got busy too. A week later I went to talk to the surveillance judge. He was a big fat man with a grey moustache and an abrupt manner.

  “I was counting on your refusal to give a negative opinion about the petition,” he began after having me take a seat. “Beggiato is going to get out anyway, on a suspended sentence for illness; I’m expecting his lawyer to submit the documents any day now. But a pardon really seems to me too much for the crime he committed.”

  “Perhaps he has truly repented.”

  The judge stared at me for a moment, then opened a voluminous file. “Beggiato is a model prisoner, never a bad report from prison officials. But in all these years he’s never done anything to show he’s developed a critical attitude towards his past.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “His behavior is unexceptionable purely in formal terms. He has never cooperated with the guards or with prison officials. In short, he’s never provided information. He’s always been in solidarity with his fellow prisoners, in the same way that he protected his accomplice.”

  “So he hasn’t changed at all.”

  “Precisely. On several occasions he witnessed crimes committed by other inmates, but he was hostile to the investigations. For this reason, I am opposed to granting a pardon. But if you forgive him, the minister and the president will in all probability sign the judgment.”

  “I understand your point of view. But I absolutely need to know whether he is remorseful for having killed my wife and son.”

  “Beggiato will play the part to perfection. He’ll succeed in convincing you. I’m quite familiar with inmates. To get out they’d do anything whatsoever. It’s extremely easy for them to lie. They’re always lying. To the guards, to teachers, to social workers—”

  “But he’s sick. He doesn’t have long to live.”

  “And for this reason his sentence will be suspended. But if you’re determined to meet him, I can only sign the authorization.”

  “I much appreciate it.”

  The judge took a form, filled it out rapidly, and signed it. “Don’t deceive yourself, Signor Contin. Get ready to be disappointed.”

  I’d never been in a prison. I was hit by the smell of sweat, food, and smoke, hardly masked by ammonia, and the constant clang of gates brutally opening and closing. The warders looked at me with a certain hostility. They didn’t approve of my decision to meet the murderer. They gave me a plastic tray where I put all the objects I had in my pockets.

  “The cell phone too,” said a brigadier.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You did right to leave it in the car.”

  Fact is, I didn’t own one. I had no use for it. Even the phone in the house stayed silent for months. But I didn’t waste time explaining to him. I passed through a couple gates that broke up a long corridor. Then they led me into the visiting room. It was divided in half by a wall about a meter long, topped by a sheet of glass about a meter high. On either side stood benches.

  I had to wait about twenty minutes. Then the door opened, and Raffaello Beggiato appeared. He’d aged since the last time I saw him at the trial. He was pale, and his face was lined with deep wrinkles. His lower lip was trembling. He still didn’t have the courage to look me in the face. I was worked up too, my hands were shaking, and I had to press them down hard on my knees. I had him right there in front of me, within reach. He was afraid. He ran a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. I decided to make the most of the moment and prolonged the silence. A guard cleared his throat, maybe to remind me the visit lasted half an hour. I noticed Beggiato was wearing a track suit with a hood.

  “My son wore a suit just like that when you killed him,” I whispered. I didn’t want the guards to listen to what I had to tell him.

  Beggiato covered his face with his hands. “Please, Signor Contin, it’s already so difficult.”

  He struggled to light a cigarette, but finally got it going. He was trying to find the strength to ask me to forgive him. I didn’t do a thing to help him.

  “Like I wrote you in the letter, I’m sick, and I’m sorry for what I done. Even if it wasn’t me who shot your wife and kid, I feel responsible.”

  “You want my forgiveness?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then tell me the name of your accomplice.”

  For the first time, Beggiato looked me in the eye. “You can’t ask me that.”

  “Why not? You want me to help you get out of jail after you killed my wife and son and I can’t ask you nothing in return?”

  The murderer burst into tears. “It’s been fifteen years, I got cancer, take some pity on me, I didn’t shoot them.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about your cancer. I want that name.”

  “I can’t give it to you.”

  “Then you’ll die in prison.”

  He ran a hand over his eyes. “I don’t think we got anything more to talk about.”

  “Listen carefully. I know you’ll try to get out on a suspended sentence for illness, but I’ll kick up such a racket the newspapers’ll have a field day and the judge’ll be pressured to think twice about granting the petition.”

  Beggiato stood up. “You’re asking too much from me.”

  “Then die in prison, you bastard.”

  RAFFAELLO

  Contin hates me. Wants to fuck me over. Shit, I need something to calm down. That new guy in 14 says he’s got some Roipnol to sell. But nobody knows him from Adam. He’s Italian but that means diddly. He might be a motherfucking informer and then I’d be in deep shit. You’re already in deep shit, dickhead. If Contin gets the papers against me, the minister’ll bury me in the clinic. What the fuck can I do? Contin’s a son of a bitch but he’s right. What if I asked the guy in 27 for a little more weed? He’s pricey and doesn’t give credit. My stash of cigarettes is gone and the Serb still hasn’t paid off the bet. Yeah, Contin’s right. I killed his wife and kid and I’m asking for a signature without giving anything in return. But I can’t give him that name. First of all, I’d become a stoolie. I could’ve done that fifteen years ago. Then my entire plan to slip away to Brazil would go up in smoke. I got a right to a little peace. Fuck, I’m dying, it’s just a question of time, and these past fifteen years I’ve suffered like a dog. The doc told me to hurry up and decide about the chemotherapy. The sooner I begin, the longer I can keep the beast at bay. “Aren’t you interested in knowing where you have the cancer?” he asked me. “No,” I answered. What the fuck do I care where it is. It’s there; that’s all I need to know. And it eats away inside you like a rat stuffed up your asshole. If I knew whe
re it was, I’d always be feeling that part, I might even start poking around, and that could make it eat into me faster. Then the doc told me I was wrong to keep acting like I was healthy, it’s irresponsible. In a different situation I would’ve socked him in the jaw twice. Could anybody say something more fucking stupid? Doesn’t he know what it means to be sick in prison? The other inmates sniff around you like vultures. Nobody pities nobody here. To top it off, he warned me the pain’d be terrible at the end. Bastard! If I’d been a paying customer, he would’ve kept his mouth shut. What if I got cancer of the dick? What a hose job! I couldn’t have no fun before I kicked. Maybe I got it in the dick for all the times I jerked off. I could ask the Calabresi for a little scag but then I’d have to ask the Bergamosks to borrow their works. Great kids but what do I know whether they’ve got some fucking disease that’d kill me before my time? They could say the same thing about me, of course. I got cancer and they might not want to lend me their needle. I think I got to pass on shooting up but there’s nothing in the cell ’cept cigarettes and coffee. There’s no way out; I got to take the risk: I won’t give up that name. I’ll send a telegram to the lawyer and gamble on the suspended sentence. If it goes south, amen, I’ll end up at the clinic. Fuck, could the cops stick me with the damages on the day of the robbery? A bullet is faster than jail and cancer. Much faster. Yeah, I got to bet everything. Maybe Contin won’t raise a fuss with the papers. No, he’ll do it and fuck me if he does. He’s gone off the deep end. But he’s right. I’d do the same. I got him wrong; I didn’t think a “normal” guy would take it so far. I’ll make myself a coffee, just for something to do. When the pain starts I got to be on the outside. With the money I can score some stuff that’ll keep the beast at bay. At the clinic they dole out the painkillers with an eyedropper. You’re a shitty lifer and nobody gives a fuck if you’re suffering. Yeah, I’ll send the lawyer a telegram right away and tell mamma to get in touch with my partner. So he can get the money and passport ready. I don’t want to get out and then find he’s invested everything so he can’t hand over my euros. Mamma won’t be happy but there’s nobody else I can trust with this stuff. In all these years I got in touch with him three times. About three escapes that fizzled out. Nobody breaks out of jail these days. Nobody knows how to keep their mouth shut. I’ve done my part; now it’s up to him. I got to remember to order coffee and sugar. Yeah, I’ll do it like this: I’ll send mamma and he’ll organize my getaway. Provided Contin don’t fuck me. He sure has changed. Him too. He’s got a face like a corpse, it scares me, and his skin’s as white as milk. Looks like he’s been in jail. Don’t he ever go to the beach? Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s got cancer too. I got to hurry up, in a little while they’ll come by to pick up the requests, and I need to get the warden’s authorization to send a telegram.