Death's Dark Abyss

by Massimo Carlotto

  Dear Sir, inmate Beggiato Raffaello, cell 5, second block, requests permission to send the following telegram addressed to his lawyer: I am waiting for an urgent interview. Yours respectfully, Raffaello Beggiato.

  How many fucking requests did I make to these bastards in all these years? You want to talk to the priest or the warden or the social worker? Make a request. You want a shampoo that don’t thin out your hair? Make a request. You want panettone for Christmas? Make a request. You want to get butchered by the dentist? Make a request. What a great guy he is. He only does extractions for free, ’cause the ministry reimburses him. If you don’t want to be toothless at forty-five, you got to pay. You want to pay the dentist? Make a request.

  Contin rubbed me the wrong way. I cooked up a whole speech to convince him I’m sorry but he blindsided me. My partner should put up a monument in my honor, no shit. On more than one occasion I was really tempted to sing in order to cut short my jail time. Now more than ever. There was a moment when I felt my legs give and I was about to spill everything to Contin. But then they’d make me testify at the trial. What a fucking disgrace that’d be. If I didn’t kill the woman and kid, I’d be proud of myself. But I feel like shit. Never fessed up to anybody about being the shooter. Only my partner knows the truth. And yet every once in a while, like now, I feel the need to tell somebody about it. Don’t know why. Before I die I’ll call a priest and tell him. Maybe before giving me the last sacrament he’ll absolve me from this sin too. Does hell really exist? You don’t ask these stupid fucking questions your whole life and then, when you know you’ll kick within 730 days, you start covering your ass.

  I got to change the ring on the moka. Another fucking request. And the brigadier responsible for outside purchases is a testicle. Most of the time he gets it wrong. I might get saddled with rings for a six-cup moka. It already happened. He’s got it easy. When he’s on duty, instead of being stuck in the cell block, he tools around the city, buying our stuff, and he still manages to fuck things up. Fuck that asshole pig.

  I thought about death and now I’m scared shitless. I feel it in my stomach. I’m fucking afraid to die. When the time comes, will I be conscious? What’ll I feel? And then what’s going to happen? Will God appear to me, like Don Silvio said, and ask me if I want to live eternally in his presence? Live? What the fuck are you saying, dickhead? What if there’s nothing instead? Just darkness. An endless black darkness.

  Chill out, stop thinking. Light yourself another cigarette. If I wind up at the clinic it’ll be a shitty death. But if I was free I could score some good stuff so I wouldn’t suffer and I’d keep my appointment completely unconscious. Then I’d fuck over the grim reaper. Shit, the money. That makes all the difference. It always did. I want to die in Brazil. Like a signore. In the meantime they might discover a new cure and save me. I’ll get in a few more years. I’m forty-five, fuck. I’m young. A young lifer. A young lifer with a malignant tumor. And Contin’s got the gall to ask me for that name. Up his ass. Up everybody’s ass.

  Dear Sir, inmate Beggiato Raffaello, cell 5, second block, requests permission to purchase one package of three rubber rings for a one-cup moka. Yours respectfully, Raffaello Beggiato.

  I underline “one-cup” so the testicle don’t get it wrong.

  SILVANO

  Superintendent Valiani was surprised to see me. It’d been a while since I showed up at the police station for news about the investigation. He stood up from a desk stacked with files and held out a hand with nicotine-stained fingers.

  “Buongiorno, Signor Contin.” His tone was guarded.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “The investigation’s been closed for a while now.”

  “I know all about it. But Beggiato’s sick with cancer, and he might get a suspension of his sentence.”

  “Might.”

  “I’ve talked to the surveillance judge: the probability is high.”

  “So what?”

  “Once free he might get in touch with his accomplice.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him. The fact that we haven’t managed to capture the accomplice doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten about the matter. In a couple years I retire, and when I leave I’d like to make a big splash.”

  “I can relax, then?”

  “I’ll take care of it personally.”

  When I said goodbye, it struck me a younger, sharper policeman would’ve given me more confidence. The accomplice had come back to prey on my thoughts full-time, but at least now his capture seemed within reach. Provided Beggiato managed to get released and then decided to contact him. The fact that the murderer stuck to the code of silence made me think the other guy was still alive, free, and living in Italy, maybe right in this town. Otherwise Beggiato would’ve felt no qualms about talking. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that once he got on the outside, he’d look for his partner. But this time the police wouldn’t let him get away. My threat to stop Beggiato’s release was just a bluff. Fact is, I couldn’t wait for him to get out so he could lead Valiani’s men to the shooter. He should be more or less Beggiato’s age. He’d die in jail, serving his sentence. Beggiato would precede him. Dead. All of them. The crooks, Clara, Enrico. And sooner or later it’d be my turn.

  Don Silvio waited for me to finish dealing with a customer.

  “What happened?” he asked me, worried.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beggiato’s upset. He didn’t want to tell me how the meeting went.”

  “Maybe because there’s nothing to tell about it.”

  “You won’t forgive him, then?”

  I shrugged and started the machine to file down some heels. The priest gave up after a couple minutes. He said goodbye with a weak wave that signaled defeat.

  That evening I found a summons from the carabineri in my mailbox. I went to the barracks immediately. A brigadier in civilian clothes informed me it had to do with the request for a pardon submitted by Beggiato.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you with something like this,” he said sincerely.

  “Don’t worry. I was expecting it.”

  “What do I write? A favorable or an unfavorable opinion?”

  “Unfavorable.”

  The man who was waiting for me at the exit must’ve been around forty. He said his name was Presotto and he was a journalist. There were three dailies in town. One was center-right, another center-left, and the third was the local supplement of a big national newspaper. Presotto worked for the first.

  “We’ve heard Raffaello Beggiato filed a petition for a pardon,” he said. “I imagine you’re opposed.”

  I glanced at his double chin, his olive complexion, the glasses he wore (he was nearsighted). I didn’t want to talk to him just then, but he obviously meant business, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake him off easily.

  “Yes, I’ve just entered an unfavorable opinion.”

  “Don’t you feel sorry for Beggiato? He’s got cancer and doesn’t have much time left.”

  Journalists are always like this. One question leads to another. I tried to lie without being self-conscious. “From a human point of view, I regret the state of his health, but the crime he committed is too serious to merit clemency.”

  “Is it true that you met with him in prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it you who wanted the meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I was curious. He wrote to me, asking for my forgiveness. He swore that he’d become a different person, that he repented—”

  “But instead?”

  “This wasn’t the impression he gave me.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No, I’m tired, I want to go home.”

  “One last question. Today his lawyer De Bastiani filed a petition for a suspension of sentence due to illness, and in all probability it will succeed in gaining Beggiato’s release. What do you think of the fact that the murderer of
your loved ones will soon be free anyway?”

  “The decision will be made by the Court of Surveillance, which isn’t bound to ask for my opinion.”

  “Then you’re opposed?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I had to make a choice between preventing Beggiato from being released and helping him in an effort to get to his accomplice.

  “Let’s just say the matter doesn’t concern me. Besides, the suspension doesn’t cancel out the sentence. Beggiato will still be a convict sentenced to life.”

  “I’m really surprised,” said Presotto, “and a little disappointed. I was expecting a harsher, more determined reaction. Personally I think this criminal deserves to stay where he is. My newspaper has taken a clear political position. I think you know what I mean. It could have been useful to you.”

  I understood perfectly. I shook his hand in silence and walked quickly away. I didn’t want to say too much to Presotto. I didn’t know how to act; I was afraid of saying things that might hurt my still murky plan. I hoped I hadn’t made any mistakes. Anxiety and unease made me stop in a bar. It’d been a long time since I did that. I ordered a caffè corretto with Vecchia Romagna. The barista was a young foreigner who served the coffee without deeming me worthy of a glance. He kept on talking to the girl behind the cash register. I was grateful for it. I really needed a moment to think.

  I used to be able to deal with people. Now I was always on the defensive. With customers too. If someone wasn’t happy with my work, I couldn’t even justify it and defend myself. I preferred to let them not pay. But this rarely happened. Concentrating on heels, soles, and keys gave me a break from my obsessions. TV had the same effect. Spending hours in front of the screen was essential to wrenching time away from my anguish, although it was a job to find programs that didn’t remind me, even indirectly, of my loved ones’ violent deaths.

  I avoided the news, discussions, crime movies, cop shows. I didn’t even follow football. Two Sundays before the tragedy I went to the stadium with Enrico. He had fun and made me promise to take him more often. My preferred programs were quiz shows and ones with singers, comedians, and dancers. I glanced at the news in the papers every morning, before opening the shop. At that hour of the day I was stronger. The most dangerous time was the evening, when I opened the door and knew I’d find no one waiting for me. Then I’d switch on the TV to break the silence of the solitude that could only unleash memories.

  With these thoughts on my mind I slid the key into the lock. I switched on all the lights and raised the volume on the TV. Instead of taking the frozen penne al salmone from the fridge, I decided to cook. Broth from bullion cubes and pastina. Something hot to get rid of the acid from the caffè corretto. I set the timer for cooking the pasta. Seven minutes. I added butter and parmigiano. As Clara used to do when she made it for Enrico. That night wasn’t going to be so easy.

  Presotto’s article came out two days later. I had to reread it a couple times. The emotion prevented me from concentrating. Near the title was a photo of Clara and Enrico. They were smiling. Beside it was a photo of the murderer. The serious, indecipherable expression of the hardened criminal. Beneath was mine. It’d been taken at the trial. I stared at my bewildered eyes. They still hadn’t gotten used to death’s dark abyss.

  RAFFAELLO BEGGIATO SOON TO BE RELEASED?

  Everyone in town will remember the ruthlessness with which the robber Raffaello Beggiato and his never identified accomplice killed Clara and Enrico Contin fifteen years ago. It was a brutal crime, and Beggiato should have paid for it with life imprisonment. Should have. It seems, however, that the convict will soon regain his freedom because of a malignant tumor recently diagnosed by prison doctors. Technically it is defined as a suspended sentence for illness. It should be applicable only in cases where the discontinuance of imprisonment enables the sick inmate to be cured so as to allow him to serve the rest of his sentence. Beggiato, condemned as well by illness, should not benefit from it. Yet pity often oversteps the limits of the law, and the surveillance judges tend to interpret the articles of the code with incomprehensible benevolence. Obviously, citizen-inmate Beggiato has the right to receive the best course of treatment. But why set him free when he can be treated in prison? The fact that in all probability he will fail to recover from the cancer cannot in any way soften the rigors of the law. Life imprisonment is the most severe sentence provided by our penal system, and in the case of Raffaello Beggiato it is amply merited.

  The murderer’s wish is to meet his Maker as a free man. And in fact his lawyer has filed a petition for a pardon. This, however, will certainly not be granted because of the unfavorable opinion expressed by the plaintiff in the person of Silvano Contin. The father of little Enrico and the husband of Clara, who were basely murdered by Beggiato and his accomplice, Signor Contin recently visited the prison to meet the inmate; he wanted to determine whether Beggiato was truly remorseful, as he had declared in the letter that implored the bereaved man for his forgiveness. Signor Contin made a noble gesture that demonstrates how, notwithstanding the terrible tragedy, he has preserved a profound humanity. But he did not grant his forgiveness. Beggiato did not convince him.

  Why, then, should he be set free? It is evident that, in his condition, the suspended sentence would be equivalent to granting a pardon. No one wishes to torment a sick man, but why is it necessary to forget the gravity of the crimes that put him behind bars? When citizens are taken hostage and killed in cold blood only to enrich oneself, one also needs to have the courage to pay one’s debt to society. Of course, we do not ask Beggiato to demonstrate that he has this courage. But we urgently ask the Court of Surveillance to do so. And we ask the Minister of Justice to continue to demonstrate the resolve that has thus far distinguished his mandate.

  Presotto’s newspaper had begun its campaign. Beggiato didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out. The minister wouldn’t permit it. And so my plan would go up in smoke. I had to resign myself to the fact that Beggiato’s accomplice would continue to get off scot-free.

  The photo they ran with the article didn’t resemble me anymore, and nobody deigned to so much as look at me. That day too I was Signor Heels in a Jiffy.

  I felt strange. More uneasy than usual. The events of those days had provoked feelings that altered the precarious balance governing my life. The howl was more difficult to repress. It ripped open my mind with its obsessive rhythm and plummeted straight to my chest. “Everything’s gone dark, Silvano. I can’t see anymore, I’m scared, help me, it’s so dark.” I wanted to head home and stretch out on the bed, but it would’ve only gotten worse. I tried to concentrate on my work. One nail, one blow of the hammer. Another nail, another blow. Then I turned on the machine. Cut, shine, shine again.

  “Everything’s gone dark, Silvano.”

  “I know, my love. I know.”

  The next day the newspaper published another article along with various opinions from readers. Presotto had succeeded in rekindling the city’s interest in the case. I read a few lines, then threw the paper in the trash can at the supermarket.

  It took two days for me to calm down. In front of the mirror I summoned up the courage to admit I was a wreck, incapable of confronting the changes in a world I’d constructed with so much effort.

  Then I received two visits. All of sudden, everything in my life changed. Once again.

  The first visitor was an elegantly dressed lady, about forty-five. She reminded me of someone, but I recognized her only after Don Silvio had introduced her. She served as a juror in the trial in the Court of Assizes. She was the third from the left. Then too she was a classy broad, the kind you know comes from the right side of town as soon as you see her. She gave me a warm smile, as she had often done during the testimony.

  “Excuse me if I’m disturbing you,” she said with a slight Venetian accent. “But after reading Presotto’s article I felt it was important to tell you how terribly sorry I am for having supported Beggiato’s life senten
ce.”

  I looked at the priest with open hostility. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Listen to her, please.”

  “To what end?” I asked, my blood boiling. “I’ve already given an unfavorable opinion about the petition.”

  “One can always remedy this,” insisted the chaplain.