The woman placed a hand on my arm. “At the time I thought it was just that Beggiato should pay with life imprisonment, but over the years I gave it more thought, and I realized that life is an inhuman sentence. Everyone, even the worst criminals, has a right to a second chance—”
“Bullshit,” I interrupted her. “You’re another fanatic. A child of Jesus who’s afraid to take responsibility. Beat it.”
She didn’t. She squeezed my arm tighter. I stared at her, dumbstruck. She was a beautiful woman, green eyes, a well-shaped mouth. “I’m not religious,” she corrected me with firmness. “After my experience in the Court of Assizes, I became a volunteer in an organization that helps inmates. I’ve devoted years to understanding my error.”
“Beggiato’s really pulled one over on you, eh?”
“I’ve never met him. I visit a prison in another city.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A gesture that is responsible. And human.”
“That’s all?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, please.”
“Get out of here,” I blurted. “Both of you. And you, priest, don’t let me see you anymore.”
The woman put a card on the counter. “If you feel the need to speak with me, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I’ve already got the priest’s number. He told me the exact same thing. I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
She gave me a sad smile and left, followed by the chaplain.
The second visit I received the following night. I found Raffaello Beggiato’s mother waiting for me at the door to my building. She was exactly as I remembered her, just older. I was tempted to ask her what she’d done to get hold of my address; my name isn’t listed in the phone book. But it wasn’t hard to guess she must’ve gotten it from the lawyer, De Bastiani.
“Beat it.”
But the woman just leaned up against the lock. “They’ll let him die in prison, now that those bastard journalists have gone and stuck their noses into it.”
I showed her the keys. “Let me go inside.”
“The lawyer says he’ll never manage to get the suspended sentence without a compassionate word from you.”
I was fuming. She was making me lose my patience. “I don’t forgive your son. I’ve already put it in writing. Now let me get by.”
“I’m not talking about forgiving Raffaello. Just tell the newspapers you’re not against the suspended sentence.”
I lost it. I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the door. “You ugly fucking whore, I can’t wait to see your son die. I hope he suffers like a dog.”
Signora Beggiato started to scream, scared shitless. I pushed her aside and opened the door. I sat in the kitchen drinking wine straight from the carton. I remembered how, when Enrico did it with the orange juice, I always told him off. I grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim. My throat was dry from tension. And shame. I put my hands on an old woman. I said terrible things to her. It certainly wasn’t her fault if her son had become a murderer. Besides, she must’ve suffered a lot over the years. She was trying to look after him as only a mother knows how to do. I felt relieved nobody had seen us. The neighbors were complete strangers, and I didn’t want to become the hottest gossip in the building. The wine calmed me down. I switched on the TV and tried to concentrate on the final questions in a quiz show.
I was sure I’d never see Beggiato’s mother again, at least not near my house. But exactly twenty-four hours later I found her planted where I’d left her. She was tense and nervous. With one hand she clutched a pocketbook, with the other the collar of her dress.
“Don’t keep this up,” I said, staying a good distance away from her. I didn’t trust myself.
She burst into tears. “Raffaello told me you want that name,” she moaned between sobs. “I know it.”
I suddenly felt drained. “Then go to the police and get them to arrest the criminal.”
“I’ll tell you. If you get my son out.”
The surprise left me speechless. But the woman was lucid and ready to deal.
“Tell the papers you’re in favor of his release, and I’ll help you find the man you’ve been trying to track down for fifteen years.”
“Did your son send you?”
She pulled a handkerchief out of the pocketbook. “No. And he doesn’t have to know anything. This is between me and you. If Raffaello finds out, he won’t ever look me in the face again. But I have to help him. I’m his mother. I don’t want him to die in prison.”
I looked around. A neighbor stood at her window, following the scene, but at that distance she couldn’t hear our conversation.
“Come on. Let’s take a spin in the car.”
The next morning I took the former juror’s card from my wallet. Her name was Ivana Stella Tessitore.
“Please forgive my behavior.”
“I wasn’t offended, believe me. I completely understand your state of mind.”
Empty words. Politeness devoid of reality. Nobody could know how I felt. Least of all her, who felt pity for murderers. I was ready to hang up, but I’d made a deal with Signora Beggiato.
“I’d like to meet you, tonight if possible,” I said without giving a reason. It wasn’t necessary. I was sure she’d agree without hesitation. In fact, she invited me over to her place. When I got back from work, I showered and put on some cologne. I wasn’t used to going out after dinner. The city seemed hostile and strange to me. On a street I used to drive down almost every night before, I saw only some Eastern European kids selling their bodies. They were blond and thin. They smiled at the cars that passed by.
Signora Tessitore lived in a residential area where I once knew lots of people. Pretty townhouses immersed in greenery. A girl about twenty answered the door. “I’m Vera,” she introduced herself, squeezing my hand. “Come in, mamma’s expecting you.”
Ivana Stella wore a dark blue pullover and a skirt the same color. The simplicity was only apparent. The fabric and cut of the clothes were high quality, and the pearl necklace must’ve come from the best jeweler in town. She had me take a seat on a couch and offered me a premium cognac. Once I would’ve sniffed it and warmed it in my hands, treating it in the appropriate way. This time I just gulped down a good half of it, as I searched for the right words.
She tried to put me at ease by talking about herself. I learned she’d separated a few years ago and Vera was her only child. She was independently wealthy, but she made emphatically clear that she didn’t do volunteer work because she was suffering from the boredom of the idle rich. When I had enough of her chitchat, I came straight out with it: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m in favor of the suspended sentence, and I’d like to find a way to make it known.”
She didn’t say anything for a couple minutes, taking in the news. “May I know why?”
“No. I’d rather not get into it.”
“I understand. Forgive me; perhaps it was a stupid question.”
“The problem is that I really don’t know how to make a move. I need advice. I don’t want this act of benevolence to hurt me.”
Ivana Stella poured herself another finger of cognac. “I hope I’m equal to the task. Why didn’t you turn to Don Silvio or the laywer, De Bastiani?”
“One is a prison chaplain, the other a young lawyer without experience. But you were a juror at the trial, and you know this town well.”
“I think you’ll be forced to deal with the press. A letter or an interview could be useful, but don’t expect to be understood by everyone.”
“This is precisely why I want to take the most prudent course of action. I don’t want to be beseiged by journalists.”
Signora Tessitore once again fell silent, absorbed in thought. Only then did I become aware of the soft music coming from the expensive stereo in the bookcase that lined an entire wall. It sounded beautiful. I didn’t recognize it, but it had the power to touch me. It ended almost immediately, and I was tempted to ask her if she’d let
me hear it again.
“I think the best move might be a letter,” said Ivana Stella, cutting off my train of thought. “Addressed to all three local newspapers to prevent any jealous rivalries over the scoop. In this way, you can avoid direct contact with journalists and clarify your position without any possiblity of misunderstanding.”
“It sounds like a great idea to me. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. If I prepare a draft, would you be willing to look it over?”
“Very willing. Come see me whenever you like.”
At the door she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She barely grazed it with her lips. “I admire you a great deal,” she said in a whisper.
All the way back home I caressed my cheek, trying to reproduce the soft touch of her lips.
I had carefully organized all the words in my mind, and in no time I knocked out a draft of the letter I’d send to the papers. I could’ve done without seeing Ivana Stella again. But I wanted it to get around that my decision had been a hard choice, made after much consideration. Fact is, it gave me pleasure to see that woman. She aroused my curiosity, so much I would’ve liked to peep on her in her house. Maybe it was because when I looked at her I could better imagine how my Clara would’ve been at her age. I’d give a lot of thought to it, trying to imagine the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth in order to drive out the thought of her corpse in the coffin. Eventually I learned about the process of decomposition so I could know the state of her body at every moment. I could never “see” Enrico in the coffin that was sealed in the vault. The only sharp image I retained of him was the one of his corpse at the coroner’s.
“Is he your son?”
“Yes.”
“Sign here, please. I’ll fill out the form for the identification.”
“Grazie.”
The letter was a page full of bullshit. A handful of words in exchange for a name. But Ivana Stella was moved.
“What beautiful words,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her left eye with the tip of her middle finger. The nail was painted an elegant red. I took advantage of the gesture to examine her hands; they looked like a young girl’s. A sign of high-priced creams and no manual labor. I closed my eyes and sniffed her perfume. A classic with staying power. Clara wouldn’t have been so unimaginative. As Ivana Stella continued to read the letter out loud, I stood up to help myself to another drink, and my eyes wandered over her hair and down her back. The elastic from her pantyhose was sticking out from the waist of her skirt.
“It’s perfect,” decided the murderers’ solace. “I can scarcely imagine how difficult it must have been for you to write it.”
I shrugged. “It had to be done.”
I walked to the door, asking myself whether she’d give me another kiss. Instead she took my hand in hers. “I’m really happy to have met you.”
I arranged to meet Beggiato’s mother at the entrance to a tobacconist’s near the train station. A mailbox was nearby. When I turned up, she was already waiting for me. She looked scruffier than usual; her hair was uncombed and dirty. I was holding three envelopes addressed to the local newspapers. They were still unsealed.
“Here, read,” I said in a low voice.
She took one of them and read a few lines to be sure I’d kept my end of the bargain. Then she gave it back to me.
“I’ll tell you the name when you put the envelopes in the box, O.K.?”
“I’ll keep my word.”
Despite everything, she was still hesitating. She was betraying her son. I said nothing. I knew in the end her mother’s love would win out.
“Siviero. Oreste Siviero. The address is in the phone book.”
It wasn’t a particularly unusual name, but hearing it pronounced was like getting an electric shock. The envelopes made a dull thud when they hit the bottom of the box. I started to shake, and the howl filled my chest.
Signora Beggiato was afraid. She began to back away, her eyes fixed on me. Then she turned and ran. I managed to drive the howl back into the dark recesses of my mind. I walked away, muttering that name so many times it finally turned into a kind of hiss. I drove to the police station tormented by a thousand questions. One in particular troubled me: how had he lived for the past fifteen years? Definitely better than me, quiet and happy, enjoying the money from the robbery. I imagined a fat guy with a moustache and a gold tooth that stuck out between his lips when he talked. But maybe he blew it all and now was poor and full of regrets: those people didn’t know how to save and build a future. When the cash ran out, they’d go somewhere and make a withdrawal with a gun and a balaclava. That’s all it takes. If the police turn up, you grab a couple hostages, and if it comes down to killing them, you do it. “Clara, now I’m going to fuck him but good. Let him have fun till Superintendent Valiani drops by. Are you Oreste Siviero? Yeah, why? You have to come down to the station with us. Can I know the reason? Clara and Enrico Contin. The time to pay up has arrived.”
I parked near the bar where the cops from the station hung out. While I was backing in, I saw Valiani exit with some coworkers. The superintendent must’ve said something funny because the others had burst out laughing. Maybe I also made them laugh when I used to come by and ask about the investigation. Maybe they even gave me a nickname. For them, catching criminals is a job. One case after another. Solved, unsolved. After all, they do what they can without allowing themselves the luxury of suffering for the victims. When another cop dies, it’s different. I got wind of this at the funeral for an inspector killed near Grosseto, when they stormed an apartment during a drug deal. A South American trafficker shot him in the face and managed to get away. Wandering through the clusters of people at the service, I heard the other cops swear revenge. Their words were hard and burning like bullets. I never learned how the thing turned out, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they killed the trafficker in a shoot-out or as he tried to break through a road block.
Valiani would ask me how I’d come by the info. I’d never give up Beggiato’s mother. The murderer would find out about it, and he’d hate her. She didn’t deserve it. I’d answer “personal inquiries.” And that was really the truth. After years of searching, the name finally popped up. If I called it quits when the superintendent advised me to, I would’ve never hit on it. Still, I hadn’t been completely straight with Signora Beggiato. I didn’t tell her the accomplice’s arrest might delay her son’s release. There was no evidence of Siviero’s involvement, and the police would have to search for it. In the meantime, they couldn’t run the risk of letting the accomplice walk. Besides, after the arrest there’d be interrogations, testimony from witnesses, documents from judges and lawyers. In Italy, justice never moves fast. Who knows how Raffaello Beggiato would react. Maybe he’d defend his partner and try to exonerate him. But it’d all be useless. The investigation would pin the murders on him.
I thought about all these things and couldn’t decide whether I should get out of the car. Valiani had already been back in the station a few minutes, and I was still sitting there, thinking, remembering, trying to put that name in the proper context as I held tight to the wheel. My knuckles were white with tension. I stayed like this a long time, till I realized I couldn’t go in the station that day. The time to tell the superintendent hadn’t yet arrived.
Siviero Oreste, via San Domenico 26. And just below, Siviero Oreste, Daniela Cleaners, via Cimabue 115.
A working-class neighborhood, partly rebuilt in the 1960s with those big apartment buildings you see in every city. At that hour of the morning, it was filled with people going in and out of shops. There were also lots of students who divided up the cost of the rent. The science faculties were nearby, and this had persuaded many landlords that university students were good business.
The cleaners sat between a pharmacy and an electrician’s workshop. Two windows were papered with colored signs in felt pen, advertising various offers. The writing was clearly a woman’s. I took a peek inside. A woman was standing
behind the counter, waiting on a customer. Behind her I noticed a curtain. Maybe Siviero was in the back room. I started walking, stopping every once in a while to check out the shops. Just beyond was an African hairdresser that shared the space with a grocery store for immigrants. I retraced my steps. The woman was wrapping a pair of trousers. She had to be the Daniela the business was named after. She was tall and thin with a bony face and straight hair, dyed blond, shoulder-length. She was no great shakes and didn’t dress flashy, not at all what you’d expect of a crook’s girl. Ordinary. But at least he had a woman at his side. I wondered if she knew anything. Ever since I’d begun watching her, she hadn’t stopped a second to jaw with the customers. Her smiling face didn’t seem to be hiding any secrets she couldn’t confess. Siviero must’ve been leery about confiding in her; sometimes love ends and turns into hate, and anything can happen. Even words worth a life sentence might escape a mouth. I would’ve never imagined him opening a cleaners. One night on TV I saw a documentary about Belgian mercenaries. As soon as they got home, bunches of them got into the business of washing people’s clothes. A psychologist explained that the need to clean up the blood they spilled drove them to a life among washing machines. It seemed like a load of shit to me. I didn’t think it fit Siviero either.
I went to see the house where the robber lived. The neighborhood wasn’t far away, just on the other side of the railroad tracks. Via San Domenico was a short, narrow street that joined via Santa Rita da Cascia with via San Bernardino. An area of recently built houses, all exactly the same: two floors, an attic, and a garden. I parked in front of number 26. The house was shut up. The lawn was well-manicured; in the back stood a gazebo in the Tyrolean style and a brickwork barbecue. They must’ve used it for summer dinners. Steaks, chicken alla diavola, sausages, chilled wine, two corpses on your conscience, an accomplice up for life. Siviero must’ve thought he was real slick, but the party was about to end. He’d be sporting handcuffs and eating the swill in the slammer. The house was the first thing that contrasted with the image of the unassuming shopkeeper suggested by the laundry. Had to be worth around 250,000 to 300,000 euros. It dawned on me that I wanted to know everything about him. And I wasn’t planning to run to the police. I felt different, more lucid, less weighed down with pain. Even euphoric at times.
Death's Dark Abyss Page 5
