A Walk in the Dark

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Two

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  REASONABLE DOUBTS

  INVOLUNTARY WITNESS

  Copyright Page

  Gianrico Carofiglio, born in 1961, is an anti-Mafia judge in the southern Italian city of Bari. He has been responsible for some of the most important indictments in the region involving organized crime, corruption and the traffic in human beings. Bitter Lemon Press introduced him to English-speaking readers with his debut novel, Involuntary Witness.

  Part One

  1

  You never quit smoking.

  You give up for a while. Days, months, years. But you never quit completely. Cigarettes are always there, lying in wait. Sometimes they appear in the middle of a dream, even five or ten years after you’ve “quit”.

  You feel the touch of the paper on your fingers, you hear the soft, dull, reassuring noise it makes when you tap it on your desk, you feel the touch of the ochre filter on your lips, you hear the scrape of the match and you see the yellow flame with its blue base.

  You even feel the kick in your lungs, and you see the smoke spreading over your papers, your books, your cup of coffee.

  And then you wake up. And you think a cigarette, just one cigarette, won’t matter very much. You could light one right now, because you always have that emergency packet in your desk drawer, or somewhere else. And then, of course, you tell yourself it doesn’t work like that, that if you light one you’ll light another, and then another, and so on, and so on. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Whatever happens, it’s at moments like these that you realize the phrase “to quit smoking” is an abstract concept. The reality is quite different.

  And then there are other times, more concrete than dreams. Nightmares, for example.

  It had already been a few months since I’d stopped smoking.

  I was on my way back from the Public Prosecutor’s department, where I had been studying the documents relating to a civil action in which I was involved. And I had a bloody great desire to go into a tobacconist’s, buy a packet of strong, sharp-tasting cigarettes – yellow MSs, maybe – and smoke them till my lungs burst.

  I’d been hired by the parents of a little girl who’d been the victim of a paedophile. He’d waited outside her school, had called to her, and she’d followed him. They’d both gone into the entrance hall of an old apartment block. The woman caretaker had seen them, and had followed them in. The pervert was rubbing the flies of his trousers against the girl’s face, the girl’s eyes were closed and she wasn’t saying anything.

  The caretaker had screamed. The pervert had escaped, raising his collar as he did so. Simple but effective, because the caretaker hadn’t managed to get a good look at his face.

  When the girl had been questioned, with the help of a nice lady psychologist, it had emerged that this hadn’t been the first time. Not even the second or third time.

  The police had done their job well. They’d identified the pervert, and had photographed him secretly. Outside the council office where he worked-amodel employee. The girl had recognized him. She’d pointed at the photograph, her teeth chattering, and then looked away.

  When the police had gone to arrest him, they’d found a collection of photos. Photos straight out of a nightmare.

  The photos I’d seen that morning, in the file.

  I wanted to smash someone’s face. The pervert’s, if I could. Or his lawyer’s. The lawyer had written that “the little girl’s statements are clearly unreliable, the result of morbid fantasies typical of certain individuals at a prepubescent age”. I’d really have liked to smash his face. I’d also have liked to smash the faces of the appeal court judges, who’d put the paedophile under house arrest. According to their ruling, “to avoid the risk of repetition of admittedly serious acts of the kind at issue in this case, restriction of personal freedom in the lesser form of house arrest is sufficient”.

  They were right. Technically, they were right. I knew that perfectly well, I was a lawyer. I myself had upheld the same principle many times. For my own clients. Thieves, con men, armed robbers, fraudulent bankrupts. Even a few drug dealers.

  But not men who raped children.

  Be that as it may, I wanted to smash someone’s face.

  Or smoke.

  Or do anything rather than go back to my office to work.

  2

  But I did go to my office, and worked without stopping, not even to eat, until late afternoon. Then I told Maria Teresa I had something urgent to do, and escaped to a bookshop.

  I stayed there, browsing, until the shop closed. I was the last to leave. The shutter was already half lowered, and the assistants were all lined up at the cash desk, looking at me in an unfriendly way.

  I rang the bell of Margherita’s apartment and waited for her to come and open the door.

  I had keys, but almost never used them. She didn’t use hers to my apartment, two floors below, either.

  We’d each kept our own apartment, with our own books, posters, discs, and so on: a mess, in the case of my little apartment. Hers was a penthouse, big, beautiful and tidy. Not obsessively tidy. Tidy like the home of someone who is in perfect control of the situation. Of the two of us, she was the one in control, but that was fine by me.

  The only change had been in her apartment. We’d bought a king-size bed, the largest we could find, and had put it in her bedroom. I’d taken over a corner of the wardrobe for myself and had put in a few of my things. One shelf in the bathroom was also mine. And that was it.

  I often slept at her place. But not always. Sometimes I felt like watching TV until late – though less and less – and sometimes I wanted to read until late. Sometimes she was the one who wanted to sleep alone, without anyone around. Sometimes one of us went out with friends. Sometimes she left for work and I stayed at home. I never went into her apartment when she was out. I missed her even when she’d only been gone a few hours.

  I rang again just as the door opened.

  “Nervous?”

  “Deaf?”

  “If you want to fast, you just have to say so. No point in beating about the bush.”

  I didn’t want to fast. From inside the apartment came a nice smell of freshly cooked food. I raised my hands to my chest, palms turned outwards as a sign of surrender, and squeezed past her to get inside.

  “Did I tell you you could come in?”

  “I bought you a book.”

  She looked at my empty hands, and I took the bookshop bag from the pocket of my winter jacket. Then she closed the door.

  “What is it?”

  “Constantin Cavafy. A Greek poet. Listen to this. It’s called ‘Ithaca’.”

  I opened the white book, sat down on the sofa, and read:

  Hope
that the way is long,

  That the summer mornings are many,

  When you enter at last, with such joy,

  Ports you are seeing for the first time:

  May you stop at Phoenician markets

  And purchase fine goods,

  Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

  And sensual perfumes of every kind,

  As many sensual perfumes as you can,

  And may you visit many Egyptian cities

  To learn and learn from their scholars

  Always keep Ithaca in your mind

  To arrive there is your destiny.

  But do not hurry the journey in any way.

  Better that it should last for years . . .

  Margherita took the book out of my hands. Keeping the place with her finger, she looked at the cover – there was no illustration on it, just a poem – passed her finger over the smooth white paper, and read the back page. Then she turned back to the poem I’d been reading and I saw she was moving her lips, silently.

  When she’d finished, she looked at me and gave me a quick kiss.

  “OK. You can stay and eat. Wash your hands, put a CD on and lay the table. In that order.”

  I washed my hands. I put on Tracy Chapman. I laid the table and poured myself a glass of wine. I still wanted a cigarette but, at least for today, the worst was over.

  3

  After dinner, we both felt like going out. We decided to go to a venue that had opened a few months before. A refurbished former factory, where you could eat, drink, read a book or a newspaper, or play a game. Best of all, there was a tiny cinema where they showed old films, one after the other, from midnight till dawn.

  You could go there at any hour of the night and you’d always find customers. To me, it was like a kind of outpost where you could escape the normal rhythms of everyday life. Day/work/going out/people. Night/ home/rest/solitude.

  The cinema in particular was fantastic. My ideal kind of cinema.

  There were about fifty seats, you were allowed to talk, you could move around, you could drink. Sometimes, between one film and the next, they served spaghetti, or, just before dawn, caffè latte in big cups without handles, and Nutella croissants.

  I didn’t have to be in court the next morning, which meant I could take things a bit easier. Margherita worked the hours she chose. So we got dressed and went out, both in a good mood.

  The place was called Magazzini d’Oltremare. We got there just after eleven, and as usual there were people there, even though it was the middle of the week. Many of those sitting at the tables I knew by sight. Pretty much the kind of people you see in particular venues, at particular concerts or parties. Pretty much like me.

  I tried to maintain a stance of ironic detachment from the people who went to these places – more or less on the left, more or less intellectual, more or less comfortably off, more or less over thirty and under fifty (actually, there were also a few over fifty) – but I continued to go there myself. Just like everyone else.

  That night the first film on the programme was House of Games. One of my ten favourite films. A fantastic story, dark and haunting, about psychiatrists and con men.

  There was still at least three quarters of an hour to go before the film started. Margherita saw two women friends of hers at a table, she went up to them and said hello, and they asked us to sit down. Margherita’s friends were a couple and were both called Giovanna. They even looked alike. They both dressed in a masculine way, and both moved in a masculine way. It made me wonder who took which role – if indeed there were roles – in the couple. They attended the same martial arts gym as Margherita.

  “Are you staying for the film?” Margherita asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Giovanna said. “Giovanna has to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Yes, we’re just going to finish this rum and go,” Giovanna added.

  They were ignoring me a bit. I mean they’d both turned to Margherita, were talking just to her, and I could have sworn the way they looked at her wasn’t exactly innocent.

  At a certain point, Giovanna asked Margherita if she had decided to enrol with them on the parachute course.

  What parachute course?

  “I’m thinking about it. I’d really like to. It’s something I’ve been wanting to try for years. But I’m not sure I’ve got the time.”

  I managed to cut into the conversation. “Sorry, what’s all this about a parachute course?”

  “Oh, a friend of Giovanna’s teaches parachuting. He keeps asking them to join his course. You can get a licence, you know. They’ve asked me too.”

  They’ve asked you because they want to fuck you. The lesbian licence, that’s what they want you to take. That’s it – the flying lesbian licence.

  I didn’t say that. Obviously. We men of the left don’t say things like that, though we might think them. Besides, the two Giovannas looked as if they could easily have ripped my balls off and played pinball with them for a lot less.

  I kept quiet, while they talked about their parachute course and how great it would be, how it didn’t really take up much time – two hours a week, divided between theory and physical preparation – and the fact that you could get a licence after just three jumps.

  I felt like making a few acid comments, about how a parachute licence was an essential accessory for a young urban professional woman at the start of the new millennium. And how great it was that you could get that licence after just three jumps. Think of it, guys, just three jumps.

  I kept quiet, which was just as well. Because having the courage to throw myself out a plane, into the empty sky, without being afraid, was one of my most secret, most forbidden dreams. A dream I’d never had the courage to reveal to anyone, and which I knew perfectly well I’d never have the courage to realize once I’d passed forty.

  A dream that lay deep in my childhood fears and fantasies and was still there to remind me that time was passing. And that there were many other things – large and small – that I’d have liked to do and had never found the courage to do. That I would never find the courage to do.

  They managed to convince her that she could find the time to do the course. They agreed to meet two days later at the premises of the parachute club, where they would all enrol together, with a discount, thanks to the friend of the two Giovannas.

  “I’m going to see the film,” I said. “It’s starting in a few minutes. But don’t worry, you can stay and talk.” My tone was dignified.

  “No, no. I’m coming too. They’re leaving.”

  The two Giovannas nodded. One of them knocked back what was left in her glass, like a real tough guy. They said goodbye to us – well, to Margherita, really – and left.

  When we entered the little screening room, the lights were already out and the film was starting. Before abandoning myself to David Mamet’s dark, surreal atmosphere, I thought, just for a second, how much I’d like to throw myself into the empty sky, from a plane or somewhere else very high up.

  Into the empty sky. Without being afraid.

  4

  “Do you want to know where I got the money, Avvocato?”

  I didn’t want to know where Signor Filippo Abbrescia, known as Pupuccio il Nero, had got the money. He was an old client of mine, and his trade was defrauding insurance companies – although whenever he was questioned by the judges he gave his occupation as bricklayer.

  The following day, his case – he was accused of criminal conspiracy and fraud – was due to be heard in the court of appeal. He’d come to pay, and I had no desire to know where he’d got the money he was about to give me. He told me all the same.

  “Avvocato, I hit the jackpot. On the Bari lottery. First time in my life.”

  He had a curious expression on his face, Pupuccio il Nero. I told myself he looked like someone who’d spent all his life making money by stealing and now couldn’t believe he’d actually won something. I told myself that, like so many others, he’d beco
me a thief and a con man because of a lack of opportunity. I told myself that I was losing my grip and becoming an incorrigible bleeding heart.

  So I called Maria Teresa and gave her the money he’d placed on the desk. Then Pupuccio and I talked about what was going to happen the following day.

  We had two alternatives, I told him. One was to plead the appeal. At his first trial, he’d been sentenced to four years – not a lot, I thought, for all the cons he’d pulled – and I could try to get him acquitted, but if they decided to uphold the sentence, he’d go straight back inside. The other alternative was to plea bargain with the assistant public prosecutor. Assistant public prosecutors – and even appeal court judges – usually like plea bargaining. Things go nice and quickly, the hearing is over by mid-morning, and everyone goes happily home, or wherever it is they want to go.

  To tell the truth, even lawyers like plea bargaining in the appeal court. Things go nice and quickly, and everyone goes happily back to their offices, or wherever it is they want to go. But I didn’t say that to Pupuccio.

  “And if we plea bargain, how long will I get, Avvocato?”

  “Well, I think we can try and get it down to two and a half years. It won’t be easy, because the public prosecutor is a tough nut, but we can try.”

  I was lying. I knew the assistant public prosecutor who’d be in court the next day. He’d plea bargain down to two months if it meant he could get away quickly and not have to do a fucking thing. He wasn’t what you’d call a hard worker. But I couldn’t say that to Pupuccio il Nero, or people like him.

  The way it works, in cases like this, is as follows. I say the public prosecutor is a tough nut. I say I could try plea bargaining but it won’t be easy and I can’t guarantee anything. I mention a sentence I think I can get with plea bargaining, a sentence that’s quite a bit higher than the one I’m sure I’ll actually be able to get. Then I plea bargain down to the sentence I’ve been thinking of from the start, confirm my reputation as a reliable lawyer who’s really on the ball, and collect the rest of the fee.