Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  And now the anger rises, making him almost nauseous. He turns to look at Nunzio, moves closer and leans over him. From Cataldo’s throat, involuntarily, there comes a furious, agonized sound. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head vigorously, two or three times, not wanting to believe it. All the cruelty, the injustice, of that death. An old man, with a book in his hand, suddenly appears behind him. ‘What’s happening?’ He moves forward, looks at Cataldo, then at the body on the floor. ‘Oh my God!’ he says in one breath.

  Cataldo takes him by the arm, moves outside and makes a telephone call. The first to arrive is a doctor, the first they could find and he is a tourist, here in Guiglia on holiday. A small, balding man with a nicotine-stained moustache who, clearly uneasy, does what he can around the dead man. Cataldo waits until he is finished and in the meantime the others arrive and then he waits until the body is covered with a rubberized sheet and is carried away by a guy from the mortuary – who knows how and where they managed to get hold of him at this time, at eleven o’clock. Then he decides that is enough.

  Only a couple of hours have gone by when he leaves, and already photographers and journalists from two local television stations have arrived. One guy shouts something in the warm evening and immediately there are three of them running after Cataldo – two women and a man, shoving microphones in his face and shooting questions at him. But he says nothing – not one single idea, not one supposition. Because he knows well that when the media get hold of ideas, they immediately transform them into facts, and he does not want that. Twenty metres back towards the door, two men in shirtsleeves have video cameras on their shoulders, pointed at anyone who leaves the tourist office. Tomorrow morning, or maybe even tonight, the whole town will know.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Certain memories

  He has slept very little, woke up early when it was still dark. A bitter taste in his mouth. He well knows it is partly due to the heat, partly due to Nunzio. And now he is here, thinking – lying on his bed, his eyes gazing at the ceiling as his chest rises and falls. But he cannot do anything, there is nothing more to be done. So he gets up and goes to the window. There is no one out on the street. It is a windless night, and the moonlight bathes the walls, making them look as though they have been freshly plastered.

  Every now and then there is a noise – filtered, muffled. A sort of quiet buzzing. From far off, from who knows where, it rises like an echo, enveloping and containing all sounds.

  He will not get back to sleep, he knows this too. And before long, in the silence of dawn, more tense than the silence of night, he might just want to think about her.

  In fact he does, he thinks of her and of Nunzio, before the alarm rings, with all the unease that memories and tiredness leave in us. Once again, last summer in Acireale. Sitting close to each other on the terrace of the restaurant, looking at the sea. Out over the azure water, under the sun, the boats bob gently and just a bit farther out a motorboat produces some foam in its wake.

  ‘I really have to tell you…’

  He was looking at a rock at the entrance to the small harbour, almost as though it were a new thing; and then the dog-leg jetty in the midst of the houses and the steps down to the moorings, with two or three boats tied up there. And he would have liked other things to look at, to focus his mind on. So as not to look at her, and her strange smile. He had to in the end though, when she put her hand on his. And he had to listen to her, when she said it was the right thing for both of them. And he heard that his own voice was different when he asked:

  ‘Why, Tina?’

  ‘Because I can’t do it. I can’t go with you.’ And after a moment, ‘And have you really thought about it? You’re an only child too. And my parents are older, they wouldn’t understand…’

  ‘Or is it you who doesn’t understand?’ he blurted out. ‘Because you’d have to change town… your habits, your friends? And all of this just to marry a policeman?’

  ‘That’s not it, no… even you know you’re being unfair now.’

  ‘Explain it to me then.’

  ‘It’s pointless. And do you know why? It’s because you don’t want to understand. You have your own logic, your ideas. And when you’ve made up your mind, you have no consideration for others, you just stop thinking about them.’

  In the harbour below the terrace the boats moved gently, tugged by a slight undertow. Things were different now… inside.

  ‘Giovanni,’ for a moment she was serious, then her face softened. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve thought about it and I had to tell you. It’s for the best…’

  With the quiet splashing of the waves against the jetty, with the breath held and then let go again, it was as though time had stopped. Then he had picked up his glass and noticed that his hands were trembling. Ever since he had been promoted and came back to Catania less often, he was afraid of losing Tina, and this was absurd, because really he had never had her. He had not entered her mind, her blood – he was little more than a friend. Someone that could be relinquished. She had just told him that.

  ‘It’s right that you should live your life, that you should be free. You’ve studied hard, you want this… it’s right,’ she says now.

  ‘What’s right?’

  ‘I understand, that’s what I mean. You didn’t have to…’ she stops, now, breathing slowly. ‘Didn’t have to ask me for my opinion when you took the job…’

  ‘So you don’t want to come any more?’

  ‘That’s not it…’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. But this means being disloyal too.’ Her voice cracks, for a moment. ‘Your indifference to my projects, the lack of sharing… Sometimes I felt as though everything was just as it used to be, but now I feel that we’ve changed. Or rather, that only I’m the only one who hasn’t changed…’

  Cataldo has a sense of unease. A sense of pathetic embarrassment. ‘We chose to live separately. And I haven’t forgotten that.’

  ‘That was how it should’ve been. But you can’t, when there’s nothing left. When you don’t speak, don’t listen. You don’t feel the same things anymore.’

  She has raised her voice to emphasize the words, as though making it easier to understand. He swallows, then decides. He has to ask her now, the question he has in his throat: ‘Be honest. Is there someone else?’

  Suddenly she frowns, and for a moment she looks almost ugly.

  ‘How can you think that?’

  ‘I’m thinking about Barone, surprise surprise… that lawyer Barone. He is a lawyer, isn’t he?’

  ‘You have no respect for me…’

  ‘You were seen together. Walking in the Bellini Gardens.’

  ‘So what?’ But she denies everything, red in the face. ‘No… no, there’s no one. Not him, no one else. I swear…’

  ‘Forget it, I’m serious now. I’ve known Barone for a long time. He’s an egotist, he’s in love with himself.’

  She looks at him without seeing him: ‘It’s best if we change the subject. That’s the best thing.’

  ‘He’ll give you a bad time. And I don’t want that to happen.’

  The indignation in her voice now carries irony in it: ‘You think you know him because you did your military service together. But that was twenty years ago. People change over time. You’ve changed. That’s exactly what we were saying… so why can’t he have changed?’

  ‘Because he can’t have. I know him too well.’

  ‘This is just jealousy talking.’

  ‘True.’ His fiery blushing does not stop him. ‘I’m jealous of anyone who looks at you, but that doesn’t stop me judging them accurately.’

  She does not reply immediately. In the warm air a wasp buzzes, astonished by the silence it finds.

  ‘Please think about it,’ he said to her in the end, under his breath. ‘Think about what we’d dreamed of doing.’ There was a strange tranquillity in him, almost hope. Or was it resignation?

  �
��I don’t know. It’s not the right choice.’ And after a moment: ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  He was already expecting her to ask him to take her home. She did not say a word all the way.

  He has changed out of his pyjamas and now he is wandering around the house, not knowing what to do. In the end he looks at his watch and decides. Ten to seven, he knows her well, she is certainly up and dressed already. He lifts the receiver and dials the number:

  ‘Hello, Mamma. How are you?’

  ‘Giovanni!’ And he can see her, mouth open in surprise.

  ‘How are you?’ he has to repeat.

  ‘Me? Fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I told you. What about you… ?’

  ‘You weren’t asleep, were you?’

  ‘No, no, not at all… you did the right thing phoning now. It costs less…’

  ‘Well, how’s it going?’

  ‘Well, I can’t complain. My legs are better and the heat’s not too bad. Yesterday I even managed to go to the cemetery without taking the bus…’

  ‘To see Papà, of course. Every Thursday.’

  ‘I changed the water and left some fresh flowers. Then I came back home with Matilde… you remember her, don’t you. We talked about you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mamma’ And he has a vision of his old nurse – moving slowly, slightly asthmatic, mending other people’s clothes with determination and dedication. ‘But tell me about you. How’s work going?’

  ‘Good. It’s going. No time to get bored.’ His voice becomes brighter as he puts on a mysterious air.

  ‘I’m investigating two deaths up here. Important stuff…’

  ‘Well… be careful, watch your step… sorry for telling you that. I know you’re a grown man, but…’

  ‘But you can never be too careful. I know, you’re always telling me.’ And after a pause: ‘But don’t you worry about me… in fact, when it’s all over, I hope to come down… I can only manage five or six days, but it’d do me good.’

  ‘That would be lovely, yes…’ But she coughs, suddenly, and he knows it is not her throat. ‘There’s someone here who hasn’t forgotten you…’

  ‘Really, Mamma?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

  ‘Someone in particular?’

  She does not reply, just breathes into the receiver.

  ‘Chin up, Mamma. Keeping your chin up helps you feel better.’

  ‘Right, well, this is what I wanted to tell you.’ She hesitates before continuing: ‘I saw Tina, yesterday.’

  ‘Ah… where?’

  ‘In town, in Piazza Dante. In front of the church, San Nicolò.’

  ‘I see. And who was she with?’

  ‘On her own, she was. Why? Who should she have been with?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was just asking… and did you talk?’

  ‘Of course, two or three minutes. She was kind…’

  ‘And what did she have to say?’

  ‘Nothing about you, if you must know. But she wanted to… she wanted to say hello to you.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t born yesterday. I could tell. From her voice, from her face… it was shyness.’

  ‘Tina? Shy?’

  ‘Reserved, then… or embarrassed… that’s what I think. You could see…’

  ‘I understand… forget it. If I come back, I’ll ask her myself…’

  A waste of time, no point persisting with her and her badly hidden enthusiasm. She had grown truly fond of Tina, really wanted them married, but age does not always bring wisdom and Tina was not the right one for him and his Mamma could not see that. No fault of hers mind you. Even he had believed in it, only now did he see the truth. She was beautiful enough and had some good qualities – kind, tender, cheerful. But she would not have been a good wife. So why did he continue to think about her? That song was right – you realize it is all over when you fall into the suffering…

  ‘Are you eating well?’

  ‘Sorry, Mamma?’

  ‘Up there I mean… are you eating well?’

  ‘Ah… yes, fine. Sometimes I have supper in the trattoria.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘On my own, or with Muliere… I told you about him, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Every now and then, though. Because often I eat at home.’

  ‘And you cook?’

  ‘Me, yes. Why?’ and he smiles. ‘I manage, you know? Some spaghetti, some tinned meat, a piece of fruit…’

  ‘Is that what you had yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday?’ and his voice changes as Nunzio comes to his mind. ‘No, not yesterday. I had some sandwiches.’ He cannot tell her about the man who had his head smashed in.

  ‘Come down as soon as you can, then. I’ll make you a caponata, fish carpaccio and those almond biscuits you really like…’

  ‘And no cassata?’

  ‘We’ll buy that from Giuffrida,’ and she laughs.

  ‘Alright then. As soon as I’ve finished this job.’

  He hangs up with the sound of her laughter still in his ears. And he smiles too, but not for long. He has not told her everything about himself, which is normal. His life with its unsatisfied desires, a few murders and a lot of homesickness. No, he has not told her everything. He is well aware of that. Living is difficult, but it is even more difficult to explain it… life.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It always returns

  The house is in the very centre of town, at the crossroads of two lanes so narrow that it is difficult to see the sky when you look up. Cataldo rings the bell at eight o’clock in the morning. Normally he would worry about disturbing people at this time, but not now, not after everything that has happened. As he waits for the intercom to croak into life he feels the heat that is already rising – the summer exploding from the earth, indifferent to the fear, the anxiety of men. Nearby a cat yawns, lying in a slice of sunlight, the only one on the pavement. He hears the dry click of the door being opened, without even a ‘Who’s there?’ The entrance is cold and the stairs are damp, with a vague smell of mould. He reaches the second floor and Ramondini is already there with the door open: his eyes are puffy, almost as though he has not slept. But he does not seem particularly surprised when he focuses his gaze on Cataldo and shakes his hand. Indeed, he says: ‘I knew it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’d come to see me. Not necessarily so soon… but I was expecting it, sooner or later…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was my celebration, wasn’t it? It was a special day for me, not for the others. The others were only guests…’

  Cataldo says nothing, because he already understands.

  ‘So I can guess what you want from me: is there anything I remember… did I make all the invitations and why. Did I keep photos as souvenirs…’

  ‘Quite. Did you keep any?’

  ‘It’s only natural, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Cataldo starts, almost in anger. ‘But why didn’t you tell me immediately?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He spreads his arms, as though astonished. ‘Perhaps because you didn’t ask me…’

  ‘What do you mean! That may well be true, but you all knew… you certainly all knew… that I was looking for those pictures. Any picture at all of that evening… but let’s just forget it,’ and he calms down, almost immediately. ‘Just let me see them.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Ramondini. ‘I’ll go get them.’ But he hesitates, standing there looking at Cataldo. ‘If you really think it’s worthwhile…’

  ‘Yes, I think it is. And I’m not the only one.’ The other man stares at him, his mouth open. And Cataldo adds: ‘There’s been another death. Last night. And the motive was one of those photos.’

  The natural thing for Ramondini to do would be to ask who had been killed. But he does not ask. He simply nods, to say that he understands, and he goes. I wonder if he knew alrea
dy, thinks Cataldo, standing there on his own. Or perhaps he hesitated just to avoid displaying a curiosity that could be taken wrongly, suspiciously. Ramondini returns after two or three minutes with an old-fashioned photo album, spiral bound, a floral pattern on its cover. He opens it at the first page, then steps backwards and remains there standing. Cataldo sits without being invited to do so. ‘Sit down too,’ he says to Ramondini and he starts leafing through.

  The photos are clear, more so than he would have imagined. In one there are Miriam and Giulio Zoboli, the latter with his hand on her shoulder and holding a lit cigarette; alongside are Ramondini and Don Lodi, smiling towards the camera. In front of them is a white tablecloth, some plates, two or three bottles that look like spumante. In another photo Katia stands, not next to Zanetti, but next to Calabrese who is sitting, his hands on the tablecloth, both of them with a strange smile that seems a bit silly. Then there is a group photo of all seven together against a white wall under a clock that gives the time as ten o’clock – a classic souvenir photo taken during the evening. All posing, all smiling with the red-eye effect of the flash…

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That you’ve all come out very well.’

  ‘No, seriously…’

  ‘Well, you’re all different. Much younger.’

  ‘Right.’ He does not pursue the point, just smiles in an almost melancholy way. ‘You’re right. When it’s not death that changes people, it’s life.’

  And those words ring in his mind as he looks down once more to study the pictures. More of the same. The priest toasts Ramondini, face to face, perhaps the last toast of the evening because there is a waiter there to one side, against the same white wall, and he is busy clearing the table. Then the priest again, arm in arm with Ramondini and Zoboli, their heads bowed as though talking intently. That is all there is. There is no point going on because the photos that follow have nothing to do with that evening.

  ‘That’s it,’ says Ramondini, and he opens his arms.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault…’

  And Ramondini says nothing now. It is almost as though he struggles to make conversation, with all his culture and his university job. In the end, after thinking for a while, he asks, ‘Do you want to keep them?’