When he reaches the door Calabrese has already taken the chain off and is ready to let him in. Inside everything is the same, but he seems different. Cataldo realizes this by the way he wheels the chair, more slowly now, almost as though it is a struggle for him. And then his face, which Cataldo can scrutinize well now as he sits opposite in an armchair. Neither of them speaks.
Calabrese seems overcome by a great tiredness, but he is trying to resist it. He has dark circles round his eyes and his skin is so pale that his lips, by contrast, seem to be painted on. And this silence – while there is nothing embarrassing or hostile in it – must be making him feel uneasy, because it facilitates the examination that Cataldo carries out and of which the other man is conscious; for this reason, even if it is an effort, Calabrese himself breaks it: ‘So you’ve come back, Inspector. To keep me company? Or are you still not convinced about my condition?’ But he coughs now, several times, and has to stop talking, his face red. And when he recovers he says, ‘Can you imagine me on this chair, wheeling myself around Guiglia to shoot my friends?’
‘I’ve never imagined that. And if I’ve given you that impression, let me apologise immediately.’
It is a truce of sorts, also because Cataldo smiles. And Calabrese smiles too, but rather than a smile his face seems to open up for a moment into a confused expression of bitterness, of irony for Cataldo and of tenderness, or indulgence for himself.
‘So why have you come?’
‘Is it such an intrusion?’
‘No. I’m just curious.’
‘I’m curious too. That’s it… curiosity is the right word. I’m here out of curiosity.’
‘And what interests you so much, about me?’ He runs his hand across his forehead, a nervous gesture, for the third time. Perhaps the truce is already over.
‘Your money. Or rather… let’s say, when your wealth was born.’
‘Well… when I made the money, you mean?’
‘That’s it.’
‘And why?’
‘Because… and don’t be offended… whoever stole seven hundred million lire eighteen years ago from a Mercedes, the same night as Ramondini’s party… whoever that was obviously became very rich…’
‘Or must have multiplied his own money since then, if he already had money to start with. I appreciate frankness, Inspector. Your reckoning has brought you to me.’ Perhaps he would like to joke about it, but irony does not come to his aid. ‘Well… I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my wealth began to grow in the 1980s, more or less. Of course, I’d have to look in my files…’
How nice it would be, Cataldo thinks in the meantime, to be able to close his eyes against the white light that filters through the half-closed windows, while the curtains project their undulating shadows on the ceiling…
‘I’m serious, you know.’
‘I’m serious too! I may well have started saving money in the year that guy died, or was killed… who knows. And so? Is that a crime? It’s true that I made money back then, but it was all invested very well in the stock market and even in bonds. I challenge anyone to show otherwise!’
‘I hope you’re able to prove all this…’
‘Of course I can! And listen, I’ve had enough! I see no reason to continue a conversation that’s threatening to go downhill.’
He is upset, he has raised his voice. Cataldo decides to calm things.
‘Don’t be offended, I said. After all, you have to admit that at least that I’ve been frank with you.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So… remember we’ve just had a chat. A chat, you understand. I was just testing the waters.’ He gets up calmly. ‘I apologise for the visit. And don’t worry, I know the way…’
He starts walking towards the entrance when Calabrese says, ‘Inspector…’
Cataldo stops and smiles.
‘Tell me at least whether you believe me or not.’
‘Perhaps I do… but again, there’s no need to show me out, please.’ And then, when he is already out of sight he adds, ‘Ah… I was forgetting. There was a letter for you hanging out of your box. I’ll leave it here, near the telephone…’
From the other room comes Calabrese’s thank you. Then the noise of the door closing. Then silence. A few seconds later comes the muffled squeak of the wheelchair. Then the sound of Calabrese lifting himself up out of the chair, standing and taking hold of the letter. His eyes are full of a satisfied, mischievous light.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Coup de théâtre
‘I really don’t think it’ll be of much interest to you.’
Cataldo’s voice comes from behind and the mirror in the entrance transmits his smile as the light in Calabrese’s eyes mutates into an expression of fear.
‘It’s my car insurance… it’s about to expire. Been in my pocket since I picked it up this morning.’ And he takes the letter delicately from Calabrese’s hand and puts it away. ‘Yup… I still haven’t forked out for the premium…’
The invalid cannot speak – his throat is too tight. It is an absurd image, but now for Cataldo Calabrese looks like an automaton whose energy is completely exhausted. There is a sort of shame that paralyzes every reaction. Only after a minute or two, with an enormous effort, does he manage to say something.
‘How… ?’
‘The cleaning lady.’
‘But I haven’t got one.’
‘Exactly.’
He makes a gesture inviting him to follow into the living room. Calabrese does so tamely, offering no resistance as he walks. And before he sits in an armchair, Cataldo takes a look at the wheelchair against one of the walls in the entrance. No need for that now.
‘It was the cleaning lady that made me suspicious right from the first time I came. How could an invalid, a rich one at that, live alone without a woman, a nurse… someone? And this place is so tidy.’
He looks at Calabrese who has also taken a seat now and has started passing his hand across his forehead again.
‘Everything spick and span… and that’s how I guessed you were hiding something from me…’
He stops, offering the other man the chance to speak, but Calabrese continues staring at the floor between his shoes – silent. And Cataldo goes on: ‘So I shut the door, but I didn’t leave. Yup. You ought to be more careful – listen out for the footsteps as someone walks away.’
Silence, again. Cataldo looks around, feeling thirst building but there is nothing available to cure his dry throat. Pity.
‘That’s curiosity for you. But I’m not ashamed of it… curiosity isn’t a defect. Quite the contrary, don’t you think? When someone’s left with no curiosity, he’s stopped living.’
Impressions are strange things sometimes. Just a few minutes have gone by, but it seems to him that the glare has reduced and the half-light has increased. And this reminds him it is time to bring things to a conclusion.
‘So… isn’t it best if you tell me everything now?’
‘Yes.’
He leans forward now, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. And when he starts speaking, it is almost a whisper. But for Cataldo this does not matter, it is enough that he talks and that he does not stop.
‘I never did have polio. I let people believe that when I came to Modena… no one knew me anyway. The truth is different.’
‘And?’
‘I was knocked down in Switzerland when I was twelve. Very ordinary, isn’t it? I was crossing the road at a zebra crossing… they certified me as a permanent invalid and the insurance company gave my parents an enormous sum in compensation. Then my mother died, my father had to move because of his job, but he’d invested the money well and now I have a guaranteed income. That’s it.’
‘That’s not it. What about your status as an invalid?’
‘Well you’ve seen what happened.’
‘When?’
‘Over time. After we came back to Italy.’ Involuntarily he stretches his legs and lifts his elbows fr
om his knees. ‘I had a series of rehabilitation courses in a clinic I’d rather not name. Near Modena.’
‘A lengthy business, I imagine.’
‘Lengthy and difficult. Physiotherapy, hydrotherapy, orthopaedic devices… it took ages and a lot of determination. And all this without telling anyone.’ He suddenly smiles. ‘Can you believe that my classmates never suspected a thing? For two afternoons every week I simply wasn’t there and twice a month I missed school in the morning, always on the same day of the week…’
‘Until you got better.’
‘Not really. The problem hasn’t gone completely. It’s just less serious.’
‘Much less serious from what I’ve seen.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you continued to let everyone believe…’
‘I know, I know…’ He has lifted his eyes without moving his body and the line of his gaze is strangely oblique. ‘I know I made a mistake… you can’t imagine how often I have thought that. At home, alone, always… but I couldn’t, you must understand that I couldn’t.’ He starts leaning forward again, his voice becomes a whisper, ‘Once I’d started, I had to carry on.’
‘Out of pride as well?’
‘That too.’
‘Because it was better, much better that everyone believed your wealth to have come from your intelligence. As an investor, an accountant… that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So that you’d be noticed… perhaps even admired by people who might otherwise reject you. Physically, I mean…’
‘Yes,’ he repeats.
‘Katia most of all?’
This time he does not reply.
‘But lying is tiring and it leads to silence, to loneliness,’ Cataldo says now, almost to himself. And Calabrese nods as Cataldo continues, ‘And your appearance can never save you. It’s just a screen. An illusion too.’
‘But I haven’t killed anyone… that’s the truth! This is where my money came from… it wasn’t stolen!’ And he is almost shouting now as he repeats, ‘I haven’t killed anyone. I’m not capable of stealing, of killing. Not on principle but out of sheer cowardice.’ And his last words are almost murmured. For a moment Cataldo feels he believes him, understands him. A sick meekness, indeed a sort of cowardice, born of the desire to avoid suffering, to hide himself; and over the years this had become passive contemplation of others, of their lives. Perhaps even envy on occasions. But not hatred, not a vendetta. Perhaps because those things require courage. But is all this the truth?
‘So you didn’t kill him?’
‘No, no.’
‘But who are we talking about?’
‘About Zoboli.’
‘Who mentioned Zoboli?’ Cataldo studies him carefully. ‘I’m not talking about Zoboli. I’m talking about Zanetti.’
Calabrese’s eyes widen suddenly. As though Cataldo had uttered some magic word.
‘Why Zanetti?’
‘Because he was killed too, this afternoon. And you’re not the cripple you claimed to be.’
Words that fall like stones in the silence. A silence that seems infinite and that Cataldo does nothing to break until the moment comes for the question, the question he has come here to ask.
‘Where were you today, between one and three o’clock?’
He looks amazed, almost as he fails to understand, then he looks at the white wall behind Cataldo.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have to think about the answer?’
‘No… I’m sorry. I was here… right here, reading.’
‘Alone, I imagine.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a shame though.’
‘Why?’
‘Because an alibi would have been useful for you.’
‘An alibi?’
‘Of course. Someone who’d seen you.’
‘Are you serious? But what motive would I have for shooting him?’
He is calmer now, his reactions show this. But he has made a mistake.
‘And how do you know he was shot?’
‘You’re right, I don’t know…’ His face is now bright red. ‘I was still thinking about Zoboli…’
‘Alright. You were saying…’
‘I said, what motive…’
‘Well you had motives… you certainly did.’
‘And they are?’
‘The first one is that Zanetti was about to screw you by leaving Tecnodomus suddenly. You would have been left with all the company’s debts, to be paid with your own money.’
‘That’s your version…’
‘No, it’s what Katia told me just now. And she also told me she never mentioned it to you.’
‘That’s true…’
‘Hold on. I only have Katia’s word for this. But even without doubting her, you’re an intelligent man, you might easily have guessed what your partner was about to do…’
‘I’m sorry, but don’t you realize this is a contradiction? Let’s say, let’s just say, that I knew… well, even killing Zanetti wouldn’t have solved anything for me. I’m still the only partner left, the only one accountable…’
‘Not really. In any case, you would have had your revenge. Then, with Zanetti out of the way, you would have become the sole owner of Tecnodomus. Perhaps you could have avoided the collapse of the company and improved the situation over time…’
With an ironic smirk Calabrese asks, ‘And how would I have done that exactly?’
‘New partners, within six months. Difficult, I know, but not impossible. Or perhaps you could have obtained a legal extension of the debts.’ Cataldo waves away his objections with a gesture and signals that he has more to say. ‘Everyone knows you’re not Zanetti. You’re independently wealthy and you have quite a different reputation to his – you’re reliable. You’d be able to cover the initial debts by taking control of the company as sole proprietor. I’m no expert, but I’d say it would be worthwhile.’
‘But you’re forgetting about Katia.’
‘As heir? No, I haven’t forgotten her. Not at all. But Katia wouldn’t be a problem – she knows nothing about business, she’d let you manage her interests as well. And now she’s a widow, with a young child. And it makes sense that you’d want to be close to a woman who needs you, and not just because of the business. Yes, you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that.’ He roots through his pocket and pulls out a cigarette lighter. ‘The problem, though, is something else.’
‘And that is?’
‘You simply can’t allow anyone to discover that your incapacity isn’t what it once was. Now more than ever. Life’s crazy, isn’t it? Now that Zanetti is dead…’ There is some irony in Cataldo’s voice. ‘Otherwise the company that paid the compensation might ask for it back, or some of it at least. Am I right?’
‘I think so.’
‘I don’t think so, I know so. And unfortunately this might well be another motive for killing Zanetti.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘Calm down, I only said it might well be a motive. Because it’s just an idea, for the moment, based on the supposition that he may have known about your fake disability. Looked at that way, the motive clearly surfaces. He could have blackmailed you, for example…’ and Calabrese smiles without interrupting, ‘… demanding you became a partner in the company. Or perhaps later, in some other form. Perhaps the payment of small sums of money every now and then… I don’t know, maybe as loans or as payments from the company. I’m no expert, as I said, but I’m sure there’s no shortage of ways of doing these things. And it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time Zanetti had played dirty tricks.’
‘He was a nasty piece of work, but he wasn’t psychic.’
‘Which means…?’
‘Which means that you’re only guessing. How did Zanetti know something that only you know and that you’ve only just learned?’
‘Perhaps from Katia…’
‘And how?’
/> ‘Let’s say that you, once, misinterpreting an affectionate gesture on her part, tried to embrace her…’
He turns pale, starts shaking. Perhaps in shame, perhaps in scorn, and just like before, his voice rises, becoming even sharper this time: ‘These are just imaginings, suppositions…’
‘I told you that.’
‘You have no proof at all!’
Cataldo gets up slowly, fatigue in his legs. ‘You think if I had any proof I’d still be sitting here talking?’
Calabrese watches as he leaves, the expression on his face a mixture of a plea and sheer confusion. He does not have the courage to ask Cataldo if he will tell anyone about what he has seen.
The sun has finally set. And Cataldo thinks now, as he drives. Calabrese let him in, accepted his visit, answered the questions. And he did not ask for a lawyer, not even at the most embarrassing or tense moments… he did not even consider a lawyer, and that is a fact. And now he wonders if Calabrese had decided that to do so, suddenly, would have appeared suspicious or whether he felt himself capable of facing up to his problems on his own, or if his strength came from his own innocence. Only when Cataldo saw him get up from the wheelchair did he appear to be in difficulty – vulnerable, unmasked. Without his secret, a secret that in the end was nothing more than unhappiness.
There is not much traffic in town. And the shadows are getting longer, stretching out. But there are other shadows that he carries within himself and they are not retreating. He is increasingly convinced, day by day, that the key to this darkness is psychological, something belonging to time gone by. Something that goes through the mind’s consciousness, through one’s character, and through the memories one has of the past. Because sooner or later our memories are the key to revealing things, someone had once said to him. And everyone is accountable for his or her own past. Because we all die being what we are, or what we have been.
Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer Page 15
