by Andy Ben
It is a bell over the door that let’s you know when someone enters the place.
I turn around and I see her.
A female silhouette standing out in the sunset light enters the pub.
«Good evening, Madam.»
«Good evening to you» she kindly replies the bartender’s greeting.
I cannot see her face, or clearly perceive her figure, which remain in the sunset dusk. But I notice that she is coming my way.
It’s Laura.
Among all the free spots in the pub the woman sits on the stool next to me.
It’s Laura.
She asks for a fruit juice, then she turns my way.
It’s Laura.
«Good evening, Mr. Politto.»
Now I can clearly see her. It’s not Laura.
«Good evening, inspector.»
«I need to talk to you. In your office, they told me you had already left... I guessed you might be here, and I got that right.»
«Actually, I just got here... I guessed you were looking for me.»
The severe face of Giulia Montorsi, not at all surprised by my words, shows a little smile.
She sips some of her juice, while my whiskey is still untouched in my glass.
«You know why I am here, right?»
«You know the truth. Are you here to arrest me?»
«I have no other option. It’s best if you come with me to the police station and tell me everything from the very beginning.»
«Come with me.»
I lift up from the stool, paying for my drink and hers. Then I nod towards the inspector who follows me without hesitation.
We exit the pub and move towards my car.
A police officer is standing on the sidewalk by a police car with the lights on, parked just a couple of cars after mine.
The officer moves towards us. I turn and Giulia Montorsi waves at him to move back to were he was standing.
I reach the car, get the keys and activate the central locking. I open the door and sit on the driver’s seat. With one hand I open the dashboard,
«For Heaven’s sake, Marco, what are you doing?» shouts the woman standing next to me, outside the car.
From the dashboard, I take a red folder. I turn to the inspector noticing a sign of surprise when she sees the folder, but she quickly calms down.
«You will find most of the answers you are looking for in here.»
I hand the folder to the woman, then I add: «... but I’m not coming with you to the police station. There is one last person that must pay the dues.»
I push her with both my hands away from my car. I push so hard that she falls on the ground. Then I quickly get the engine running, close the door and push on the accelerator pedal.
With a screech, I exit the parking place and quickly drive away from the pub. In the rear-view mirror, I can see the inspector, further and further away, getting back on her feet, reaching the police car and speaking on the microphone.
17
The sunset light is lowering its shadows on the metropolis’ buildings, while I enter the pub that many years ago was the hiding place of the man I am hunting down; that hiding place we all have, where we get confortable and reflect on the important issues in life, looking for answers to unspoken questions, and sometimes finding internal peace that the frantic lifestyle of a city like Milan hardly ever grants.
I open wide the glass door and a bell announces my arrival to the few customers and the bartender, who is standing behind the counter wiping the glasses dry. He raises his stare and smiles at me, while he greets me in.
My man is right there, a few meters away, sitting on a stool and holding a glass in his hands.
He is wearing a suit at the same time elegant and sporty. He has the same charm he had a few years ago, when I met him in similarly sad circumstances.
He turns towards me, but I don’t think he recognizes me. His face turns pale as if he had seen a ghost.
I reach the counter and sit on the stool next to him.
Then he recognizes me, his face relaxes, but his eyes show the same sadness and resignation he had when we first met. His stare takes me back to that first meeting.
We were at the police station and I was attending the interrogations held by Chief Rossi, regarding the bag-snatching suffered a woman, Laura Falchi. Someone had robbed her bag and left her to die on the sidewalk. Her boyfriend, Marco Politto, was sitting in front of the Chief and was answering the usual questions. Even then, he was wearing a suit and had the same sad but charming allure that bewitched me for a long moment. The ivory-white collar of his shirt, perfectly ironed and starched, showed from a modern looking cotton grey jacket. The dark cotton pants where hold in place by an exquisite leather belt, with shiny brass buckle. The socks, matching the jacket, showed just a little from the pants and ended in a designer pair of shoes. He was wearing neither a tie nor cuff links, but one of his ivory-white cuffs could not hide a steel watch, naïf looking with lilies entangled by vines engraved on the strap and a two-faced eagle showing on the dial.
I take a good look at my suspect: today he is not wearing that watch, but for everything else it seems like time stopped that day.
I order a fruit juice, then Marco Politto and I greet one another.
«Good evening, Mr. Politto.»
«Good evening, inspector.»
«I need to talk to you. In your office they told me you had already left... I guessed you might be here, and I got that right.»
«Actually, I just got here... I guessed you were looking for me.»
I sip my juice while Politto keeps playing with his glass, turning it in his hands and with no intention to drink what’s inside.
«You know why I am here, right?»
«You know the truth. Are you here to arrest me?»
«I have no other option. It’s best if you come with me to the police station and tell me everything from the very beginning.»
Suddenly Politto stands up, for a short moment I am baffled, then he looks at me and nods for me to follow him.
Like a rattlesnake hypnotized by its charmer, I move towards the pub’s exit standing right behind him.
Like a perfect gentleman he opens the glass door for me: we exchange positions and we exit the pub.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the office that drove me here, move a few steps towards us and I wave at him indicating with my gesture that I want him to stop, that the situation is under control, yet reality is quite different.
We walk slowly yet without fail to Politto’s car; now he moves in front of me.
He puts one hand in his pocket, and my senses start crying out like the full-throat siren of the police car. But it is just a false alarm: the central closing of the car opens up with a sharp click and the direction lights flash twice.
Politto opens the car door and sits on the driver’s seat, keeping his legs outside the vehicle. Then he stretches towards the opposite side to open the dashboard.
My senses cry out again, louder than before; such a deafening cry that I get out of my bewilderment.
«For Heaven’s sake, Marco, what are you doing?»
My hand is already on gun’s holster, hiding under the blazer. But my senses calm down again when I see a red folder being taken out from the dashboard.
In a second the red folder is in my hands and once again I am bewildered. It looks exactly the same as the one Carlo gave me just a few days ago and whose files seem to nail Politto to his responsibilities.
I stare at the red folder although common sense tells me to calmly go over it once I am at the police station, where I plan to take my man to put him under strict interrogation; yet instinct pushes me towards opening it right there and then. I am not thinking straight or I would arrest and handcuff the suspect right away.
Lost in my thoughts I barely hear him mumble something like: «There is one last person that must pay the dues.» Then without even realizing it, I find myself sitting on the ground looked appalled at P
olitto’s car screeching on the asphalt.
Shaken by what just happened I gather all my forces and run to the police car. I lean inside and snatch the microphone, ordering all patrols in the area to prepare a roadblock near the East Freeway entry at Cologno Monzese. That’s where the suspect’s car is heading to.
The police officer who is driving the car, starts the engine.
I have but the time to get in, door still wide open, that he dashes in pursuit at full speed.
In the heat of the moment I throw the red folder on the back seat; then I check that the roadblock is in place and I ask for backup.
I hardly hold on to the door’s armrest while the car darts through Sesto San Giovanni’s roads. A right turn, a left one: centrifugal force tosses me around following the car’s movement. Blue lights cry out like my senses.
The runaway car, far away at first, is getting closer and closer by now. Once we drive past Cascina Gatti we are almost at the large road that gives access to the highway system.
When we are on the last roundabout I see on my left another police car speeding up and with its sirens on; it follows us in the chase.
Politto is now only thirty meters away and he is driving with no hesitation towards the roadblock that is preventing anyone from accessing the freeway.
I see three or four police cars in the distance, standing transversally across the road and blocking traffic, quite minimal at this time of day, that will stop the man from flying away.
The runaway car does not slow down, as if the driver has decided to run the blockade and keep going disregarding all consequences.
Then, suddenly, when he is but a few meters from impact, the car hits a small bump on the ground and jerks and dangerously veers left.
We got him.
The officer by my side, in a desperate attempt to stop, pushes with all his might on the brakes. I hear the wheels screeching on the asphalt while an invisible force throws my body, free from the safety belts, forward. My survival instinct moves my hands to protect my face, which violently hits against the dashboard.
At the same time, I see Politto’s car still running with no control towards the opposite lane and crashing on a light pole with a deafening thud.
18
The queue is moving slowly now.
I drive past the roundabout that leads to Cascina Gatti and I move towards the entry of the East Freeway, following the slow pace of the unavoidable traffic.
The road which until know had two lanes and was bordered by long lines of horse chestnuts and beech trees, widens giving way to more asphalt and cement.
Dusk is giving way to night.
I see at a distance the blue lights of police cars and ambulances, which finally explain the reason for this endless traffic jam that has blocked me until now.
Traffic stops once more.
I turn the engine off and step-down form the car, to reach the place where the flashing lights originate.
In a few steps, I face the scene of a terrible accident. A car, that looks just like mine, veered and hit hard a light post that, on impact, bent over on the opposite lane. A few meters before I can spot on the road a black sign left by the tires, maybe a proof of the driver’s last desperate attempt to regain control of his vehicle.
I get near the crumpled car and through the broken front window I can see a male’s figure.
The police officers and paramedics on site seem unaware of my presence and let me move undisturbed.
I get even closer and I can now see his face. It takes but a look for all the memories to get back from deep inside my soul and pack my head.
The body, lying lifeless on the driver’s seat is wearing a proper suit, with a grey cotton jacket and dark pants. A single button closes the jacket over an ivory-white shirt, now crumpled and red spotted. The pants are held in place by a leather belt and are ripped at knee length, where I can see some gashes from which a dense and reddish fluid is copiously flowing out. The steering wheel, which came out from its usual place, presses on the man’s chest and forces the body in that position. Slivers from the front window cover the entire scene.
His head is tilted back, partially lying on the chair’s headrest. A trickle of blood drips down from his forehead, over his cheekbones and it stops on the right cheek. His eyes are wide open, but there is no longer a light illuminating them.
The mouth is half opened and filled by the same reddish liquid I noticed on the legs.
A large splinter from the front window is thrust in his neck and its original transparency has turned opaque by the gushes that flow from the lacerated wound it caused.
It’s quite an irony that the driver paid his guilt by the same mean he ruthlessly inflicted on his victims.
I am the man in the car and, while I sadly realize that I did not fully carry out my vengeance, I understand that it was nothing but a dream and that my body is slowly disappearing in the dusk that is giving way to the night’s darkness.
19
Although the impertinence and suspects of inspector Montorsi don’t allow me to feel totally safe, optimism and the crowd of lawyers Sarca Pharmaceutics and I can count upon, have convinced me that a satisfactory end to this vicissitude is almost near.
Cortonic will be on the market with just a slight delay, but it is a little price to pay in exchange of my accolade in the history books alongside men and women such as Marie Curie, Louis Pasteur and Alexander Fleming.
The trail of deaths that accompanied me during many years of deceits and subterfuges has stopped just one step away from me. On my part, I think I was quite good at hiding or destroying all the traces that could lead to me.
I meticulously planned everything during many years so that my adversaries could not win against me, yet, more than once, I was about to fail due to unforeseen and unforeseeable events that undermined the very foundation of my plan, which I had to rethink and adapt to the new context that showed at the horizon.
Yet, now that I am in my office making the last arrangements before the inevitable, I am fully aware that the greatness of what I conceived is indissolubly be linked to the remorse that will consume me for the little time I still have to live.
I hope the woman I am madly in love with, will soothe my pain.
I tidy up the documents and, once I lock the door, I walk away from it knowing I will not see it for a very long time.
I say goodbye to my secretary, who is sitting at the desk in the anteroom and interrupts her doing to greet me back. Just a moment, then she is back to her tasks. I call for the elevator and, while waiting, the last words of inspector Montorsi keep turning in my head.
«... do excuse my frankness, Mr. Renzi, but it is quite hard to believe you are totally unrelated to these events... in two years you lost a trusted staff-member, your wife and now your step-brother... it looks like anyone who is related to you dies in quite mysterious circumstances... I will clear these issues up, the story is not over yet.»
It’s nothing but a moment. The elevator’s doors close behind my back. I smile, because disregarding what that woman thinks it might really be over.
20
The sun is shining in a clear blue sky. The sea in front of me is calm and it sparkles like the precious stone that gave it its name.
Yet dazzling, the light reflected by the water allows me to admire the splendid girl in a red bikini that is getting out of the water after a relaxing swim and is walking at steady pace towards our deckchairs. She leaves light footprints on the white coral sand.
I take a sip from the glass in my hand; the round, soft taste of whiskey takes me back to the past events.
The girl reaches the deckchair, picks up the beach towel and starts wiping her hair.
Now that she is standing by my side I can admire even better her sinuous forms, the sweat and irreverent features of her face, the vivid flame in her eyes.
«The sea is marvelous, you should have a swim.»
I keep admiring her while my thoughts go deeper in my rec
ent past.
«Ehi! Are you listening to me? Is something wrong?»
Her words and perfect figure against the astonishing surrounding view get me back to reality.
«Excuse me, I was distracted... what were you saying?»
«You are still thinking about your brother, aren’t you?»
«Yes, I cannot avoid it.»
«I’m sorry. I also feel guilty for what happened; I was your accomplice, and in the end, I was the one who handed him to the police.»
«It’s not your fault. My brother died the same instant Laura did. What happened after that is nothing but the consequence of that tragedy. Yet...»
As water flowing from a fountain, my words start relating once more all the events, while she silently listens to me, paying attention as if it were the first time she heard it and being indulgent because indeed it wasn’t.
Time seems to stop, framing in the panorama the sight of two lovers disturbed only by the sound of my voice and the light washing of the waves. Suddenly the most obvious remark exits my mouth, stopping what could have seemed a romantic moment to an observer’s view and was the venting of a grieving person instead. «I am so sorry.»
«Don’t be upset. Just think he got what he wanted... you must have really loved her.»
We stare into one another’s eyes and suddenly I get my lost peacefulness back.
«Cristina, kiss me.»
The girl bends over me and softly puts her lips over mine, then straightens up again, looks sharply at me and puts on a fake pout: «I told you hundred times to call me Kris...doctor!»
21
Excerpts from the report by inspector Giulia Montorsi.
...elements which demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt the direct involvement of Marco Politto Renzi against whom the crimes relating to the manslaughter of Mara Vertova, alias Mara Marchetti, Polish citizen, personal secretary, can be ascribed.
