One day Borrelli’s wife had called her on the phone and asked her to meet in a café by the waterfront. Carmela remembered the conversation clearly, a quick succession of sad observations. The woman had told her that she knew about the relationship but that she felt no rancor toward her, quite the opposite. She thanked Carmela for having relieved her of an enormous burden: being forced to go to bed with a man who loved no one but himself. If she had any regrets, they were for her, Carmela, because she knew that he would never give her anything more and yet would also never let her have her freedom. Edoardo only wanted what was convenient for him; he didn’t give a damn about anyone else.
Carmela had come home in tears. That afternoon, for the first time, she’d glimpsed her own life, and her death as well.
The prediction had proved accurate. Her story had been so similar to that of many others that it wasn’t even worth the telling. An existence made up of nights spent staring at the ceiling and fleeting assignations that lasted an hour, utterly devoid of tenderness. Carmela had been nothing but a simple object, a body with which to satisfy an equally simple physiological need.
So it remained until Borrelli’s age and illness got the upper hand, depriving him of a virility that he’d always experienced as a burden, a need that limited his true ambition. Truth be told, money was, to him, just an accessory, a necessary evil. What Cavalier Edoardo Borrelli wanted above all else was power.
And it was possible to exercise power even if you were sick. In fact, for a long time, while he was proudly fighting, going from one hospital to another, checking into high-tech clinics, he’d kept on running his company; in fact, he’d branched out from construction into financial services.
Little by little, though, he’d been forced to delegate.
The woman who had been his secretary and his lover had now become the body he no longer possessed. Now it was she who went out and about, who negotiated with banks, politicians, other businessmen, and even with organized crime bosses. Nondescript, easy to overlook, and mousy as she was, she went unnoticed in any setting: an advantage in certain walks of life.
And yet Borrelli’s attitude toward her had remained unchanged since the day he’d first assigned her a desk in the corner of a big room full of clerks, more than forty years previous; the same as when, two years later, he had ordered her to take off her clothes and wait for him on the sofa in his office. No kindness, no human attention. She was little more than a housekeeper, as that asshole ex-husband of Eva’s had said in front of the policemen. He was right. He was an asshole, but he was right.
For some time now, though, the housekeeper had kept her eyes open. Taking advantage of the general powers of attorney that the old man had been forced to sign over to her so that she could take care of confidential tasks he could no longer perform, she’d started diverting funds here and there, rerouting the money into accounts set up in her name. She didn’t do it for the money; by now, she’d given up on starting over from scratch, at her age. She wanted to punish him. To prove to herself and to him—he would only ever know it the instant before dying—that drab old Carmela, little more than a housekeeper, was the only one who had had the intelligence, cunning, and patience to rob him.
As she tidied up the papers on the desk, she thought back to when she’d asked the cavalier why he wanted the apartment so dark. The mirrors, he had replied; I don’t want to be seen by the mirrors. As if he were afraid that the reflection of his own decrepit, malevolent image, nailed to a wheelchair, was a demon ready to swallow his soul.
The only moment she saw his lips curl into a smile was when his grandson came to see him. It was from the child that the cavalier got the only tenderness that he had ever had. And it seemed incredible, but Dodo liked sitting next to his grandfather and listening to his stories in that darkened apartment, with the stench of death heavy like the smell of stale cooking, as if he was Borrelli himself turned into a child, impatient to hear what had become of him in his previous life.
Now, though, fate had deprived him of that consolation, too, Carmela thought to herself. As if to restore order to an existence that was supposed to be devoid of all emotion, any gentleness.
But why should that child, whose only achievement had been to be born and carry his same name, have had a greater right to a pat on the head than she did? Why should the emotions have been set aside for him, emotions that she’d always assumed the old man was simply incapable of?
That was the one thing for which Carmela could never forgive Dodo; it was actually the reason that she’d always hated him, the reason she’d kept him at arm’s length ever since he was just a baby, the reason she’d never even held him in her arms: The grandson had ignited in Borrelli an emotion that she’d never have guessed existed. Without lifting a finger, that child had proved that Edoardo wasn’t incapable of love; he had just never loved Carmela.
She who had never left his side. Who had devoted herself to him more devoutly than could any man of the cloth to his god. Who even now couldn’t imagine being able to live apart from him, though she hated him with all her heart.
Countless times, she’d fantasized about the old man on his deathbed, the agony of his last moments, when she would lean over him and whisper in his ear how bitter she was about the fact that he’d taken her life, especially since he’d been absolutely aware of what he was doing: a premeditated crime for which there could be no acquittal.
She fantasized that he might still possess a flicker of consciousness. It would be so wonderful to be able to throw back in his face everything he had done to her, and confess to him just what she had done to him.
Suffer, damn you. Suffer. Feel your heart sundered in two by the pain, feel the helplessness, your hands tied, the impotent anger. Suffer the way I suffered, when I threw my life at your feet so you could tromp on it.
Suffer.
LI
Romano drove from stakeout to stakeout, doing some cop version of the Stations of the Cross, checking to make sure that the unmarked cars placed in strategic positions outside the residences of Eva Borrelli, her father, and her ex-husband were ready to intercept anyone who attempted to contact Dodo’s family in a manner other than by telephone.
The idea had been worked out with Palma and Aragona on the afternoon of the previous day, after the call came in warning the child’s grandfather to get the money ready. They expected the criminals to get a piece of paper to the family containing written instructions, outlining when and how the exchange would take place; but Romano had his doubts about how effective those surveillance measures were likely to prove. He was certain that the kidnappers were connected to someone who knew the routines of the whole family to a T: They weren’t likely to allow themselves to be caught so easily.
He wondered for the thousandth time who the inside man could be, and whether he was the gang’s mastermind or just an accomplice. Maybe they should have delved deeper into the lives and friendships of the household help: Eva’s housekeeper, the cavalier’s caregiver and housekeeper. But that would mean putting everyone back in the running, even the nuns at the school: too vast a territory to be explored in such a short time.
He’d ask Pisanelli and Ottavia to do some digging of their own, the former making use of more traditional investigative techniques, the latter relying on new technologies. He had to admit that that lunatic Aragona wasn’t all wrong: The Bastards of Pizzofalcone were one of those teams that no one would have bet on at the beginning of the season, but if you believed in them and you did, they would have paid off against ridiculous odds.
Where are you, little Dodo? he wondered. What corner of the world have they carried you off to, just so they can get the old man to pull out a few million euros he’s stashed away who knows where? Who, out of all those you hug and even kiss, of those whose hand you hold when it’s time to cross the street, who make your lunches and dinners, has betrayed you? Who will you have to thank for all this when,
in the best possible outcome, you find yourself stretched out on an analyst’s couch twenty years from now? If, that is, you survive. If, that is, your kidnappers don’t mail you back to your family, one piece at a time, to try to pry the ransom out of them.
As he drove slowly along, he realized with a shiver just how much he wanted a child of his own, a son or a daughter to care for, to protect from the rest of the world. Except he wanted a child with Giorgia; he couldn’t see himself becoming a father with another woman. In fact, he couldn’t see himself doing anything at all with another woman. He was Giorgia’s husband, and Giorgia was his wife.
A marriage, thought Romano, means something more than just staying together. A marriage is a commitment in the face of the world, a contract written, read, signed, and countersigned. A marriage can’t be broken by opening a door and shutting it behind you, you can’t annul it by writing some little fucking letter: Dear Francesco, I’m so sorry and blah blah blah, what a shame that blah blah blah, with fond thoughts blah blah blah.
Giorgia, he said, whispering into the cool spring air as it came streaming in through the open car window. Giorgia. What do you think you’re doing? Do you really think you can put an end to what’s between us, just like that, with one fell stroke? Do you really think that we can just shake off eight years of marriage, and I can’t even remember how many years of dating, as if it were the salt left on your skin after a swim in the sea?
Most important of all: Do you think that I’ll sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting to receive a letter from a lawyer?
I have a right to speak and to be listened to. I have that sacrosanct right. I need to tell you that the last thing that happens between us cannot be a slap in the face. Okay, I lost my temper. Okay, sometimes that happens, and okay, it’s been happening more and more lately. But I’m not a criminal. I’m the one who catches criminals and throws them in jail. And sometimes I deal with people who beat women, or mistreat old people, and I become their worst enemy, which means I’m not one of them, don’t you see that?
For instance, I’d like to be the first one to lay hands on whoever kidnapped this child. Whoever took him away from his father and mother, driving them out of their minds with grief; whoever might have hurt him, might still be hurting him now. Then you’d see my rage, I can assure you. You’d understand what it means to turn into a genuine fury.
If you could only hear me, my love, even just for a minute, I’d explain to you what I did and why it will never happen again. I’d prove to you that I’m not a violent man, but that the last few months have been hard: being tossed out of the place where I worked like a criminal, being sent to a precinct house where there were more crooks among the police than out in the street. But if you come back to me, if you help, I’ll find my balance again. We could try again to have a baby, now that I want one, too, now that it’s not the way it used to be.
Now that nothing is the way it used to be.
Romano was thinking about his wife so intensely that he thought he must be hallucinating when he saw her walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. In his surprise, he lacked the presence of mind to call out to her, to shout her name. He just sat there watching her walk, agile, confident, beautiful, a light skirt fluttering around her long legs, dark glasses, and a briefcase under one arm.
Behind him a bus honked its horn a couple of times; he realized he’d braked to a stop in the middle of the street. He raced all the way up to the piazza, went around the traffic circle, and came back. He had been afraid he wouldn’t see her again, but there she was. Where was she going? Why did she have a briefcase under her arm?
She was going to see a lawyer.
She was going to see a lawyer to file for an official separation. What other reason could she have to be in that neighborhood, where there were only business complexes and office buildings? She must be there to make concrete the intentions she’d expressed in the letter. She wanted a legal separation without even discussing it with him, without even letting him know. But he had a right to express his point of view. She had to listen to him, fucking hell.
A red film descended over his eyes and he felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through the muscles of his arms and down into his hands. He clutched the steering wheel convulsively and angrily punched his fist into the car horn. A woman driving a compact car just ahead of him veered to one side and came dangerously close to running over a couple of pedestrians crossing the street.
He had to catch up with her. He had to stop her, force her to listen to him. Let her tell him to his face that it was all over, that she never wanted to see him again, that she didn’t love him anymore.
He was no more than twenty yards away when he saw her walk up to a man in a jacket and tie who was sitting at an outdoor table, enjoying the fresh air and an espresso. He stood up and shook hands with her. You could see it plain as day on the face of the damn hyena, the infamous vulture: He was pleasantly surprised to find himself face-to-face with such a beautiful woman. He gestured for her to sit down, and she thanked him with a graceful nod. She smiled at him.
You’re actually smiling at him. You’re smiling at him, while you kill me. While you erase me from your life, making a clean break, wiping me away like an insect off your windshield.
He swerved up onto the sidewalk, two wheels off the road: A woman pushing a baby stroller jumped aside and almost fell over; a man keeled over the hood of his car, cursing.
Romano got out of the car, mechanically flipping down the sun visor so the police insignia could be seen. Seeing the look on his face, no one said a word; the man who had cursed actually held up one hand in a gesture of apology.
He ran full out the twenty yards separating him from Giorgia, his heart pounding in his ears, his face twisted in a mask of anger. His mind kept repeating like a mantra: a clean break, a clean break.
Giorgia saw him coming, and the smile vanished from her face like a lightbulb burning out. She saw him, and she recognized the fever and the fog that clouded his thoughts. She saw him, and thought of running; she looked around in desperation.
He recognized the terror in her eyes, and that only stoked his fury further. He went over to the table; she was riveted to her chair, hands half-raised, ready to ward off blows.
The voice that emerged from Romano’s mouth sounded like the roar of a wild beast: “A clean break, eh, Giorgia? A fucking clean break and you erase me from your life. You already have the documents, don’t you. You had them made up in advance, didn’t you?”
Romano grabbed the table and gave it a shake, overturning the man’s empty coffee cup and his half-drunk glass of water; he was forced to jump backyards to protect his trousers.
“Hey, what the . . .”
Romano didn’t even turn around: “Shut up, you piece of shit. You and me can talk in a minute.”
From behind Giorgia’s dark glasses leaked a tear. And deep inside Romano, something cracked.
“Now you’re crying? You’re crying? Without even listening to me, without giving me a chance to . . .”
She turned and spoke to the man she’d been meeting, who’d taken a few steps back. All around them, everyone was watching them, curiosity and pity on their faces.
“Dottore, I apologize. This is . . . this was my husband.” Then she turned to Francesco: “Dottor Masullo runs an accounting firm. And he was thinking about hiring me, if you hadn’t once again found a way to ruin everything.”
She stood up and walked away.
Leaving behind a marble statue of a policeman with a broken heart.
LII
Ask any cop.
He’ll tell you that certain ideas are like a sharp rock under your beach towel, they keep you from sleeping, and you turn over and over again, trying to find it so you can get rid of it, but you can’t.
He’ll tell you that the idea sits there, right below the level of conscious thought,
waving hello with its little hand and thumbing its nose at you, irritating and elusive.
He’ll tell you that it’s the idea’s fault that his brow is furrowed as if he had a headache, that he seems to have his mind elsewhere when you speak to him.
Any cop will tell you that certain ideas, until they surface entirely, are like a toothache.
Ottavia looked as though she had a toothache. She was distracted, absent; every so often she seemed to think of something, and she’d break off a conversation without warning and go over to her computer and type something quickly, only to shake her head and stand up, angry.
Palma watched her and worried.
Actually, they were all worried. They knew that in the case of little Dodo they’d come to a critical juncture: If the kidnappers contacted them again, they could devise the moves necessary to catch them; otherwise the case would be handed over to the special investigative branch.
The commissario had heard that police headquarters was considering reaching out to certain officers stationed in the north, who would come down especially to work on the case; experts who intervened only once the terms had been set for the payment of the ransom and the liberation of the hostage. No one liked the idea of jurisdiction being taken away from Pizzofalcone, no one was willing to give up easily, and that gave Palma a sense of just how much the Bastards, more and more each day, were becoming aware of themselves as an entity: no minor thing for people who until just recently had been thought of as scum. For him, too, the defeat would be difficult to accept; he couldn’t stop thinking of the expression on the child’s face, looking up at the video camera, as he walked off to meet his fate, hand in hand with his kidnapper.
In the bullpen, discussions were moving forward fitfully. Even Aragona was silent. He was looking out the window, where the sunshine shattered into a thousand sparks glinting off car bodies and the rooftops of the old buildings that sloped away downhill toward the sea; he seemed absorbed in an attempt to puzzle out a secret code. Alex and the Chinaman were out investigating the Parascandolo burglary, Romano was double checking the stakeouts on the Borrelli and Cerchia residences.
Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 25
