Out of Season

by Antonio Manzini

  Officer Scipioni was escorting a man of some indeterminate old age down the hallway. Arm in arm with the young policeman, the old man was moving forward one tiny step after another, toward the door of the morgue, staring straight ahead at some fixed point before him.

  “Deputy Chief Schiavone, this is Carlo Figus’s grandfather. The only other relative is the victim’s mother, but she can’t leave her apartment, she has diabetes . . . both her legs were amputated.”

  “Okay, well . . .” said Rocco, helplessly throwing his arms wide.

  “This is Signor Adelmo Rosset, Carlo Figus’s grandfather. Adelmo, this is Deputy Chief Schiavone. . . .”

  The man barely looked up. His eyes were light blue and seemed to be immersed in a dense, sticky liquid. He didn’t change expression, he just slowly moved his hand to his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his mouth.

  “He doesn’t talk much,” said Scipioni.

  “I see that. But is he up to this?”

  “I don’t know. I think he is. Carlo Figus’s mother, who would be Adelmo’s daughter, says that he can hear perfectly and understands everything, isn’t that right, Adelmo?”

  Like a centenarian tortoise, the man turned his wrinkled neck toward Scipioni. He slowly flashed a smile that revealed three surviving teeth. Then he shut back up like a flower at sunset.

  “So what should I do, Deputy Chief?”

  “Let’s get going. Fumagalli’s waiting.” Rocco reached out an arm and offered it to Adelmo, who clutched it tight and, escorted by the two policemen, walked toward the glass partition. Rocco knocked three times loudly, and the aluminum Venetian blinds were pulled up, revealing Fumagalli’s face. The medical examiner on the other side of the glass had the cadaver all ready for viewing. He gestured to Rocco, as if to ask, “Shall I uncover it?” and Rocco nodded, never once looking away from Adelmo. The old man’s face reflected off the glass and as chance would have it, the reflection matched perfectly with the position of the cadaver’s face in the other room. Fumagalli uncovered the corpse. The face of Carlo Figus took the place of his grandfather’s face. Adelmo looked for a few seconds. Then he slowly reached out a hand until his fingertips came to rest on the glass. He turned toward Rocco. His gaze lay somewhere far away, immersed in liquid, but a tear welled up in one eye and ran down his cheek, plopping into a deep wrinkle as if it were a dry river bed. Adelmo trembled as he looked at Rocco. There was no need of anything more. The deputy chief nodded to Fumagalli to cover up the dead body.

  “Antonio,” he said to the officer, “take Signor Rosset home.”

  Scipioni nodded. “Come along, Signor Adelmo, let’s go. . . .” The old man took his hand off the glass partition. His fingerprints vanished in a few seconds, reabsorbed by the chill of the glass. He seemed bewildered, as if someone had just awakened him from a bad dream. Then he grabbed Scipioni’s arm and headed back down the hallway with very slow, cadenced steps.

  Rocco needed a drink.

  He’d made a phone call to alert Judge Baldi. Baldi in turn had ordered him to come into the district attorney’s office, but the deputy chief had declined the invitation with the excuse of official duties. At the very latest that afternoon, he’d promised the judge, he’d come in to talk. That stupid crash was threatening to turn into an unbroken series of bureaucratic pains in the ass that would make your hair stand on end. And right now the only thing he wanted to do was watch his ice cubes melt in the preprandial spritz that Ettore had brought to his outdoor table. The utmost calm reigned over Piazza Chanoux. There were two city constables on the pavement outside the La Stampa newsroom, chatting at their leisure with a woman and her black toy poodle, three workers on a ladder busy changing a streetlamp lightbulb, and Nora striding swiftly toward his table.

  “Oh fuck me . . .” Rocco said under his breath. The woman was heading straight for him, there were no two ways about it. Her eyes were level and her stride was determined. The hope that an unexpected sprained ankle might stop her vanished when the deputy chief noticed that Nora was wearing running shoes. There was still one slender, vanishing possibility: a lightning bolt. But that looked unlikely; there was only a blue sky overhead. Nora reached the table. Without a word, she pulled out a chair and sat down across from Rocco, without once taking her eyes off his.

  “Can I order something for you?” asked Rocco in a faint voice.

  “Anna? With her of all people?” the woman roared.

  “Who told you?”

  “Aosta is a very small city.”

  “Well, your informant got it wrong.”

  Nora narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “The bakery that I use and that Anna uses is right across the street from Anna’s apartment, and the baker told me that he saw you sneak out at six something in the morning like a thief. Is that enough?”

  Why lie? Why start trying to come up with excuses, frantically treading water? After all, sooner or later Nora was bound to find out. Maybe he’d have told her himself.

  “All right then, Nora. Anna.”

  “My close friend . . .” but she was talking to herself more than to Rocco.

  “Well, actually, I don’t know if you can say friend. . . .”

  “You’re right about that. All things considered, I should thank you. With one simple move, you cleared up two things. One is that our relationship isn’t going anywhere, and two, to describe whatever it is I have with Anna as a friendship is, to say the least, overstating the matter.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “In fact, I don’t know whether to be more pissed off at you or at her. What hurts most? The betrayal of a love story or a friendship?”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “No, I’m just thinking aloud. But after all, between you and me it wasn’t really so much of a love story.”

  Rocco took a deep breath. He looked Nora in the eye. “I guess it wasn’t.”

  “Did you do it to humiliate me or to take revenge?”

  “Revenge? For what?”

  “You assumed that the architect and I. . . .”

  “Just forget about that, Nora. No revenge. I did it because I wanted to and before I knew it, I was in bed with her. More or less the same reasons that were driving your friend. Nothing more than that.”

  “Could there have been a less depressing way of putting an end to this thing?” Nora asked, and this time her eyes were gentle, large, and vulnerable.

  She’d done it, she’d made him feel like a piece of shit.

  “Maybe so, Nora. Maybe there was a time when I would have known how to do this better. There was a time, like I say. But we’re talking about ages ago.”

  “I have a hard time believing that,” and a tear that had been welling up for a while slid down her cheek. Nora wiped it away with an impatient swipe of the hand.

  Why did people stubbornly keep dragging him by the hair into life? Why couldn’t they just let him live out these last few years before old age as unhappily as he wanted to, in the vacuum he’d created around himself, and which nothing would ever be able to fill again? That’s what he wondered as he gazed into Nora’s eyes: Nora, whose only crime had been to cross paths with him.

  “You see, Rocco? I know, you’ve always been perfectly clear with me. You never gave me a lot of illusions, even if I went on hoping. You can hardly blame me, can you? The days went past and I said to myself: just be patient, Nora. It’s a relationship built on a sliver of onion skin. Put any extra weight on it, so much as an ounce, and it’ll give. The whole thing will break. So I waited. What, is there a law against that? But it’s only today, sitting here in front of you at this little café table that I ask myself: what was I waiting for? What are you ever going to pull out of your magic top hat? What could a man like you ever have that would make a woman like me keep waiting? Nothing. Aside from a bed, we never had anything in common. Now I’ll feel terrible for a while, for a while I’ll spend most of my time at home, I’ll cry all over myself
for a while. Then I’ll go out, go to the hairdresser, maybe even buy a new dress, and I’ll start living again. Hopefully without you in my head. But there’s just one thing: is there any hope that you’ll fuck up for the umpteenth time and they’ll transfer you to, oh, I don’t know, the farthest Barbagia district of Sardinia?”

  Rocco thought it over, reflecting seriously. “Yes. There’s always hope of that happening.”

  “Well, it’ll be a fine day when it happens.” And at last Nora smiled. “Are you going to finish that?” she asked Rocco, grabbing his glass of iced spritz. Rocco didn’t have a chance to answer. The cocktail of aperol, prosecco, and tonic water had already drenched his jacket, while two ice cubes had found their way down the front of his shirt.

  “Have a nice day!” Nora exclaimed with a smile and strode, with the victor’s posture, away from the café table and the bar on Piazza Chanoux.

  Rocco got to his feet. He untucked his shirt from his trousers and let the ice cubes fall to the ground. Two tables away, the only other customer watched him, expressionless. He let a smile appear briefly on his lips, then went back to his newspaper. After all, it’s a well-known fact, there’s nothing more ridiculous than the misfortunes of others.

  Ettore was already out the door. “Should I bring you another, Deputy Chief?”

  “Forget about it, Ettore. I need to get back to the office. Enjoy your lunch!”

  No surprise, really. Everything had gone exactly as it was supposed to. Everything was predictable. Everything was obvious. Still, somewhere something was bleeding. He just hoped it was a flesh wound, nothing serious, and if it was going to leave a scar, it might be a small one, and practically invisible.

  As soon as he walked into police headquarters, Deruta came rushing toward him, loaded down as usual with mysterious papers.

  “Deputy Chief? Deputy Chief, excuse me . . .” then he froze. He started sniffing like a bird-dog.

  “What the fuck do you want, Deruta? This isn’t the day for it.”

  “What happened to you, sir? You reek of candy.”

  “A pack of Charms melted in my pocket.”

  “But you’re all wet!”

  “You do have a certain spirit of observation. You ought to think about joining the police. Now, is there something urgent you wanted to tell me, or were you only interested in busting my balls here in the middle of the hallway?”

  “Yes. About those two men killed on the state highway to Saint-Vincent. Pierron called in. He says he needs to speak with you, and that it’s urgent.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On his lunch break.”

  Rocco nodded and strode briskly to his office.

  He opened his address book and searched for a phone number. He dialed it.

  “Heddo?” the stuffed-up voice of Caterina Rispoli answered after the third ring.

  “Caterì, it’s Schiavone.”

  “Hello, Debudy Jief.”

  “How are you? Do you have a clothespin on your nose?”

  “No, I’ve got a vever of 102. . . .”

  “Great. Could you put Italo on?”

  There was a pause. Soon, Officer Pierron’s voice rang out from the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d recommend you disinfect the receiver first, otherwise you’ll get the flu, too.”

  “Don’t worry, I got a flu shot.”

  “Whatever you say. So, you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes . . . how did you know I was . . . okay, anyway . . . concerning the other man killed in the crash. Viorelo Midea. All we know is that he was a resident of Bârlad, in Romania. No address here, though. What should we do?”

  “We’ll send a letter to the embassy, we’ll write to the next of kin, what the fuck do I know? Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. I found out where he worked.”

  “And would you perhaps care to tell me?”

  “At the Posillipo Pizzeria. I know the place. It isn’t far from police headquarters.”

  “We need to head over there.”

  “Right now?”

  “Of course not, take your time, hold on, let me check my appointment book. How about July 13th? Do you have anything planned?” and he hung up.

  Chiara was struggling to breathe. Every time she inhaled, the bag over her face clung to her. Her cheeks and her foreheard were covered with sweat, her tears were as sticky as flypaper. She hadn’t moved in hours. Her temples continued to hammer her cranium, steady and pitiless.

  She’d screamed until her voice was gone. But no one had answered, no one had come into the room. Through the cloth she could clearly see that gray wall with the shelves stacked with old objects. Plastic bags, paint brushes caked with tar, saw blades with rusty teeth. She must be in a garage or an abandoned warehouse.

  She was starting to remember.

  The night before.

  She’d gone out for the evening with her boyfriend, Max, and with Giovanna. Alberto, Max’s cousin, was going to come down from Turin and join them. They had made an appointment to meet at the pub at seven that evening. From there they were going to go to Sphere, on the road that went up to Cervinia. Chiara didn’t really feel like it, she’d have preferred to just be alone with Max but Giovanna was crazy about Alberto. And all day long Giovanna had pestered Chiara in sixteen different languages to spend the evening together. “At least that way,” Giovanna said with a smile, “if he jilts me I won’t be alone and I can cry on your shoulder.” But jilting Giovanna wasn’t a material possibility. Chiara knew that, as did Max and half of Aosta. The only one who didn’t seem to know it was none other than Giovanna. Five foot seven, a brunette with silky straight hair—not curly like Chiara’s who had to spend at least an hour every morning untangling it. If you then added to the silky hair a pair of emerald-green eyes and a body that made the rest of the high school drool helplessly, it truly became difficult to understand the source of that insecurity. That’s just the way Giovanna was. Sonia, Paola, and Giovanna—the three prettiest girls in the school—were also the most insecure. She wasn’t, though. Chiara was strong. She had a family behind her, a father and mother who loved her and, most important of all, who counted for something in Aosta. Chiara Berguet was a leader. She knew it; when she spoke, all her girlfriends listened. And though her eyes were small and her hair was curly, that hadn’t kept her from laying waste to a field of hearts. At school, all the boys were crazy about her, and there wasn’t a protest march, a school occupation, a field trip, or even a simple skiing trip that didn’t orbit in some way around the second desk, third row, in class Five B.

  Alberto had arrived. Handsome, twenty-two years old, with his leather jacket and smooth black hair. He had eyes for no one but Giovanna, even a blind man could have seen it. After three beers and a couple of aperitifs, they’d gone to Sphere. Where they danced and went on drinking like idiots.

  And then . . .

  What the hell happened? How the fuck much did I have to drink? At least three gin tonics. My face in front of the restroom mirror. Me vomiting. Me vomiting a lot, though. Giovanna talking to Alberto under the strobe lights. Max chatting with a couple of southern bumpkins in their thirties. Who are they? The smoke from the cigarette rises straight up toward the black night sky, chilly and starless. I’m outside the discotheque. I’m smoking a cigarette and everything is spinning. Max takes me home. The key in the door lock. Darkness. But what did I do after that? Chiara, try to remember! Try to remember. Nothing. Pain. Nothing but pain.

  Along with the headache, she was starting to feel another source of discomfort. Between her legs.

  What is it? A snake? A venomous snake slithering up and down? A snake with red-hot skin? Get this bag off my head. Free my hands! I need to touch myself, scratch myself, grab that snake. It’s burning me.

  Posillipo Pizzeria was only open for business in the evening. When Rocco and Italo knocked at the glass door covered with credit card stickers, a man with an enormous belly slowly took shape from the
darkness of the interior. He immediately won himself a name straight out of Rocco’s imaginary bestiary—he frequently amused himself by finding similarities and physical affinities between people and animals. Standing before him was an Atlantic puffin, or Fratercula arctica. A prominent nose, a tiny little mouth practically lost in the chubby cheeks, and small eyes set far apart in the face. The high-arching eyebrows gave him the expression of a beggar in the street. Unlike the northern sea bird, this man had a straggly little beard that tickled his chin.

  “Hi there!” he said as he opened the door. “We’re closed at lunchtime,” and he dried his hands on an apron he wore tied around his waist.

  “Schiavone, Aosta police headquarters. Could we talk to you for a minute?”

  “Why, of course. Come in, come in, make yourselves comfortable,” he said as he made way for the two policemen. “Can I offer you anything?”

  The Neapolitan accent seemed more like a costume put on for his Valdostan customers than an authentic cadence.

  “No, nothing, thanks.”

  “Then at least can I get you an espresso?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable at this table, and I’ll be right back. Do either of you smell something sickly sweet, like candy?”

  Rocco and Italo exchanged a glance. Italo spoke up in response: “A pack of candy melted in the deputy chief’s pocket.”

  “Ah,” said the man and vanished behind a double door that presumably led into the kitchen.

  Rocco and Italo made themselves comfortable at a table in the middle of the dining room.

  “But let me tell you, Rocco, just to be clear. More than Charms, it smells like honey lozenges. Strange, what does a spritz have to do with honey?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No.”

  “You’re trying to be funny. And it’s not your best move.”

  “I swear to you I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “Then wipe that idiotic grin off your face.”

  The pizzeria, which had been decorated and furnished by some expensive architect in perfect Amalfi Coast style, lost all its elegance thanks to the hundreds of photographs and posters of S.S.C. Napoli that the proprietor had put up everywhere, undoubtedly without consulting whoever had designed the place. The usual Vesuvius, Pulcinella eating a bowl of spaghetti, and Totò just about everywhere, as well as the jersey from the S.S.C. Napoli 1989–90 championship.