“The girl’s family has asked me to examine the file to make sure that the Carabinieri haven’t overlooked any crucial details. I’m meeting with people who know Manuela well to see if there’s any overlooked information or if I come up with any ideas that might help us understand what happened.”
“So that you can try to screw my client?”
Third deep breath. Longer than the first two.
“Listen to me. No one is trying to screw your client. And how would I screw him, if I did want to? I’m only trying to reach out and talk to the people who were closest to Manuela, because her parents asked me to. These last interviews are their only remaining hope. Your client has nothing to fear.”
“My client won’t talk to you. I forbid him to.”
“Listen. We need-”
“If you ever contact Cantalupi again, in two minutes this law office will file a complaint with the ethics committee of the bar association. I hope that I’ve made myself clear.”
And he hung up, without giving me time to answer. There are few things in life more annoying than having an asshole hang up on you after he’s managed to threaten you, without giving you a chance to return the courtesy or at least say something offensive. For a second or two I was tempted to call him back, just so I could tell him to go fuck himself and make myself feel better. I was still thinking about it when Pasquale called to say that Signorina Pontrandolfi was here and ask if he should send her in.
I told him to send her in, and thought to myself that she’d shown up just in time to keep me from doing something stupid that I’d have regretted.
15.
I had expected Pontrandolfi to be short, skinny, and small-framed. Maybe because, before that evening, I’d always associated the name Caterina with a fragile and delicate model of femininity.
The young woman who walked into my office a few minutes after seven that evening swept away once and for all that personal stereotype of mine, probably based on the world of Italian pop music.
Caterina Pontrandolfi was almost my height. She had a slightly broad nose, big lips, and resembled certain photographs of a young Marianne Faithfull. She looked like she might play water polo-one of those young women you wouldn’t want to have take a swing at you. The flimsy and very feminine outfit-perhaps a little too flimsy, considering the season-that she wore under a denim jacket clashed pleasantly with her powerful swimmer’s physique.
“Please come in, Signorina Pontrandolfi.” While I was uttering that word-Signorina-I felt like an idiot.
“The word signorina reminds me of a couple of old maids who used to keep company with my grandmother. At my house, they were called le signorine, so to me a signorina is an old spinster. Do me a favor, if you don’t mind; would you please use the informal? Otherwise you’ll just make me feel awkward.”
I doubted it would really be all that easy to make her feel awkward. I was about to say fine, I’ll use the informal tu, but she should address me with the same informality, and so on and so forth, following the usual script people use in these situations. Then it dawned on me that-according to the name, address, and date of birth in the Carabinieri report-she was twenty-three years old. I was forty-five. I was a lawyer exercising my professional duties, and-technically speaking-I could have been her father.
I realized that I was stuck. I didn’t know what to say. To tell her that I preferred to use the formal would be obnoxious and ridiculous. To tell her, okay, let’s use the informal (and maybe we can go to the university cafe together and get a couple of Smurf-berry blue ice cream cones) would be inappropriate. So I made the best of a bad situation: I addressed her with the informal tu and let her continue to address me with the formal lei.
“All right, then. Thanks for agreeing to come in. I believe that Manuela’s mother… explained the reason for this meeting to you.”
“Yes. She told me you’re trying to determine whether the investigation into Manuela’s disappearance was conducted properly, and whether it’s possible to do any further investigating.”
“Yes, that’s right. From what I was able to gather from reading the documents, you’re one of Manuela’s best friends.”
“Yes, Manuela and I are very close.”
“Tell me about her. Tell me what kind of person she is, how long you’ve known each other, what your friendship is like, and anything else that comes to mind. Even insignificant things, because I need to form a mental picture. I need ideas and unfortunately, right now, I’m short on ideas.”
“Okay. Manuela and I met in Rome. Nicoletta introduced us. For a couple of years, more or less, they had been sharing an apartment in Rome. That is, Manuela went to live with Nicoletta, and moved out of the apartment where she’d been living before. I think she had some kind of trouble with her previous roommate.”
“Nicoletta would be Nicoletta Abbrescia?”
“That’s right. We went to high school together. She’s a little younger than I am.”
“Do you still live in Rome?”
“No. This is the first year I’ve fallen behind the normal academic schedule. In the spring, I had to move out of my apartment in Rome because the lease expired. I was supposed to go find another apartment in the fall, but then this thing happened with Manuela and… I don’t know, I just didn’t feel up to house hunting. So now I’m studying in Bari and then I’ll go to Rome to take my exams.”
I had the impression that there was a slight acceleration in the pace of her speech as she answered, as if the question made her nervous. She quickly broke into the syncopated flow of my thoughts.
“You’re a criminal lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m taking my degree in law and writing my thesis on criminal procedure, on special evidentiary hearings. I’d like to become a magistrate-maybe a prosecutor-or a criminal lawyer. Maybe after I get my degree you could take me on in your office as an intern.”
“Why not?” I answered hesitantly, unsure how to respond.
“I’m cute. It would help your reputation if you showed up in court with me. Your colleagues would be jealous,” she added.
“Well, there’s no question about that.”
“Okay, sorry. Sometimes I act like an idiot. I’m a little ditzy sometimes, and I forget about more serious matters. And we’re here for a serious matter. What were you asking me?”
“What’s Manuela like? I’ve seen photographs of her, but I still can’t form a mental picture.”
“Manuela is very attractive. She’s not tall, she’s a brunette-you can see that in the photos-she gets a dark tan in the summer. She’s well put together. Nicoletta is a pretty girl, too, but she has a lot less personality. She’s tall and thin. She worked as a model. When we get all dressed up and show up at a party or in a club, people-not just boys-turn and stare. We make a splash. They call us Sex and the City. ”
She met my eyes with a level gaze to see if I was duly impressed by this information. I did my best to ignore her.
“What’s Manuela like, in terms of personality?”
“She’s a determined young woman. If she wants something, she takes it. We’re very similar in that way, Manuela and I.”
As she said that, she looked me straight in the eye a few seconds longer than necessary.
I remembered what Anita had told me, about Manuela striking her as high-strung.
“Would you say that she’s a relaxed person, or high-strung?”
“Relaxed. She keeps her cool in a tense situation. Definitely relaxed.”
In that case, if Anita was correct when she sensed that Manuela was high-strung, there’d been something wrong that afternoon, even before she disappeared. It was a detail that might possibly be significant. Or else, they might just be two different people with two different points of view. In any case, I would need to come up with something more concrete.
“Obviously, you’re aware that this is a confidential conversation?”
For the first time since she had walked int
o my office, she seemed to hesitate for an instant.
“Yes… that is…”
“What I mean is that anything you tell me goes no further than this room. All I’m looking for is a shred of evidence, a flicker of light, something that helps me to understand.”
“Okay… fine.”
“I want you to tell me very honestly if you have any idea of what might have happened to Manuela.”
“No. I have no idea. The Carabinieri asked me the same thing: Did I have any idea? But I really can’t imagine what might have happened. I’ve racked my brains, like everyone else, but…”
“Tell me what you’ve come up with. Your wildest guesses. You must have thought of something. Then maybe you discounted it, but you must have thought of something.”
She looked at me. She’d become very serious. Up until then there had been something vaguely provocative flittering over and through her expression, as if, in some sense, she were playing a game. Now that subtle something was gone. She took a deep breath before she answered.
“I thought Manuela’s disappearance might have something to do with Michele, her ex.”
No question, that asshole was the perfect suspect, I thought to myself. It was a shame (but lucky for him) that he happened to be out of the country that day.
“But he was out of the country.”
“Exactly.”
“Why did you think of Michele?”
“What does that matter? He was out of the country, so he definitely couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“I’d appreciate it all the same if you’d tell me why you thought of him.”
Caterina shook her head, as if she was sure that it was a mistake to talk about this topic. She took another deep breath. It was more audible this time, and she exhaled loudly, heaving a sigh. I was surprised to catch myself noticing how her breasts rose and fell, her clothing swelling with her vigorous respiration. Dirty old man.
“I never liked Michele. So that fact might prejudice me. Still…”
“Still?”
“Still, he’s a real asshole.”
“In what way?”
“In every way imaginable. He’s violent, and if you ask me, he’s stupid, too. After they broke up and the magic was gone, Manuela used to say he was crass and vulgar. She was right.”
“But then why was Manuela dating him? Why were they together for so long? And by the way, how long did they see each other?”
“I couldn’t say, exactly. When I met Manuela, they were already dating. Then they broke up, or really Manuela broke up with him, more than a year ago. But he couldn’t get over it. He badgered her for months. Imagine that: the great Michele Cantalupi, dumped by a schoolgirl.”
“You still haven’t told me what Manuela saw in this jerk. What am I missing here?”
“What you’re missing here is that he’s hot, so hot it burns. I mean, he makes Brad Pitt look homely.”
I sat without speaking for a few seconds. I struck a pensive pose, as if the information on how hot Cantalupi was deserved some thought. In the end, I nodded gravely, as if I’d absorbed a challenging concept. Then I looked at her. She was sitting, composed, but occupying her space. I noticed a fine beading of sweat on her upper lip.
“And what does this gentleman do for a living?”
“Nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. He fucks anything that comes within range. He plays cards. He’s working on not getting a degree in business, and, well, that’s about it.”
She’d stopped herself before saying something else. I noticed very clearly-she’d held back from saying more. There was something she’d decided not to tell me, something she didn’t want to talk about. Or maybe she did want to, but, at the same time, she didn’t. I needed to circle back around, but not right away.
“You said he’s violent. Is that why you suspected he might have had something to do with Manuela’s disappearance? Or was there something more specific?”
“No. Nothing specific. When I heard something had happened to Manuela but no one knew what it was, he was the first and only person who came to mind.”
“When she broke up with him, he kept after her for a while, right?”
“Yes. He phoned her, wrote her letters, asked her to give him another chance. He even stalked her. He came down to Rome twice. Once he caused a huge scene in the street. They got physical. He hit her, and she hit him back, and then we separated them…”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me and two friends.”
“How long did he keep after her?”
“For months. I can’t remember exactly how many.”
“I read the transcript of the statement that he made to the Carabinieri. He admitted that the end of their relationship had been pretty stormy, but he also said that things had gotten back on an even keel, and that after it was all over they were on friendly terms.”
“I wouldn’t say friendly. But it’s true that he stopped calling her and coming around. Manuela said he’d probably just found another victim.”
“Was that true?”
“I don’t know. For that matter, I don’t think Manuela knew either, and anyway she didn’t give a damn.”
“Earlier, when I asked you what Michele did for a living, you were about to say something else, and then you stopped yourself.”
“When?”
“You were about to say something else, and you decided not to. Caterina, everything we say here is completely confidential, but I absolutely need to know everything. It may not have anything to do with Manuela’s disappearance. In fact, it almost certainly has nothing do with it, but I need to know.”
Now she seemed uncomfortable, as if the situation had gotten out of control and she was afraid of making a false move. She was wondering how to withdraw. I remembered what had come up in my conversation with Anita, about the drugs that were circulating at the trulli. I figured it was worth a shot; the worst thing that could happen was that she might tell me I was wrong.
“Caterina,” I said, “is it something to do with drugs?”
She looked at me in astonishment.
“Then you already knew?”
Obviously, I didn’t know. I felt the thrill of winning when you’re bluffing in a poker game. I shrugged and acted indifferent. I said nothing; it was her turn.
“If you already know about it, then there’s not much left to say. He loved cocaine, he always had plenty, and so…”
“Did he sell it, too?”
“No! That is, I don’t know. I couldn’t say for sure.”
And then, hesitantly, after another pause. “But he always seemed to have plenty of it.”
“Did the issue of drugs have something to do with why Manuela broke up with him?”
She shook her head forcefully, and I thought I glimpsed for just a fraction of a second a flash of despair, or something like it, in the way she did it. I told myself I needed to restrain my impulse to read too much into things.
“I assume there’s no smoking in here, right?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a smoker. You look like an athlete.”
“I only smoke a couple a day, well, three or four. After dinner, after a glass of wine. When I’m relaxing. But sometimes I need a cigarette when I’m feeling really tense. Like right now.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I’ve made you tense. Go ahead and have a cigarette. You’re allowed.”
“No, it’s not you making me tense. You’ve been very nice, in fact. It’s just the whole situation, the… well, you know what I mean, right?”
She took out a brightly colored cigarette case, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with an athletic gesture. I extracted an ashtray from a drawer and handed it to her.
“I was an athlete, in my day.”
“In your day? What do you mean by that?”
“I was a good swimmer. I won a bunch of regional championships. I even won some national meets. That life is stressful, though. Training sessions twice a day, add that to
full-time studying and you have no life. After a few years, I quit. And I never really looked back.”
“I quit competitive sports, too, and I was about your age at the time.”
Of course, there was absolutely no good reason for me to tell her that, other than my pathetic vanity.
“Which sport?” she asked, blowing a column of smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“Boxing.”
“Boxing? You mean, like fighting, in the ring?”
“I fought for a few years. Amateur standing, of course. I won a regional title and silver at the national college championships.”
What an idiot, I said to myself. You’re flirting with a schoolgirl, as if you were her age. Cut it out, you moron.
“Cool. I like men who are men. I usually intimidate men, so I really like men who aren’t easily intimidated. How old are you, Counselor?”
My wits blunted by my idiotic vanity, it took me a few seconds to realize that she had successfully changed the subject away from my question, gaining precious minutes, and giving herself time to regroup.
“Let’s forget about how old I am. We were talking about Cantalupi and how he was involved in narcotics. I was asking you whether, in your opinion, drugs had anything to do with Manuela and Michele’s breakup.”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t rule it out. I don’t think it was any one thing. It was all of it. Manuela had figured out who that guy really was, and she didn’t want to be with him anymore.”
“Manuela… as far as you know, did she do coke with Michele? Or at least, had it happened at some time or other?”
She exhaled loudly. She shook her head. My impression was that she was telling herself that she’d made a mistake when she decided to come here, thinking that she’d be able to control the situation easily.
“What does that matter? What does Manuela’s disappearance have to do with what she might have done with that asshole the year before?”
In all likelihood, she was right. Most likely it had nothing to do with anything, but I couldn’t say that for certain without looking into it. Also, and especially, because that asshole was acting defensive, had refused to meet with me and, one way or another, had something to hide. I decided I needed to win Caterina’s cooperation, bring her over to my side.
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