“I really can’t say, Signor Baudo. But it strikes me as a reasonable reconstruction.”
“If you’ve caught the thief, then this story is over,” the priest put in.
“Not exactly. There’s one little problem. But those are internal matters. I really have to go,” Rocco said brusquely. “There are some grueling days ahead of me. Thanks for your help, Signor Baudo. And thank you too, Padre . . .”
THE WIND WAS NO LONGER BLOWING IN THE VALLEY and the temperature had risen slightly. He had the impression that it was warmer outside than inside the cathedral.
He left the church and looked around at the lovely piazza, with its bell tower and a linden tree that was said to be more than five hundred years old. That tree must have seen things. Five hundred years. A human being would certainly lose his mind if he lived even half that long, Rocco mused, his hands in the pockets of his loden overcoat, as he strolled through the ancient streets of Aosta.
THE VISITING ROOM AT THE HOUSE OF DETENTION OF Brissogne had four damp patches, one in each corner. Looking at each other across a table, Rocco Schiavone and Fabio Righetti sat in the light cast by the one small, high window, in absolute silence. The kid was pale and his Mohawk had started to wilt. He sat there, wordlessly watching the deputy police chief, and every so often staring at the floor. Someone in the distance opened a gate. Rocco seemed to be writing notes on a sheet of paper with a pen. Actually, though, he was just scribbling a series of psychotic doodles. The pen shot along, designing spirals, letters, and names without any logical sequence. And the Bic ballpoint on the paper was the only sound in the room. Then Rocco jotted a single sharp period—full stop—and raised his eyes to look into Fabio’s. The young man had been observing him. He was about to chomp down on his gum when a light glinted in his eyes. He raised one hand to his mouth and spat out the gum; then he stuck it to the bottom of the table.
“You keeping that for later?” asked Rocco.
The boy nodded.
At last the door swung open and Riccardo Biserni, Righetti’s lawyer, came in. Suit and tie, about thirty-five, a ruddy, healthy face, intelligent blue eyes. He immediately smiled at the deputy police chief. “Sorry I’m late, Rocco, but in-laws will be in-laws . . .”
They shook hands. “Don’t think twice, Ricca’, don’t worry. On the other hand, you’re the one who wanted to get married.”
“Me? You crazy? She bear-trapped me.”
“That’s the first time anyone ever caught a lawyer in a trap, instead of the other way around.”
“Well, if you want to know the truth, it didn’t hurt a bit. Now then . . .” The lawyer sat down next to his client. “How are you doing, Fabio? Everything okay?” he asked as he pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “These are things I’ll need you to sign.” Fabio nodded. Rocco yawned and stretched and sat back down.
“How are they treating you? All right?”
“Fine. I have a cell all to myself, and I never have to deal with the others.”
Riccardo glanced at the deputy police chief. “Is that your doing?”
Rocco nodded. “I didn’t think he needed to familiarize with certain people.”
“In that case, I usually record my conversations, but I can skip it this time. After all, it’s a friendly conversation, isn’t it?” the lawyer said. Rocco nodded.
“We caught Hilmi Bastiany, Fabio,” he said suddenly, scrutinizing Righetti’s face. “Your accomplice.”
The boy lowered his gaze.
“And he had a few things to tell us. Tell me when I go astray here, eh? The two of you sold off some jewelry to get the money to give your dealer so you could peddle drugs in the gardens outside the train station. Sound about right?”
Fabio looked over at his lawyer, who slowly nodded his head yes. “We got the coke without having to pay, at least not yet. If we did well, they were going to give us more.”
Rocco didn’t ask who’d given them the coke. Right now, he had a very different target. He needed to go on bluffing. So he went all in and played his ace in the hole. “What time did you enter the Baudo apartment?”
Fabio snickered. “The Baudo apartment?” he asked back.
“Hilmi told me you were there at seven thirty. Can you confirm that?”
“I’ve never been in the Baudos’ apartment. I don’t even know where it is.”
“I’ll tell you where it is. It’s the place you burgled and stole gold and jewelry that you fenced to Gregorio Chevax to get the money for the drugs you sold.”
“I already told you. We got the coke without paying a cent. We didn’t need money.”
“Then why did you burglarize the Baudos’ apartment?”
“I’ve never burglarized anyone’s apartment.”
He could still try out the final full-on assault. “Listen, asshole . . .”
“Rocco . . .” Riccardo intervened with an avuncular tone.
“Listen, asshole,” Rocco insisted, “you and Hilmi went into the Baudos’ apartment, you took the gold, the lady walked in on you, and you killed her. You strangled her! Then you staged the hanging.”
“Rocco, what the fuck are you talking about?” the lawyer snapped. “Are you accusing Fabio of murder?”
“I’m not, Hilmi is. He told me that it was Fabio’s idea to stage the hanging.”
“I never killed anyone! What are you talking about?”
“Rocco, if you’re planning to charge my client with anything of the sort, I’m afraid I’m going to have to interrupt this informal conversation and elevate it to a different level.”
“Riccardo, I’m just trying to help Fabio out here, because Hilmi is trying to sell him down the river.”
“Don’t force me to go to the judge. If I have to leave this room . . .”
“Hilmi took a picture of your client inside the apartment, Riccardo. While he was rummaging through an armoire. You realize what that means? I’m just trying to save him from a homicide charge, for Christ’s sake!”
“It was nine thirty!” Fabio Righetti shouted, freezing his lawyer and Rocco too, in mid-dispute.
“Fabio, if you want to remain silent, go ahead; you and I should have a talk first.”
“No, I don’t have anything to hide. It was nine thirty. Not seven thirty.”
Rocco leaned back in his chair. “So you’re saying Hilmi is lying?”
“Of course he’s lying,” said Fabio. “We were supposed to go in right after seven because Signor Baudo left on his bicycle. Only that fucking moped of Hilmi’s had a flat tire and we were running late.”
“Did you get a new tire?”
“Yes. At the tire repair shop in front of police headquarters. He can tell you about it; his name is Fabrizio.”
“Nice, Fabio. So go on.”
The lawyer was breathing heavily. He was like a panther ready to pounce, but the situation was already tangled beyond repair. Rocco thought he could practically see the lawyer’s brain chugging away, trying to put things back together. “It was past nine by the time we got to the Baudo place. I know because I got a text message on my phone.”
“When did you make copies of the keys to the Baudo apartment?”
Fabio looked up. “Three days ago. It was Hilmi who stole them from Irina.”
“Tell me how it went.”
“We went straight to the bedroom. I knew they kept the gold there.” Riccardo Biserni listened in silence. He was taking notes, but there’d be no getting this cat back into the bag.
“How did you know that?”
“One time Irina told Hilmi’s father that Signor Baudo kept a box in the bedroom and she had told him he should get a safe because leaving valuables around like that was dangerous.”
“And in fact it was. Go on.”
“We found the jewel box with all the gold. We were just leaving when we heard the key turn in the lock.”
“Was it Irina?”
Fabio Righetti nodded. “Hilmi and I didn’t know where to hide. We beat it all the w
ay to the back of the apartment, the room with the door closed.”
Rocco looked at the boy: “And what was in there?”
“How’m I supposed to know? It was dark, and I made sure I didn’t turn on the light, or else Irina would have seen me.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I heard Irina calling out to the signora. And I knew that the signora wasn’t at home, for sure she was out doing her shopping. That’s what she always does in the morning. Then I heard Irina running away, and I thought to myself: shit, she must have noticed something, or she saw us. How could she, though? Irina tripped on the carpet. I heard a noise; it was her screaming and slamming the front door behind her. I waited a little while and then we both snuck out of the apartment.”
“How did you manage to leave the building?”
“We just went out the front door. There wasn’t anybody around. We ran for it and hid behind a car. Irina had stopped a man in the middle of the street.”
Rocco stood up from his chair. “Good work, Fabio. You were perfect.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never even seen the signora in my life, Commissario Schiavone.”
“Deputy Police Chief Schiavone,” Rocco corrected him. “Did you know what was in that dark room?”
“No . . .”
“Esther Baudo’s corpse was in that room, my friend.” Rocco and the lawyer looked at each other.
“Why did Hilmi tell those lies?” asked Fabio.
“Listen to me, Fabio, I already told you this the first time we met. If you want to be a gangster, you have to be born one. And you’re no gangster. I just wanted to hear what happened in that apartment, and now I’m going to compare stories and see if you told me the truth. If you did, then all you’ll be looking at is a drug dealing charge . . . oh, and burglary . . . and you’ve got your lawyer right here, and he knows how these things work better than I do. But I’ll do what I can to blame the initiative for the burglary on Hilmi, that it was his idea to pull this inside job and at the very worst, you were an accomplice. You’ll do a couple of months behind bars, and then you’ll be out on the street.”
“Commissario, that’s the truth.”
“Call me commissario one more time and I’ll make sure you get life without parole.”
“Yes, Deputy Police Chief,” Fabio promptly corrected himself.
“But if it turns out you lied and you do have something to do with this murder, then things change.” And he looked at the lawyer. “Well, Fabio, we’ve had a really nice talk. Your cell phone, please?”
“Why?”
“It’s important. You told me you received a text message at nine o’clock Friday morning. That’s a little piece of evidence in your favor, you know that?”
“It’s down in the storeroom,” said Riccardo.
“Let me tell you again, sir: I told the truth. You can ask the guy at the tire repair shop.”
“You can count on it. Thanks, Riccardo,” he said as he walked toward the door. The lawyer caught up with him. Under his breath, he said: “You didn’t catch Hilmi at all, tell me the truth.”
“If you already know it, why are you bothering asking me?” He opened the door and left the meeting room.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU GO INTO THE SHOP YESTERDAY?”
“You saw me?”
“I was in the bar across the street.”
Standing on the landing, uncertain whether to go into the apartment or continue to stand there talking, Nora and Rocco looked at each other with tired eyes.
“You put me through a truly miserable birthday, you know that?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And now you come to see me. Why?”
“To ask you to forgive me.”
“Rocco Schiavone asking for forgiveness.”
“You don’t think much of me.”
“Why should I?”
“Are you going to let me in or shall we stay on the landing?”
“Neither one,” Nora replied, and sweetly shut the door in the deputy police chief’s face. He stood there, gazing at the knots in the wood. Then he took a deep breath, did an about-face, and left Nora’s apartment building.
Outdoors the temperature had plunged along with the setting sun and an icy hand clutched the policeman’s chest. “So fucking cold . . .” he muttered bitterly between clenched teeth while buttoning his loden overcoat. Before he could take even two steps down the sidewalk the first solitary snowflake fluttered lightly before his eyes. The streetlamps were already on and in the yellowish light hundreds of flakes flew, like moths, slow and majestic. A flake landed on Rocco’s cheek. He rubbed it dry. He raised his eyes to the steel-gray sky and saw them land on him by the dozen. They emerged from the darkness and took shape a few yards above him. He imagined himself as a spaceship traveling at the speed of light and all those dots hurtling toward him as so many stars and galaxies through which he was moving, into the mysterious depths of the cosmos. The lights were on in Nora’s windows. And in the luminous rectangle of the living room window he saw Nora, standing there watching him as he played at letting the snow tickle him. Their eyes met once again. Then a movement in the adjoining window, the one in the bedroom, caught the deputy police chief’s attention. A shadow behind the curtains. It had gone by quickly but not fast enough for there to be any doubt about its nature: it was a man. Rocco bit his lip and immediately tried to assign a name and a face to that shadowy guest. He raised his right hand as if to say hello to Nora, then he raised the left hand next to it and mimed the act of opening the window. At first, Nora didn’t understand. Rocco repeated the gesture. The woman complied, opening the window and sticking her head out ever so slightly, one hand on her chest to protect herself from the chill. Rocco smiled up at her. “If you ask me, it’s the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other. Right?”
Nora made a face. “What did you say?”
“I said, if you ask me, it’s the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other.”
“His name is Pietro Bucci Rivolta.”
“Is that him?”
“Is who him?”
“Whoever it is that’s over in the bedroom.”
Nora said nothing. She shut the window and pulled the curtains, vanishing from Rocco’s sight. Not even ten seconds later, she turned off the lights.
Okay, fair enough, thought Rocco: you don’t answer rhetorical questions.
Now there were plenty of snowflakes, and they no longer looked like stars he was passing as he explored the cosmos, but just what they were: icy snowflakes that were getting inside the collar of his overcoat, and were bound to turn the road into a dangerous sheet of ice.
It was time to go home.
“WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, THERE IS A GOD AFTER all, no?” Marina tells me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask her.
“The guy that rapes little girls.” She’s making an herbal tea, I guess, because she’s clattering around in the kitchen.
“Excuse me very much, but what does God and His existence have to do with that son of a bitch?”
“Nothing to do with him. It has to do with you.” She comes into the living room and goes over to the table. In one hand she has a mug. Sure enough, an herbal tea.
“I don’t understand you, Marì.”
“I’m saying, there’s a God because in the end they punished you. If you think about it, they punished you for the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, that is, beat that guy up.”
She’s right.
“Sort of like Al Capone, no? They finally put him in jail for tax evasion, and not for littering Chicago with corpses. If you make the necessary adjustments, that’s more or less what happened to you, Rocco.”
“I didn’t litter the city with corpses.”
“No? Think back.”
I don’t want to think back. I don’t want to think about any of it. “All right,” I say to her, “there’s a God. But why are you so glad that I’m exiled up here?”
<
br /> She laughs prettily and pulls out her notebook. She reads the word of the day. “Diluculum. It’s a Latin word. You know what it means?”
“No.”
“It’s the first light, the light of the new day.”
“Daybreak?”
“Yes. Nice, eh?”
“The word itself, not so much. It’s funny-sounding.”
“But the first light is pretty. It brings hope, because sooner or later it’s bound to come.” And she disappears again. It’s what she always does. After all, I already know what she’s saying to me. It’s always the same thing, even if she uses complicated phrases, words that she finds in the dictionary but that always talk about the same problem. As if I didn’t know it. I just don’t have the strength. I probably don’t have the will, either. It takes tremendous strength. And a person doesn’t necessarily have that strength. A person might not be able to muster it. I’m there, with both shoes. But you just take a look at my shoes on the radiator. Look at the pitiful shape they’re in. And it’s not even the end of March yet. I wonder if springtime will ever come here. The day after tomorrow is the twentieth, and springtime arrives at midnight. But around here no one seems to have noticed. But I have. The day after tomorrow is Marina’s birthday. And she was born right at midnight. Another minute and it would have been the twenty-first. But to me Marina and springtime have always been the same thing.
MONDAY
The snow had gone on falling all night long, covering the streets and piling high atop the cars. A few straggling flakes still fluttered indecisively through the chilly air, uncertain whether to land on a branch or a streetlight. Rocco had left his car double-parked all night long, next to a panel van that had been parked there for six months now without moving. By rights he should have called the traffic division and had them tow that van away, but why give up a convenient place to double-park right downstairs from his apartment? The panel van could stay right where it was.
Taking care where he set his feet, he reached his Volvo and climbed in. His warm, dense breath filled the chilly air inside the vehicle. “Fucking cold as hell,” he snarled. Then he turned the key and the car’s 163 horses roared immediately to life under his command. He turned on the heat, rubbing his hands together, hands that his leather gloves just couldn’t keep warm. He needed to get to the office for his realist’s morning prayer. But he’d made a mistake. An unforgivable oversight. He’d forgotten to turn off his cell phone, which he normally only turned on after nine. And the damned thing started ringing. Rocco leaped off the seat, in something approaching fear. “Fucking Christ . . .” he swore as he frantically felt in his various pockets. He grabbed it, holding it as if it were a hot potato.
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