Adam's Rib

by Antonio Manzini

  Private number on his display. He’d need to be ready. It could be a sales call, or it could be the chief of police.

  “Hello?”

  “Beating Palermo two to one on their home field ain’t peanuts.”

  It was Andrea Corsi, the police chief, who was rejoicing that his soccer team, Genoa CFC, had won an away match in Sicily.

  “And so Schiavone, a splendid week stretches out before us. The weather is fine and the sails are proudly bellying!”

  “Dottore, your optimism at this hour of the morning is annoying, to say the least,” Rocco replied.

  “All right then. Do you have any news for me on the Baudo case? Let me remind you that tomorrow there’s going to be a press conference.”

  “Which I won’t be able to attend. You know how to handle journalists; you have them wrapped around your little finger. I just don’t know how to handle these things.”

  “Those assholes . . .” said the police chief.

  “Believe me, you can hypnotize them. You could tell them the story of Hansel and Gretel and they’d be happy.”

  “You’re flattering me, Schiavone. But you see, I still have to have some red meat to toss those hooligans. Give me something.”

  “Certainly. Why don’t you see if this does the trick. On Friday, in the dead woman’s apartment, it was busier than an August day at Rome’s Stazione Termini. Not only was the housekeeper there, but a couple of two-bit burglars happened by.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “That there was a burglary at the Baudo residence.”

  “And are they suspects in the murder?”

  “No way. They’re just a couple of losers. Shall I explain why they had nothing to do with it?”

  “Sure. Is it very complicated?”

  “Only slightly.”

  “Then let me get a pen.” There was a pause during which Rocco could clearly hear the desk drawers opening and shutting as Corsi frantically searched for a pen. “My pens! Who keeps stealing my pens!” the police chief shouted. “Finally. I’m ready, Dottor Schiavone.”

  “All right, the two young men, known respectively as Fabio Righetti and Hilmi Bastiany . . .”

  “Hilmi what?”

  “Bastiany.”

  “Bastiany. Where’s he from? Albania?”

  “Egypt, Dottore. So the two kids just happen to be there, ransacking the place, or actually, stealing gold that they knew was in the bedroom.”

  “How did they know?”

  “Hilmi is the son of the man who cohabits with the housekeeper, and the boy stole her house keys, had them copied, and used them to enter the apartment. Now, according to the findings of our crackerjack medical examiner, Esther Baudo was killed no later than seven thirty. Righetti, Bastiany’s accomplice, tells us that they entered the apartment at nine thirty.”

  “Maybe he’s not telling the truth.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. I checked it out. At nine o’clock he and Hilmi were still getting the moped’s flat tire fixed. Now listen. When the housecleaner, Hilmi’s stepmother, came in, the two burglars hid and, according to what Fabio Righetti told us, watched the whole thing—Irina running terrified out of the apartment and then meeting a retired warrant officer downstairs, in the street; and he was in fact the man who first called us.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “That Irina got there at ten. And at that time of the morning, the kids were in the apartment.”

  “The stepmother, whatchamacallit, the housecleaner, could have told them everything afterward, couldn’t she?”

  “But when? No, I don’t think so. Righetti actually told me that she tripped over the carpet and that down in the street she stopped to talk to a man walking a dog on a leash. You see, one thing I’ve learned is that when a person is in a state of panic, which Irina definitely was, they usually don’t tell their stories with an abundance of details. In fact, there are details that they don’t even remember. Now I wonder: if Righetti and Hilmi were caught by Esther Baudo at seven thirty that morning and killed her, what the hell reason could they have had for staying in that apartment for another three hours?”

  “What about staging the suicide?”

  “Three hours? To hoist up a dead body on a hook from the ceiling? Look, let’s even admit the fear, the tension, the outright terror, and even the time it took to come up with the solution. But if you ask me, an hour and a half, tops, is all the time that was needed. Three hours is just too much time. Plus, we have the guy at the tire repair shop who clearly remembers the two idiots on the moped, teeth chattering with cold, who had a flat tire fixed.”

  “Mmm, I’m with you. The timing doesn’t match up. How did you nail this down?”

  “Because Hilmi took me straight to Gregorio Chevax, who’s an—”

  “I know who he is,” Corsi interrupted. “He’s back in hot water? You know, I arrested him the first time.”

  “Yes, he’s in hot water again. Hilmi took him a batch of stolen goods from the Baudo residence. You see? Now you have something to give to the newspapers. And in any case Inspector Rispoli should be in your office shortly with a complete report. So you’ll have it in writing.”

  “And this Hilmi? Where’s he?”

  “This is the one sour note. He got away. We think he made it out of the country. If you take a look at the papers that came in yesterday you’ll see that there’s already an international arrest warrant and bulletin out on the kid.”

  “Oh shit . . . but why did he run?”

  “Because he assaulted a cop. Because he owes money to people who’ll stop at nothing, people that gave him the drugs in the first place. And because he knows that sooner or later we’d work our way back to him, since his accomplice is about to be subjected to a special expedited nonjury trial.”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “No. He might have gone to stay with his mother in Egypt. By way of Switzerland, I think. Do we have an extradition treaty with Egypt, Dottore?”

  “We’ll have to ask the district attorney about that. I’d have to say offhand that they haven’t signed any protocol with Italy. But, let me repeat, I’m working on memory. Thanks, Schiavone. So you work Sundays too?”

  “When necessary. Because after all, there isn’t a lot to do in this city; you have to face it.”

  “You should learn to ski. Then you’d definitely fall in love with this place.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, Dottore.”

  “So aren’t we going to see you at the press conference?”

  “If you could see your way to letting me skip it, I’d be very grateful. I’m actually working on a pretty promising lead.”

  “Then stick to your work, Schiavone. And keep me informed. I’ll take care of those bastards the news vendors. Ah, and don’t forget the governor and his amateur bike race in late April.”

  “Certainly, I’m already working on it.”

  “Excellent. As far as I can tell those pen pushers don’t have anything else on their minds. Goddamn them and blast them to hell.”

  A wound in the police chief’s heart hadn’t healed in all these year. His wife had abandoned her home and her husband for a reporter for La Stampa. It was still a bleeding gash in Andrea Corsi’s heart. A cut that might never heal at all.

  ROCCO PARKED IN FRONT OF POLICE HEADQUARTERS, in his reserved spot. Walking gingerly on tiptoes, taking care where he put his feet, he headed for the entrance. Officer Scipioni, who was just leaving the building, smiled when he spotted him. “Dottore, are you afraid you might step on dogshit?”

  “Idiot, I’m trying not to get my Clarks wet.”

  “When are you going to finally buy yourself a pair of suitable shoes?”

  “The day you finally learn to mind your own goddamned business,” Rocco replied, eyes fixed on the snow-covered sidewalk. Whereas Scipioni with his police boots comfortably strolled over the mantle of snow like an icebreaker. “I’m heading for the bar. Want an espres
so?”

  “No thanks, Scipio’. By the way, about Palermo . . .”

  “Let’s forget about it and we’ll both be happier.”

  “No, but first you need to answer a question for me.”

  Scipioni stopped and turned to look at the deputy police chief: “Ask freely, Dottore.”

  “Are you Sicilian?”

  “On my mother’s side. But my dad is from Ascoli Piceno.”

  “And how do you like being here in Aosta?”

  Scipioni thought it over for a few seconds. “I like it in terms of work. I like my colleagues and I even like the brass.”

  “Thanks, too kind.”

  “I like the weather too. I really like the cold. The one who hates it and wishes she could go live by the water is my wife.”

  “Is she Sicilian too?”

  “No, she’s from Saint-Vincent.”

  Rocco stood there looking at Officer Scipioni. “She was born here and she doesn’t like it?”

  “These things happen . . .”

  Schiavone shook his head as he climbed the steps and finally walked into police headquarters. He was moving fast to avoid his morning encounter with Deruta. There was no danger of running into D’Intino; to the best of Rocco’s knowledge the man was still in the hospital. He hurried down the long corridor and ducked toward his office.

  When he entered the office, he found a note. Probably from Italo:

  De Silvestri called from Rome. It’s urgent!

  Rocco didn’t even bother sitting down. He picked up the phone and called the Cristoforo Colombo police station in Rome. It was actually De Silvestri who answered: he was clearly waiting for his call.

  “De Silvestri, what’s up? What’s going on?”

  “Dottore . . . he’s at it again!”

  Rocco slammed the receiver down hard and shouted as loud as he was able: “Italo!”

  IT WAS RAINING. THE LIGHTS ON ROME’S BELTWAY, the Grande Raccordo Anulare, were gleaming off the wet asphalt. The taxi’s windshield wipers were struggling to wipe away the water, while the drops on the car’s roof rattled like a crazed drum solo.

  “Some weather, eh?” said the cabbie.

  “Completely crazy,” Rocco replied.

  “So I’m dropping you on Via Poerio, right?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Then that’s right. The address is number twelve.”

  Rocco pulled out his cell phone. He scrolled through his directory looking for Sebastiano’s phone number.

  “Seba? It’s me.”

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “In a taxi. I’m in Rome.”

  “Mmm. We going to see you?”

  “Tonight. At Santa Maria. Tell Brizio and Furio.”

  “Got it. Eight o’clock?”

  “Done.”

  He was back in Rome, his city. But even though he hadn’t seen the place in months, he felt nothing. Anger. Just anger.

  And plenty of it.

  THE DEPUTY POLICE CHIEF OPENED THE FRONT DOOR of his apartment but didn’t go right in. He stood at the threshold and looked in. There was a rumble of distant thunder. Then he turned on the light and made up his mind.

  The smell of stale air. The furniture looked mournful and dreary, covered with white sheets. The refrigerator was open, empty, with dish towels on the floor. Carpets rolled up and hidden behind the sofas. In an ashtray he found a dead cigarette butt. Rocco picked it up. Diana brand smokes. A sign that Dolores, who came to clean the place once a week, had taken a break on his sofa. He went into the bedroom and opened the armoire. There was nothing in there but his summer jackets. And Marina’s dresses, wrapped in cellophane. He touched them one by one. Every dress reminded him of something. Furio’s wedding. The dinner in celebration of Marina’s nephew’s promotion. His father-in-law’s retirement. The last dress was the red one. The one she wore at their wedding. He smiled. He remembered the ceremony at city hall. Marina in her red dress, him dressed in green trousers with a white shirt. Secular. Patriotic. Italian.

  “How drunk was I at our wedding?” he asked aloud. He turned around. But there was nothing but the bed under a plastic slipcover. He left the bedroom and went back to the living room.

  The whole apartment was reflected in the large window overlooking the terrace, streaked with raindrops on the outside. Rocco leaned his forehead against the glass. He looked out. A flash of lightning illuminated the cupolas of the churches and the silhouettes of the roofs of Rome. He felt as if he’d brought the clouds now lowering over the city of Rome with him from Aosta. The rainwater being vomited out of the downspouts was transforming the terrace into a swimming pool. He could make out the dark shapes of Marina’s plants, clustered in a corner. The lemon tree, wrapped in a canvas cover, stood under the wooden shed roof, along with the rosebushes. At least the concierge was doing her job. It was crucial that those plants not die. Especially the lemon tree. He felt a stab of sorrow in his heart and a pang at the pit of his stomach. He took an umbrella from the large vase by the front door and exited the apartment, leaving the lights on behind him. Perhaps the time had come to sell that penthouse. There was nothing in it that belonged to him anymore. He was reminded of a movie he’d seen years and years ago, where the wall paintings in a Roman tomb that had just been violated dissolved in contact with the fresh air from outside, melting away entirely while the body of a mysterious handmaiden deflated on the altar, leaving behind nothing but fabric and a couple of rings. He closed the door behind him, without even single-locking it, much less double-locking it. There was nothing left to steal anyway.

  IN MARCH IT CAN HAPPEN, IN ROME AT LEAST, THAT what looked like a latter-day biblical great flood suddenly dies out and dries up, leaving behind nothing but waterlogged streets, fallen trees, and an industrial quantity of car crashes and other mishaps, filling the city’s emergency rooms to overflowing. The smell is a mix of bird guano, car exhaust, frying oil, and wet grass. The mopeds and Vespas start zipping through the streets again, like swallows in the spring air, and waiters appear in front of restaurants, waiting for the arrival of tourists. At least in Trastevere.

  Rocco was sitting at an outdoor table underneath a patio heater, drinking a beer and waiting for his friends. It was eight o’clock and the two men showed up, emerging from the Via della Lungaretta right on time. Sebastiano was tall and strapping, enormous with his long curly hair restrained under a woolen watch cap. Furio was skinny and nervous, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The streetlamps gleamed off his bald head. They looked around. Not because they had any reason to be on the alert: it was just a habit with them. A professional habit it was hard to shake. His longtime friends walked toward him, studying the sky as if whatever danger might present itself were likely to fall from above. Ursus arctos horribilis and Acinonyx jubatus. Civilian names: grizzly bear and cheetah. A handsome pair. As soon as they reached the fountain, they’d spotted Rocco sitting at the table waiting for them. Rocco stood up. And he threw both arms open like the Christ of Corcovado over Rio de Janeiro. Seba and Furio smiled back. And the three men hugged with all the rude violence of a rugby scrum. All three at once. Rocco’s heart began to beat again.

  “Are you sitting outside to show how used to Nordic climes you are?” said Furio.

  “I’m sitting outside because inside it’s crowded as hell and after all it’s not so damn cold out.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s not. Plus also I’m sitting outside because I’m in Rome and when you’re in Rome you sit outside and I want to look at the mosaics of Santa Maria. Is that a good enough reason for you?”

  “You’re an idiot,” said Sebastiano, pulling off his woolen watch cap. His long curly hair exploded. “I’m going to get a couple of beers.” He stood up, shoving the chair back as he did.

  Rocco glanced at Furio. “How you doing?”

  “So-so. Getting by. And you?”

  “Same. Getting by. Why isn’t Brizio here?”
r />   “He’s in Albano. His mother-in-law had a stroke. Now she talks all screwy.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Yeah. Not only does she talk screwy, but she can’t remember a fucking thing. And since Stella went away for a week for an internship in cutting hair and doing permanents, Brizio wound up being the babysitter. Just think, yesterday his mother-in-law took him for the plumber.”

  “And to think that when Stella’s mamma was a young thing she turned men into drooling idiots,” said Rocco.

  “Look,” said Furio, “I’m going to tell you just so it’s out there. The first times I jerked off it was thinking about her.”

  “You’re not the only one. In the summer it was the kind of thing that could damage your health. You remember?”

  “Do I remember? With those skimpy flower-print dresses and a pair of tits that looked like they were about to explode. And her hair. Her long black hair, and those lips . . . look, if you ask me, the real reason Brizio married Stella was because of a transference with her mother.”

  “Furio, are you all fixated on this thing with the transferences?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Brizio told Seba that Adele had an affair with Er Cravatta because of a transference with the father figure.”

  “You see? He knows what he’s talking about! Look, that’s the way it is, Rocco. Brizio is with Stella because of his memories of her mother. It’s human; what do you think?”

  “If you ask me, you’re an idiot.”

  “One time at the water fountain in Piazza San Cosimato, it might have been in August, Stella’s mother stopped to rinse her face and cool off a little. But her dress got wet too, and underneath she wasn’t wearing anything at all. You could see every last thing! Her nipples, with every breath she took you’d think the whole kit and caboodle was about to explode. Brizio and I were there on our bikes, ogling her, and she noticed; she looked at the two of us with those green eyes of hers and she flashed us a smile. She even shot a wink. Then that little tramp turned around and bent over to rinse her neck. You want to know the incredible part? She wasn’t even wearing panties. Brizio and I pedaled home as fast as we could and headed straight for the bathroom and we—”