I had expected a chapel as majestic as the rest of the villa, but it was only a circular room with exposed brick and a small plain wooden altar in the middle. It looked more recent than the rest of the villa; Monica confirmed this soon afterwards. Talula had had it built at the start of her conversion. You could fit in twice as many people as were already sitting in the pews. I guessed that there were around a hundred worshippers.
The Flock was distinguished and elegant, men in suits and women with the occasional piece of jewellery that had not come from pawnshops. Even Monica wore diamond pendants; with my keen eye for value, I guessed that they were antique and extremely expensive. There were old members, a few as old as the hostess of the evening, and there was also a couple in their twenties. In one of the centre aisles I recognised Monica’s father, who was bigger and more youthful than I had imagined. The blue wool suit he wore brought out his tan. He gave a slight wave, and we waved back before entering an empty pew.
Talula got into one of the first pews on the left. It was custom-made; the space behind was empty, to accommodate her scooter.
Father Zurloni, wearing his vestment for Mass, genuflected before the altar and then turned toward us. He wore dark sunglasses just like the ones from the photo on the internet. It looked strange, and when he moved I saw that he had his reasons. The priest reached and touched everything, judging the distance before he walked, even if he knew the place and everything in it by heart.
A psychiatrist as well as blind, Zurloni was full of surprises. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken into a tap dance. The Mass, apart from the location, was just like any other that I could remember from my childhood. That was before I realised that Sundays were better for running around killing lizards than going to church.
At the beginning it was hard for me to remember the words but I must have saved them in some part of my brain because they came back to me. Maybe the Ad Exec’s memories were coming back? The homily was less boring than the ones that had tortured me when I was young, thanks to the Father’s delivery. He had a deep voice and he was nothing like the priest from my old parish. He played to the congregation, interacting and telling a joke or two while inviting them to give money to the poor. He recited a passage and I followed the first lines before going back to thinking about my own problems.
I found you in so many places, Lord!
I felt my heart beating in the high silence
Of an Alpine church …
The only thing missing was some folk music and you’d have had a top-ten Christian hit1. When it was time for communion Father Zurloni touched me to find my mouth. From that brief contact he seemed to recognise me because I saw a smile he hadn’t shown the others before me. Yep, we were old friends. Thanks to Father Zurloni, I finally got a chance to drink from the chalice within spitting distance of the altar boys. Everyone did it. This normally happened only on special occasions but I guess The Flock did it as their usual rite. Holy wine wasn’t all that great; it was watered down and full of crumbs.
The Mass is ended; go forth and eat in peace.
The tables in the ballroom were now covered with steaming silver trays of food, and behind them were waiters wearing jackets and white gloves. On another long table were giant fruit baskets, cheeses and bottles of wine. The products had cards on them that read ‘Holy Blood of Christ,’ the community managed by The Flock. On the walls were photographs of an idyllic farm, where young boys and girls dressed in white were smiling happily while they shovelled manure and brushed horses. They also played football in the fields when they weren’t working. The products were sold in more than a thousand supermarkets under the brand name Cibosanto.
‘You came up with the name,’ Monica said.
‘I never get one right.’
In one of the images a lonely-looking young man gazed longingly at the horizon on the other side of the fence. I’d have liked to know his name. I could have sent him a cake with a file in it.
I kept Monica close to me for the eventual nose and ear cues that we had used before. She also helped out with those I greeted. Monica whispered their names or yelled them out while kissing them. She also updated me with additional information so I’d have an idea who I was speaking to. The info lasted a nanosecond in my head. From what I gathered, the Ad Exec, even if he had good social standing, was still way below the average member of The Flock. None of the ones who talked to me had seen me since the last meeting, and none seemed like the type who would have tried to kill me. Either they were too old or they had enough money to hire a more efficient hit man.
Talula whirled everywhere as if she had rocket packs on her scooter. She flew from one group to the next, keeping the conversation going. I, on the other hand, was keeping my eye on the priest, waiting for the right moment to get in and talk to him. The altar boy was now in civilian gear, wearing a narrow tie. He was like Father Zurloni’s guide dog, now helping him with his food and drink.
I unhooked myself from Monica and followed them while they walked outside in the cold through the park to the gazebo. A band was sound-checking their instruments and the PA system. As far as the eye could see small wrought-iron lamps with glass orbs illuminated the park. Beyond the gazebo you could see a dry fountain with an eroded statue of a fish with its mouth wide open. Father Zurloni blessed the music group, which looked like a throwback from the sixties. When I was a few steps behind him, he turned around. ‘Santo?’
More than a priest, this guy was like Daredevil with his superhero sonar.
‘Yes, it’s me. Could I speak with you?’
‘Of course, I was rather hoping that you would.’ He extended his arm so that I could take it. ‘Let this child have some fun,’ he said, referring to the altar boy. ‘Shall we take a walk?’
His arm slid under mine and I directed him to a part of the park away from the crowd. We stopped under one of the many outdoor propane heaters that were shaped like a giant mushroom. It smelled of gas but it warmed my bones. They all shone red like the tips of cigarettes that disappeared into the distance. The priest, however, seemed indifferent to the cold. He was wearing a dark cardigan over his normal black clerical clothing.
‘What’s bothering you?’ he asked.
‘How do you know that something’s bothering me?’
‘Because your soul seems heavy. The soul has a distinct aroma and when it’s heavy I can smell it and you still haven’t hugged me. It’s the first thing that you usually do whenever we meet. Tonight, you’ve been distant.’ He stretched his arms out and I was forced to embrace his brittle body. He caressed my head before finally letting go.
‘What’s wrong? Does it have to do with the tragic death of Mariano Roveda?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘Tonight I heard everyone whispering about it, thinking that I couldn’t hear. They forget that God took away my sight but that he gave me a great sense of hearing. Roveda was a sodomite; I think that he’s not having fun where he is now.’
Brrrr. ‘I didn’t want to talk about that.’ Do you remember when I was hospitalised?’
‘Of course. It was the beginning of our journey together. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I had a … a kind of relapse a few days ago.’
He paid more attention to what I was saying. ‘Are you talking to me as a doctor or as a priest?’
‘You decide.’
‘Let’s see, what kind of a relapse are you talking about?’
‘I’m having trouble remembering things, especially anything from that period of my life. Could it be stress?’
‘You work a lot. It’s a good thing, until it gets too much. What other symptoms do you have? Depression? Lethargy?’
‘More or less. How was I when I got to Sacco?’
‘If I’m not mistaken we got you after you were at the emergency room at the Niguarda General Hospital. Physically you were recovering well from your experience even if you were in a near-catatonic state.’
‘What did I do?
Did I kick the walls? Did I bite?’
He laughed.
‘No, no you didn’t, you did exactly the opposite. You wouldn’t get out of bed and you barely managed to speak, especially for the first few days. This was normal, considering the state of exhaustion that you were in. The medical report said, if I remember correctly, that you were without food and water for a long time.’
Yeah. I got a chill remembering the body that had crawled though the dark.
Maaaaaaaassssssss.
I thought about something else. ‘How long?’
‘At least a week. You were trapped in a cellar. A tramp went there to find shelter from the rain and he found you.’
‘Did the police get a description?’
‘I don’t remember exactly, but I remember that it was an elderly man guided by Divine Providence.’
It couldn’t have been Max. No mercy. No conscience.
‘What did I say about what happened to me?’
‘Nothing. It’s still a mystery. You’d completely cancelled it but whatever it was, it must have been terrible. Maybe you feel confused because you’re starting to remember. Have you had any anxiety or panic attacks?’
Yes. ‘No.’
‘Don’t be afraid if it happens. Sometimes it can happen years later and naturally I’m here to listen to you, just in case, as your doctor as well as your priest. In the end it’s the only missing piece of the life of our common friend Trafficante.’
That caught me off guard. ‘Did I tell you the whole story?’
‘You slowly opened your heart to me. Do you remember this?’
‘Of course,’ I snapped.
‘You left the old life behind you. You learned how to forgive and to be forgiven. The joy that I felt when you began to study again was indescribable.’
‘Thanks to you.’ I could’ve killed him.
‘No, thanks to the Lord.’ I couldn’t believe that.
He turned toward the pavement; his radar had picked up Monica, approaching arm in arm with her father.
‘Santo, Daddy wants to see you,’ she said a little worriedly when they drew close. ‘But maybe we’re disturbing you.’
‘We’re only chatting like old friends,’ said the priest.
Bonanno shook my hand. ‘What’s this about the bicycle?’
‘I’m trying to get back in shape.’
‘Biking in Milan is like playing Russian roulette. Father, would you mind if I took this youngster from you for a moment?’
‘Only if you treat him nicely. He’s feeling a little off this evening.’
Bonanno smiled at his daughter. ‘Monica, why don’t you take Father Zurloni back to the other guests?’
Monica looked worried. Me alone with her old man. Who knows what kind of trouble I could get myself into? He’d given her an order, not an invitation. He seemed to me as crushed by grief as a piece of cement.
Monica nodded. ‘Of course.’ She led the priest back to the villa.
‘We’ll stay here,’ said Bonanno. ‘This way I can smoke my cigar.’
‘All right.’
Bonanno sat on a part of the bench where you could still feel the heat. I sat on the far end, still thinking about the dark cellar.
‘I heard that you had a problem at the office.’
I was back. ‘Oh, really?’
‘They tell me that you’re nervous, that you’re behaving strangely.’ Bonanno lit his cigar and held it between two fingers. ‘I hope that’s not the case. It’s not the moment to be fucking up.’ The tone wasn’t as friendly as before. ‘You never picked up the phone when I called; as you could imagine, I was worried.’
‘Something came up.’
‘I understand.’ He inhaled forcefully until he was satisfied. ‘I guess you’ve heard the news?’
‘Roveda?’
It seemed like I had said something terribly stupid. ‘I’m not talking about that old cocksucker. I’m talking about the board of directors. It won’t be final until next week but there aren’t any more doubts.’ He took a long theatrical pause. ‘I’m going to be back in as the new CEO. I spent the last two days with Manetti’s heirs and finally they’ve made up their minds. They had no other choice unless they wanted to blow everything.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I think that they’re willing to give a part of their shares so the agency will go back into the right hands. My hands. It’s because of this that everything has to be under control. So, absolutely nothing can go wrong. Am I clear?’
‘Yes, you’re clear.’
‘Good.’ He stared at me. ‘Now tell me what you did with those damn phone records.’
Day Five
1
‘What did Daddy have to say that was so important?’ Monica was curled up in the passenger seat and had taken her shoes off. She was sleepy and tipsy from the wine. A horrible handbag that she had bought at one of the Cibosanto tables was on the backseat. She had planned on giving it to her doorman’s daughter.
I had just got onto the motorway. The digital clock read exactly 1:00.
(Learn: Telepass. Learn: Speed checked electronically Learn: Infotraffic)
‘Nothing … it was about the office.’
‘Why didn’t he ask me?’ she yawned. ‘You men … ’ She seemed happy as she snuggled up in her seat and closed her eyes.
The conversation with her father had gone on as it had started. Bonanno spoke in allusions that I didn’t understand and I forced myself not to look confused. ‘I destroyed the phone records,’ I lied. In my mind’s eye, I could see them tucked behind the bathroom cabinet, not the most secure place in the world. I hoped that the contractors would hurry up and get here and give me clearance.
‘Good.’ Bonanno puffed on his cigar. ‘Did you at least find anything useful?’
‘I didn’t have time to check.’
‘So you don’t know.’
‘No.’
He seemed annoyed. ‘I wasted three damn months waiting for something to come out of this idea of yours and you never found anything useful. Not once. Luckily, that cocksucker Mariano found a way to get himself out of the way, even if it was done so indiscreetly.’ He smiled. ‘I know that you’re being summoned by the judge.’
I nodded.
‘I don’t like it. We don’t have anything to worry about, do we?’ He stared at me above the tip of the cigar, reading my reaction more carefully.
‘Of course not. Who do you think it was?’ I dared ask.
‘Maybe it was an accident? He might have just knelt down in front of one those young boys who he liked so much and just got a cock in his eye.’ I didn’t feel like laughing. ‘The press is going to have a ball with this. Let’s just hope that the shit doesn’t go anywhere near the agency.’
‘Let’s hope.’
He nodded. ‘Until this is finished, I’ll have to take over as chief operating officer, you know. Your candidacy isn’t quite opportune at the moment, don’t you agree?’
‘What?’ Do I agree? ‘Yes.’
‘I knew that you’d understand but don’t worry, your time will come, not right away, but it will come. You trust me, don’t you?’
Could I disappoint him? ‘As much as I trust myself.’
‘Good. Just keep thinking like that and everything will be fine.’ A group of guests were coming out of the ballroom and they shivered as soon as they hit the cold. Bonanno grabbed my bad shoulder. ‘I’ll keep you updated,’ he said walking towards the others. I lit a cigarette and listened to the first song that the group played in the distance:
I have known love through You
I have known life through You
I have known myself through You
On the twelfth ‘You’ I understood it should have been with a capital letter. No sex here, only Christian love. I saw Monica in the window surrounded by a flock of Sheep, while more came outside to look at the show. They wore white blankets that had been given to them by the waiters. I overhea
rd some of their conversations.
(Learn: Charity. Learn: Fundraising. Learn: Secular. Learn: Stem cell research.)
I’d had to wait an hour before I could get Monica out of there and onto the motorway. The party was just starting to warm up. The Flock began to clap their hands to the rhythm of a familiar song.
*
Monica shifted in her seat. ‘Are you staying at my place tonight?’
It was certainly better than the Cupid Motel, where they probably would have shot me on the spot. I accepted.
When Monica fell asleep, I stared at the ceiling with my arm behind my head.
Maaaaaaaaaaaasssss. Maaaaaaasasssssss.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could see the cellar. I imagined myself licking the walls to catch whatever drops of water I could find. Maybe I had found something drinkable down there or maybe I had squeezed the blood out of rats to survive? I owed my life to some bum who was looking for a place to stay; otherwise that Rasta builder would have found me fourteen years later looking like King Tut’s mummy.
Maaaaaaasssssss. Maaaaaasssssssssss.
It was hard to breathe; I felt like my throat was inside out. And like I was dying. The night after La Scala I had a meltdown but it was all in my head. Now, it was something physical. My heart was beating way too quickly and I was in a cold sweat. I was reaching and grasping for something. I couldn’t get air into my lungs. It was so bad that I couldn’t lie down anymore. I got up and wandered around the apartment, moving silently like the ghost that I was. In the living room the lights reflected off the clear wood furniture and also off the framed photographs that stood on the shelves. The Ad Exec was in most of them. In one he was smiling in a white suit with his shirt unbuttoned. The backdrop could have been Paris. In another he was with Monica, sunbathing on the bow of a sailboat. He was wearing a captain’s hat with his fat hanging out, while Monica was topless, blocking the sun from her face with a magazine. Who knows if the skipper had taken the photo or if Bonanno was with them looking on lovingly as he thought about how to screw over the old cocksucker. The Ad Exec had offered to do the dirty work in exchange for a promotion that would never come. What a fool.
In a Heartbeat Page 15
