Kill the Father

by Sandrone Dazieri

  “I don’t have to tell you a fucking thing, Santini.”

  “She’s right, Judge De Angelis,” Minutillo broke in again. “And if the interview of my client is going to continue in this atmosphere, we’ll leave immediately.”

  “All right, all right, let’s all calm down,” said De Angelis. “But I am obliged to ask the deputy captain, present here today, the same question.”

  “Who are you interviewing? My client or the deputy captain?” asked Minutillo.

  “Your client. But I’d like to save some time, if you’re in agreement.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me, counselor, but let’s just cut this short,” Colomba broke in. “There’s no way I lost sight of him.”

  “Now are you satisfied?” asked Dante. “Or do you think that the deputy captain is lying, too?”

  “Signor Torre, you can understand that any skeptical observer would find the coincidence highly suspicious?”

  “There’s no coincidence,” said Dante. “He put it there on purpose.”

  “Your kidnapper.”

  “Yes.”

  “But what motive would he have for doing it? To send a message? Lay down a challenge? Establish his signature?”

  Dante hesitated, and Colomba had the distinct impression that he wasn’t telling the whole story. “I don’t know what he might be thinking. I didn’t know thirty years ago, and I don’t know now.”

  “Mightn’t it have simply gone unnoticed, your whistle? Stayed there until it rusted? Wound up in the trash?”

  “I’m hardly the best person to judge his intentions. I’m . . . influenced, I’d say, by the fact that he taught me to think of him as God as long as he held me prisoner. And it’s difficult to understand the mind of God.”

  Another glance between De Angelis and Santini. “All right, Signor Torre . . . I thank you. I’m done,” said De Angelis.

  Until that moment Dante had spoken in a low voice, without moving, practically. Suddenly he lunged forward, and De Angelis shot back, pressing his shoulders against the back of his chair. “Do you know what’s going to happen to that child now?” said Dante. “Years of imprisonment, if not the rest of his life. Psychological violence, physical violence. And the risk of being killed if he fails to learn or disobeys.”

  De Angelis scrutinized him. “Just like what happened to you, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes. Just like what happened to me.”

  “You do see, then, why that makes you a witness who can easily be influenced by events?”

  “Is that another way of saying unreliable?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Dante nodded slowly. “Well, I had to try. Can I go?”

  “Yes, we’re done,” De Angelis announced. “You’ll be asked to sign the transcript when your interview is typed up.”

  “Let us know, and we’ll come in,” said Minutillo, getting to his feet along with Dante.

  Colomba stood up, too.

  “Do you mind waiting for a minute, Deputy Captain?” said De Angelis.

  “As you like.”

  Minutillo and Dante left. De Angelis rubbed his chin, then took Santini and the lieutenant in at a single glance. “I need to have a private chat with the deputy captain.”

  The lieutenant shut the screen of his computer and stood up. Santini reached out to shake hands with De Angelis. “Well, I’ll just swing by police headquarters and then back to the office, if you don’t have anything else for me.”

  “No, go right ahead. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Santini headed for the exit; the lieutenant went over to an open window and lit a cigarette.

  “You know what I want to ask you, don’t you?” said De Angelis once they were alone.

  “No. Give me some help.”

  “If you really want to make it as hard as possible . . . What were you doing on the scene of an investigation you’re not involved in?”

  “I wanted Signor Torre to see the place,” she replied impassively.

  “For what reason?”

  “He’s an expert consultant on missing persons.”

  “He’s an unhinged individual, and law firms hire him to muddy the waters so they can make money.”

  “That’s your opinion. It’s not mine.”

  “Is Maugeri Torre’s client?”

  “No.”

  De Angelis put his fingertips together. “If he was, you might not know it. And this thing with the whistle could be the first brick in their defense theory.”

  “I came to him. Torre isn’t working for anybody right now.”

  “In what capacity, seeing that you’re on leave?”

  “As a private citizen. I happened to come into contact with the investigation, I tried to offer my small contribution . . .”

  De Angelis let himself slump back in his chair, looking her in the eyes. Colomba held his gaze.

  “You aren’t under oath right now, but I demand you tell me the truth, given the position I occupy. And you’re lying. It was Rovere who sent you. He didn’t like being shoved aside, proving once again how right I was not to involve him in the first place.”

  It would have been fair to put the blame on Rovere after what he’d forced her to do, but Colomba wasn’t the type to go over to the other side. “Absolutely not,” she replied. “He knows nothing about what I’m doing in this context.”

  “I don’t believe you, Deputy Captain. You’re intimate, the two of you, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean by ‘intimate’?”

  De Angelis threw both arms wide. “Don’t take it the wrong way! I only mean to say that he was your boss for many years. And that he was very close to you during your convalescence. And he did a great deal for you; he didn’t turn his back on you when many others would have, after what happened to you.”

  Colomba dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. “Is it really necessary to talk about it?”

  “Only to explain to you why I don’t believe you. You’d never operate behind Rovere’s back. Behind my back and Santini’s, no doubt. And you wouldn’t betray his trust by revealing the fact to me.”

  “If you know it, what’s the purpose of this interrogation?” she asked.

  “I just wanted to give you a chance. I’m sorry you didn’t take it.”

  “Can I go now?”

  De Angelis dropped his eyes to the papers lying in front of him. “Have a good evening, Deputy Captain.”

  Outside, in the meantime, with the excuse of a cigarette, Dante was waiting to say good-bye to Colomba after having strategically sent Minutillo to make a phone call in the parking area. After that night, he’d never see the green-eyed policewoman again, and he was sorry about that. Partly because she was an attractive and unconventional woman—and he’d seen far too few attractive women for quite some time now—and partly because he’d feel even more alone now in the presence of his phantoms and specters. Just then, Santini emerged from the restroom, wiping his hands on his trousers. He saw Dante standing alone, and in an instant his expression turned predatory. He galloped the few yards separating them and grabbed Dante by one arm.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said Dante, dropping the pack of cigarettes. Santini clapped one hand over his mouth and shoved him into one of the bathrooms. It was small and windowless. It reeked of shit.

  Santini closed the door behind him. It was dark. Dante could only see the black outline of the other man against the gray background and the eyes that appeared to glitter. The darkness seemed to weigh on his consciousness, beginning to crush it. Santini took his hand off his mouth, but Dante didn’t yell. His voice stuck in his throat. It seemed as if the walls were wrapping around him, and his legs gave way beneath him. He’d have fallen if Santini hadn’t held him up by the collar of his raincoat.

  “You’re afraid of being in confined spaces, aren’t you? And I’ll bet you’re afraid of the dark, too. Do you keep a night light on your bedside dresser? Shaped like a ducky?”<
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  Dante said nothing and concentrated on remaining conscious. Now the past was gleaming like a lightning bolt and echoing. Santini’s voice reached him, muffled, as if from behind a cement wall.

  The cement wall of the silo.

  “Let go of me,” he tried to say again, but his voice stuck in his throat.

  “Me is who you need to be afraid of. If you come around busting our chops again with this fairy tale about the whistle or anything else that has to do with the investigation, I’ll dig a hole and throw you down it. A hole in the ground. So you have to breathe through a pipe. You understand?”

  Dante did not understand. The Father’s voice drowned out everything else. It came down from on high and dictated the Law to him. It told him that he had once again made a mistake in parroting back what he’d been taught and that he would therefore need to punish himself. And that he must take the club and beat his bad hand with it. Keeping time with the Father’s count.

  Dante grabbed a wooden club made of air and tried to lift it, but Santini gripped his arm. “Stop flailing around. Just tell me that you understand. Tell me!”

  In the darkness of the silo, Dante found a window into the present and hooked onto it, bringing himself back into that foul-smelling bathroom standing face-to-face with the cop. He came back there, or a small part of him did, just enough to let him move his lips and say that he’d understood. Even if he didn’t know what that was. Or he’d forgotten it. He felt light. Rarified.

  Santini released him and threw open the door as he left. The burst of light whipped Dante like a jolt of electricity. He fell to his knees on the wet tiles, then threw himself on all fours and slithered through the filth to the main door.

  Outside, Colomba saw Santini get into his car, his tires spraying gravel. She wondered what had happened until she saw Dante crawling out of the bathroom.

  Colomba kneeled down to lift his head; at the same time, Minutillo interrupted his phone call and came running toward them, cursing himself for his carelessness.

  “Are you all right? What happened?” asked Colomba.

  “Nothing. Just leave me alone,” Dante murmured.

  “You heard him, leave him alone,” said Minutillo, behind her, pushing her aside none too gently. He leaned over Dante. “Can you get to your feet?”

  “Give me a hand.”

  Minutillo pulled him up, practically lifting him bodily. Dante’s trousers and raincoat were dripping and filthy. Minutillo took off his coat and wrapped it around him. “I’m taking you home now.”

  “Signor Torre,” said Colomba. “Wait a second.”

  Dante turned his eyes toward her.

  “I saw Santini running away. Did he do something to you?”

  Dante shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “Just words and without witnesses.” Dante pointed at the restaurant from which De Angelis was emerging at that exact moment, pretending not to see them. “Considering the way they reacted today, do you think that anyone would believe me?”

  “I believe you.”

  “But not about the most important things, apparently.”

  Dante let himself be dragged off by his lawyer. Colomba kicked a rock, but it did nothing to rid her mind of bad thoughts. Which increased, if anything, until she finally decided to get them off her chest and jumped into the car. Alberti snapped out of it.

  “Where am I taking you, Deputy Captain?”

  “To police headquarters. And this time put on that fucking siren.”

  Alberti drove fast, and every time he dared to slow at an intersection, Colomba urged him on.

  They got to Via San Vitale just as Santini’s car was pulling through the police headquarters security barrier.

  Colomba jumped out and waved her police ID in the guard’s face. When Santini opened the car door to get out, she was standing in front of him.

  “Caselli? What the fuck do you want?”

  She kicked him in the face. She caught him square on the chin with the tip of her boot, and Santini fell back into the car, literally seeing stars.

  “Get near Torre again, and I’ll hurt you,” Colomba said.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded, slurring the words as he grabbed the door frame and tried to get back on his feet. But he was like a punch-drunk boxer; his hands weren’t responding.

  “You heard me.”

  Two uniformed officers came running on the double, even though it had all been so quick that no one really knew what had happened. Colomba was already walking toward the front entrance. From behind her, Santini started shouting, but she didn’t stop to listen to what he had to say.

  8

  Minutillo drove Dante home and went upstairs with him, because he knew his presence would make it easier for him to face the stairs. The whole long way up they talked about trivial topics, keeping Dante’s mind as far as possible from the forest and from the silo. Dante refused to tell him what had happened in the bathroom, and Minutillo knew that it was pointless to insist.

  As they went up the stairs, Dante’s mood improved, and once they reached his apartment he seemed to be his usual wry self. What struck Minutillo was the chaos. A functional chaos, with paths clearly marked out between the objects piled on the floor and reasonably clean, but still a sign that Dante had been living as a recluse for too long. The lawyer made a mental note to check on his friend’s living conditions more frequently, no matter how witty or relaxed he might seem over the phone. “Don’t you think it’s time to tidy up a little?” he asked.

  “I haven’t exceeded the warning level yet. See? The clutter hasn’t reached the stove.” He went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, stripped his clothes off, and took a shower. They spoke through the bathroom door.

  “Make yourself an espresso if you want,” said Dante.

  “Never after five in the afternoon. I need my sleep. What happened to the cleaning woman?”

  “She’s gone. She was a woman of narrow views.”

  “You could have told me and I’d have found you another one.”

  “I hate to make you look bad with the agencies.” Dante scrubbed his skin. He could still detect the reek of piss, but maybe that was just a trick of his mind. He turned off the water. “It’s not the first time.”

  “I always tell them that you’re an eccentric . . .”

  “Then find me one who doesn’t know Italian. That way I won’t have to hide my documents.”

  “What about that girl you were seeing? What’s her name . . .” the lawyer asked, though he’d already guessed the answer.

  “She’s gone, too. And you can’t contact the employment agency to find me another one of those.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. What went wrong?”

  “She was a woman of narrow views.”

  “You’ve already used that excuse.”

  “Oh, really?” Dante opened the bathroom door in a charcoal gray bathrobe and tossed his dirty clothes into an overflowing laundry hamper. “Maybe I should burn them.” He sprawled out on the sofa, legs propped over the armrest. Remembering that Alberti had assumed that same position just a few hours earlier, he sat up straight again. Alberti seemed like too much of a loser for him to think of imitating him.

  Minutillo remained standing. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “You don’t go out and you never see anyone. And now this thing . . .”

  “What thing?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Roberto . . . I was already pretty sure that the Father was still alive, and now I just have proof. It doesn’t change a lot as far as I’m concerned.”

  “It changes everything, actually.”

  “I’ve survived so far, and I’ll go on living. Every now and then, I admit, I’ll think about that boy, who’s going through what I went through, but maybe he’ll be luckier.”

  “Why don’t you take a trip somewhere? You don’t mind traveling by train. Or else hire a driver.”

/>   Dante giggled. “Or maybe just post two armed guards outside the door?”

  Minutillo didn’t bat an eye. “I can arrange that.”

  “I’m not a child anymore, I no longer constitute his type of prey.”

  “We don’t know what constitutes his type of prey.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m the only one he kidnapped and that now he’s dead.”

  “You don’t. So neither do I.”

  Dante waved a hand. “Time for you to go, I want to mix up some pharmaceuticals and alcohol. And I can’t do it with you watching.”

  “What about the cop who assaulted you?”

  “He’ll get off, the way cops always do when they step over the line.”

  “Especially when you don’t bother to file a complaint.”

  “I’ll get even with him sooner or later, even if I don’t yet know how. I never forget, and you know that.”

  Minutillo picked up his overcoat from the floor, where Dante had dropped it, and folded it. “I saw the scattered packages. New items for your collection?”

  “It’s not a collection, it’s an homage to things past.”

  “Make sure you don’t get buried in it.”

  Dante waited for the horrible sound of the elevator winching down its shaft, then promptly shed his relaxed demeanor. He shot to his feet and switched off the light. The wall of glass turned brilliant, sketching arabesques on the floor. Beyond the glow of the streetlamps loomed the silhouette of the building across the street. Dante waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, then pulled the curtains, leaving only a narrow crack, and stuck his head through that. Now he could see a slice of the neighborhood spreading out behind the reflected image of his own face.

  The Father was out there, somewhere.

  Dante was still his prisoner, and now the cage was as big as the world.

  9

  While Dante was turning out the light and hoping that a monster would gaze back at him, Colomba had just been dropped off outside her mother’s apartment building. She’d called her on the way back, and her mother’s tone was so unmistakably wounded at not having received so much as a phone call in the previous two days that Colomba had decided to move up their weekly dinner together.