Reasonable Doubts gg-3

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  “And what are you reading now?”

  I was reading Nothing Happens by Chance. And as I answered his question and told him the title I had the feeling that everything suddenly had a clear, distinct meaning. Or rather, that this clear, distinct meaning had always been there, like Poe’s purloined letter, but I simply hadn’t been capable of grasping it. Because it was too obvious.

  His voice dispelled everything before I could find the words to define that meaning and remember it. “Is it a novel?”

  “No, it’s an essay by a Jungian psychoanalyst. It’s about chance and coincidence, and the stories we tell ourselves to give meaning to chance and coincidence. It’s a good book, a book about the search for meaning, and about stories.” And then, after a brief pause, I added, “I like stories a lot.”

  Why was I saying these things? Why was I telling him that I liked stories? Why was I talking about myself?

  We carried on chatting. A bit more about books, then about sport. He would never have guessed I was into boxing, he said, I didn’t really look the type, I didn’t even have a broken nose. He himself played tennis, quite well in fact. A pity there weren’t any courts in prison – that might have been why his backhand wasn’t what it should be. He was more relaxed now and the joke came out quite freely. At that point I remembered that the first time we met he’d told me he’d started smoking again in prison, and yet I’d never seen him light a cigarette.

  How come? I asked him. He didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable, he replied, seeing that I’d quit smoking. I said thanks, but smoke didn’t make me feel uncomfortable any more. Almost never, I thought without saying it. He nodded, but said he’d continue not to smoke when we met. He preferred it that way.

  After smoking we got on to music.

  “I think music is one of the things I miss the most.”

  “Do you mean to listen to or to play?”

  He smiled, and shrugged slightly. “No, no. To listen to. I’d have loved to learn an instrument, but I never tried. There are a lot of things I’ve never tried, but there you go. No, I love listening to music. Especially jazz.”

  “What kind of jazz?”

  “Do you like it too?”

  “Fairly. I listen to it a lot, though I’m not sure I always understand it.”

  “I like all kinds of jazz, but here in prison what I miss most is some of the classic tracks I used to listen to when I was young.”

  You mean when you were a Fascist thug and painted swastikas on walls? Didn’t you know that jazz is black people’s music? How does that fit in with the master race and crap like that?

  “My father was a great jazz fan. He had this incredible collection of old records, including some really rare LPs from the Fifties. They’re mine now, and I still have a real turntable to play them on.”

  That record collection must have been in one of the rooms I didn’t go into, I thought, and suddenly the smell of the apartment filled my nostrils, and I felt sad.

  “Do you have a favourite piece?”

  He smiled again, looking into the distance, and nodded. “Yes, I have. ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’. If I get out of here, one of the first things I’m going to do is listen to a very old radio recording I have of that piece. It was made by Louis Armstrong in the RAI studios in Florence, in 1952, I think. He sings and plays on it. It’s a crackly old recording, but it still sends shivers down my spine.”

  He startling softly whistling ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’, perfectly in tune, and for a few moments forgot about me and everything, filling that shabby, silent room with notes, while the questions ricocheted around my head like billiard balls.

  Who the fuck are you? Were you really there when that young man was stabbed to death? And are you still a Fascist? How could you have been a Fascist and liked jazz? How can you like books? Who are you?

  The music faded away without my even noticing, and with it my thoughts, and my answerless questions. Some of my certainties had already faded away some time previously.

  Paolicelli told me I should go. He had taken unfair advantage of my kindness. He was very grateful to me for this chat. He’d really enjoyed it.

  I told him I’d enjoyed it, too.

  I wasn’t lying.

  “So, we’ll see each other tomorrow in court.”

  “Tomorrow. And thank you. For everything.”

  Yes, for everything.

  32

  I went straight from the prison to my office, where I had an appointment with Natsu. I told her more or less the same things I’d told her husband, about what would happen in court, how she should conduct herself, and so on.

  Before going to the prison, before talking to Paolicelli, I’d thought of asking Natsu if we could see each other that evening. But after that conversation, I didn’t feel like saying anything.

  I felt a mixture of tenderness, shame and nostalgia. I thought how nice it would be if that hard lump of pain deep inside me over Margherita disappeared as if by magic, and how nice it would be if I could just fall in love with Natsu without having to worry about anything. I thought how nice it would be to make plans in my mind for the future, for all the days and nights we could spend together. For many things. It was probably nothing to do with her; it was about the idea of being in love, of playing the game, the idea of a life that wasn’t one of resignation.

  But it wasn’t possible.

  So, when we’d finished talking about the case, I simply told her that she was more beautiful than ever, walked around to the front of my desk, kissed her on the cheek, and told her I’d be working late.

  She looked at me for a long time, as if she hadn’t quite understood. Who could blame her? Then she also kissed me on the cheek and left.

  The usual routine followed, just a little more melancholy than usual. Coming back from the office, punchball, shower, roll, beer.

  It wasn’t a good evening to stay indoors, so I decided to go to the cinema. At an old cinema called the Esedra they were showing Altman’s The Long Goodbye. It took me twenty minutes to get there, walking quickly through streets so deserted and windswept they were almost scary.

  The man in the box office wasn’t pleased to see me and made no attempt to conceal the fact. He even hesitated for a few moments to take the banknote I had placed in front of him. I had the impression he was begging me to leave. I must have been the only person there. Without me they could close up early. In the end, he took the money, tore off the ticket and handed it to me, bad-temperedly, along with the change.

  I entered the completely empty auditorium. I don’t know if the total absence of human sensory stimuli sharpened my sense of smell or if the cinema needed a good cleaning, but I could distinctly smell the upholstery on the seats and the dust that permeated them.

  I sat down and looked around. The place was a perfect setting for an episode of The Twilight Zone. Indeed, for a few seconds I had to resist the impulse to go and make sure the man in the box office hadn’t turned into a giant man-eating crustacean and that the emergency exits hadn’t become portals into another dimension.

  Then a woman came in. She sat down close to the exit, some ten rows behind me. If I wanted to look at her I had to make a deliberate effort to turn round, which could seem dodgy if I overdid it. So I managed to get only a vague idea of her before the lights went out and the film started. She was of medium height, was wrapped in a large shawl, or maybe a poncho, had very short hair, and seemed to be more or less my age.

  During the first half, I didn’t pay much attention to the film – I’d already seen it twice anyway. I was thinking I’d like to start up a conversation with that girl, or woman, or whatever she was. I’d like to talk to her in the interval and then, when the film was over, invite her for a drink. As long as she hadn’t left during the first half, driven out by the weird atmosphere of that deserted cinema. And by the fear that the only other person there – who had turned round to look at her rather too many times – might be some kind of pervert.<
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  But she was still there in the interval. She had taken off her poncho or shawl and seemed completely at ease, but of course I didn’t have the courage to start up a conversation.

  During the second half, I thought of a good opening gambit: the presence of the young Arnold Schwarzenegger in the film. Look, there’s Schwarzenegger as a young man. Hard to believe he’s now the governor of California. All right, it’s pretty weak, but for a film buff – and damn it, a woman who goes on her own to see The Long Goodbye at that hour of the night must be a film buff – the gambit marked “first appearances of then unknown actors who later became famous” isn’t a bad one.

  When the lights went on – the projectionist cutting off the end titles abruptly-I stood up, determined to approach her. I had never approached a woman like that in my life, but I was a grown-up now – so to speak – and it was worth a try. Anyway, what was the worst that could happen?

  But this time she was gone. The cinema was empty again.

  I hurried to the exit, thinking she’d stood up just before the lights went on. But there was no one in the street.

  The wind was even stronger now than when I’d arrived, creating eddies of dust. As if in a dream or an apparition, five stray dogs crossed the road in single file and vanished behind a corner.

  I turned up my coat collar, stuck my hands in my pockets and went home.

  33

  The next day I woke up aching all over, and the pains didn’t go even after my usual stretches. Needless to say, I wasn’t in a good mood as I walked to the courthouse. My mood got worse when I entered the crowded, overheated courtroom and saw that the assistant prosecutor for that hearing was Porcelli.

  He was a man with the personality and charisma of a squid. Even physically, wrapped in his robe, with his tall body and small head, he gave the impression of a large, superfluous marine invertebrate. He didn’t give a damn about anything. Everything about him conveyed an almost inhuman sense of dull indifference.

  At least he wouldn’t be a tough opponent, I thought, filing the matter away. The judges were coming in.

  The bailiff called Natsu, who was waiting in the witness room. She came out and looked around for a few moments, slightly disorientated. The bailiff led her past the judges. Everyone was looking at her.

  “Before we begin,” Mirenghi said, “I am obliged by law to inform you that as the wife of the defendant you have the right not to testify. However, if you decide not to exercise this right, you are required to tell the truth like any other witness. Do you wish to testify?”

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “Very well. Please read the oath.”

  Natsu took the small laminated card which the bailiff handed her and read in a firm voice, “Conscious of the moral and legal responsibility I assume with my testimony, I swear to tell the whole truth and not to conceal anything of which I have knowledge.”

  “You may proceed, Avvocato Guerrieri.”

  “Thank you, Your Honour. Signora Paolicelli, obviously you already know what it is you are here to testify about. So I’ll dispense with the preliminaries and ask you if it was you who appointed Avvocato Macri to defend your husband after he was arrested.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you already know Avvocato Macri when you decided to appoint him?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you appoint him, then?”

  “It was suggested to me that I appoint him.”

  “By whom?”

  Natsu was silent for a few moments, as if to collect her thoughts. “It was the day after my husband’s arrest. I was leaving home when a young man came up to me. He told me he had been sent by some friends of my husband and gave me a piece of paper with Macri’s name and mobile phone number on it. He told me I should appoint him as soon as possible and he would sort everything out for my husband.”

  “What did you reply?”

  “I don’t remember exactly what I said, I mean the exact words, but I tried to get him to explain.”

  “Why do you say you tried?”

  “Because he said he couldn’t stay, he had to go. He said goodbye, went over to a car parked about thirty feet away, with another person in it, and drove away.”

  “Did you take the licence number?”

  “No, I didn’t even think of it. I was too astonished.”

  “Did you ever meet him again after that?”

  “No.”

  “Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  “Did you subsequently speak to your husband about this episode?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He was even more astonished than I was. He had no idea who this young man was, let alone who sent him.”

  “I have a few more questions, Signora Paolicelli. Could you tell us the circumstances pertaining to the lifting of the sequestration order on your car?”

  “Yes. Avvocato Macri said he would file a motion to get the car back. He said that since the car was mine and I had nothing to do with the crime, there was no reason why they couldn’t let me have it. He did in fact file a motion, and a few days later he told me that the prosecutor had lifted the sequestration order.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “We were talking on the phone and I asked him what I had to do to get my car back. He told me not to worry. He was coming to Bari in a few days and he’d go and fetch the car personally.”

  “And is that what happened?”

  “Yes, he collected it and brought it over to my home.”

  “One last question, Signora Paolicelli. Did you ever pay Avvocato Macri?”

  “No. He said I didn’t need to. He said that when it was all over I could give him a present.”

  “So you never paid him, never even reimbursed him for his expenses?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever say that there was someone else taking care of his fee?”

  “No, not to me. I think he said it to my husband.”

  “Thank you. I have no other questions.”

  Mirenghi asked the assistant prosecutor if he had any questions. He shook his head wearily. Girardi told Natsu that she could go. They all watched her as she walked those few yards to the public benches, and for a few moments I felt an inappropriate sense of pride. Then I reminded myself that I had no reason to feel that, and certainly no right.

  The guards brought Paolicelli into the courtroom and took up their positions around him, as was the practice. Mirenghi made him repeat his particulars and with absurd punctiliousness had him state that he was a resident of Bari but was currently in custody and that therefore his domicile was the prison. Then he advised him of his right to remain silent and asked him if he intended to exercise this right or if he was willing to undergo examination. The whole ritual.

  “I wish to testify, Your Honour.”

  “You may proceed with your examination, Avvocato Guerrieri.”

  “Thank you, Your Honour. Signor Paolicelli, my first question is a very simple one. Are you guilty or innocent of the crime with which you are charged and for which you were first arrested and then sentenced?”

  “Innocent.”

  “Would you explain to the court why, after a large quantity of narcotics was discovered in your car, you made the following statement: I acknowledge that the quantity of forty kilos of cocaine was discovered in my car. Regarding this, I freely declare that the drugs belong to myself alone and that my wife Natsu Kawabata, whose full particulars have been noted in other documents, has no connection whatsoever with this illegal transportation, which is the sole responsibility of the undersigned. I placed the narcotics in the car without my wife’s knowledge. I have no intention of naming the persons from whom I acquired the aforementioned quantity of narcotics… and so on?”

  Paolicelli took a deep breath and shifted on his chair before replying. “I was with my wife and daughter. The customs police
said they would have to arrest both of us, because there was no way of knowing which of us the drugs belonged to. We were travelling in the same car, we were husband and wife, it was more than likely that we were in cahoots, that we were accomplices. And so they had to arrest both of us.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I started to panic. I mean, I was already panicking, but the idea that they could arrest my wife, too, and we’d have to find someone to take care of our daughter, terrified me. I begged them to let my wife go, because she didn’t know anything about the drugs.”

  “Whereas you did?”

  “No. But I’d realized that I had no way out, that I was caught up in something beyond my control. So what I wanted first of all was to keep my wife and daughter out of it. I mean, it wasn’t my choice. Either they’d arrest both of us or they’d arrest only me.”

  “Go on.”

  “The customs police told me there was only one way to keep my wife out of it. I had to say that the drugs were mine, only mine, and that I’d been carrying them without her knowledge. That was the only way they’d have a pretext not to arrest her, a reason…”

  “They’d have a reason they could put on the arrest report as to why they were arresting you and not your wife. Because the car was registered to your wife, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, the car is hers.”

  “So you made that statement, and they let her go and arrested you. At the beginning of this examination, you claimed to be innocent. Is it correct to say that you made that statement solely with the aim of keeping your wife out of this affair?”

  “Yes. The drugs weren’t mine. I never knew they were in our car until the customs police found them.”

  “Are you able to explain, or surmise, when the drugs could have been put in your car?”

  It was a question which, in theory, the assistant prosecutor could have objected to. It isn’t usually possible to ask a witness to express a personal opinion or to make conjectures. But this was a special case, and anyway the giant squid was there in body only. He gave no sign of having noticed. So Paolicelli was able to answer unhindered. He told the whole story of the hotel car park and the keys he’d left with the porter, and how easy it would have been to fill the car with drugs during the night. He answered well, clearly and spontaneously. For what it was worth, he gave the impression of someone who was telling the truth.