Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

  “I doubt that very much. I think you had a couple of centuries to serve, if my memory doesn’t deceive me.”

  “What about good conduct? I served ten years. Doesn’t that seem long enough?”

  “Go tell that to the bank teller you murdered on Via Nomentana.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “And I’m just waiting for my invitation to play tournament tennis at Wimbledon.”

  “Anyway, I’m a free man now, no different from you.”

  “You may well be a free man, but you’re not even fucking remotely like me. What are you doing in Aosta?”

  “I live in Val d’Aosta, Deputy Chief. I make wine. In fact, what do you think of it?” And he pointed to the glass that Rocco was still holding in one hand. “I make it. I have a vineyard. What you just tasted is my Primot red. A wine that’s holding up its end of the bargain. Do you have any other questions for me? Because my concept of an enjoyable evening isn’t being subjected to the third degree.”

  “I’d very much like to know where you were on the evening of Thursday, May 10.”

  This time Walter burst out laughing. “I can’t believe it. Is this seriously an interrogation? Here? Now? At a party?”

  “Do you remember, yes or no?”

  Walter rolled his beady eyes, merrily and mockingly. “May 10, May 10 . . . No, I don’t remember. I might have been at home. I might have been at the club, or I might have been overseas, I’m just not sure. I might have been fucking your wife.”

  Rocco stared him in the eyes. Then with a quick swipe of his tongue, he cleaned the wine off his lips. “This is good wine. All things considered, I’m happy they let you back out on the street again, Cremonesi. Fucking you over another time will be a real pleasure.”

  “If you want, you can talk to my lawyer. In fact, just look!” And he pointed to a sofa in the living room. “He’s that guy, the little short one with the mustache, talking to Judge Messina. His name is Ferretti. Counselor Stefano Ferretti. Maybe you even know the judge, he works at the Aosta courthouse. You could ask him!” And he walked off, shaking his head.

  Rocco stood there. He exchanged one last glance with Amelia, who smiled at him, narrowing her eyes a little. He could have gone over to her, struck up a little conversation, spent an enjoyable evening. Instead, he preferred to wait for Counselor Ferretti to leave the sofa and then go over to talk to Baldi’s colleague. “Everyone’s here this evening. Even you . . .”

  The judge waved for him to sit down beside him, patting the cushion with his hand. “Do you remember me, Schiavone?”

  “And why shouldn’t I, Dottor Messina?”

  “I see that you know Cremonesi.”

  “Yes. I threw him behind bars once. And believe me, seeing him back out on the street isn’t my idea of a good thing.”

  Messina stroked his thick black beard. “There’s no prison sentence that can hold up if you can afford a good lawyer and you’re dealing with the Italian system of justice.”

  “Coming from you, that’s cold comfort.”

  “Right. Do you want to know why Walter Cremonesi isn’t behind bars anymore?”

  “That would be nice, for starters.”

  “He makes wine. He owns a vineyard and a winery. Primot is the varietal. And you know what? He runs the place with a group of convicts that are working to rehabilitate themselves. A nice little cooperative. What’s more, you’re probably familiar with the Gozzini law?”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “For us citizens who are free to roam the streets, a year is made up of twelve months. But for those who are behind bars, serving out their sentence, a year is made up of just nine. If the convict is cooperating with the process of reeducation and rehabilitation, his sentence is reduced by a month and a half every semester. And that’s how we get to nine months. Participating with the process of reeducation, however, hardly demands who knows what efforts. It’s enough that you refrain from murdering or raping anyone, and that’s the bar you have to meet. In other words, cause no overt trouble, and you’ve done your part. When you’re serving out your last four years, lo and behold, a correctional order is served and off you go home, to serve out the rest of your sentence, there or performing some public service. Simple, no? And let’s not forget the amnesties!”

  “The guy was a terrorist . . . He’s killed people, committed armed robberies . . .”

  “One of these days come down to the courthouse with me. I’ll show you how it works. The only ones who go to prison are the losers. Four trials, judicial review court, statute of limitations. This is a government that hands out absolutions and immunity, Dottor Schiavone.”

  “And you continue to work as a judge?”

  “What alternatives do I have?”

  Rocco sprawled out on the backrest of the three-seat sofa. “He might have been the one who snuck into my apartment . . .”

  “I doubt it. Cremonesi has become a businessman. He’s a member of high society here. If you ask me, those are the kind of things he’s left behind him.”

  “No. He’s a weed, a bad seed. And a bad seed is what he stays until the end of his days.”

  Judge Messina smiled. He stroked his beard again and said nothing.

  THE NIGHTS IN PRISON WERE LONG. ALWAYS HAD BEEN. BUT for Sergio Mozzicarelli the nights he was living through now were interminable. He tossed and turned in his bed without being able to get a wink of sleep. How the hell was Aldo able to sleep on like that? But then, Aldo hadn’t seen what he had. And Karim? He, too, seemed wide-awake. He narrowed his eyes, squinting to see through the dark. Karim was writing something on the wall.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sergio in a low voice.

  “I’m writing my name.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I stare hard at it, I might start to feel like sleeping.”

  Sergio sat up in bed.

  “Why can’t you sleep, Sergio?”

  “Because . . . Karim, I saw something.”

  The Tunisian turned over. His eyes were glistening. He was crying. “What did you see?”

  “The other day, down in the courtyard.” He lowered his voice and whispered: “I saw who killed Cuntrera.”

  The young man heaved a deep sigh. He ran his hand over his face. “Where I come from, we say that the fruit of peace hangs from the branches of the tree of silence.”

  “Still, I can’t help but think about it.”

  “Think about it, but don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to know about anything. I count the days, Sergio, and I can’t wait to get out of here. And when I’m out of all this,” he said, taking in the little cell with a glance, “it isn’t going to be anything more than a bad memory.”

  Sergio nodded. “What would you do in my situation?”

  “I’d get some sleep.”

  “DON’T YOU WANT ANYTHING, ROCCO?” ANNA ASKED HIM AS she munched on a small plateful of grape leaves stuffed with black rice, apparently now having forgiven him for his gaffe in the stables.

  “How do you know these people?”

  “My ex-husband. He used to socialize with them before moving to Geneva. High finance. The Turrinis are a very wealthy family from Milan. They own shops, apartment buildings. Berardo’s grandfather owned steel mills.”

  “Yes, but why do you keep frequenting them?”

  “I don’t know. Could it be because I’m bored? You want the truth? You see that guy who looks sort of like Giuseppe Verdi?” She turned her eyes to a little short man dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, with an overripe yellow flower in his buttonhole. He was talking animatedly to a woman as skinny and dry as an olive branch.

  “Well?”

  “He’s a gallery owner. I want to go talk with him, maybe he’ll hold a show for me. He has a gallery in Turin and another in Milan. And he’s a partner with one of the biggest art salons in Berlin.”

  “Fine, you go get busy with Giuseppe Verdi. I’m going home.”

&nb
sp; Anna looked at him askance. “Why?”

  “Because I’m starting to feel like throwing up. Because this place disgusts me and shit is oozing out of the walls, because I don’t want to have anything to do with these people, and because I consider that the fact you brought me here amounts to a grave insult. See you later!”

  He turned on his heel and left Anna standing there with the plate of stuffed grape leaves in her hand.

  “PLEASE GIVE ME MY COAT, IT’S A LODEN.”

  “Right away,” replied the attendant, ducking behind a brocaded curtain.

  He could feel the floor burning under his feet. The music of Fausto Papetti was echoing in his head. The lights and the smells of food were suffocating him.

  “Is this it, Signore?”

  Rocco grabbed it. He checked to make sure his wallet was still in the pocket. The attendant smiled. “Don’t you trust us?”

  “No! I don’t, and if you want some free advice, go get a job somewhere else.”

  “I have three children.”

  “Then just keep your dick in your pants!”

  AS HE WENT BACK OUT ACROSS THE GARDEN, HE PERCEIVED a presence, someone observing him. The deputy chief turned to look back at the villa. At a second-floor window a blond head was looking out. Smoking a cigarette. The face was in shadow, but then the figure leaned out and caught the light. It was Max. Rocco raised a hand to wave. Max waved back lazily.

  “Well? Aren’t you going downstairs to the party?”

  Max shook his head no.

  “Why not? There’s lots of lovely people!”

  Max shrugged his shoulders and withdrew to his room, shutting the window behind him.

  THE NIGHT WAS CHILLY, AND THERE WAS NO ONE OUT AND about. Rocco was angrily chewing on a dry and flavorless sandwich he’d bought at the train station café. He thought back to the evening he’d just spent. He thought about Anna, who regularly forced him into situations that had nothing to do with him. And especially he thought about the fact that right then he was alone, late at night, without a single car at the nearby intersection, not a single light in the windows above. An easy target, a fish in a barrel. He looked around. His would-be killer could be hiding right around the corner of the yellow building. Or hunkered down between the car and the now-closed pharmacy. Or else he could be standing right behind him, merging into the shadows of the fir trees. Maybe he’d never even left Aosta, the man who’d crept into his apartment. He’d just hidden out in some out-of-the-way little hotel, waiting for an opportunity like this. Waiting until Rocco Schiavone was alone, without a witness, unarmed and distracted, when he’d finally be able to complete the work he’d undertaken. The deputy chief threw both arms wide. He turned, slowly. Aside from the occasional branch tossing in the wind and a light that came on in a fourth-floor window, nothing happened.

  And so he shouted: “Here I am! I’m right here!”

  “And who gives a flying fuck!” replied a distant voice.

  A familiar voice.

  Rocco burst out laughing. From the street in front of his residential hotel a man emerged. He was smoking. He had a quick, on-edge stride and not a hair on his head.

  Furio!

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Being an excellent target!”

  They hugged. His friend dropped his cigarette to the ground. “Your cell phone? Don’t you turn it on anymore?”

  “Why are you in town?”

  “Passing through. On my way to France.”

  “To do what?”

  “The less you know, the better. Listen, do you know a quieter place?”

  “Quieter than this? Not possible!”

  “In the middle of the street?”

  “So what?”

  Furio looked around. He nodded. Then he grabbed Rocco by the arm. “Come on!”

  He led him to a dark corner under a portico. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” Rocco asked. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  Furio slid a hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t want to tell you anything. But if you stay here, out in the open, that guy might come back. And I can’t stand to think of you in the middle of the street acting like a fool. So I’m not letting you expose yourself like this.” And he handed him a 9 mm pistol, placing it in Rocco’s hands. The deputy chief looked down at it.

  “I don’t carry a handgun anymore.”

  “I know, but if you have this, I’m going to feel a little less worried. I haven’t been sleeping well for days on your account. It’s a Ruger semiautomatic. Seven shots, 9 mm, it’s small and it weighs less than a pound.”

  Rocco took it.

  “The release is on the left side, the magazine has an angled heel on the grip.”

  “You sound like a salesman,” said the deputy chief.

  “Most important of all, this little girl is a virgin.”

  “Listen, Furio, even if you leave it with me, I’m still not going to use it.”

  Furio grabbed him by the lapels. “Listen up and listen good, you dickhead. This isn’t playtime. Somebody’s out to kill you, and you’d better get that through your thick skull. Keep a weapon within reach, always. I’m sick and fucking tired of going to funerals!”

  Rocco looked his friend in the eyes. Then he nodded. “All right, Furio. All right.”

  Furio straightened the lapel of Rocco’s loden overcoat. “Excuse me.”

  “Speaking of pistols. Have you heard from Brizio?”

  “Yes, he told me everything. That the gun used to shoot Adele was previously used in an armed robbery in Cinecittà.”

  “Which means that the bastard comes from Rome. At least that’s a lead.”

  “You’ll see, we’ll track down the guy that used this gun, Rocco.”

  “Right. So, you want to get a drink? Ettore is still open.”

  “Sure, but just one, I still have to drive . . .”

  They emerged from the portico and headed toward Piazza Chanoux. “You know who I ran into this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Walter Cremonesi.”

  Furio froze in the middle of the street. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I swear.”

  “And what is he doing here?”

  “Making wine.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “The way I believe that Catanzaro can win the Scudetto.”

  “So was it him who shot Adele?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to assume so.”

  “Keep an eye out for him. That guy is a cobra.”

  “No, he’s a black mamba, it’s obvious that you don’t know a fucking thing about animals!”

  THE SNORING FROM THE OTHER ROOM WAS FOLLOWING THE rhythm of the waves on the beach. A slow, elderly pace. The light from the streetlamps filtered faintly through the venetian blinds, transforming the white bedcover into a zebra skin. Corrado lifted the sheets. Lowered his feet to the floor, which was ice cold. He stood up. The bed barely creaked. He remained motionless, listening. From the other room, Enzo Baiocchi’s deep breathing went on, slow and regular. He crept forward through the shadows. Since midnight, he’d kept his eyes open to accustom them to the darkness, and now he could see like a cat. The glare from the streetlamp outside made everything so much simpler. He put his hand on the doorknob. He’d left the door ajar to avoid making noise. He opened it slowly, and the hinges that he’d oiled while the other man was taking a shower obeyed silently. He was in the hallway now. He knew that hallway by heart, and he knew that it was only seven short footsteps to the living room. One foot in front of the other, careful and precise, he reached the door that gave onto the little parlor where Enzo was fast asleep on the sofa bed. He touched the door handle. He gripped it and slowly lowered it. He’d oiled that door thoroughly as well, and he managed to open it wide without so much as a squeak. The sea kept lashing the beach with its waves, at the same rate as Baiocchi’s breathing. An odor of armpits and cigarettes penetrated his nostrils. It hovered in the room as if it were
a thick and greasy fog. There the monster lay, blanket over his chest, in a tank top T-shirt. His arms were thrown wide like some savage Christ. His mouth hung open and his breathing was lifting and lowering his hairy chest. It was all a matter of a minute, no more. A single minute, a leap in the dark, and then it would all go back to how it had been before, before Enzo Baiocchi had invaded his life. He reached back and put his hand on his buttocks. He felt the handle of the knife, held snugly by the elastic band of his underwear. It was cold, colder than the blade. Or maybe it was his blood that no longer pumped through his veins. One foot in front of the other, precisely, never once taking his eyes off the man on the sofa bed. He’d done this once before, in the country, with a hog. It had been easy. He’d pushed his blade against the hog’s throat and had driven it in, with a sharp, accurate movement. The hog had squealed and stretched its legs four or five times; then it had lain there, dangling and spraying blood out of the cut like an open faucet. Enzo wouldn’t even scream. He wouldn’t have time. Corrado would sink the knife right into his heart, with both hands, with all his weight and all his rage. These are the last breaths you’re ever going to take, you piece of shit, he thought to himself.

  The shutters in the living room were half open. A cold blade of light illuminated a quarter of a face. Enzo Baiocchi was sleeping. Corrado laid the knife against the man’s neck.

  All it takes now is some pressure. A simple thrust, sharp and decisive. Now!

  A sudden stab of pain burst out next to his belly button. Corrado’s eyes bugged out. He stared at Enzo. He, too, had both eyes wide-open now, his mouth twisted in a silvery leer. His face had filled with wrinkles. Corrado dropped the knife and staggered backward. Baiocchi’s hand, dripping with blood, held the switchblade tight, and the blade was sunk deep inside him. Corrado could no longer breathe, much less talk. A scalding column of vomit was rising up his esophagus. With both hands, he tried to grab Enzo’s hands, to tear that fire out of his stomach. That was when the killer got to his feet and stood facing Corrado. He caught a whiff of the stench of Enzo’s armpits and the gust of onion on his breath. With a single yank, Enzo hauled the knife up toward Corrado’s sternum, while he covered his mouth with the other hand. Corrado was filled with an immense pool of pain as he felt the hot, sticky blood gush out, running down his hips and legs. Then his vision blurred until it all disappeared, the moon outside, the room inside, the fading smell of armpits and cigarettes. He flopped to the floor like a discarded apple peel.