Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

  Enzo wiped his blade on Corrado’s T-shirt. Now he needed to get busy. He couldn’t leave the place like this. The first thing he did was to wrap the body in the sheets from the sofa bed. He’d lost a lot of blood, the bastard—he’d have to clean up afterward. He needed to take advantage of the darkness. Like a spider in its lair, Enzo turned the bloodstained bedclothes into a white cocoon. Hastily, he got dressed. He found the keys to Corrado’s car, which was parked right outside the living room window. He’d have to move quickly and silently and hope that the sleepless eyes of some retiree or some youngster coming home from a late-night drinking spree didn’t catch sight of him.

  “Fucking dickhead . . .” he murmured as he looked down at that cocooned body sprawled out at his feet. Then he picked it up. Luckily, Corrado Pizzuti didn’t weigh much. At least he wouldn’t sweat. With his burden of horror he went over to the window. He opened it and peered out into the street. Empty. No cars in sight. Only the sound of the waves behind the changing booths along the beach, now locked up for winter. He tumbled the dead body out the window. It dropped with a dull thump onto the dark sidewalk next to Corrado’s car, a green Fiat Multipla. All he needed to do now was take him far away from there. He took the house keys and went out. He’d dump the corpse somewhere in the countryside, on the gravel riverbanks, deep in the canes and mud where no one would ever think to go looking for it.

  Saturday

  The first rush of breakfast customers had come and gone, leaving the counter strewn with crumbs and stacked espresso and cappuccino cups and saucers in the sink. Decaf espressos, caffè macchiatos, cappuccinos, pastries without custard filling or filled with marmalade, elephant ears, strudels, a surging river of requests that Tatiana had managed to satisfy by leaping madly back and forth from the Faema espresso machine to the cash register to take payment and give change. By nine in the morning Corrado still hadn’t shown up. His cell phone was turned off. Such a thing had never happened in all the time they’d run the bar together. If he was going to be late, he’d always let her know, if only with a text message. He only lived a ten-minute walk away from the café.

  What’s happened to him? Tatiana kept wondering as she leaned against the sink, sipping her third espresso and staring at a random point on the floor, next to the ice cream freezer.

  She didn’t notice that Barbara had come in. “Buongiorno, Tatiana!”

  The Russian returned to earth and smiled. “Ciao, Barbara. Buongiorno.”

  The bookseller walked up to the counter. “Where’s Corrado?”

  “Exactly. Where is he? Espresso?” The customer nodded, and Tatiana swiveled around to make an espresso for her friend. “Nobody’s seen him.”

  “What do you mean, nobody’s seen him? Did you call his cell phone?”

  “He’s turned it off.” She emptied the portafilter and then filled it again. “Not a text, nothing at all.”

  “He must have been out late last night and he’s probably just still sleeping.”

  “Sure.” A rivulet of frothy hot espresso started dripping into the demitasse. “It’s like you say.” She picked up the demitasse and turned toward Barbara. “Do you want a pastry? A lemon braid?”

  Barbara didn’t answer. She poured half a packet of cane sugar into her espresso and started stirring it. “Listen . . . I need to talk to you.”

  “Go on.”

  She took a first sip, set down the cup, and looked the Russian woman in the eye. “I have a suspicion.”

  Tatiana’s stomach hollowed out. She knew that Barbara liked intrigues and mysteries and that she frequently amused herself by glimpsing plots everywhere, but still, in that morning charged with tension and anxiety, the bookseller’s words had the effect of a warning siren. “What suspicion?”

  “I don’t think Corrado’s alone at home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain. Yesterday evening I could see light filtering out through the shutters. But Corrado was still here at the bar with you.”

  Tatiana shrugged. “So what? Maybe he just forgot and left the light on.”

  “No. Because I saw it as I was driving by in my car, taking Diego to soccer practice. Then when I went back by ten minutes later, the light had been switched off. I went back to the bookstore, and only then did I see Corrado leave the bar. I tell you, there’s someone in there.” And she finished the espresso with the eyes of someone who’s discovered buried treasure and can’t wait to get her hands on it.

  Tatiana pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Maybe . . . someone could be in there, but a she, not a he.” And she realized with what a heavy heart she had uttered that unremarkable statement. A woman. It had never occurred to her that Corrado might have a girlfriend, a sweetheart, or even just a young woman to spend a few hours between the sheets with. It was an image she didn’t like. Not one bit. A subtle, electric shudder ran down her throat and burst in her heart.

  “Do you think that he has a girlfriend?” the bookseller asked skeptically.

  “No!” She was tempted to add: “I hope not.” But she didn’t.

  “Listen, when he shows up, why don’t you ask him some questions?”

  “What questions?”

  “Like: ‘So, Corrado, has your mother come to stay with you?’”

  Tatiana grimaced. “I don’t think that he has a mother, and if he does, he’s never mentioned her to me.”

  Barbara nodded. She could do better. “Try this one: ‘Corrado, why don’t you rent out a room to make a little more money? Don’t you find it lonely, living alone?’”

  “There’s only one bedroom in Corrado’s apartment!”

  “Then tell him that your sister is coming to stay for a few days and ask if he can let her sleep at his place.”

  “I don’t have a sister!”

  “What a pain in the ass!” The bookseller huffed in annoyance. Where were all the detectives and inspectors that she had devoured in years of bookish cannibalism now that she needed them and their insights? “Here, I have it! Tell him this: ‘My husband and I are celebrating our second anniversary. You and your girlfriend are officially invited over to dinner tonight!’”

  Tatiana thought it over. “Then what if he asks me, ‘What girlfriend?’”

  “Then you look him in the eye and you say: ‘The one you’ve had staying in your apartment since you got back from your mysterious trip! I want to meet her!’ And this is important, watch his reaction carefully. If he touches his nose, if he looks away, if he drops his eyes or avoids the subject, then you can be sure he’s lying!”

  It seemed like a good tactic. Clear, direct, unequivocal. “You think?”

  “I saw it on a television series, a guy who could uncover lies just by observing people’s facial expressions! You’ll see, he’ll smile and thank you and he’ll say: ‘Of course, what’s-her-name and I would be delighted to come!’ And you will have discovered the truth!”

  “Then that’s what it is.”

  “What is?” asked the bookseller, placing a euro on the counter.

  “That’s why he’s so pensive and always seems to have his head in the clouds. That’s what he’s hiding. A woman!”

  “You see?” And with a smile, Barbara went back to her bookshop.

  A woman. Corrado had a woman. Tatiana clenched her teeth, but she couldn’t keep a solitary tear from sliding down her cheek.

  ROCCO SCHIAVONE WAS SITTING AT THE USUAL CAFÉ TABLE on Piazza Chanoux, before the delicious breakfast that Ettore had just brought him. The air was sparkling, the meadows were emerald green, and the snow that just a few days earlier had fallen in the city had now fled the valley, taking refuge high on the peaks. The sun was shining high above in the sky. Its rays caressed the building and the mountains that wedged Aosta in like a picture frame. A May morning, the weather so lovely that all the tables were crowded. The customers were all beaming happily, some of them luxuriating in the luminous slaps of sunlight, sprawled back in their chairs w
ith their eyes closed. It looked like a lazy Sunday morning. The time had not yet come to doff their winter jackets, but their bones were starting to suck in the warmth. Rocco looked down at his feet. He smiled down at this most recent pair of Clarks desert boots, which might now have a reasonable hope of surviving much longer than the other twelve pairs that had been destroyed in little more than eight months.

  He saw her go by about thirty feet from his table. Even wearing jeans and a jacket pulled tight at the waist, she made quite an impression. The woman recognized him and smiled, reversed direction, and approached him. “So, are we enjoying the sunshine this morning?”

  “Before going into the office . . .”

  “You weren’t in the right mood last night, Deputy Chief Schiavone.”

  “No, Amelia. I certainly wasn’t. Let’s just say that the people you were with aren’t exactly my type.”

  Amelia pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  “Shall I have Ettore bring you something?” Rocco suggested.

  “No, I’ve already had breakfast. And this lovely dog?”

  Lupa, sprawled out on the sidewalk, limited herself to rolling her eyes at the new arrival.

  “What’s its name?”

  “Lupa!”

  “Oooh . . . how sweet. What breed is she?”

  “A Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes.”

  Amelia looked at him before bursting out laughing. “Never heard of that breed!”

  “I may not be much of a clotheshorse, but when it comes to dogs I think I hold my own.”

  “A Saint-Rhémy . . .” Amelia shook her head.

  The woman’s tuberose-scented perfume reached Rocco’s nostrils. It was a little too redolent for his tastes. “Have you known Walter Cremonesi long?”

  “No. I’ve only met him a time or two. I’m a friend of Dr. Turrini’s. And Signora Turrini, too, to be perfectly clear.”

  “Are you from Aosta?”

  “You remain a policeman even when you relax!”

  “Occupational hazard of the profession. By the way, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m in charge of PR for Luca Grange. You met him, right? Last night . . .”

  “Ah, yes, the rising star of the local business community.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m thirty-four and I’m from Gruskavà.”

  “You’re not Italian?”

  Amelia smiled. “In Italian, it’s Groscavallo; in Provençal, it’s Gruskavà . . . In Turin province. I’m completely Italian.” With a quick swipe of the hand, she brushed back a lock of hair. “I lost my folks years ago and I moved to Aosta. Anything else you want to know?” And she looked at him with her big brown eyes.

  “No. That should do it, thanks.”

  “There are men who might have taken advantage of the situation to ask me for my cell phone number.”

  “I’m not one of them.”

  Amelia laughed as she touched her neck. “I assure you, you’re actually all the same. Maybe you’re just a little more skillful than all the others, but you want my cell phone number, and how!”

  Rocco smiled, narrowing his eyes as he did so. “Instead of your cell phone number, why don’t you tell me whether that bee on your neck is the only tattoo that you have.”

  Amelia leaned closer to Rocco and whispered: “There’s only one way to find out . . .” She got up. “I wish you a very nice day, Dottor Schiavone.”

  “Same to you, Amelia . . . Amelia what, by the way?”

  “Amelia is enough.” She shot him a wink and walked away. Rocco forced himself not to turn to watch her ass as she walked off. He gave in after just three seconds.

  She had two exquisitely perfect hemispheres.

  LUCKILY, THE THIRD LIGHTER WORKED. HE’D GIVEN THE first two to Lupa, who liked to disassemble them, grasping them between her paws as she chewed on them. With his first long drag, he realized that the case he had before him was a tough one, and that it wasn’t going to be easy to crack it. Only a few cars were going by on Corso Battaglione Aosta. He opened his office window and tossed the roach out onto the canopy roof. His curiosity piqued, he looked out. Right there, outside the window and on top of the canopy over the front entrance to police headquarters, he noticed an indecent quantity of roaches from previous joints. All tossed out there by him, day after day, since September of the year before. They formed a pile that might attract attention. If the police chief happened to lean out his office window on the third floor, he would certainly ask just what those little dots of paper piled up down there might be. Rocco needed to tidy up after himself. He swung his leg over the windowsill and looked down. Less than a yard below him was the roof of the canopy that covered the entrance to police headquarters, protecting it from the unending rains of Val d’Aosta.

  DEPUTY INSPECTOR CATERINA RISPOLI HAD CHOSEN TO WALK to the office that day. She was eating a diet bar as she crossed the street. Police headquarters was right there, in front of her. She was in a foul mood. The night before she had quarreled with Italo. The usual issues. The usual problems that plague young couples everywhere. Italo wanted them to move in together. To Caterina, that sounded worse than a threat. It wasn’t that she was afraid. Rather, quite simply, she preferred to leave things the way they were now. She liked living in her little apartment, with her own spaces and her own books. The mere idea of having Italo in her home—with his messiness, his underwear, his pee stains all over the toilet rim, his PlayStation constantly on—horrified her. Like having to live with a teenager.

  “You’re afraid to take a perfectly simple and natural step that any two people who are in love ought to be willing to take without even having to talk about it,” Italo had shouted at her.

  “The idea of living together makes me anxious,” she’d told him. “Then we’d start neglecting each other, taking each other for granted, and the next thing you know you’re going to bed in droopy pajamas and woolen slippers, bundled up like so many Santa Clauses. After which, it’s good-bye, sex.”

  Italo had done his best, unsuccessfully, to point out to her that when you love someone, all these things are a normal part of life, living together, doing things together, and maybe even paying just a single rent.

  “Then that’s really the heart of the problem!” she’d started shouting back at him. “The rent! I can’t believe it.”

  “Wait, don’t you like being with me?”

  “What does that have to do with anything? Sure, I like being with you, but I want to live alone. I need that.”

  “Are you seeing someone else?”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Do you or don’t you have another boyfriend?”

  “What other boyfriend could you be thinking about, Italo? You’re more than enough!”

  Maybe it would have been better if she’d told him that she’d never had a real family of her own, that the only reason her parents lived together was to maul each other mercilessly, that her father had been a brute, and that if she shut her eyes and thought back to that man she’d stopped calling Papà at the age of six, she felt like vomiting.

  “Caterina, I’m sick of this kind of relationship. I don’t like it, it feels distant and cold.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “What kind of future do we have?” Italo had asked her, staring her firmly in the eyes.

  “I don’t know, it’s not something I worry about. I’m fine for now, just the way things are. Why do you want to get in a rush and ruin everything?”

  “Because you need to live your life with an eye to the future! Look at our deputy chief.”

  “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “He has a plan for the future. He wants to go and live in Provence, he’s doing everything he can think of to change his life. He’s working for an idea!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Caterina never used curse words, but this time Italo had dragged it out of her. “The deputy chief is mentally ill. He’s a miserable wre
tch who lives all alone, in a city where he’s a stranger, pursued by people who want to rub him out, and he has a gang of friends who I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them.”

  “I like Rocco!”

  “Then go ahead and move in with him!”

  With the echo of that screaming fight still echoing in her head, Caterina looked up. On the roof of the canopy over the front entrance to police headquarters was none other than the deputy chief himself.

  “Dottore? What are you doing up there?”

  Rocco looked over the edge. “Ah, Caterina, ciao.”

  “What are you doing up there on the canopy?”

  “Nothing in particular. I don’t have a balcony. I wanted to get some fresh air.”

  This guy really is out of his skull, Caterina decided. “Are you crazy? You could fall over the side!”

  The deputy chief looked around. “No. This canopy is just three feet below my window.”

  “Sure, but then if you fall off the canopy, it’s at least ten feet.”

  “But I’m not going to fall.”

  “What are you putting in your pocket?”

  “I just dropped some spare change.”

  Caterina shook her head.

  “Oh, and, Caterina? Could you add one more pain in the ass to the chart?”

  “Certainly. Name it.”

  “People who don’t mind their own fucking business. And put it at the eighth degree.”

  “Got you loud and clear . . .” And the deputy inspector walked into police headquarters.

  Schiavone got both hands on the windowsill and pulled himself up. He was struggling to clamber through the window to get back into his office when Italo threw open the door. “What on earth are you doing, Rocco?”

  “Oh, so it’s a family defect, then . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your wife asked me the same thing just a minute ago.”