“Chiara, these are extremely sensitive matters.”
“Take these documents to Judge Baldi. He’ll listen to you.”
“And how are we going to explain to the judge that we came into possession of these documents?” Caterina asked.
“Caterì, that’s the least of our concerns. Baldi is used to this sort of thing, at least he’s gotten used to it since we started working together.” He handed the sheet of paper back to the young woman. “Let’s do this, Chiara. I’ll take this stuff to the court building. I’ll leave out your name and Max’s. And in exchange I want you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Dress up nice, go back to being as attractive as you are, get out of this room and away from the fairy tales of Anatole France, go back to school, say so long to your classmates, and leave, or else sit down and go back to doing what at your age you do best.”
“Which would be what?”
“Living your life.”
Caterina looked over at Deputy Chief Schiavone, who was stroking the girl’s hair. She couldn’t say why, maybe it was that gesture, the words that she’d heard, the joint that she’d smoked, but something happened in the center of her chest. She didn’t know if the lurch she felt was the result of some emotion or a simple heart flutter. She smiled and discovered that a tear was welling up in her right eye. She quickly wiped it away. It might have been due to a surge of emotion, or it might have been some component in the marijuana that she was allergic to.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING, SIR?” CATERINA ASKED THE INSTANT Rocco stopped the car outside the deputy inspector’s apartment building.
“I still have a visit to pay. You should get home, the working day’s over.”
Caterina looked at the apartment building’s front door. “How do you know that this is where I live?”
“I’ve been following you for months,” Rocco replied seriously.
At first, Caterina turned pale; then she got the joke and smiled. “Then you no doubt know that I go to bed late . . .”
Why did you say that? Caterina asked herself. What got into your head? Have you lost your mind? Are you flirting with him?
A series of thoughts that followed one after the other at the speed of light, but the inappropriate phrase had already left her lips.
“I didn’t know that you had a hard time getting to sleep. You need to find someone to keep you company.”
Caterina looked Rocco in the eyes.
Oh my God, is he about to try something? she thought in horror.
“Go on, Caterì . . . Otherwise we’ll wind up falling asleep right here in the car.”
The young woman nodded. Smiled. Opened the car door and got out. Rocco accelerated and tore out of there, tires screeching. He didn’t even stop to check whether or not she had her house keys. And that lack of gentlemanly attention bothered her. But then, as she inserted her key in the lock, she felt a swirl of confusion.
I’m a cop, I’m his professional partner, I’m not a woman that he’s just taken home after going out to dinner together, she said to herself.
But you’re still a woman, aren’t you?
You can’t just decide you’re a cop or woman according to which comes in handy.
The thing is, you’re both.
All right, then, let’s get one thing clear: with him I’m a cop.
Wrong!
Finding herself torn between such opposing thoughts, slapped from one side to another by her own considerations, was proving to be more tiring than the workday itself.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said as she unlocked the front door on the street and climbed the stairs, “get a hold of yourself! First you’re dying of embarrassment, then before you know it you’re complaining that he didn’t even tell you good night . . . This is the first and the last time that I smoke a joint. No matter what happens!”
“And right you are, Caterina!” Signora Cormet said to her, on her way downstairs to take out the trash. Caterina clapped both hands over her mouth. She’d said it loud and clear.
ACCORDING TO GIULIANA BERGUET, EVEN THOUGH SHE couldn’t be sure, Pietro still ought to be in the offices of Edil.ber, the construction company. When Rocco pulled up, the light was on on the second floor. Rocco got out of the car and walked toward the front entrance. He went in. There wasn’t a soul around. Not even a night watchman, nothing. Everything was turned off, lights, office machinery. He stepped into the elevator and rode upstairs.
In the circular landing, only a single light filtered from Pietro’s office. Muffled music was coming from inside. Rocco knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked harder. Someone turned off the stereo, interrupting a song by Grover Washington Jr. “Who is it?”
“Schiavone, state police . . .” And he opened the door.
Pietro Berguet was sitting behind his desk. In shirtsleeves, his collar unbuttoned. His tie was draped over the back of a chair. His jacket lay on the floor. He was alone and was smoking a cigar that had befouled the air. Outside, far away, set like gems in the mountainside, a manger scene of twinkling house lights. Pietro narrowed his eyes. “Ah, it’s you. I thought it might have been the night watchman.”
“No. And now that you mention him, I didn’t see him anywhere.”
“He must be making his rounds,” Pietro replied.
“But just the same as I was able to enter, anybody else could get in, couldn’t they?”
“And do what? What do I have left to lose?” And he gestured to Rocco to take a seat. Rocco sat down on the sofa where, just a few days earlier, Cristiano Cerruti had been sitting. Cerruti, Berguet’s right-hand man. Cerruti, who had sold Pietro out to the highest bidder.
“Say, by the way . . . nasty thing that happened at your house,” Pietro commented.
“Yes. Nasty thing.” Rocco paused, then observed, “But then it’s not as if anybody’s laughing themselves to death around here, either!”
Pietro lifted the stubby cigar into the air. He observed it. He turned it in his fingers. “No. I guess not.” Then he crushed it out on the glass desktop. “They’ve crushed my spirit, that’s for sure.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“I’m smoking a cigar.”
“You could do something else.”
“Like what, for instance.”
“Like for instance you could go check up on your daughter.”
“Sure.” Pietro stood up. He went over to the window. His rumpled shirt, untucked, hung low over his trousers. “Chiara . . . she’s probably the one who’s paid the highest price. Quite a failure, don’t you think?”
“What are you referring to?”
“Myself. As a father, businessman, husband . . .”
Sitting on the desk was a box, and next to it was the wrapping paper, ready to be snugged around it.
“Do you ever feel sorry for yourself, Dottor Schiavone?”
“Like everybody. But then something clicks inside me and I decide that I’ve had enough.” He stood up. Went over to the window. “Do you want to know what’s happening while you’re sitting in here being depressed?”
Pietro looked him in the eyes. His eyes were dry. But the skin under the eyelids was twitching.
“You’re wrapping presents for who knows who . . . What is it, a bottle of perfume, there on your desk?”
The CEO of Edil.ber swiveled around and looked at the box. “Yes, it’s a bottle of perfume,” he admitted.
“Carnal Flower . . . and if you ask me, it’s not for your wife.”
“I think you ought to mind your own fucking business.”
“I really can’t do that, seeing that the women in your household have dragged me into this matter yet again. Giuliana is at her wits’ end, and you know that. Your daughter, on the other hand, who is an amazingly strong individual, gave me something, something that I’m going to take to the judge tomorrow.”
“And just what would that be?”
“A lead. Maybe a faint one, just a hin
t of a lead, but it might be something that could help you. Something that might finally discredit Luca Grange and his little team of assholes.”
A dim light flickered on deep in the man’s eyes. “What did my daughter give you?”
“Some documents, very interesting ones.”
“Why didn’t she give them to me?” Berguet whined.
“To you? To a father who doesn’t know which way to turn, and who spends his time with whores when he’s not at work?”
Pietro took a breath and said nothing.
“What would you have done with them? You would have just screwed things up, I’m here to tell you. Instead, the girl, who is smart, very smart, believe me, gave the papers to me. And thanks to her, there may still be hope for you, for your family, and for this construction company.”
Pietro recovered his smile. “And you can’t tell me what—”
“No,” the deputy chief interrupted him. “I’m afraid not. The less you know about it, the better. Just one piece of advice, and this is as a friend, not as a policeman. Go home, be with your family. You can’t even begin to imagine how lucky you are. And keep an eye on Chiara. Take care of her. Not like a drunk, not like an angry nut. Like a man.” Rocco headed for the door. When he got to the middle of the room, he turned and pointed to the box and the wrapping paper. “This perfume . . . throw it away, or give it to your wife. Even if you didn’t buy it for her, she still might like it. Obviously, by the way, I was never here.”
“Obviously,” Pietro agreed. “But what am I supposed to do, Dottor Schiavone? Should I call my lawyers?”
“Clearly you haven’t understood a single thing I said. Don’t do anything. You trusted me once, right? Do it again.”
He left the office. He got back in the elevator. On the ground floor, the lights suddenly turned on. A man in the uniform of a security guard with a flashlight in his hand stood looking at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Schiavone didn’t even dignify him with a glance. “Sure, don’t worry about it . . . good night!” And he left Edil.ber.
He had just disgusted himself. All that false optimism, where had it come from? That surge of love toward the Berguet family? What were they to him? Little more than a case solved. People he never wanted to see again as long as he lived. And so? He’d felt like an idiot, after speaking words of wisdom to that desperate fool, who was half in the bag. What was becoming of Rocco Schiavone?
“Are you turning into a sentimentalist, Schiavò?” he asked, glancing into his rearview mirror as he started the car. “Damned springtime . . .” he muttered, as he put it into reverse.
LUPA WAS SLEEPING AT THE FOOT OF THE BED. NOT ROCCO. He had decided it was time to get back to reading some healthy books. He held the book upright on his stomach and smiled at every page.
“WHAT ARE YOU READING?”
“Carl Hiaasen. Ever hear of him?”
“Tourist Season . . . No, I’ve never read it. How is it?”
“Not bad . . . what about you?”
Marina is lying next to me. She has her cheek braced on the palm of her hand. “I’m looking at you.”
“See anything interesting?”
“Especially these wrinkles you’re getting around your eyes.” She extends a finger. It seems as if she’s about to touch the wrinkles. Instead, she retracts it, the way snails retract their eyes. “Are you moving to that apartment where Lupa marked her territory?”
“Of course I’m moving there. I’ll take care of a couple of things, get rid of a few items, and I’ll move. I’ve already put down the deposit.”
“Six hundred and fifty euros a month! Right in the center of town. In Rome you couldn’t rent a garage for that money. Not bad, is it?”
“We’re in Aosta, which isn’t exactly Rome.”
She heaves a sigh of annoyance. “When are you going to learn to live where you live?”
“Why, what am I doing wrong?”
“You’re pretending. You have to decide whether to jump into the fray or stay out of it. You can’t always play it both ways.”
What a pain in the ass.
“And don’t say, ‘What a pain in the ass!’”
“I didn’t say it, Marì . . .”
“True, but you thought it. You know I can read your mind.”
I look at her. I think I’m going to have to start wearing glasses for my farsightedness, because Marina’s features, just like the pages of the book, are getting blurry. And I’m not crying.
“It’s just because your eyesight is getting worse . . . a perfectly normal thing as you get older . . .”
“But you’ve always worn eyeglasses.”
“Stop right there! I’m nearsighted. Plus, I had contact lenses. With glasses on I look like a toad.”
“I like the way you look with glasses.”
“You used to. Italian has some rules, at least try to respect the tenses.”
“I like the way you look with glasses,” I insist. “Don’t you wear them anymore?”
Marina falls back on her pillow and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t need them. They can’t do me any good. Rocco . . .” When she calls me by my name and uses that exact tone of voice, that note, that hue, I always get a hollow in the pit of my stomach.
“What?”
“I’m not coming to the new place.”
There’s something stuck in my throat, something I can’t swallow. And yet I haven’t eaten dinner. “What do you mean, you’re not coming?”
“I’m not coming. I’m not coming anymore. Maybe when you come back to Rome, if you ever do, I’ll see you there. But there’s nothing left for me to do here.”
“Nothing left for you to do here? You need to stay with me.”
She runs a hand over her forehead. She’s white as the snow, and light as the pollen. “I’m tired, Rocco. Do you believe me when I say that I just can’t keep it up anymore?” She turns her head. The muscles strain in her neck. She narrows her eyes. “And you can’t keep it up anymore, either, my love.”
I clench my jaw. Twice, three times. “What do you mean, I can’t take it anymore? I can take it easily . . . I can.”
“No. You can’t keep it up anymore, either.” And she extends a hand. She wants to caress me. I shut my eyes. This time I feel her! I feel her hand on my cheek. I feel her skin, her warmth, her veins, and her blood, flowing fast. She’s here. She’s here again, with me. Forever.
“Ciao, Rocco . . . buonanotte.”
I squint my eyes. I don’t want her to see me cry. Not now. She doesn’t deserve that. I want to take her hand. But I just touch my cheek. I can feel my whiskers. I open my eyes. She’s gone. She’s not there anymore.
Marina? Talk to me again, my darling angel . . .
Tuesday
Paoletto Buglioni got off work at 4:30 in the morning. He’d climbed into his Smart car, and at the sight of him getting in, any ordinary observer might well have bet good money that that huge creature stuffed into that little vehicle wouldn’t be able to get the door shut. From the Lungotevere he headed for Testaccio, and then he turned onto the Via Ostiense. At Ponte Marconi he made a left onto Via Cristoforo Colombo. At that time of the day, those unlucky souls who had to go to work were still finishing their breakfast, while a very few were coming home after a night out painting the town red. Paoletto yawned and tried turning the volume of the radio up high. That helped to keep him from flopping over fast asleep. He drove past the Rome beltway and came to the turnoff for Tre Pini. There he veered to the right, continued along a road that just fifteen years earlier had been little more than a country mule track, and after that turned left up a stunningly steep road that led directly to his quarter, Vitinia. A cluster of houses, more than half of them villas and apartment buildings dating back to the seventies, built in violation of the city code and crisscrossed by a network of one-way streets. He parked his Smart car. It was a parking spot reserved for handicapped drivers, but no one in the quarter, not even a constable, wou
ld have dared to say a word to him about it, much less write him a ticket. He got out of the car and pulled out his house keys. He walked through the front door. He climbed a flight of stairs and finally stood in front of Apartment 3, where he lived. He opened the door and switched on the light. He hung up his heavy jacket on the coatrack and entered the living room. Sitting comfortably on the sofa were two men.
“What the fuck . . . ?”
“Ciao, Paolè,” said Brizio. “Do you remember? This is Sebastiano.”
Paoletto recovered his cool. “Certainly I remember. But what are you two doing in my home?”
“Well, you have a piece-of-shit burglar alarm,” Sebastiano replied seriously.
“I’m tired, I want to get some sleep, so tell me what you want right away and then get the hell out from underfoot.”
“Sure, we’ll tell you right away, won’t we, Seba?”
Sebastiano got to his feet. Same height as Paoletto. He looked him calmly in the eye. “At that bank robbery in Cinecittà three years ago, with Pasquale . . . you were the other guy.”
“Me? What the hell have you got into your head?”
“Listen, that wasn’t a question, understood?” Sebastiano went on. “That’s a statement. Mao Tse-tung told us so.”
“Guan Zhen,” Brizio corrected him from the sofa. “He has a little shop on Via Conte Verde, property of the family of the late and lamented Pasquale, one of his longtime friends.”
“Guan? Never heard of him.”
“But he knows that it was you. You fired that gun and you killed that poor retiree.”
Paoletto touched his nose. “Brizio, let me tell you something. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, it’s past five in the morning, I’ve been working all day, and now I’m going to get some sleep. There are beers and even milk in the fridge, so take your choice: breakfast or a nightcap. When you leave, close the door behind you. I may have a shitty alarm, like Seba says, but I’d feel just a little bit safer if you shut the door when you leave.” And in order to give some credibility to his stated intentions, he took off his jacket and stood there in a white shirt. Under the cotton, the enormous muscles of the bouncer from Hysteria pulsed and twitched.
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