Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

  “Christ on a crutch!” Sebastiano broke in. “We get it, we know that Flavio is your son, but where is he?”

  The woman signaled in dumb show that she hadn’t understood. Sebastiano repeated the words, using his right hand to accompany every word with an act of mimicry. “Flavio”—and here he pointed to the photo on the marble-topped side table by the front door—“your son”—and he pointed his index finger at the little old woman—“now”—and he indicated his watch—“where is he?” he asked, bunching all the fingertips of his hand together and shaking his hand up and down.

  “I don’t know what time it is. You have a watch on your wrist, young man.” Sebastiano shut his eyes.

  Brizio weighed in again: “Signora, do you know how to read?” And he pointed to her eyes. “I mean, can you see okay?”

  Flavio’s mother shrugged her shoulders. Brizio put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out an old receipt, took the pen from the side table, and wrote: “Where is Flavio?” Then he handed the little sheet of paper to the woman, who held it at arm’s length from her face to read it.

  “Ah!” And she smiled. “So you want to know where Flavio is?”

  Seba practically hugged her.

  “No idea. He left three days ago!”

  That exchange, carried out at the top of their lungs, had tested the vocal cords of the two friends. Brizio decided not to abandon the new communications strategy he’d just discovered, because at least it seemed to work. He found another scrap of paper and wrote: “Where did he go?”

  The woman read that note, too. “No, young man. I don’t know,” she shouted. “Maybe to go see his brother. Or maybe to stay with some friend.”

  Brizio wrote: “Did he pack a suitcase?”

  “You’ve got me! I didn’t see. He left while I was out shopping for groceries. Do you want an espresso?”

  “No, thanks,” Sebastiano shouted.

  By now, Brizio had run out of receipts from his wallet. “Seba, give me something to write on.”

  His friend pulled a receipt from a mechanic out of his jacket pocket. Brizio wrote, again in front of the old lady’s attentive eyes: “Do you have your son’s cell phone number?”

  The woman took a while to read it. “Don’t be silly! I don’t even have a phone in the house! No, no, I don’t talk with those gadgets. Flavio has one, but I wouldn’t even know where to look for the number!”

  Exhausted, they gave up the chase. The last message that Brizio wrote was: “Arrivederci, Signora!”

  “And if he comes back, who should I say came to see him?”

  It was Sebastiano who answered: “Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin.”

  The woman smiled, nodded in gratitude, and accompanied the two men out to the landing.

  “Fuck you very much!” Sebastiano shouted with a smile.

  “Thanks. Same to you, and to your family.” And Flavio’s mamma gently shut the door.

  “After all, she’s deaf as a doorpost,” the bear muttered. They started down the ramshackle stairs, stained with humidity and mold. “Paoletto didn’t warn him. If he’s been gone three days, then it wasn’t Paoletto who warned him . . .”

  “Maybe,” said Brizio. “Or maybe not. What counts is the fact that Rocco and I talked to Paoletto about the pistol last Wednesday. And who knows whether he sounded the alarm and Flavio, to avoid trouble, didn’t just decide to disappear for a while.”

  They walked out into the street, greeted by the stench of auto exhaust and the noise of traffic. “Do you want to go pay another call on Paoletto?” Sebastiano shouted, to make himself heard above the roar of the intersection.

  “No. Let’s wait. Maybe we really ought to talk to Rocco. Then if we don’t find out anything more, in a day or two we can go back and see Paoletto and leave him lying on the floor.”

  Seba nodded. They went back to the car in silence, their cheeks burning red.

  THIRD HOUSE ON THE LEFT ALONG THE REGIONAL ROAD. IT was a red, single-story house. Rocco parked. He turned around. On the back seat, Lupa was curled up with a rubber bone between her paws. “Chew on that, not on the steering wheel or the gearshift, because this is a Volvo and spare parts are very pricey. Be a good puppy, understood?” And he cracked the windows just enough to let in some fresh air and got out of the car. The house had a small front yard with a well-tended garden, surrounded by a white picket fence. A lovely place, sunny, surrounded by fields, quiet. The roses were just starting to bud, along with other yellow flowers dotting the metal arch over the front gate. The bell had no name next to it. Just two initials: “A.A.” Rocco smiled. That’s how they started classified ads, to make sure they’re first, listed alphabetically. He pushed the buzzer. The electric lock buzzed loudly and the gate swung open. He walked up a short gravel path and arrived at the front door. He rang the doorbell there again. A few seconds passed, and then the woman opened the door. When she saw Rocco, she betrayed no reaction. She just smiled. “Come in,” she said to him. “You see that I was right? That you wanted my cell phone number?”

  Rocco went in.

  A modern house, with a central fireplace, a chesterfield sofa, and paintings hanging everywhere. A quick glance was sufficient to catalogue them: uninteresting mountain landscapes, a dime a dozen. Amelia was wearing a very serious knee-length gray skirt suit. “I’d recognized your voice on the telephone,” she told him and kissed him on the cheek.

  The scent of tuberose flowers, by the ton.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s right . . . so do you want something to drink?” And she gestured for him to have a seat on the sofa.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Is this your first time?” she asked him.

  “First time what?”

  “First time you’ve made an appointment like this?”

  “No.”

  “How did you manage to find me?”

  “Like the bees, you buzz from flower to flower. But you leave your traces,” he said to her.

  Amelia smiled. She sat down. “Do you have any preferences?”

  “Are you referring to your services?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what are the specials of the house?” Rocco asked.

  “Double penetration? Are you into bondage? Are you a masochist? A sadist? Do you love a golden shower? Do you like things en travesti?”

  Rocco stretched his neck to one side. “Would fucking be too simplistic?”

  “No. I’d say that’s an option. Do you have any preferences as to attire?”

  “Usually I’m not wearing any. Neither is my sex partner.”

  Amelia smiled. “Sure, okay, but do you have any fetishistic fixations? Fishnet stockings, garter belts, waist cinchers, stiletto heels, balconette bras?”

  “No. The way your mother made you . . . does that constitute a perversion?”

  “I don’t really know . . . but I wouldn’t think so.” And she stood up. “Because usually they have a regular laundry list. Last night a client asked me to dress up as a policeman. I had to handcuff him.”

  “Nothing special about that. I do it all the time.” He said it with a vague hint of menace, but Amelia seemed to miss that overtone entirely.

  “All right, listen, I’m going in the other room. Could you . . . ?” And she extended her hand. Rocco understood immediately. He pulled out his wallet and counted out four hundred-euro bills. He gave the woman the cash. “Can I get a receipt?” Rocco asked.

  Amelia smiled and left the living room, disappearing behind a door. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m ready.”

  He’d only have a few seconds.

  He stood and hurried over to the purse he’d noticed on his way in. Inside, nothing but makeup and a comb. No wallet. He opened the drawer of the cabinet. Two sets of keys and a thin silver ribbon for gift wrapping. He left the front hall and went to the galley kitchen. He searched all the drawers there: they were empty. Likewise empty were the cabinets. He looked around. There were two other pieces of furniture with drawers. On
e by the sofa, the other next to the fireplace. But there, too, all he found were little dust balls and a metal paper clip.

  It wasn’t a lived-in apartment. There was still the mailbox, outside in the front yard, but he didn’t have time for that. The woman, dressed in a filmy negligee, called to him. “I’m ready.”

  I’m not, thought Rocco.

  “Do you want to take a shower first?”

  “Do I stink?” he asked her.

  “No. Maybe we can start with a nice hot bath and then . . . we’ll see how it goes.”

  “That strikes me as an excellent idea,” he lied. But at least that would give him a little more time.

  “I’ll go draw a bath,” she said and vanished behind the door again. Rocco moved quickly. He silently opened the front door. He left it just slightly ajar. He went to the mailbox, which fortunately wasn’t locked. Catalogues, flyers, mailers. Nothing, not a bill or a certified letter. He went back into the house. He softly shut the door and decided to take a look at the rest of the place.

  He could hear the water splashing in the bathroom. He opened the first door and found a pink bedroom. There were just two side tables, no armoire, no dresser. The side tables were empty, too. The second room was a sort of office, the walls lined with photos of a trip to India. The desk drawers were empty, too. The third door was the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, Amelia was dipping her hand in the water, lost in thought.

  “De qué hes? Apéra’m s’as besonh d’ajuda.”

  “I don’t understand . . . what did you just say?”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “Why would you frequent people like Cremonesi?”

  Amelia didn’t take her eyes off the water in the tub. “Because they’re so generous.”

  “They’re not nice people.”

  “Do you know any nice people?”

  “What are Cremonesi, Grange, and Dr. Turrini doing together?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’m not on such intimate terms with them.”

  “But you go to dinner with them.”

  At last Amelia looked up. “Did you have me followed?”

  “Let’s just say it was a coincidence . . .”

  “Dottor Schiavone, are we going to fuck today, or would you rather summon me to police headquarters, accompanied by my lawyer?”

  “I imagine I wouldn’t get my four hundred euros back.”

  “You imagine accurately.”

  “Then let’s forget about the poetry and just fuck.”

  “Let me warn you, I don’t kiss.”

  “Neither do I.”

  HE WAS GIVING IT HIS ALL. AMELIA WAS SWEET, GENTLE, sensitive, and clearly at least somewhat experienced. She touched where touching was appropriate; it was delightfully easy to penetrate her. And while he was possessing her, he looked her in the face. She kept her eyes shut. Her generous bosom seemed even more attractive now that it didn’t have to battle the law of gravity. Her skin was well cared for, without stretch marks, and her legs were muscular. The tattooed bee on her neck was pulsating over her veins, and a light patina of sweat had appeared on her forehead. Her black hair spread out on the pillow seemed to be moving with the wind. He didn’t need to think. Just feel her body. He caressed her arms, grabbed her breasts, massaged her thighs. His penis was burning in spite of the condom, but it was a faint, almost tender burning sensation.

  He shut his eyes. The images came pouring in like an avalanche. Caterina’s face, Lupa’s tail, Marina’s hair and her pale diaphanous hand, Giuliana Berguet adjusting her necklace, Adele laughing, Lupa’s tail again, Cuntrera’s corpse, the perfume of the tuberose flowers, the scent of the meadows, the book by Anatole France, the Turrinis’ Fontana paintings, the police chief’s eyeglasses. He opened his eyes again. Now Amelia was looking at him. She seemed impatient. He decided it was time to be done with it, and he came.

  AS HE GOT DRESSED AGAIN, HE DIDN’T SAY A WORD. THE woman lay on the bed, illuminated by the light from the window with the pleated pink curtains. He laced his Clarks desert boots, stood up, and put his hand on the door handle. “I think we’ll be seeing more of each other,” he told her.

  “Why? Were you satisfied?”

  “No. If you ask me, at four hundred euros you’re overpriced. I’m thinking more about down at police headquarters. Ciao, Amelia.” Before leaving, he offered her a tip, free of charge: “By the way, there’s no e in ‘thighs.’”

  “Well, Italian isn’t my native language. I grew up speaking Provençal . . . Dab plasèr . . . it’s been a pleasure!”

  WHAT REASON THERE COULD HAVE BEEN FOR ALL THOSE IMAGES to flood through his mind he just couldn’t say. Were they mental notes, so many Post-its stuck to his brain? The police chief and his eyeglasses were certainly a reminder of some kind—he was almost certainly trying to find Rocco. Marina and Caterina, too easy to find an answer to that one. Lupa’s tail? Why Lupa’s tail? Giuliana Berguet and her necklace . . . Why had Chiara’s book of fairy tales surfaced in his mind? They’re just images, he thought to himself, like frames of an old movie. A friend of his who’d been a psychiatrist, now dead, but with whom he’d spent many wonderful evenings, had explained to him that thoughts and dreams are very rarely random products of chance. Often images and concepts remain buried under the ashes, but all it takes is a breath of wind to bring them back to life. He got back into his car. Lupa had licked the side window extensively. Delighted to see her master returning to the car, she leapt into the front seat and greeted him, sniffing vigorously at his neck and face. “What is it, do you smell a strange scent?” he asked with a laugh. Lupa barked. “Are you jealous? But you know the way things work, don’t you? That’s just the way males are . . .”

  The rapidly growing puppy continued licking him.

  “Males have two brains. One up top, the other down below! And more often than not, the second one has more control than the first.” He inserted the electronic key into its slot next to the steering wheel. The minute that the various lights and gauges lit up on the control panel, he had the distinct sensation that dozens of little lights had flicked on in his brain as well. He’d realized: The book by Anatole France on Chiara’s bed! The fairy tale. Abeille, which means “bee.” A doubt surfaced. He grabbed his cell phone and called Italo. “Do you speak Provençal?”

  “No. I speak patois. It’s a little different, but still, more or less, yes . . . why?”

  “You need to tell me how to say ‘bee’ in Provençal.”

  Italo said nothing. Then: “I’ll ask my aunt. She’s from Castagnole Piemonte, you know?”

  “Who the hell cares where she’s from. Just get busy!”

  He ended the call. He didn’t have to wait a full minute. A chime announced the arrival of a text message. It was from Italo. “Bee is abelha. That’s what my aunt remembers.”

  Bee. Abela. The surname of the young guard at Varallo prison. “A.A.” written on the young woman’s doorbell. “Amelia Abela?” Maybe the picture finally had a frame.

  “OUT!” SHOUTED THE CHAIR UMPIRE. HUNDREDS OF MOTHS were fluttering around the halogen spotlights illuminating the tennis court.

  “What do you mean, out!” protested Vittorio Abrugiati, who had clearly seen that the volley was inside the line.

  “Papà, if it’s out, it’s out,” his son replied from his perch on the chair.

  “Vittò, don’t even try. It was out,” said Dario Cantalini, who’d outpaced Vittorio in the first set with a clear lead of 6 to 1 and was leading in the second set 2 to 0, his serve. Vittorio delivered a kick to his bag, which flew through the air, spitting out three yellow tennis balls and a towel. “Fuck, though, it was in by a yard!”

  His son, who was refereeing the game with the help of two friends, and who understood tennis better than his father, since he was currently leading the Abruzzo regi
onal series, rolled his eyes. “Come on, Papà, it was out!”

  Dario Cantalini rubbed his hands. “Forty–love, and I have three balls for the third game, my friend! And don’t forget, you’re going to have to wash my car inside and out, eh?”

  “Not necessarily!” Vittorio protested. “Though if I even have the chair umpire against me, maybe so!”

  “Papà, cut it out, or I’ll give you a warning!” shouted his son Carlo.

  Vittorio got ready to receive the serve. Dario blasted a ball that skidded on the line, and Vittorio didn’t even try to hit.

  “Ace! Dario’s game, three to zero, changeover!” called Carlo.

  “Oh, go fuck yourself!” Vittorio hissed through his teeth. “But I can’t see a thing with these electric lights!” he protested, heading over to the chair to dry off the sweat.

  “So now it’s the electric lights, and then the balls are deflated, and the racket needs tightening! You want the truth, Vittò? You don’t have a chance against me! . . . Your father has a lot to learn!” Dario and Carlo laughed loudly, in unison.

  “Buonasera!” Vittorio looked up. Behind the fence around the court were two women. Barbara and Tatiana.

  “Ciao, Barbara . . . buonasera . . .” Vittorio replied.

  “Afterward, do you have two minutes for me?” asked the bookseller.

  “If you wait five minutes, I’ll finish him off and you can have him for the rest of the evening!” Dario shouted to her as he opened a bottle of mineral water.

  “Umpire, time!” Vittorio called, and then went over to the two ladies.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, we went to the bank, but it was already closed. So Federica told us that we could find you here . . . and actually . . .” Here she cupped her hand in front of her mouth and shouted to Carlo: “Your mother said that she needs the car tonight and can’t let you borrow it!”

  From high atop his chair, Carlo grimaced in annoyance. “Then how am I supposed to go to Pescara? Papà, will you lend me yours?”

  “The volley was out, right? You’ve just answered your own question!” The teller from the savings bank turned back to Barbara and Tatiana.

  “Listen, there’s a problem. Corrado has been missing for two days now . . .”