Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

  “Is my brother really in such bad shape?”

  Uh-oh, missed the target, thought Rocco. “Your brother is screwed, and he’s dragging you down with him. He says that he doesn’t know why he was supposed to eliminate Cuntrera, he just obeyed orders that you gave him.” Rocco dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it out.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Amè, do as you please. But you knew that that guy was named Carlo Cutrì, not Dodò, the whole time!”

  “Who? Dodò? Who’s that?”

  “All right, then, let me show you these nice pictures that an eager young officer of mine took at the Ristorante Santalmasso a few days ago.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. He chose the first photo and showed it to Amelia. “You see? It’s you with Cremonesi, and right here, with his back to the camera, is old Dodò, who wasn’t Turrini’s stable boy, but actually Carlo Cutrì . . .”

  “This photo doesn’t prove a thing!” And she handed it back to the policeman.

  “Which is why I brought this one, too!” And now he extracted from the same envelope a second photo that depicted Amelia and Carlo Cutrì, arms around each other and broad smiles on their faces. In the background, two horses were grazing in a meadow. “You recognize this picture? Look at the back!”

  Amelia turned it over. On the back was written: “Winning Mood—May 2nd, 2012.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “At your house. Not where you receive your clients, the one on Via Laurent Cerise. It takes some nerve for you to live right around the corner from the courthouse. But given your current situation, it might prove convenient for your lawyer. You know what? Someone found me an apartment on that same street, but I turned it down.”

  “I had a hundred thousand euros riding on that horse, Winning Mood,” Amelia said with a bitter smile. “He’s a born champion, you know that?”

  Rocco smiled. “You’re up to your neck in shit, Amelia. Think it over. It’s like in baseball. Do you know how baseball works?”

  “No.”

  “If the batter makes it to base before the ball, then he’s safe, but if the fielder catches the ball before he can slide to base, then the batter is out! It’s the same thing with investigating magistrates. Get to base before they do. And you just might be safe.” Rocco stood up, dragging the chair across the old cement floor. “You’ve got time to think it over. Take care of yourself!”

  FOR DINNER, THEY’D CHOSEN THE ENOTECA CROIX DE VILLE. Rocco and Alberto Fumagalli were sitting at their table, sipping a Fumin while waiting for dessert, two chocolate gateaus that made their mouths water at the very sight of them. The two men had mopped their plates clean, and in fact, Alberto had even ordered a second helping of chicken piccata.

  “This is the first time we’ve eaten dinner together,” said Alberto.

  “Are you feeling emotional?”

  “‘Disgusted’ is the adjective I’d actually been thinking of.” Then he raised his glass—“A toast to you, for having found Cuntrera’s killer”—and they both drained their glasses in a single gulp. Alberto filled the glasses again. “And now let’s drink to the death of the guy who broke into your apartment!” They drained their glasses again. “Any news on that?”

  “Maybe something’s starting to move, but the only thing I can be sure of is that the guy was in prison. Otherwise he would have struck sooner.”

  “Or maybe out of the country?”

  “Or maybe out of the country.”

  A young woman brought the desserts. Alberto didn’t even give her time to set down his plate before attacking the gateau. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in a lifetime.”

  “Am I paying or not?” said the doctor through a mouthful of cake. “So, if you don’t mind . . .”

  The gateau melted in his mouth.

  “Can you tell me something?” the medical examiner inquired. “Why do you look so sad?”

  “Really? I do?”

  “Yes, you do . . .”

  “It happens to me all the time.”

  “But you look sadder than usual.”

  “It’s hormonal, if you ask me. When I get to the end of a trudge through shit like this, it hits me hard.”

  “But you ought to be happy about it, actually. You caught them, you threw them into prison . . . Oh, well . . . just don’t think about it and focus on the gateau.”

  “Anyway, I have a bad feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “The murder in the prison. I have a feeling that things didn’t go exactly as we think they did. It doesn’t add up, I can’t quite see that group of upright citizens as masterminding the murder of that poor wretch Cuntrera. I’m certain that there’s something I’m missing.”

  “Sleep on it. Things will look clearer tomorrow morning.”

  “Now that we’re far away from the morgue, the dead bodies, the blood, and all those other amenities, I have a confession to make.”

  Alberto stopped chewing and gave Rocco a level look. “You’re a homosexual?”

  “No. And even if I was, you’re the last man I’d try to hook up with.”

  “I’d actually have given you some serious consideration . . .”

  “All right, so are you interested in hearing this confession or not?”

  “Go on!”

  “You’re an invaluable person. And I thank God that I found you here. Without you, things would have been much more difficult.”

  Alberto wiped his mouth, laid the napkin back on his knees, and took a sip of wine. Rocco followed suit. They sat in silence until the check came.

  I ATE TOO MUCH. I CAN’T GET TO SLEEP. I OUGHT TO LEARN from Lupa. I get obsessed with staring at this light on the ceiling. Pink.

  “After all, we’re leaving here soon,” I say. To no one. There’s nobody here. Just me and a sleeping dog. The pink goes from pale to dark, then purple. One two three. One two three.

  You’re not here. You’re not coming back. Then you meant what you said. “Did you mean what you said?” My feet and my hands are cold.

  “I read something about quanta. There are particles of the electron that only appear in reality when they collide. Then they disappear. Did you know that?”

  Where do they disappear to? There’s something they’ve never told us. Something that every once in a while appears here, in our world, but then, just as fast as it appeared, it goes away again, leaving no trace behind it. Not even a smell.

  “Where are you?”

  She’s right to leave. On this side there are teeth, blood, and claws, Marina. They cut, they scratch, they make you bleed. Look at how my skin has been ruined. I look like I’m covered with tattoos.

  But if I shut my eyes, I see her. With her back to me. Sitting on the beach. I call her name. She doesn’t turn around. I call her name again. “Marina, will you answer me?” Her shoulders are shaking. She’s laughing. Then, slowly, she turns around. But the sun blinds me and I can’t seem to glimpse her face. She’s raised a hand in front of her eyes, to block the light. She blows me a kiss.

  Friday

  Italo, excuse me if I disturb you in my own office,” Rocco said upon entering the room. The officer was stretched out on the sofa, holding some photographs in his hand. “Say, do you feel like adding another pain in the ass to the chart outside?”

  “Sure, tell me which,” he replied, sitting up.

  “Intrusion upon other people’s existential perimeter. I know that to you, it’s an incomprehensible concept, but put it at the eighth level. No, wait, make it ninth.”

  “Intrusion upon . . . ?”

  “. . . other people’s existential perimeter. You know what I’m talking about? Everyone has their own spaces, their personal times . . .”

  “That’s the same thing that Caterina says.” Italo got up. He had a sad expression on his face. He actually scratched Lupa between the ears.

  “Is that why you were here? To suffocate me with your love story?”

  “No. I was here to
tell you that the judge called. Daniele Abela has been arrested in Sanremo. He had twenty-five thousand euros in cash in his backpack.”

  “Was he planning to gamble them away?”

  “Got me . . . but the other guy, Tolotta, not a sign of him yet.”

  “Well, where do you expect he’s going to get away to?”

  “I just happened to be looking at this photo . . .” And he held it up for Rocco to see. It was the picture of Amelia with her arm around Carlo Cutrì.

  “What about it?”

  “I’ve seen this girl before.”

  “On the Internet. She’s an escort.”

  “But I don’t look for that sort of thing on the Internet.”

  “What do you want from me, Italo? You must have met her just walking around Aosta. She’s a good-looking girl, she struck your imagination. Or wait, no! Now that I think about it. Of course you’ve seen her before. The other night when we went to pay a call at the Turrini home, you remember?”

  “Do you think I could forget it?”

  “She was there. She came out of the house with all the other guests.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. It’s nine o’clock now, so if you don’t mind, could you let me have the room?”

  “What do you need to do?” Rocco was about to reply, but Italo beat him to it: “Your own fucking business. Understood, sorry . . .”

  The officer left the room with his head low.

  The young man needed a vacation, Rocco decided. He sprawled in his chair. The time had come. He pulled out the key and opened the locked drawer. He grabbed a joint and lit it. Before he even had a chance to exhale the first puff, the sound of the telephone clawed into his ears. He picked up the receiver. “Schiavone here . . .”

  “Come upstairs!” It was the police chief.

  “What’s going on, Dottore?”

  “I said come upstairs!”

  HE FOUND COSTA SITTING AT HIS DESK. SERIOUS EXPRESSION on his face, which was gray in spite of the sunny day.

  “Sit down!” And he pointed Rocco to the chair in front of his desk. Costa handed him a newspaper. “Read!”

  Rocco opened it. On the page was a headline that hit him like a punch in the eye:

  IS THIS HOW THEY SPEND TAXPAYERS’ MONEY?

  Under that headline, a photograph depicted Rocco hunkered down on the roof of the canopy over the front entrance to police headquarters. There followed an article, frothy and ironic, about the activity of the state police in the city, and of course the usual sharp asides about the Rue Piave case, still shrouded in the most absolute mystery. And, no surprise, the byline of Sandra Buccellato.

  “I’m certain that you must have a million different explanations to offer me, Schiavone. But I only want one. The real one. What were you doing out there?”

  “I was running away.”

  “From what, if I might ask?”

  “From the Berguets, man and wife. They’d come in to thank me. I’ve had to sit through three sessions of psychoanalysis with mother, father, and daughter. I’m sick and tired of them, I’ve got them pouring out of my eyes.”

  “And in order to avoid them, you climb out of the window of my police headquarters?”

  “It was a hasty, reckless act, I recognize that, but dictated by desperation more than any other—”

  Costa burst out laughing. “I swear to you, Schiavone, this goes right up there with the video clip of the De Rege brothers taking on the narcotics peddlers. I’m going to have it framed!”

  Rocco didn’t know whether he should laugh, too. One thing was certain: in that instant the entire city, including the prosecutor’s office, was looking at that photo. Including, perhaps, Signore and Signora Berguet. “You look like a colossal ass, Schiavone. The kind of thing that might merit a transfer to the far end of the peninsula.”

  “I’ll happily accept the offer!”

  Suddenly, Costa stood up. “Instead, what I wanted was to congratulate you. You’ve done an excellent job. And don’t worry, I can wrap these print-media journalists around my finger, I have a press conference at noon. This time, as you’ll understand, I’m not going to invite you to attend. What is the official version of your exceedingly . . . feline, shall we say? . . . presence atop that canopy?”

  “I was fixing a leak?”

  “No.”

  “A safety check?”

  “What are you, a fireman?”

  “Why don’t you give me a suggestion?”

  “You were on the roof to get your wedding ring, which you’d carelessly dropped.”

  “My wedding ring?”

  “That way we insist on the fact that you’re a family man, that you care about maintaining a commitment, and we conjure up a romantic aura around your person.”

  “My wife is dead, Dottor Costa.”

  “That’s a trivial detail.”

  “Not really, not to me . . .”

  “I know that. But desperate times call for desperate measures . . . You know what these news vendors are like, don’t you?”

  “Speaking of which, do you know this Sandra Buccellato?”

  Costa nodded like a wise old man. “Do you want the truth?”

  “We’re talking with our hands on our hearts, Dottore.”

  The police chief drew a deep breath. “She’s my wife, or really, I should say, my ex-wife.”

  Rocco’s jaw dropped in amazement. “Your ex-wife?”

  “Right,” the police chief admitted gravely.

  “The woman who dumped you for an editor at La Stampa is a journalist now?”

  “That’s not all. She’s even moved back here from Turin.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. And anyway, I’ll get her in my line of sight one of these days. You know the saying? The world spins from east to west and sooner or later . . .”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, that’s geography.” And he smiled, baring his teeth.

  “Do you realize that that woman has been attacking me in article after article for days now? And it’s all your fault!”

  “Schiavone, what are you talking about? If anything, I’m the one who ought to have it in for that bitch! She abandoned our conjugal roof, though perhaps I shouldn’t make any mention of roofs today. Let’s just say she dumped me from one day to the next! She just has a grudge and a running feud with the police force as a whole. And you are a member of that force. Even though, if you’ll give me this point, that statement continues to ring very strange to my ear. On that, at least, I think we can agree?”

  “I would say so.”

  “YES, THEY ALREADY SHOWED IT TO ME AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS,” said Rocco at the sight of the newspaper that Baldi, with a smile on his lips, had tossed on the desk in front of him. Lupa was scrupulously refraining from chewing on the imitation Bukhara. She lay there pensively, observing the window, her attention no doubt attracted by the curtain cords.

  “I find it hilarious. The policeman on the roof! I swear to you that this is the first time I’ve ever seen anything of the sort!”

  Baldi was in a good mood. The photo of his wife had magically reappeared on his desk. Offering tit for tat, or perhaps just to get an explanation once and for all of all those comings and goings, Rocco asked him straight up: “As long as we’re talking about photographs, would you tell me why your wife’s photo keeps vanishing from and reappearing on your desk?”

  Baldi furrowed his brow. “My wife’s photo? This right here? What are you talking about, Schiavone? It’s always been here, it’s never moved!”

  Instead, Rocco raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Really?”

  “Certainly. Why would I ever remove it? She’s my wife!” But he didn’t say it with total conviction. He seems to be reciting a script he’d memorized. “Now, let’s talk about Cuntrera. Those people,” he went on, referring to the band of white-collar criminals who had just been arrested, “deny any and all connection with the murder. The only one who isn’t
talking is Cutrì. He’s involved up to his neck. Turrini and his wife claim they’ve never even met Cuntrera. They’re lying. The kidnapping of Chiara Berguet formed part of a very subtle plan, you know?”

  “That part’s clear to me. When they took her, they were operating on two levels. The grimy, obvious level of ransom, which is where Cutrì played the predominant role, and then the secondary level of discrediting the company.”

  “That’s right. By suborning Berguet’s right-hand man so that he could be shown to be a member of the gang that had kidnapped Chiara and undermine Edil.ber’s credibility once and for all. And I believe that it constitutes a valid motive for eliminating Cuntrera.”

  “Why, because he could have revealed that understanding?”

  “Exactly!” And Baldi slammed a fist down on the desk. “The kidnapping. The agreements that they had established. Clever, I say. What about that escort, Amelia, the guard’s sister, anything new out of her?”

  “Nothing. Obviously, she knows all about it. All it would take is to find out who gave the twenty-five thousand euros to her brother . . .”

  “Difficult to do. We’re monitoring the bank accounts, but do you know how hard it would be for Turrini to reach out to one of his Swiss corporations and withdraw that money to pay the killer?”

  “Not hard at all.”

  “DOTTOR SCHIAVONE!” CATERINA RISPOLI’S VOICE ECHOED behind him.

  “Are we back on a formal basis?”

  Caterina lowered her voice: “No, but, I mean, in the middle of the hallway, maybe it would be better . . .”

  “Tell me, what’s up?”

  “Two phone calls. Officer De Silvestri, Cristoforo Colombo police station, Rome.”

  Rocco hurried to his office, closely followed by the deputy inspector. “The officer said it was urgent. What’s this about?”

  Rocco dialed the number of his old police station hastily. Caterina didn’t know whether to stay or leave the office. Rocco waved her to a chair.

  “Cristoforo Colombo police station, who’s caaaalling?”