Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

  “Fine. Excellent. Caterì, do you like it?”

  “I’d say . . . It’s very nice indeed.”

  Rocco pulled out his wallet. “How much is it?”

  “Listen, only because it’s you—”

  “Why just for me?”

  “Because you have a good nose . . . it’s one hundred seventy euros.”

  Rocco didn’t bat an eye. Caterina intervened: “No, Dottore. What are you doing?”

  “Allow me, Caterina . . . Do you take Visa?”

  “Mais bien sûr.”

  “Ça va sans dire!” And Rocco gave his credit card to the woman, who moved her bulk to the cash register.

  “Why, no, Dottore . . . I can’t accept.”

  “What are you doing? What am I going to do with it? It’s a perfume for women . . .”

  “You put me in an awkward position. Well, you could always give it to one of your—”

  “You have the wrong idea about me, Caterina . . .” And he went over to the cash register to pay. “And I hereby order you to stop addressing me as ‘sir,’ even in public, and never to use the formal with me, otherwise I’ll take it back.” The shopkeeper ripped the receipt from the machine.

  “Wait, you’re . . . you’re colleagues! I had assumed that between the two of you—”

  “No, Signora, the young lady just arrested me and I’ve been trying to bribe her.”

  The perfume store clerk gazed in bewilderment at Caterina, who was in the meantime flashing a smile with every tooth in her mouth.

  They went back to the car. They didn’t say another word the whole way back. Caterina held the package with the perfume; Rocco smoked a cigarette. He had been transformed. His eyes had turned sad, glazed over, and the corners of his mouth twisted downward in a bitter frown. Even his hair seemed to have lost its body.

  “Where . . . where are we going?”

  “You’re going back to the office. I’ll take care of this on my own.”

  “Why have you gone all sad?”

  “Because I’ll never get used to reality, Caterina. The years go by, I see the filth over and over again, but I can never get used to it.”

  “What reality . . . What are you talking about?”

  “Finding the truth, Caterì. That’s my profession. That’s what they pay me to do. Not much, but they do pay me. And every time I discover the truth, I wish I could close my eyes and pretend that it wasn’t. But the facts speak loudly, my young friend, and they’re unmistakable.”

  Caterina couldn’t understand. She was looking at the deputy chief, and he had transformed right in front of her eyes.

  “It’s the shit, Deputy Inspector Rispoli. The shit that is constantly overflowing, and I can’t stand the stench anymore. That’s all.”

  THE SECRETARY HAD KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF THE PRESIDENT’S office. She’d gone in. Then she’d reemerged with a bright smile on her face. “Please, Dottor Schiavone . . .” And Rocco went in.

  Pietro Berguet stood up from his desk and walked toward him, arms thrown wide. “I owe you my thanks, Dottor Schiavone! Thanks to you and the prosecutor’s office, my company—”

  Rocco interrupted him with a brusque gesture, raising his hand flat in front of him. Pietro stopped halfway, as if he’d just been punched in the nose. The two men looked into each other’s eyes.

  “Why?” asked Rocco.

  “Why am I thanking you?”

  “No. Why did you do it?”

  A timid smile appeared on Pietro’s face as he held his breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Amelia Abela. The escort.”

  Pietro exhaled and relaxed. “Dottore, I know. But we’re all men, and I wouldn’t want you to think of me as a . . . a whoremonger, that’s the word. It was a moment of weakness, I beg you to—”

  “Pietro, I’m not here from the vice squad. I don’t care either way who you go around screwing. I’m asking you why you were in cahoots with Amelia Abela and her brother.”

  “In cahoots about what?”

  “About Mimmo Cuntrera, Berguet. You were the mastermind.”

  Those words landed with a glacial frost in the room. “The mastermind? I ask you, have you lost your mind?”

  “Judge Baldi is reviewing your checking accounts. And recent transactions. He’s pretty sure that somewhere in there we’re going to find a withdrawal of at least twenty-five thousand euros, money that you gave Daniele Abela, plus something for his worthy colleague Tolotta. And a lavish tip to Amelia, too. Or am I wrong?”

  “Dead wrong!”

  Rocco pointed his finger at the desk. The perfume was still there, surrounded by its wrapping paper. “You don’t give gifts worth a hundred seventy euros to an escort if you’re contacting her for strictly professional considerations. That right there is a gift that you give to a woman you love, or someone to whom you owe a debt of gratitude. You want me to tell you the way I see it?”

  Pietro Berguet’s face had become a shard of gray slate.

  “Maybe the first encounter was just a product of chance, or maybe not. The fact remains that you somehow learned about her family ties and the plan formed spontaneously in your mind. A clean and simple plan. A disreputable piece of shit like Cuntrera—how many different people wanted him dead? You wanted to take revenge for your daughter, and that’s understandable. Only you overdid it.”

  Pietro burst into nervous laughter. “You’re leveling a very serious accusation against me. And I believe that, at this point, our conversation is going to have to end here. From now on, we’ll speak only in the presence of my lawyer!”

  “Certainly, Dottor Berguet, of course. But you know something? Make sure you have a good lawyer, because Amelia Abela is already talking with her lawyer. The young lady has everything to gain by giving us a hand. And you have everything to lose. That’s not all, either. We’ve just arrested the brother with the swag. As for his worthy confederate Federico Tolotta, it’s only a matter of time. Now, please accept a piece of advice from someone who knows the inside of this country’s prisons very well. Two prison guards, two correctional officers, are not going to have an easy time behind bars. Whatever house of detention they might happen to wind up in. Let me just put it this way: in the interest of improving the treatment they can hope to receive from the courts, those two would be willing to sell out their mothers. So you understand, Dottor Berguet? You’re up to your neck in shit.”

  “It’s time to say good-bye, Dottor Schiavone.”

  “I hope you have a good day. One last thing, though. If you’d been satisfied to live your life instead of becoming a fucking out-of-control vigilante, today really would have been a wonderful day for you. Edil.ber would have won those contracts, everything would have gone back to normal, Chiara would have forgotten, and there would be a smile on your wife’s lips again. You’re just an idiot and a loser, Berguet. A miserable, small, insignificant man.”

  “I won’t accept lectures on morality from you!”

  “It wasn’t a lecture on morality. It was a mere statement of fact.”

  “Get lost!”

  LUPA JUMPED RIGHT AT HIM, MANAGING WITH AN EXAGGERATED leap to actually lick his face. Sitting on her Ikea sofa, Caterina observed that reunion with a serious expression.

  “Did you miss me, little one? Have you already eaten your dinner?”

  The panting of the dog and the chirping of the cuckoo clock marking the hour were the only sounds. There was a lovely scent of violets, and every corner of the little apartment had a story to tell. Books, photos hanging on the wall, two small African statuettes, and a collection of teacups.

  “You have a nice place here. I understand . . . Italo would just clash with it.”

  “You’re not getting off so easily . . .”

  “Easily how?”

  “The name!” said Caterina. She was still wearing her uniform. Rocco looked at her and she brushed back her hair. “Rocco, I want to know!”

  The deputy chief went over to the window. �
��His name is Enzo Baiocchi. He’s a bandit who escaped from the prison of Velletri.”

  “And why does he have it in for you?”

  “It was July 7, 2007. My wife and I had gone out to get a gelato. I’d lost a bet, a silly trifle, a game we liked to play. On our way back, a car pulled up next to ours. Inside were two men. Corrado Pizzuti was driving, and Luigi Baiocchi, Enzo’s brother, was in the passenger seat. I barely had time to turn around. Baiocchi had a pistol in his hand. He fired two shots. Instinctively I ducked. Marina didn’t. She didn’t duck. The first shot went right through her throat. The second hit her in the left temple. She didn’t even have time to understand what . . .” His voice died in his throat. He shut his eyes. He bit his lip. Caterina had turned pale. She couldn’t even move a finger, as she knit her hands together. Rocco resumed his story: “. . . what had happened to her. She was gone in a flutter of wings. One moment she was sitting next to me . . . A second later I was holding her head . . . and her blood was flowing down my hand. I was trying to close up the wound with my fingers.”

  He turned to look at the sky out the window. The colors were fading; he felt as if he were looking at an oil painting, vivid and luminous, that was slowly fading, being transformed into a faint, delicate, nuanced watercolor. Then a drop of water fell and the whole thing melted into a muddled, indistinct stain. In the end, night fell.

  Caterina was behind him. She touched his arm. She looked up at Rocco’s face. She dried his tears.

  “I’m sorry . . . Forgive me.”

  “What have you done wrong? You’re not to blame.”

  The woman stood up on tiptoes and gently pressed her lips against Rocco’s. Her tears mixed with saliva. She grabbed his head, clasping tight the hair on the back of his neck. Their lips parted; their tongues met. Rocco wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Then they separated.

  “No, we can’t . . .” said Rocco in a low voice.

  “No,” said Caterina, looking down. “We can’t . . .”

  Sunday

  It was a Sunday full of chores to get done. Rocco had taken possession of his new place on Via Croix de Ville. A lovely apartment, spacious and full of light. There were exposed beams on the ceiling and a wooden floor. It was nicely furnished with rustic antiques and a black lacquered Chinese armoire. The roomy bedroom had a window overlooking a small piazza. There were frescoes on the facade of the building across the street, and the balconies were full of flowers. If he avoided looking up, he didn’t have to see the mountains, looming dark and ever present. It took him ten minutes to move, just enough time to bring Lupa, her new bed, and his clothing. That was all he had with him. He’d decided to leave his few books as a gift to the next occupant of his apartment on Rue Piave.

  The deputy chief had done his best to distract himself by watching Serie A soccer matches, but a depressing tie score in a home game had killed any desire he might have felt to listen to the arguments of sports journalists on television. By now it had become clear to him that the eleven A.S. Roma team members in their red-and-yellow jerseys didn’t so much have any problems in terms of technical skills, but rather a serious case of some mental pathology. More than one trainer seemed to have urgent need of psychiatric care.

  No important news from Rome. Seba was on the trail of Enzo Baiocchi, but he seemed to have vanished into thin air. He’d literally demolecularized.

  He thought about Caterina. It was a sweet thought, fresh and clean like the flowers that dotted the balconies on the buildings across the way. He would have liked to walk with her through those streets, stop for an espresso, fill his lungs with the May air. Maybe right at that moment she was looking out her window, just like him, thinking the same things. He looked over at the cell phone on the table in the living room, but his hands remained frozen in the pockets of his trousers. Because it was different with her. He couldn’t behave the way he had with Nora, or with Anna. Caterina was a very different matter. Every time that he saw her, he had the impulse to hug her, to hold her tight and protect her from the bad things in the world. He got lost in that young woman’s eyes.

  Well? What are you afraid of?

  Of a word. Of a simple word that he wasn’t even capable of imagining. He felt as if he were being watched by the shadows, by that mist that wouldn’t disperse from his mind and his home, from the years past that weighed like boulders on his shoulders and his eyes.

  Go on, say it! It’s not like it’s all that hard.

  All he had to do was say it out loud and everything would change. It would all become simple and straightforward.

  I’m just an old man who’s got some crazy idea into his head.

  He stepped away from the window. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, Maurizio Baldi had summoned him to the prosecutor’s headquarters, and Rocco got ready to go to his office.

  “ALL RIGHT, THIS IS THE WAY THINGS STAND RIGHT NOW. We’ve found withdrawals from Berguet’s account for no less than fifty thousand euros, the president of Edil.ber is in Brignole and he’s hiding behind a team of three lawyers. Federico Tolotta was found and arrested at his mother’s house in Catanzaro, Daniele Abela has already made a full confession. Let’s just say that the Cuntrera case is closed now.”

  Rocco nodded.

  “Don’t you have anything to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “What happened in Rue Piave. Why did you go to Rome twice recently?”

  “To investigate.”

  “And have you had any luck?”

  “No,” said Rocco. “I’m fumbling in the dark.”

  The judge gazed at him seriously. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I went and delved into the mud, but I couldn’t find the snake.”

  “Do you feel safe here?”

  “Safe enough.”

  “Whoever it was, they might come back, right?”

  “You’re right. But you see, now I know they might come back. And it’s very unlikely that they’ll catch me off guard this time.”

  “Shall I tell you how I see things?”

  Rocco nodded and crossed his arms on his chest, ready to listen.

  “You know perfectly well who it is. But you won’t tell me. And you want to know why not? Because whoever it is that wants to kill you is interested in revenge for something from your past. Something that you did, something that you’re keeping secret, something that”—and here the judge drew closer, lowering the volume of his voice—“it might be better to keep hidden, Schiavone. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  Rocco did nothing but shrug his shoulders.

  “You’ve been here since September. Nine months. And by now I know a lot about you. I haven’t been sitting around twiddling my thumbs. We know the reason for your transfer, we know about your rather unorthodox methods. And we also know about your dubious friendships down in Rome. Sebastiano Carucci, Furio Lattanzi, and Brizio Marchetti. Three real pieces of work. You meet them in Rome, and not only in the past two days. No. You have ongoing relationships with them and you frequent them assiduously. In particular with Sebastiano Carucci, Adele Talamonti’s boyfriend. And it’s my belief that the four of you have uncovered something. Something that you have no intention of sharing with us.” Baldi picked up a pen and started twirling it between his fingers. “Do I need to remind you that your first and primary allegiance is to the established institutions of this country? That your duty ought to be that of bringing a killer to justice? Or when something touches you directly and personally, do you forget that detail and act like an ordinary street thug, like one of your friends from Rome?”

  “Are you done?”

  “I could go on for hours.”

  “Why don’t you judge my performance in terms of what I do. Not what you presume I’m doing. And if you don’t like what you see, you can always file a complaint with the big bosses and get me transferred somewhere else. What do I know? To Sacile del Friuli or to the Gennargentu. Believe me. This city, y
ou, these mountains, I won’t miss any of it. Now if you’re quite done lecturing me like a concerned head of household, I’ve got places to be.”

  “This hardening of attitude on your part tells me that I hit the bull’s-eye.”

  “This hardening of attitude on my part is due to the fact that I don’t like having my balls busted on a Sunday.”

  “Why, did you have anything better to do?” asked the judge.

  “Look at me, Dottor Baldi. And look at yourself. It’s a holiday, but the two of us are spending it in an office. Your wife’s photograph has vanished from the desk once again, I lost my wife more than five years ago, we’re two trains on dead tracks, and if they took this away from us”—he waved at the room around them—“we’d wind up in some old folk’s home, sitting in rocking chairs staring at a blank wall. You and I are just dragging ourselves along out of inertia, Dottore. You cling to your work and your rules out of desperation, I hold on to those three sons of bitches I have for friends down in Rome. But I couldn’t tell you if you’re right, or I am.”

  “I keep my word when I give it.”

  “So do I.” Rocco stood up. “And in any case, when I find out who did it, my intention is to put him behind bars.”

  “In Velletri prison?” Baldi asked with a smile.

  “You see? You know more about it than I do.”

  “Why does Enzo Baiocchi have it in for you?”

  “It’s an old gripe.”

  “How old?”

  “Let’s say . . . dating back to 2007. A few years back.”

  Baldi picked up a sheet of paper that had been lying before him on his desk. “Two thousand seven? And yet here I read that you arrested Enzo Baiocchi only once, in 2003.” He laid down the sheet of paper and leveled his eyes right at Schiavone’s. “Did you just mix up the dates in a moment of distraction? Why should he want to make you pay for an arrest back in 2003? He was out on the streets for two more years before being remanded to prison once again in Velletri. Help me understand . . . Is this a personal vendetta, or is Enzo Baiocchi making you pay for something else? More or less like our Pietro Berguet?”