I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.
I walk out of that hotel room, leaving on the floor behind me the shattered pieces of the Almighty Senator Amedeo Sangiorgi.
As I close the door behind me, a bitter thought runs through my mind.
I wonder if God felt remorse when He gave them permission to kill His son.
24
The taxi is heading for the airport.
The driver is a woman, which is something you don’t see that often. She’s nice to look at, about forty, blond, and shapely. She’d be much more attractive if she were willing to compromise and apply just a hint of makeup. When she came to pick me up, in response to my call, at the Quartiere Tessera, she gave me the once-over as I walked toward the car. I must have passed some sort of test just then, because during the drive to the airport she started telling me the story of her life. Maybe she felt she needed to explain why she was driving a cab. How her cabdriver husband was in bad health, too sick to drive; the financial problems that ensued, with the hack license going unused; how she decided to take over.
“I couldn’t very well go stand in the street and build a fire in an oil drum to warm my hands, could I?”
“Of course not.”
I gave her the answer that she wanted to hear. I skipped over the fact that a woman with her looks, if she was to take the correct approach and do things right, could find a much more remunerative line of work than driving a taxi. She might take that as a somewhat risqué compliment, without realizing that it was nothing more than a clear-eyed market analysis.
* * *
Now she’s done talking and, as she drives, she gives me a curious glance in the rearview mirror every so often. From the way she felt called upon to explain why she was driving a cab, I doubt she’s the type to make a pass at a passenger. So I have to guess this is nothing more than a creature of the female persuasion studying a creature of the male persuasion that she finds attractive. In a way, this too could be considered a market analysis, so I take it as a compliment. If I told her my life story, on the other hand, she’d probably have to pull over more than once to fix her hair, because I know certain details would make it stand on end.
I look out the car window, watching people, cars, and fleeting scraps of this city. I took this trip once before, not so long ago, with the barrel of a pistol pressed against the nape of my neck, on a night when I felt sure I’d never again see the light of the morning sun. I realize that every breath I’ve drawn since then has been a gift. A gift that I owe to a woman who could be anywhere on earth and whom I know only as Carla.
* * *
After I turned myself in, my ordeal in the police station on Via Fatebenefratelli lasted four days. Milla’s chest swelled with pride as he accompanied me and my lawyer into the office of Chief Inspector Giovannone. The version that we’d agreed on during the trip from the Hotel Principe e Savoia to the police station was very simple and, therefore, highly believable.
In short, here’s how our version went:
Milla couldn’t believe his ears when I called him at home and told him that I wanted to turn myself in, to him of all people. He hopped in his car and sped to pick me up at Ugo’s office. Because I was accompanied by my lawyer and because I’d voluntarily contacted him in order to turn myself in, he decided there was no need to handcuff me. The lawyer and I both agreed to confirm this version of events. In any case, we all knew that what was going to happen after my arrest would completely and immediately drown out all other considerations in the uproar, including the fact that the detective had failed to contact his immediate superiors.
Chief Inspector Giovannone froze with shock when he saw me. The ice that gripped his limbs and face turned even more solid and motionless once he heard my story. After he had a chance to leaf quickly through the dossier that Ugo Biondi, Esq., placed on his desk, he appeared to be carved out of marble.
I think the same thing has happened to every person who has held those documents in their hands.
I told my version of events over and over, dozens of times. To the chief inspector, to the chief of police administration, to investigating magistrates, and to high officers of DIGOS, the special operations and investigations branch of the national police. Then the mayor wanted to hear my story. Then I had to recount everything that had happened to people who listened without telling me who they were or where they worked. I’d guess they were probably from the intelligence services. These people were especially eager to hear more about Carla, and they asked me to tell them anything I could remember about her. What she said, what she did, even vague impressions I might have had. An undersecretary from the Ministry of the Interior even came to see me. He told me that he’d be reporting back to the minister himself, who had asked him to come. This undersecretary seemed to be especially interested in knowing whether there might be more documents similar to the ones I had handed over to the authorities.
I spent the first night in a high-security cell in the police station. Ugo Biondi demanded, successfully, that he be allowed to spend the night in the cell with me, his client. A few hours later a massive police sweep was carried out, resulting in the arrest and detention of a hundred or so people, in Sicily, Rome, and Milan. Political leaders, members of the Mafia, important members of the branches of government. It was a volcanic eruption of unprecedented devastation, triggered by documentation unlike anything that had ever surfaced before. Ashes and pumice would continue to rain down on the ruling class of Italy for the foreseeable future. No one could say how long the black cloud that had been unleashed upon the world would continue to darken the skies.
The next day a number of things happened.
The front page of Italy’s newspapers blared out headlines in banner type. Emboldened by the sequence of arrests still under way and confident of the documents in their possession, Il Corriere della Sera, La Stampa, La Repubblica, and in time all the other papers in the country vied to print the most stunning reports. In the midst of all these drumrolls and trumpet fanfares, nobody really paid much attention to the report of the suicide of Senator Amedeo Sangiorgi. Public opinion seemed to consider it relatively unsurprising that he should have chosen to throw himself out the window of his hotel suite, unable to face the looming scandal that was sure to destroy his career. Nobody seemed to notice that he killed himself several hours before the police sweep even began.
I was taken to the house out on Via Rivoltana for some on-site testimony and questioning. I explained in detail exactly what had happened. Who fired, where from, how many shots. I believe that, as I spoke, it was impossible to miss my relief at not having become part of the pile of corpses. I’m almost certain that some of the people I was speaking to, on the other hand, would have seen that outcome as a godsend.
The major success in the battle against terrorism and the massive blow that was delivered to organized crime, however, helped to sugarcoat that bitter pill. The authorities were anything but pleased that I should have decided on my own initiative to release such important information to the press. There was a protracted series of negotiations between the police, representatives of the judiciary and the executive branches, and Ugo Biondi to find a satisfactory settlement. In the end, the version that was agreed upon met with general satisfaction. It was decided to report that the discovery of the Red Brigades lair had led to the recovery of the dossier that incriminated so many prominent citizens. It was ordered that there should be no further attempts to identify the blond woman who had delivered the envelopes to the newsrooms of the various papers.
This version would help to shield me from the vendetta of people who wound up in prison, who put the blame or the credit on me, depending on your point of view. For many leading figures in that world, revenge is considered a delicacy. Delicious either cold or hot, it really doesn’t matter which.
Roughly speaking, that’s the way it went.
The son of Senator Sangiorgi managed by and large to escape notice in all that bedlam. No reporters
came chasing after me. There were plenty of more important people than me to try to track down. The president of the Italian republic, the prime minister, various cabinet-level ministers, and so on, moving down the political food chain. I had never even set foot on that particular ladder of ambition. Here, too, I’d preferred to stay hidden away in the cellar, where I’d lived comfortably for many years.
Little by little, the names of Francesco Marcona and Nicola Sangiorgi would fade from everyone’s memory. A number of the people who knew Bravo won’t even realize that they were the same person.
There’s one more small but meaningful curiosity. There were two eyewitnesses to back up my incredible story, along with the dossier I turned over. The cleaning women from the offices of Costa Britain, the ones I spoke to one night on Via Monte Rosa, thought they recognized me from the identikit that was published in the newspapers. They went to the police and reported that they had met me and that I had asked them about a mysterious and imaginary coworker of theirs.
By the name of Carla Bonelli, they thought they remembered.
I’m willing to bet that they added that it was obvious from my face that I was either a lunatic or a crook.
Or both.
I had to smile when I heard about it and I arranged to send a sumptuous bouquet of red roses to each of them at home. After all, every woman should have a secret admirer.
* * *
The taxi stops under the sign reading INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURES. I get out of the car. It’s a beautiful day to fly away. I’m leaving the fine weather of late spring, with a memory of sunshine and blue skies, before summer comes to spoil everything. I knew that this moment was bound to come sooner or later. The moment when I would look up at a departure board. Things were actually a little better for me than they’d been for Carla. No one was chasing me and I wasn’t forced to take the first open seat on the next plane out.
I’m pretty sure that along with the plane ticket I’ll be buying an illusion and that wherever I wind up, I’ll find the same men and the same women, with different faces and speaking different languages. But what does that matter, really?
All that matters is takeoff.
What I find when I land is part of a whole different story.
My taxi driver gets out and opens the trunk. I pull out my travel bag, pay her fare, and add a thousand-lira tip. Before she gets back in her cab, she shoots me a meaningful glance. Maybe I misunderstood. With that pinch of vanity and narcissism that lurks in everyone’s heart, I tell myself again that she’s not the type to make passes at her passengers.
But she might have made an exception for me.
I feel something like the onset of happiness as I walk into the terminal. I spot the big black departure board listing the times of the various flights. I walk over and scan the list of airlines, abbreviations, and destinations.
There’s an Alitalia flight for Rio de Janeiro departing in just three hours. I picture myself on the beach of Ipanema and I like what I see. I go over to the ticket counter and ask the young lady if there’s a first-class seat for Brazil.
There’s room. All you have to do is pay for it.
I pay in cash, pulling a wad of bills out of my inside jacket pocket. I wonder when I’ll pay for something in lire again, whether I ever will. It’s nice not to know. I like the idea of belonging to nothing, of being able to make a decision and change my mind a minute later.
I walk over to the check-in. It’s still too early for that flight.
I spot a newsstand and go over. I choose a book, two newspapers, and a few magazines. I spot a few copies of La Settimana Enigmistica stacked next to the cash register.
I hesitate for a second, but then I decide against it. I’m done with puzzles.
That time is over. The last puzzle I solved had the name Bravo as its solution. It’s a good outcome, and you can’t ask too much of fate.
I sit down, put my bag on the seat next to me, and open Il Corriere della Sera. The first few pages of the paper are still full of the aftermath and continuation of the events to which I was witness and of which I was a leading protagonist. I dip in here and there, because I’m just curious to see how much was reported and which things were left out, sandbagged, or twisted in the hallowed name of freedom of the press.
The story that has all Italy holding its breath drags on. Aldo Moro remains a prisoner of his kidnappers. I hope that among the many lies my father told over the course of his lifetime, one of them had to do with the fate of that man, abandoned and alone. I hope that the words he uttered in his hotel room weren’t true, that they were nothing more than a final manifestation of his delirious conviction that he was all-powerful and all-knowing.
All I can do is hope.
I turn the page. In the crime section there’s an article about Tano Casale. A headline covers half the page.
THE NUMBER 13 BRINGS BAD LUCK
Counterfeit Lottery Ticket Leads to the Arrest of Notorious Milanese Gang Boss
I smile. I don’t even need to read the article. I know exactly what happened. And I know exactly what’s going to happen next.
* * *
Once my testimony had been written out, checked by a dozen or so people, and then signed, I was declared a free man. Ugo Biondi and I, our faces lined with exhaustion and with bags under our eyes that looked like tree rings, said good-bye in the courtyard of the police station.
We were exhausted, shattered, numb. My voice was hoarse from talking.
“I’ll call you tomorrow about that other matter. Right now I just need to get some sleep.”
I shook his hand. He gripped mine in return.
“Me too. You have no idea.”
Through the front gate to the street outside we saw his taxi pull up. Biondi ran to get in and I climbed into Stefano Milla’s Alfa. The detective had offered to drive me to the motel in Settimo Milanese where I’d decided to stay for a few days until things calmed down a little. The offer wasn’t meant as a gesture of any particular kindness. It was just a chance to have a private conversation that had been impossible in the days leading up to my release.
He must have felt like he’d been standing on hot coals. The car hadn’t even entirely pulled out into traffic when he came to the point. He had a message to deliver and it was worth fifty million lire to him.
“I talked to Tano.”
“What did he say?”
“That he agrees with you. He thanks you for the idea but he thinks it’s best for you to stay out of it.”
If he expected to see a reaction on my face, he was disappointed. I didn’t give a damn whether I was in or out. The day I took the lottery ticket to Tano, I’d proposed another plan. It was risky but feasible. I’d laid it out to him as another con game, just a new way of doing what he already did all day every day: make a mockery of the law.
In fact, I’d asked him that day if by any chance any of the patrons of his clandestine gambling den happened to work for a bank. We needed a patron who happened to be in hock up to his neck with Tano. Someone who would cooperate with anything Tano demanded, and without having to be asked twice. It would all be very simple. The day that Tano cashed in the lottery ticket, he’d go to deposit the money in the bank where his man worked. His man would arrange to accept the deposit personally. He’d sign a receipt in exchange for an empty briefcase. Just then, a band of bank robbers would burst into the branch office, take all the money from the tellers’ windows, and grab the briefcase while they were at it.
Like a game of three-card monte. Like a shell game.
It would be Tano’s fault in a small way, for having crowed too openly about his lucky win in the Totocalcio soccer lottery, thus attracting the attention of a band of bank robbers. Understandable and all too human: Who can withstand the temptation to celebrate a stroke of good luck? He might look like an idiot for a while, but to make up for that he would have a valid bank receipt and the 490 million lire in cash winnings still hidden under his mattress.
I smiled w
hen I thought back to how Tano’s face had looked when he first heard my plan. The cunning move, the idea of being there in person, the surge of adrenaline. These were all aspects he knew intimately and whose allure he couldn’t resist. Most of all, greed, which is what I was counting on. And vanity, so much more powerful in men than in any woman. I was sure that he would proceed on his own. That he would recruit his own gang of thieves for the knockover. And even if he was too shrewd to go for it, I’d still have gained my main objective.
Which was to stall for time.
* * *
Milla jerked me out of my reverie.
“What idea? What the fuck are we talking about here, Bravo?”
He still called me Bravo, even though by now he knew everything—or almost everything—about me.
I turned to look at him.
“Tano’s going to be arrested.”
In his reply there was a distinct note of alarm.
“When?”
“Soon.”
His eyes were back on the road. He was probably imagining something bad coming straight at him, through the line of cars, the pedestrians, the traffic lights.
“Jesus, what have you done? Have you gone crazy? Do you want him to have us both killed?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
I did my best to impart a sense of confidence to my voice. I’d need a lot of it, to help him get over his fear. To convince him that it was a good idea to do what I was suggesting.
“Let me tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to take fifteen days off. You’ll go have a good time at the beach, or in the mountains or on the lake. Or in the farthest-flung armpit of the world, wherever you want.”
I waited for a few seconds, so he could envision himself on vacation.
“When you get back, you’ll find a cashier’s check for fifty million lire on my lawyer’s desk. You’re going to take that money and forget that we ever had this conversation or that I ever met Tano Casale.”
A Pimp's Notes Page 33
