We park among the few other cars in the lot, get out, and without a word we head for a small wooden door, beneath a sign that touts Jole’s home cooking. Inside, the windows provide little light for the few diners, so there are several electric lights burning. A listless waiter doesn’t even bother to glance in our direction, while a blond matron, corpulent and perspiring—maybe she’s the Jole mentioned on the sign—can be glimpsed through an open door, working in the steam and smoke of the kitchen.
Milla strides without hesitation toward a hallway that leads to a secluded private dining room, where we find Tano Casale and his bodyguard sitting at the only occupied table. We walk over to the table. The boss is eating a bowl of spaghetti. His underling, who’s dressed in the same suit as the first time I saw him, is in the throes of a noisy battle with a bowl of minestrone.
Tano points to the chair across from him without speaking. As I take a seat, he gestures to Milla and the man sitting to his right. The guy stands up without a word, and he and the policeman vanish into the large dining room.
We’re alone. I can’t figure out if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
“You want something to eat? The carbonara here is fantastic.”
“No, I’m not really hungry.”
He swallows his mouthful of food with a gulp, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and extends an open hand across the table.
“I think you have something that belongs to me.”
I pull the envelope out of my pocket and hand it to him. He opens the envelope and pulls out the lottery ticket. He stares at it for a long time. Maybe he finds it difficult to believe that he bought this meaningless little rectangle for a huge chunk of cash. Then he looks up at me again with an undefinable expression on his face.
“You’re a smart boy, Francesco Marcona, born in Sellano, in the province of Perugia, in November 1943, to Alfonso and Marisa Giusti, who later emigrated to Australia. You are certainly one smart boy. I think you’ve blazed a trail, with this clever ploy you’ve come up with.”
He smiles at the look of surprise on my face.
“Did you think that I’d let you run this thing without getting a little information about you? Otherwise, what good is it to me to have a police detective on my payroll?”
I take the facts at face value.
“That’s understandable.”
Tano takes another look at the lottery ticket. Then he puts it down on the table in front of him, as if to keep an eye on it.
He speaks to me in that voice that I know.
“We still have that minor matter of Salvo’s death. I want you to tell me what you know, so I can watch you while you tell me.”
On the exterior I seem relaxed. Inside, I’m anything but.
“I don’t know anything about that. The night it happened I was with a girl.”
He eyes me intently. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not done talking.
Only the stupid and the innocent lack an alibi …
I lean my elbows on the table and stretch my neck in his direction.
“Tano, if you don’t mind my being charitable toward myself, I’ve always been more of a diplomat than a man of action. I’ve never owned a gun and I never expect to. When I had trouble with Menno, I came to you and I did my best to resolve it as a business transaction. Peaceful, easygoing, profitable for both sides. You’ve got the evidence of that right in front of you.”
I point to the lottery ticket, in order to emphasize the concept and prepare the ground for what I’m about to say.
“And as far as I’m concerned, we can continue along that path. If you’re interested, I have another proposal that could let you double your money in just one hour’s time.”
A light glitters in his eyes. He’s done with his spaghetti, but his appetite for this new opportunity has just been aroused. After all, I’ve earned just a crumb of credibility by now. Tano takes a sip of his wine.
“I’m listening.”
“Among your many clients, would you happen to have anyone who works for a bank? Someone who has a bad gambling habit, maybe someone who owes you a lot of money?”
I see that he’s curious to hear how this story turns out.
“Maybe I do. Go on.”
Doing my best to be as persuasive as possible, I explain my new idea. It’s a shade riskier than the one that procured him a 490-million-lira lottery ticket, a little more complex to put into action, a bit more of the sort of thing that only real men with hairy balls would take on. I emphasize the fact, instead of trying to skirt around it. However powerful he’s become, however cunning he may be, Tano is still fundamentally a street crook, a guy who’s made his way through life with all the tools that physical courage and a lack of scruples have made available to him. His temperament remains that of a man who accepts challenges.
And that’s exactly what he does.
“It could work. Jesus, it could actually work.”
He smiles and throws back the rest of his wine in a single gulp, a little giddy and a little arrogant at the prospect that my words have opened to him.
“I really feel like sticking it up those bastards’ asses. Four hundred and ninety million cocks up their asses.”
When he’s done turning the idea over, he remembers about me.
“Do you want to be involved in this thing?”
I shake my head.
“I told you before. I’m not a man of action. I’m a small fish, and that’s all I ever want to be.”
Tano shoots back with an expression that seems to be carved out of pure relentlessness.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get a little bigger this time, youngster.”
He stares at me with his dark eyes, deep pools of a certain benevolence. Real or put on, I couldn’t say.
“I like you, Bravo. I want you to take care of this. You’ve got a first-class head on your shoulders.”
“Thanks very much. But I’d really rather keep it right there, firmly attached. That’s why I bowed out of this one.”
“In the world we live in, you can’t always sit out every dance.”
As if to say: You’re in, boy, up to your neck. And there’s no kidding around.
I look at him. Being dragged into this pool of venom is exactly what I set out to accomplish. But I couldn’t make it obvious that that’s what I wanted. I wanted him to insist on it. In spite of everything, I haven’t been able to eliminate the last little shadow of doubt. I’m afraid that when you’re dealing with someone with his mind-set, you’re not likely to eliminate suspicion entirely. But he clearly likes me, and that’s a big step forward.
He leans toward me ever so slightly.
“Are you up to this?”
I lower my head and pretend to ponder the question, as if I were still unsure. Then I look up, suddenly confident.
“I can do it.”
“Do you have the right men? People you trust?”
“Yes. I know just the right people. Determined and discreet, when necessary.”
He relaxes. He fails to notice that I just did the same thing.
“Then you take care of them. I’ll see to that other detail.”
I add a few words that signal my consent.
“Then we’re agreed. I’ll get busy and I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“That’s fine. While you’re here, are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”
This is either an invitation or a dismissal, and it’s up to me to choose which. I prefer to have the session end there, awaiting further developments.
I stand up.
“Thanks, but I really have to go.”
“Whatever you say.”
I leave the private dining room where I just pulled a potentially fatal con job on a very dangerous individual, happy to do so without a bodyguard or a gun at my back. In the big dining room I notice his henchman sitting in silence on a chair. Maybe he’s thinking that his minestrone must be cold by now. Maybe he’s not thinking a thing and is
just waiting for orders from the guy who does his thinking for him.
I don’t say anything to him and he doesn’t say anything to me.
Stefano Milla has the receiver of a phone with a click-counter glued to the side of his head, next to the cash register. He waves good-bye with his free hand. I wave back, relieved I don’t have to talk to him. We wouldn’t have a thing to say to each other. That fine thread connecting us—a thread of complicity based on a sense of fun more than anything else—has snapped. He’s been playing both ends against the middle for so long that he’s become too twisted for my tastes. I walk out and take a deep breath.
Outside, the sun is shining brashly and the sky, swept clean of clouds by a light breeze that’s sprung up out of the north, is a shade of blue that only spring can paint it. As I walk to my Mini I regret that I’m not in the mood to appreciate it.
Too many things have happened, and all at the same time.
The death of Tulip, the arrival of Carla in my life, the chassis number of my car, Tano Casale with his voice that I know and his counterfeit lottery ticket. And then there are the bundles of newspaper strips that Daytona gave me—I intend to ask him for an explanation the minute I can get my hands on a telephone or wrapped around his neck.
I head back toward Milan, toward home. I need to lie down for a few hours and vegetate with the television turned on, in the shadows. Try to establish a little order in this panorama of chaos. Make a few phone calls, while I wait to hear from the girls.
I retrace the route I followed to get here. When you’re thinking about other things, certain trips really seem short, unless your thoughts are obsessively focused on the destination.
Which isn’t the case right now.
Before long, I’m back in Cesano. At this time of the afternoon there are plenty of empty parking spaces. I get out of my car, walk around the shrill games the kids are playing on the lawn, and let the gazes of a couple of mothers slide off my back and onto the ground.
A few more moments and I lock the world outside my front door, taking with me only the bare necessities to keep at bay the things that are chasing me. The apartment smells of soap and disinfectant and the wooden roller blinds are lowered halfway. Signora Argenti must have come to put the house in order, an order that I sense I’ll soon disrupt.
The minute I walk in the door, I pick up the phone and dial a number, hoping that the person I’m calling is in his office. For once, he answers the phone himself.
“Biondi here. Who’s calling?”
“Ugo, it’s Bravo.”
“I’m busy right now. Tell me quick.”
From his slightly disheveled tone of voice, I’m guessing he’s entertaining one of his special clients, and she may be sitting astride him right now.
“I need permission to get in to see Carmine.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“This isn’t a very good time to visit prisoners in San Vittore.”
“I can imagine. But I have to see him.”
“Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
I don’t even have time to say good-bye before the line goes dead.
With the receiver still in my hand, I see in my mind’s eye a man’s face in a prison visiting room, behind glass. Each time his expression is a little deader, a little more defeated. The idea I’m going to suggest to him may rekindle a bit of life in his features.
Then I go back to considering my own position. I’m doing the twist in a minefield. If I make just one false step, there’ll be nothing left of me but shredded flesh.
I hang up the phone very delicately, as if it, too, were mined.
I take the lottery ticket of my dreams out of my inside jacket pocket and toss the jacket onto the couch. I slip off my loafers and walk into my bedroom. I conceal the ticket in my hiding place. Then I turn on the television. The screen flickers to life as I’m stretching out on the bed.
I don’t even get a chance to lay my head on the pillow.
The TV’s turned to RAI One, which is broadcasting a special edition of the national news. The face of news anchor Bruno Vespa is deadpan, his voice is inexorable, while he reads through a news report that Paolo Frajese has just handed him.
“… and now, we have confirmation that the member of parliament for the Christian Democratic Party Mattia Sangiorgi, the younger brother of Senator Amedeo Sangiorgi, is also believed to be one of the victims of the multiple homicide committed at the villa of Lorenzo Bonifaci, who was also found dead. We do not yet know the names of the other victims or any other details concerning this horrible massacre, but early leaks from the investigators seem to indicate that no one in the villa escaped alive, even the security personnel, well-trained and competent men that the financier had hired to ensure the safety of himself and his guests, evidently and unfortunately in vain. Let’s go to our reporter in Lesmo, near Monza, outside the villa where the massacre took place.”
The scene of the news studio is replaced by live images from an exterior camera. The face of the correspondent appears in the foreground, and in the background is a front gate framed by two redbrick columns. A wall, behind which you can see tall trees, extends in both directions, enclosing the grounds of the estate.
The camera shows a squad car parked next to the gate, keeping out the crowd of television and newspaper journalists milling around in search of news.
I don’t even hear the reporter’s words.
Suddenly I find myself breathing heavy air that smells distinctly unhealthy, as if an evil cloud had permeated every square inch of my bedroom. Sitting there faceless and voiceless, I inspect images I can’t see and voices I can’t hear, with only one certainty burned in my mind.
My own time, the time I knew, the time in which I moved, is over forever.
13
The doorbell rings with the roar of an explosion, blowing into a million tiny fragments the moment in which I was hiding. I turn off the television set and get up with the sensation that the legs I’m moving don’t actually belong to me. I walk to the door, confident that when I open it I’ll see Lucio asking me the solution to my latest puzzle attack and offering to make me a cup of coffee.
Instead, the serious face of Stefano Milla appears before me. With him are two uniformed policemen. One has a dog on a leash, a mongrel that must be part German shepherd. The detective has a neutral expression that in this context comes off as highly professional. At this particular moment I don’t have full control of my facial expression. In a few short seconds we’re looking at each other again, but now we’re two different people. I’m the one who opened my apartment door and got a nasty surprise and he’s an officer of the law.
He sticks a hand in his pocket, pulls out a sheet of paper, and hands it to me.
“Ciao, Bravo. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let us come in. We have a search warrant.”
I don’t even bother to check the document. I’m sure it’s all according to regulation. He strides briskly ahead through the heavily trampled field of formalities.
“You have the right to request the presence of a lawyer during this search. Do you intend to call someone?”
I shake my head and step aside to let them in. Milla walks past me and the two police officers follow close behind him. They stop in the middle of the living room, looking around, wordlessly surveying the room. The dog is calm, and at the order of its policeman handler it sits on the wall-to-wall carpeting.
“You can help us speed up the process. Do you have a storage facility in the basement or attic?”
“No.”
“Do you have weapons or drugs in the house?”
“No.”
“Do you have a safe?”
I catch myself smiling, disconsolately. I wave one hand eloquently in the air.
“What would I put in a safe?”
I notice that one of the policemen bursts out laughing. He turns away to conceal the fact. Milla doesn’t notice and he addresses h
is men with all the official pomp that his rank confers upon him.
“All right. Proceed.”
Without a word, the two policemen spring into action and disappear down the hall. One thought in my mind follows them with a certain degree of apprehension. I’m finally going to have a chance to see if my secret hiding place, which I’ve always thought was so clever, will stand up to a thorough police search.
Milla has a doleful expression on his face. How sincere it is I couldn’t say.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid your apartment’s going to be a bit of a mess when we’re done.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I don’t think you do.”
Resignedly, I go over to the couch and take a seat and wait. Stefano starts rummaging through my dresser drawers. I don’t know what to expect from him. Without a doubt, I have a certain privileged advantage in this situation, because to some extent I know about the skeletons in his closet. Can I make tactical use of that? Actually, I doubt it, since talking about Tano Casale and him would mean talking about Tano Casale and me.
Maybe Stefano’s thinking the same thing, because the whole time that he’s working busily between the living room and the tiny kitchen, rummaging and burrowing, our eyes never meet and we never say a word. I believe that the presence of the two police officers in the other rooms is a valid deterrent to any form of communication.
The search seems to last for an eternity. They literally turn the place inside out, pulling out drawers, checking every piece of paper, pulling paintings off the wall, removing the upholstery from the couch, the cases from the cushions and pillows.
In the end, all three of them are standing in the middle of the room. Three men, to say nothing of the dog, as Jerome K. Jerome put it in the title of his novel. Except that this story isn’t particularly funny and the boat is springing leaks all over.