Just then Agent Xavier Lacroix drove up Rue Suffren Raymond at the wheel of a police car. He smiled and waved as he passed them. He stopped a littler further on, to pick up a cop who was waiting for him. Then he sped off. Morelli blushed; he’d been caught in the act. Frank laughed. He was glad their mood was so much lighter than the one upstairs in Roncaille’s office.
‘Well, if you haven’t fired him yet, you now have good reason. He just made a complete ass out of you.’
‘Me? Come on. And what about you? Any plans for the near future?’
Frank assumed a noncommittal air. ‘I don’t know. Travel a little maybe. You know how it is.’
Alone?’
‘Sure! Who would want a washed-up former FBI agent?’
And then Morelli got his revenge. At that moment, a silver Laguna station wagon drove up and stopped in front of them. Helena Parker was at the wheel, smiling and looking like a different person. If one compared her eyes at that moment with a photograph of her taken just a week earlier, one would swear it wasn’t the same woman. Stuart was in the back, curiously observing their entrance into the Sûreté Publique. Morelli looked at Frank and laughed.
Alone, huh? There’s justice in the world. Lacroix can keep his job and you can drive away in this car.’
He held out his hand and Frank shook it happily. Morelli’s voice was different now. His tone was that of someone talking to a friend who had witnessed the same things. ‘Get out of here before this woman figures out you’re a washed-up former agent and leaves. Everything’s finished here.’
‘Yeah, finished. This one. There’ll be something else tomorrow. You’ll see.’
‘That’s how it works, Frank. In Monte Carlo like everywhere else. Things are just a little shinier here.’ Morelli didn’t want to shake Frank’s reserve and was unsure whether or not to continue. ‘Have you decided what you’ll do afterwards?’
‘You mean work?’
‘Yes.’
Frank shrugged. Morelli knew it wasn’t the whole truth but he couldn’t expect any more.
‘The FBI, like heaven, can wait. What I need now is a long vacation, a real one, where you laugh and have fun with the right people.’ And Frank waved towards the car as Morelli suddenly opened his eyes wide and dug his hand in his pocket.
‘Hey, I almost forgot. I would have had to get every policeman in France after you to give you this.’ He pulled a light blue envelope out of his pocket. ‘And the person who gave me this letter would never have forgiven me.’
Frank looked at it for a moment without opening it. His name was written in a woman’s handwriting, delicate but not overly so. He could guess who it was from. For the moment, he put it in his pocket.
‘’Bye, Claude. Take it easy.’
‘You take it easy. Relax, see the world.’
‘We’re going to Disneyland,’ Stuart’s voice in English piped up from the car in confirmation. Morelli stepped back and raised his eyes to the sky. He pretended to look upset for the boy leaning forward between the two front seats. He replied in good English with a slight French accent.
‘Not fair. You go to Disneyland and I have to stay here and mind the shop.’ He paused for a slight concession. ‘Okay, it’s Monte Carlo. But I’m slaving away all alone.’ Frank got into the car, closed the door, and opened the window. He spoke to Helena, but loud enough for the sergeant to hear him.
‘Let’s get out of here before this clown ruins our day. I don’t know where they get their cops here. And they say the Monte Carlo police force is one of the best in the world.’
The car pulled away and Frank left Morelli with a final wave. They reached the bottom of Rue Notari and turned right. At the end of Rue Princesse Antoinette, they stopped to let a car pass. At the corner, Frank saw Barbara headed in the opposite direction. She was walking quickly and her wavy red hair was swaying with her step. As the car started moving again, Frank watched her, knowing that the girl’s presence on that street was no accident. Morelli had just said he only waited for people he knew would show up . . . Helena poked him on the arm. He turned to see her smiling at him.
‘Hey you, we haven’t even left yet, and you’re already looking at other women?’
Frank leaned back and put on his sunglasses with a dramatic gesture.
‘If you have to know, that woman was the real reason Morelli was standing in the street. Ha! And I thought he was my true friend waiting to say goodbye. All alone in Monte Carlo!’
‘Which confirms the theory that this world is full of cowardly, lying men.’
Frank looked at the woman sitting next to him. She was transformed, after only a few days. And the knowledge that it was his doing had transformed Frank as well. He smiled and shook his head in denial.
‘No, it confirms the theory that the world is full of cowardly liars. It’s just statistics that some of them happen to be men.’ Frank stopped Helena’s reaction by giving her directions. ‘Bear right here,’ he pointed. ‘We’ll drive along the harbour and follow the signs for Nice.’
‘Don’t try to get out of it,’ Helena retorted. ‘We’re going to continue this discussion.’
But her expression was gentle. They descended towards the harbour and drove past the crowded pier. Stuart was hanging out the window, fascinated with the colourful summer crowd of people and boats. He pointed to an enormous private yacht anchored at the pier that even had a small helicopter parked on the upper deck.
‘Mommy, look how long that boat is. There’s a helicopter on it.’
‘I already told you, Stuart,’ Helena replied without turning around. ‘Monaco is a strange place. It’s a small country but lots of important people live here.’
‘I know why. ’Cause they don’t have to pay taxes.’
Frank refrained from pointing out to him that sooner or later you always had to pay taxes, wherever you lived. Stuart wouldn’t understand and Frank didn’t feel like explaining. He didn’t want to think about anything at all. They passed the place where Arianna’s body had been found with her boyfriend. Helena said nothing and neither did Frank. He was glad to be wearing his sunglasses so she couldn’t see his eyes. They came to the curve of the Rascasse, with the Radio Monte Carlo building on their left. For an instant, Frank could see an image of the director’s booth behind the glass and the deejay on the air.
That’s enough. It’s over now. And if something else happens tomorrow, it has nothing to do with me.
They turned down the road to leave the city and the slight tension in the car faded away as soon as they passed the junction for Fontvieille and headed towards Nice. Shifting position in his seat, Frank felt something in his pocket and pulled out the envelope Morelli had given him. The flap was tucked inside. Frank opened it and pulled out a sheet of blue paper, folded in half. The note was written in the same delicate handwriting.
Hello Handsome,
Allow me to join in the congratulations for our hero. Along with all my thanks for everything you’ve done. I was just informed by the Principality authorities. They’re holding an official ceremony in memory of Inspector Nicolas Hulot in recognition of his merits, and reliable sources have told me that you’re responsible. You know how much that means to me. And I’m not referring to the economic aspect, which will guarantee me a peaceful old age, whatever that means in my case.
After certain events, the world just wants to forget as quickly as possible. Some people are left with the task of remembering so that they don’t happen again.
I’m very proud of you. You and my husband are the best men I have ever known. I loved Nicolas and I still do. I’ll love him for ever.
I wish you all the good fortune you deserve and which I know you will find.
With affection,
Céline
Frank read Céline Hulot’s note two or three times before folding it and slipping it into his pocket. As she weaved through the traffic and turned down the road for the highway, Helena turned to him.
‘Bad news?’
‘No. Just regards and best wishes from a woman who is a dear friend.’
Stuart leaned forward between the seats. His head was between Frank’s and Helena’s. ‘Does she live in Monte Carlo?’
‘Yes, Stuart. She lives here.’
‘Is she an important person?’
‘Of course. She’s the wife of a police inspector.’ Frank looked at Helena. His answer to Stuart was mostly meant for her.
Helena smiled and Stuart sat back, puzzled, and looked out at the sea that disappeared from view as they headed inland. Frank reached for his seat belt.
‘Young man,’ he said to Stuart as he buckled it, ‘from now on, buckle up until further orders. Roger?’
Frank decided that he had earned the right to be a little silly, after all that had happened. He put his arms out in front of him like the head of a caravan leading a group of pioneers west. ‘France, here we come.’
He and Helena smiled at the boy’s enthusiastic reaction. As he checked to make sure that Stuart had buckled his seat belt correctly, Frank observed the face of the woman at the wheel, concentrating on getting through the congested summer Côte d’Azur traffic. He traced her profile with his eyes; his gaze was like a pencil drawing an indelible picture of that moment in his memory.
He knew it would not be easy for them. They would have to separate their need to forget from their need to remember. But they were together, and that was an excellent start. He closed his eyes behind the screen of his dark glasses. He recorded for the future that everything he really cared about was in that car with him. He couldn’t possibly want for anything more.
LAST CARNIVAL
Now, finally, everything is white.
The man is leaning his shoulders against the wall of a small, rectangular room. He is sitting on the floor, holding his bent knees and watching the movement of his toes in white cotton socks. He is wearing a jacket and trousers of rough white cotton, as white as the walls that close him in. There is a metal bed against the wall in front of him, screwed to the floor. It, too, is white.
There are no sheets, but the mattress and pillow are white. There is a white light coming from the ceiling, protected by a heavy grating, hastily painted white: the source of the blinding brightness in the room.
The light never goes out.
He slowly raises his head. His green eyes look carelessly at the tiny window, placed so high that it is unreachable. It is the only marker for the passage of time. Light and dark. White and black. Day and night. He doesn’t know why, but he can never see the blue of the sky.
His solitude is not a burden. Actually, he is irritated by every intrusion from outside. Every once in a while, a slot opens in the bottom of the door and a tray with plastic bowls slides inside. The plastic is white and the food always tastes the same. There is no cutlery. He eats with his fingers and returns the tray when the slot opens. In exchange, he receives a white, damp cloth to clean his hands. He must return it immediately.
Every so often, a voice tells him to stand in the middle of the room with his arms out. They check his movements from a spy hole in the middle of the door. When they see that he is in the right position, the door opens and several men come in. They put his arms in a straitjacket and tie it behind his back. He smiles each time they put it on him.
He feels that the powerful men in green are afraid of him and try as hard as they can to avoid his gaze. He can almost smell their fear. Still, they should know that his time of struggle is over. He has said it over and over again to the man with the glasses in the room where they take him. The man who wants to speak, to know, to understand.
He has also told him over and over that there is nothing to understand. There is only acceptance of what happens and what will continue to happen, just as he accepts being enclosed with all that white until he becomes one with it.
No, his solitude is no burden.
The only thing he misses is music.
He knows they won’t let him have any, so sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines it. He has played so much and listened to so much and breathed so much that if he looks for it, he finds it intact, exactly the same as the moment when it entered him. He is no longer interested in memories, the ones made of images and words – faded colours and hoarse sounds corrupted by the search for meaning. In his prison, the only use of memory is to locate the hidden treasure of all the music he possesses. It is the only legacy left by the man who once claimed the right to be called Father, before he decided that he was no longer that man’s son and took away that right along with his life.
If he concentrates, he can hear the music as well as if an agile hand were winding its way down the neck of an electric guitar right in front of him, a furious solo running along a scale that turns and travels higher and higher and never ends.
He can hear brushes grazing across the drums or damp, hot breath fighting its way through the tortuous funnel of a saxophone, becoming the voice of human melancholy, the sharp pain of regret for something wonderful that has crumbled in our hands, corroded with time.
He can find himself in the middle of a string section and watch the light, rapid movement of the first violinist’s bow, or slip unnoticed between the sinuous flourishes of an oboe, or stop to observe the well-trimmed nails of the fingers that fly nervously over the harp strings like wild animals behind the bars of a cage.
He can turn the music on or off whenever he wants. And like all imaginary things, it is perfect. He has everything he needs inside him: all his past, all his present, and all his future.
Music is more than enough to defeat the solitude. Music is the only promise kept, the only bet won. He told someone once that music is everything, the beginning and the end of the journey, and the journey itself. They listened to him, but they didn’t believe him. But what can you expect from someone who plays music and hears music but doesn’t breathe it?
No, he has no fear of solitude.
Then again, he is not alone. Never, not even now.
No one has ever understood and perhaps no one ever will. That is why they always look so far away for what is right before their eyes, like they will always do. That is why he was able to hide for so long amid all those hurried glances, the way black can hide amid other colours. None of them could accept the blinding whiteness of a room like that without screaming.
He doesn’t need to scream. He doesn’t even need to speak.
He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, removing them only for an instant from the brightness of that room, not because he fears it but because he respects it.
He smiles as the voice reaches him inside his head, loud and clear.
Are you there, Vibo?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When one comes to the end of a labour of this kind, expressing one’s gratitude is obligatory but it is also a personal pleasure. And so, without further ado, let me begin by thanking the American Embassy in Rome, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the Sûreté Publique of the Principality of Monaco, for the assistance they provided to a person who introduced himself as a writer but who, at that time, was a writer only in his own mind.
Thanks to Gianni Rabacchin, Assistente della Polizia di Stato in Asti, and to Maresciallo (warrant officer) Pinna of the Carabinieri of Capoliveri, who are more than names and ranks in uniforms – they are also my friends.
The same is true of Dr Gianni Miroglio and Dr Agostino Gaglio who, in a world of powermongering physicians, are two genuine gentlemen of medicine. Let me add to the group Professor Vincenzo Mastronardi, a clinical criminal psychiatrist, who holds the chair of Forensic Psychopathology in the Department of Medicine at the University of Rome La Sapienza; despite his countless obligations, he managed to find the time to offer me practical and technical advice that was as invaluable as his friendship.
My acknowledgment and gratitude goes out as well to Alberto Hazan and the staff of Radio Monte Carlo, with a special mention for Alain Gaspar, who accepted and assisted me in all my incurs
ions with a truly laudable savoir-faire. And thank heavens for his Italian, far superior to my own French . . .
I should mention and thank my good friend Jeffery Deaver who demonstrated, forkful of polenta in hand, that a great author can also be a modest and likable human being.
Speaking of books, my thanks go to Claudia and Alberto Zappa for a number of volumes that I may continue to ‘borrow’ for ever . . .
Heartfelt thanks go out to my ‘supporters’, a team of conscripted readers, including Doretta Freilino, Mauro Vaccaneo, Laura Niero, Enrico Biasci, and Roby Facini, who supplied me with fuel and new tyres in my frequent and perhaps slightly demanding pit stops.
I would like to thank Roberta, who is always there, and who always understands; how and where, if you don’t mind, are exquisitely matters that concern only the two of us.
Thanks to Piergiorgio Nicolazzini, my literary agent, who agreed to take on an aspiring writer practically ‘on faith’. And for the same reason, thanks to Alessandro Dalai, Eugenio Rognoni and everyone at Baldini & Castoldi, with a special note of gratitude to my editor Piero Gelli for his invaluable advice, which allowed me to escape the ‘Matarazzo Syndrome’, and to Paola Finzi, a heroic editor who managed to walk unsuspectingly into one of my infrequent temper tantrums.
If there is anyone I have forgotten to mention, let them rest assured that they may be missing from this list, but not from my heart.
And as for me, I am afraid that I have taken, here and there, a few liberties both in my narrative and my geography. That is, for the moment, the only thing that I have in common with certain great authors, who are in some sense responsible for the presence of this volume in the bookstores of the world. The fact that I am saying ‘for the moment’ is not an incautious hint of conceit, but the sole, tender note of optimism that I allow myself. It is also worth noting, if there were any need of it, that the events narrated in this novel are purely imaginary and that the characters have no existence in the real world.