92
(Keep still.
Motionless.
You’re a scorpion-fish waiting for the minnow.)
There she is. I can see her.
(Keep still! Don’t move.
Let her be.
Let her come closer.
If you move you’ll ruin everything.
Dead.)
Sure, boss. Stone dead. Deader than the dead themselves.
93
Jesus, he had crashed all right.
He was on the ground, lying full length, beside the scooter, and wasn’t moving. Fabiana Ponticelli passed by and didn’t stop.
He must be dead. At that speed, on that ancient scooter …
She didn’t know what to do. Or rather, she knew very well what she should do, but she didn’t like the idea of it at all. She was soaked to the skin, half frozen and almost home.
(You can tell a person’s quality from whether they help people in trouble.)
That’s what papa would have said.
If Esmeralda was in my shoes …
Only she wasn’t Esmeralda, though for the past six months she had been trying to be. She helped other people, even tramps who thought they were Valentino Rossi.
She puffed out her cheeks resignedly, turned her scooter round and went back.
94
Danilo Aprea was ringing Quattro Formaggi at thirty-second intervals and as soon as the odious recorded voice replied, saying ‘The number you are calling is not …,’ he would hang up with a curse.
He was certain by now that, like the bonehead he was, he had forgotten all about the bank raid.
‘It’s possible. Oh yes, it’s perfectly possible. He’s capable of anything,’ said Danilo, taking a swig from a bottle of Cynar that he had found at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen.
That bitter awareness was the result of years of friendship with Quattro Formaggi, and in particular of the famous ‘Belladonna question’, after which he had refused to see him for three months.
About a year earlier Danilo had found a job at the villa of the Avvocato Ettore Belladonna, but to do it properly he had needed help. Between Rino and Quattro Formaggi he had chosen Quattro Formaggi, because Rino wanted fifty per cent. A demand which, in Danilo’s humble opinion, was ridiculous, given that he had found the job. He had offered Quattro Formaggi thirty-five per cent of the fee and he, without any argument, had accepted. The job involved repairing a crack in the villa’s septic tank. It had been emptied a few days earlier by a specialised firm, but when Danilo had climbed down into it he had almost fainted from the stink.
In order to be able to work he had poured some eau de cologne onto his handkerchief and tied it over his face. When he had finished filling the crack with quick-drying cement, as agreed, he had given two tugs on the rope to alert Quattro Formaggi, but the top end had fallen into the tank. Danilo had shouted himself hoarse calling him. But there was no reply. He had gone away. All he could see from down there was the circular eye of the manhole and the blue sky with clouds scudding across it like a flock of fucking sheep.
Danilo couldn’t sit down without putting his buttocks in the muck. It was hotter than the devil’s arsehole in there and the air stank of rotten cheese.
Suddenly a little boy’s face had appeared. Ten or eleven years old. A tuft of blond hair and a nice innocent smile. It must be René, the Avvocato Belladonna’s son. René had waved to him and then, although Danilo implored him not to, had closed the manhole, burying him alive.
Quattro Formaggi, two hours later, had reopened it and pulled out a hysterical creature covered in excrement who bore a distant resemblance to his workmate Danilo Aprea.
The fool had apologised, saying, ‘I went away for a moment,’ a moment, that was what he’d said, ‘to buy a slice of pizza because I was starving. I’ve brought you a piece with potato and rosemary, your favourite.’
Danilo had snatched the pizza out of his hands and jumped up and down on it with his shit-soaked boots.
‘That’s the kind of people I have to work with!’ he said and took another swig of Cynar, grimacing like a little boy who has been forced to drink cod-liver oil.
95
Through the visor of his crash helmet Quattro Formaggi saw the long legs of the minnow approaching.
Come here, little fish.
It took one step and then stopped. But it was a well-brought-up little fish and would never leave a man lying injured, perhaps dead, on the road.
‘Sir …? Sir? Are you hurt?’
(Dead.)
‘Sir, can you hear me?’
Three more three steps. It was less than three metres away.
If I make a sudden lunge …
(Wait!)
He had never been so close to that girl. The blood pulsed in his temples. His muscles were charged with enough electrical power to bend an iron bar. And, as if by magic, his twitches and tics had disappeared.
The minnow crouched down and looked at him uncertainly.
‘Sir, would you like me to call an ambulance?’
Hidden behind the helmet, a dreamy smile spread on Quattro Formaggi’s lips, revealing his big yellow teeth.
96
‘Can you hear me? If you can’t talk, move something … your arm …’ asked Fabiana Ponticelli.
Christ, he’s really dead …
The scooter on the ground, in the middle of the road, with the wheel still spinning, illuminated the white exhaust fumes and the form of the motionless man.
A quick thought ran through her mind: how come he had crashed here, where the road was straight? He must have skidded in a puddle, or got a puncture and hit his head.
But he’s wearing a crash helmet …
She took another hesitant step and stopped. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t know exactly what, but something was screaming at her not to go any closer. Not to touch him. As if what lay there on the road was not a poor devil who’d had an accident, but a scorpion.
I’m going to call an ambulance.
97
(Stop her! She’s making a phone call.)
98
Fabiana Ponticelli didn’t even have time to press the on-switch of her mobile before she felt the earth disappear from under her feet and found herself falling, open-mouthed, and she landed, hitting the asphalt with her chin, hip and knee.
She didn’t understand what had happened and thought she had just slipped over and tried to get up again, but she realised that something was preventing her from rising.
When she saw a dark hand round her ankle, her heart, like a hydrant, burst in her chest and she gave a strangled little cry.
It’s a trap! He’s not hurt at all!
Fabiana tried to break free, but fear had snatched away the air she needed for breathing. Gasping, she tried to get up on her arms, to crawl away somehow, but all she managed to do was graze the palms of her hands and her elbows on the asphalt. Then she started kicking out with her free leg. She struck the man on the back and on the helmet, but to no avail. He lay there on the ground clutching her ankle; he took the kicks like a sack of potatoes and he didn’t let go, the bastard, he didn’t let go.
Kick him on the hand.
So she did.
Once, twice, three times, and at last she felt his grip slackening. Another kick right on those thick fingers and she was free.
She leaped to her feet, but the man threw himself at her with all his weight, tackling her round the hips like a rugby player and bringing her down again.
Fabiana, at this point, started writhing about as if she was having an epileptic fit, screaming, hitting out wildly, but most of her punches either missed altogether or landed on his helmet without hurting him. ‘Let me go! You bastard, let me go!’
‘No, don’t scream! Don’t scream, please! I don’t want to hurt you!’ She thought she could hear the muffled voice of the man in the helmet.
‘Let me go, you piece of shit!’ Fabiana looked around. If only she’d had a stick, a stone,
anything, but she was surrounded by asphalt and nothing else, so she bent double and, with all the strength in her body, stretched out her arm towards the Boxer lying in the middle of the road.
Dragging herself along on her elbows, she managed to grab hold of the rear-view mirror and started pulling to get free of the man’s grip, but the mirror, with its whole supporting rod, snapped off.
Fabiana turned and, screaming, jabbed it into his shoulder.
The man gave a yelp and lashed out with his elbow, hitting her full on the nose. The cartilage of her nasal septum broke with a crunching sound and at first she felt nothing, but her neck jerked back with a horrible crack and then a dense liquid began to flow out of her nostrils, mingling with the tears and rain.
She opened her mouth, spitting out streams of blood and trying to gulp in air.
99
(What have you done?)
I swear I didn’t mean to hurt her …
Quattro Formaggi got up on his knees, pulled the mirror out of his shoulder and threw it on the ground.
The pain had clouded his vision. When he could see again he realised that Ramona was wheezing with her mouth open and spitting blood, her face a mask of terror.
He was about to take off his helmet but then …
(She mustn’t see you.)
… thought better of it. He took his torch out of his pocket and switched it on. He pointed it at her.
She’s in a bad way. She can’t breathe.
‘Wait … Wait, I’ll help you …’
Ramona was bent over on the ground, but when he tried to touch her she got to her feet and started staggering, bent double, trying to breathe. A horrible noise was coming out of her mouth.
Quattro Formaggi put his hands into his crash helmet and started biting his fingers.
100
She had fallen into darkness and she was dying.
If her lungs didn’t start working she would suffocate, of that she was certain.
Fabiana Ponticelli could still think and she knew she must calm down, because the more agitated she got the more oxygen she would consume. She stopped, with her mouth open, waiting for some miracle to start her lungs working again. And the miracle, which was not in fact a miracle but merely her paralysed diaphragm relaxing, did happen, and her rib cage started expanding and contracting of its own accord, without her having to think about it.
A thin thread of icy air was sucked into her windpipe and from there through her bronchial tubes into her compressed lungs, like when you open a vacuum-packed bag of coffee.
She started spluttering and gulping air and coughing violently, not caring about the light that was dazzling her and the man who was standing behind her.
The sounds around her had amalgamated and she felt as if she had an aeroplane’s jet engine throbbing in her head, but despite this noise she could hear the man repeating over and over again like a cracked record: ‘Please forgive me! I didn’t mean to hurt you! I’m sorry, let me look at you.’
He’s coming closer.
Fabiana straightened up and tried to run away, but as soon as she moved her head she was overcome by the pain, as if someone had inserted a blade between her collarbone and neck. With her eyes closed she hobbled towards the middle of the road, raising her arm and hoping someone would pass by.
Now! Now her saviour must arrive. This was the perfect moment. He must get out of a car and shoot that bastard in the stomach, so she could just faint in peace.
101
Quattro Formaggi watched Ramona take a few steps, her body all twisted and her arm raised as if she wanted to call a taxi, then he saw her trip over the Scarabeo and fall down with her arms and legs splayed out like Wile E Coyote.
Poor thing, she must have hurt herself.
But there was something he couldn’t understand. On the one hand he so pitied her, he was sorry, but on the other hand he enjoyed seeing her suffer. It was an agreeable sensation. He felt like a lion and could have fought anyone. His cock was stiffening and pressed against his belly.
Clutching his wounded shoulder he approached the girl, who was still lying on the ground and moving her legs and head like a pale water dragon.
102
Fabiana Ponticelli hadn’t seen her scooter, and had banged into it and fallen over.
Her shoulder must have come out of its socket. That shoulder she had dislocated on a skiing holiday at Andalo. Her father had told her a million times she ought to have it fixed, ‘otherwise what’s the point in my paying for insurance against accidents? It’s a simple operation, you’ll be as right as rain in two days. If you don’t, it might slip out again in unpleasant circumstances.’
Un … pleas … circum … stances, her brain repeated as she tried to get to her feet.
It was a pain far worse than that in her nose. An electric current was flowing through the muscles of her arm and shoulder, coiling them up like a rope.
Why don’t I faint?
(Because you’ve got to put it back in.)
Stopping herself from retching, with her left hand she took hold of her right arm, just below the armpit, and pulled.
Nothing happened.
Again.
She pulled the arm again, but harder and downwards, and as if by magic the electric current switched off and, incredibly, for the first time since she had decided to stop and help the bastard a feeling of wellbeing spread through her body.
Good girl. Well done. Now you’re okay. You can do it. Wait till he comes near.
Through her closed eyelids she could see the light that shone on her.
Wait.
103
Quattro Formaggi went over, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards the side of the road. She seemed to have fainted, but now and then she opened her eyelids a little to see what was happening.
He managed to pull her as far as the guardrail and had stopped for breath, when, with a sudden twist, she lashed out and kicked him between the legs.
Quattro Formaggi jumped backwards as if an invisible being had pushed him away, and clutched at his groin, then a yellow stream of bile came out of his crash helmet and as he vomited he realised that the little bitch had got to her feet and was running away.
104
The man in the helmet caught up with her and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, making her do an ungainly half-pirouette, and Fabiana Ponticelli flew backwards, as stiff as a mannequin, banged her left hip against the guardrail, landed first with her cheekbone and then with the rest of her body on a carpet of plastic bags, paper and wet leaves, while her ankles rapped against the concrete base of the metal barrier.
She knew she must get up again, at once, and that she must start running and get away because it was clear that the man in the helmet was going to do something to her, something very nasty, yet her body refused to obey her. It had curled up into a ball of its own accord. Her hands had gripped her knees and her head had come to rest against her shoulder.
(At least open your eyes. Look to see where he is.) Her father’s voice.
I can’t.
(Let him do what he wants! Better to be raped than raped and beaten to death) said Esmeralda, not mincing her words, as usual.
Esme’s right, papa. He’ll rape me and he’ll leave me here.
Yet inside her there was a stronger, more stubborn part which urged her not to give in. Because it wasn’t right.
She started crying, in silence, sobbing convulsively, cursing herself for having stopped. If she’d known what a bastard he was she would have ridden her scooter straight over him.
A metallic noise brought her back to reality.
What’s he doing?
But she had two black eyes, and even if she opened them she was submerged in darkness and couldn’t see a thing, but she could still hear, and what she heard gave her a little hope.
The guy was messing about with her scooter.
He only wants to steal the Scarabeo.
He had beaten her up to steal
a stupid scooter.
All he’d have had to do was ask.
Take it. It’s all yours. Just don’t hurt me.
She must just wait. Lie there quiet and calm. And it would all pass.
105
Quattro Formaggi picked up the Scarabeo and pushed it towards the electricity hut.
When he had seen Ramona spin round, bang into the guardrail and fall head first over it onto the ground he had been very alarmed.
Had he killed her with a slap across the face? Was that possible?
He had looked at her carefully and seen that she was still breathing, curled up in the rain. Defenceless and as wet as a tadpole when you take it out of the water.
(Now she’s yours. You can do what you want with her. But you must take her into the wood, so that if anyone passes by …)
He hid the Scarabeo and the Boxer behind the electricity hut, then went to check whether anyone driving past would be able to see them.
106
How strange, despite the blood that was blocking her nostrils Fabiana Ponticelli thought she could smell mushrooms.
Not cooked mushrooms. But the fresh ones you take out of the wet earth with two fingers, careful not to break them.
This is the mushroom place.
She remembered that it was from that very spot, from that layby, that they used to start out on the chanterelle walk when she was small. They would leave the old Saab with its patched-up roof beside the electricity hut and set off into the wood in search of chanterelles …
She saw herself as a little girl, with her brother Vincenzo in his pushchair, her mother with her long hair gathered into a ponytail, like in that photograph that hung in the hall, her father still sporting a moustache and herself in her little red parka and woollen hat … All together they would get out of the car, holding baskets for the mushrooms, and papa would grab her under the armpits and, hop-la, whisk her over the guardrail and she would say: ‘I can do it on my own’ and would climb up onto that long metal strip (she seemed to see all four of them walk by without looking at her, as you do when you pass a dead dog on the road), then they would enter the wood and her father would stop them: ‘The one who finds the most is the winner.’