‘A girl … You’ve killed a girl.’
121
The phone kept on ringing.
I’m going to hang up …
(No. Wait at least another fi …)
‘Hallo?’
Danilo Aprea puffed out air and started breathing normally again. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt numb. ‘Teresa, it’s me.’
An instant of silence that never seemed to end.
‘What is it, Danilo?’ The tone of her voice conveyed not anger, but something worse, which made Danilo immediately curse himself for ringing her. It conveyed hopelessness and resignation. She was like a peasant who has accepted her inexorable destiny that now and then a fox will get into her henhouse and devour the chickens.
‘Listen. I need to talk to you.’
‘You’re drunk.’
He tried to sound offended, almost outraged, at this base accusation: ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I can tell by your voice.’
‘You’re wrong. I haven’t touched a drop. It’s not right, you always thinking …’
‘You promised you wouldn’t call me … Do you know what time it is?’
‘It’s late, I know, but this is important, I’m not being stupid, or I’d never have called you. It’s very important. Liste …’
Teresa interrupted him. ‘No, Danilo, you listen to me. I can’t unplug the phone, Piero’s mother is seriously ill in hospital, and you know it.’
Shit, I’d forgotten about that.
‘You know that very well, Danilo. Every time the phone rings our hearts are in our mouths. Piero’s in the other room. He’ll have realised it’s you. You must leave me in peace. How can I make you underst …’
He managed to interrupt her: ‘I’m sorry, Teresa. I’m sorry. You’re right. Forgive me. But I’ve got a wonderful surprise for our future. Something you really must hear about …’
Now it was she who interrupted him: ‘What future are you talking about? It’s you who must listen to me. And you’d better listen very carefully. So pin back your ears.’ She took a deep breath: ‘I’m pregnant, Danilo. I’m expecting a baby with Piero. I’m in my third month now. You must come to terms with it. I don’t want to come back to you, I don’t love you. I love Piero. Laura’s dead, Danilo. We must come to terms with that. I want to be happy and Piero makes me happy. I want to build a new family. And you keep pestering me, phoning me in the middle of the night! I’ll be forced to go to the police. And if that’s not enough I’ll go away, I’ll disappear. If you love me, as you keep saying you do, you must leave me in peace. So I beg you, I implore you, leave us in peace. If you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself. Forget me. Start living again. Goodbye.’
CLICK.
122
She’s dead.
At least five minutes had passed since Ida had locked herself in the toilet.
Maybe she had fainted from the stink.
Beppe Trecca, worried, put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear a thing, what with the drumming of the rain and the howling of the wind that was shaking the camper.
He had prepared a clear, simple speech, to make her understand that their relationship was a mistake.
He cleared his throat. ‘Ida …? Ida, are you there?’
The door opened and Ida Lo Vino came out, as pale as a ghost.
He gulped. ‘Was there a bit of a stink?’
She nodded, and then said, ‘Beppe, I love you. I love you madly.’ And she stuck her tongue in his mouth.
123
‘What the fuck have you done? You psychopathic, murdering son of a bitch!’ Rino shouted, and he shook Quattro Formaggi by the arm. ‘You’ve killed a girl! You’ve gone out of your mind, you fool …’ He slapped him across the face so hard he heard the bones in his hand crack.
Quattro Formaggi crashed to the ground and started sobbing convulsively.
‘Don’t cry, you bastard. Don’t cry or I’ll kill you.’ Rino raised his head like a coyote howling to the moon, gnashed his teeth as he massaged his aching hand, then he kicked him hard in the ribs.
Quattro Formaggi rolled over in the mud, coughing.
‘You smashed her head in with a rock.’ Another kick. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done, you scumbag?’ Another kick.
‘I didn’t … mean to. I swear I … didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,’ whimpered Quattro Formaggi, shaking his head despairingly. ‘I don’t know … myself … why I did it.’
‘Oh, you don’t know, don’t you? Well, I don’t know either. You lousy fucking rapist …’ He grabbed him by the hair and thrust the gun barrel against his eye. ‘Now I’m going to kill you.’
‘Yes, kill me! Kill me. I deserve it …’ Quattro Formaggi moaned.
A violent red fury had seized Rino Zena’s brain and swollen his muscles and tightened the tendons of his index finger as he squeezed the trigger of the pistol, and he knew he must calm down now, at once, or he would blow the bastard’s head off.
He slammed the sole of his foot into the other man’s face. Quattro Formaggi spewed out a stream of blood and then curled up in a ball, with his arms over his head.
Breathing hard, Rino stuck his pistol under his belt, picked up an enormous branch with both hands and smashed it against the trunk.
It wasn’t enough. He still had too much rage inside him.
He put both arms round a rock, which must have weighed at least fifty kilos, to hurl it God knows where. He heaved it up out of the mud with a roar, but suddenly fell silent.
The rock slipped out of his hands.
The world around him broke up into hundreds of coloured fragments like a shattering pane of glass, and a vice as heavy as a mass of white-hot lead crushed his skull. Two drills bored into his temples, and all the extremities of his body started tingling.
He froze like that, with his knees bent, his trunk leaning forward like a sumo wrestler, his eyes bulging, and he realised that never until this moment had he had the faintest idea of what a headache really was.
He lost his balance and fell down stiff on the ground.
124
It was ten minutes since Teresa had given him the news that she was pregnant, but Danilo Aprea was still there, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He knew he should at best burst into tears, at worst jump out of the window and end it all.
If only I had the guts to kill myself. What a shit you’d feel, Teresa dear … Wouldn’t it be great! You’d be racked with remorse for the rest of your life.
The problem was that he lived on the second floor. And with his luck he’d probably end up in a wheelchair.
He must do something, though. Maybe he could just go away. Fly off to some distant land. Go and live in India. No, he didn’t fancy India. It was filthy. And full of flies.
But if he went on thinking about this kind of thing all night till morning, till daybreak, till the sun returned, this night, the shittiest night in a shitty life, would pass. Because Danilo knew that if he stopped keeping his brain occupied he might do something stupid, something he would bitterly regret.
He looked up at the ceiling. The clown was still there. Hanging in a corner where the glow of the television didn’t reach.
(Poor woman, I wonder what she imagines, in her fantasies … That this wonderful news will hit you so hard you’ll hang yourself from the chandelier? You think she’d be racked with remorse? Don’t kid yourself – she’d be happy. She’d be rid of you. That’s what she’s hoping for. Well, she’s mistaken. If anyone wants to get rid of you they’ll have to blast you with a bazooka.)
Danilo would have liked to smile, but his lips had got stuck together. So he started shaking his head.
She was so naïve, Teresa. She just didn’t understand. He had always known it would happen sooner or later.
She’s forgotten about Laura. She thinks she can replace her with another child.
‘Well done.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Well done, what a clever girl you are!’
(But this
doesn’t change your plans by one centimetre. Teresa isn’t really interested in that nattily dressed tyre dealer. Let’s be honest, he’s been useful to her because he’s got a bit of cash and he’s got her pregnant. Period. But when you come along with the boutique and some real money, she’ll come back to you.)
‘Ah, who wants her anyway?’ he muttered, with a sniff.
(Do the raid on your own. You don’t need anyone else. Do it at once. Now.)
Danilo looked at the clown. ‘You’re right. Of course, I can do it on my own, why didn’t I think of that before?’
Outside, the storm continued to rage over the deserted village. He didn’t even need the tractor. A car would do just as well.
And he still had a car. It was in the garage, unused since the day of Laura’s funeral. He’d had several opportunities to sell it, but had never done so. And why was that? Not because he thought he might decide to drive again one day, nor because it was the vehicle in which the angel of his life had gone to heaven. No. Not for that reason. But because he would need it to do the raid on his own.
‘It all fits.’
So the fact that Rino and Quattro Formaggi had let him down was part of a grander plan that God had organised specially for him.
(All the money will be yours. You won’t have to share it with anyone.)
He would be really rich, and to hell with everyone else. And Teresa would come crawling back to him with her tail between her legs.
‘I’m sorry, Teresa. You’ve forgotten Laura. You said you loved the tyre dealer. That you wanted a child with him. Stay with him, then,’ he said, jabbing his finger as if she was standing there in front of him, and feeling the first glimmer of pleasure he had felt in several hours.
He knew what he had to do.
He got up and staggered into the bathroom to stick two fingers down his throat.
125
When Rino Zena had pointed the gun at his face, Quattro Formaggi had known for certain that he loved life.
He had repeated ‘Kill me, kill me’ to show Rino that he felt guilty, not because he really wanted it; deep inside, more than ever before, he had wanted to live.
To live. To live after killing. To live regardless. To live with the burden of guilt. To live in a prison for the rest of his life. To live beaten and despised till the end of his days.
It didn’t matter how, but to live.
And even when he had felt the cold steel of the gun against his nose he had known Rino wouldn’t shoot him and that, as usual, he would sort everything out.
He just had to wait till his anger subsided.
He had curled up in a ball, and it was right, he deserved them, sure he deserved those kicks, even though it was Ramona’s own fault if she had died. If she hadn’t taken the road through the woods none of this would have happened.
From the ground, with his head hidden between his arms, he had seen the black silhouette of Rino storm about and pick up a branch and smash it against a tree trunk. And then, like a giant with an eye of light in the middle of his forehead, lift a huge rock and, as he was lifting it, suddenly freeze. For a moment Quattro Formaggi had thought he must have strained his back, but then Rino had fallen on the ground, quite stiff.
And he had lain there motionless. Not saying a word, not uttering a cry.
He had been lying like that for at least five minutes.
He went over to him, ready to run for it if he got up.
Rino’s eyes were open and there was a strange expression on his face that Quattro Formaggi couldn’t describe. As if he was waiting for an answer.
‘Rino, can you hear me?’ he asked, shaking him.
His teeth were clenched and white foam was trickling down from the corner of his mouth.
Quattro Formaggi knew nothing about medicine, but something very serious must have happened to him. That thing that happens in your brain, leaving you virtually dead.
A coma.
‘Rino! What’s the matter? Are you in a coma?’
No response.
He slapped his face, but Rino did nothing. He just lay there with a quizzical expression on his face.
He slapped him again, harder.
Still no reaction.
He took the gun out of Rino’s belt, weighed it in his hand and put it against the other man’s forehead, imitating his deep voice: ‘You lousy fucking rapist, now I’m going to kill you.’ Then he started sticking the barrel into a nostril, into his mouth, and smearing the drool over his chin.
When he tired of this he stood there for a while, his mind a blank, rubbing his bruised ribs and thumping himself on the thigh with the pistol butt.
126
Fireflies danced in front of Rino Zena’s eyes. He could also see the raindrops, as heavy as mercury, falling on his face.
The rest was a tingling feeling, like ants crawling over his skin.
His legs. His arms. His stomach. His mouth.
Like a bag of skin, full of ants.
He couldn’t remember where he was, but if he concentrated hard he could hear, too: the sound of his own breathing, the storm among the trees.
A kind of violet cloud was covering him, hiding the fireflies.
That was it, he was in the wood. And the patch where the cloud was lighter must be Quattro Formaggi.
“Help me,” he said. But his mouth didn’t move, nor did his tongue, and the words didn’t emerge from his lips, yet they echoed in his ears like a desperate scream of terror.
He felt something on his cheek. A slap, maybe. Or a caress. But it was far away. As if his head was stuffed with wool. Coarse wool. The dark green wool of the blankets in the children’s home.
He was surprised he could still think.
Little thoughts. One after another. Violet thoughts immersed in an infinite blackness.
‘Rino! What’s the matter? Are you in a coma?’
His heart started beating more loudly. Quattro Formaggi’s words, like sharp arrows, pierced through the violet, which closed again after their passage, and reached him.
“I don’t know,” he replied, aware of not having spoken.
‘You lousy fucking rapist, now I’m going to kill you.’ More arrows pierced the haze. But this time Rino didn’t understand what they meant.
If only he could move one finger …
A finger full of ants.
He made an effort, trying to move his hand. Perhaps he had moved it, but in this state he had no way of knowing.
‘Are you dead?’ Quattro Formaggi asked him.
The finger. Move that damned finger.
He must make Quattro Formaggi understand that he had to take him to hospital at once.
Move the finger. Go on.
He ordered all the ants to converge from every part of his body into the finger and lift it.
But they didn’t obey, and suddenly the mist thickened and his body started to jerk and quiver as it was dragged into the violet which shaded into black.
A blazing fire exploded in the middle of his chest, sucking the air out of his lungs.
Rino implored God to help him, to pull him out of that black hole, and so as suddenly as they had arrived the spasms ceased and he found himself alone, in a calm without light.
127
Quattro Formaggi saw Rino writhing about and struggling against an invisible force that had caught him and was trying to carry him away. Rino waved his legs and arms and rolled his eyes, and his back arched like a bow; he twisted his mouth and shook his head, and the light on his forehead crazily slashed the woods with a thousand golden blades.
Frightened and shocked, Quattro Formaggi tried to help him, to throw himself across him so as to hold down his arms, but he got a blow in the face and a kick, so he retreated in dismay.
Tugging at his hair, he prayed it would soon be over. It was a terrible sight.
The invisible force was now pushing harder and arching Rino’s back as if it wanted to break it, but an instant later it left him, and he lay there, limp in the
mud. The torch had gone out too.
It’s gone because it’s taken Rino’s soul.
His best friend was dead. The only person who had loved him.
He had come here to help him, and God …
(who should have taken you, you dirty murdering rapist)
… had taken his life as he lifted a rock.
He crouched down beside Rino.
What now? What must I do?
Normally it was Rino who answered these questions. He always knew what to do.
Quattro Formaggi sat down and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Amen’. And he crossed himself.
He died for me. God wanted someone in exchange for Ramona’s death and Rino sacrificed himself.
(They’ll find him and think it was him that killed her. You’ll be in the clear.)
Quattro Formaggi smiled with relief. Then he got up, tucked his cock back into his underpants, retrieved his torch and crash helmet, stuck the gun in his trousers and went back to Ramona.
He slipped the skull ring off her finger and limped away towards the road.
128
The aluminium doors of the lift drew apart and Danilo Aprea, wrapped up in warm clothes, came out into the hall of the apartment block.
He leaned against the jamb of the lift with his eyes reduced to two slits.
The hall was a long room panelled with slats of dark wood. On the floor, polished marble. To the left, the porter’s lodge with a little television and a pile of bills. To the right, the stairs. Beyond the glass doors the raindrops danced on the sodden doormat and lashed the geraniums in their flowerpots.
Danilo had vomited up three litres of alcohol and drunk a whole pot of coffee. Now he felt a bit better. His drunkenness hadn’t passed, but at least he didn’t feel sick any more.
He staggered over to a concealed door in the wooden panelling, opened it and without even switching on the lights went down a short flight of steps, found the handle and threw open the door of the communal garage. He breathed in.