He let it ring and after a dozen rings it fell silent and then he called Danilo again. His mobile, as usual, was switched off. He tried his landline.
It was free. It rang and rang, and nobody answered.
He was about to hang up when a woman’s voice suddenly said: ‘Yes, hallo?’
‘Hallo …’ replied Cristiano in amazement.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Cristiano …’
A moment’s pause, then: ‘Rino’s son?’
Cristiano recognised the voice. It was Teresa, Danilo’s wife. ‘Yes … Can I speak to Danilo?’
There was a brief silence, then in a lifeless tone Teresa said: ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘No. What?’
‘Danilo … Danilo’s gone.’
‘What do you mean, gone? Gone where?’
‘He had a terrible car accident. He went off the road and crashed into a wall and …’
No, it couldn’t be true … ‘He’s dead? I don’t understand, is he dead?’
‘Yes. He’s dead. I’m sorry …’
‘But why is he dead?’
‘Apparently he was drunk. He lost control of the car …’ Teresa’s voice seemed to be coming out of a hole.
Cristiano took the mobile away from his ear and let his arm slide down. He switched it off, staring at the gulls in the sky, the rubbish, the columns of black smoke.
Danilo was dead.
Like Cristiano’s heart.
Which felt nothing any more. Absolutely nothing.
He didn’t give a damn if Danilo, his adoptive uncle, that fat lump Danilo, had crashed into a wall and been killed.
The only thing that came to his mind was that now he was really in the shit.
I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to find Quattro Formaggi and we’ve got to run away.
But first I must explain to Papa.
222
On the river, a few kilometres away from the rubbish dump, the carabinieri’s rubber dinghy had succeeded in approaching the corpse.
The crowd had suddenly fallen silent, and the only sounds were the rustle of the rain on the umbrellas, the buzz of the incandescent spotlights which sent up spirals of steam, and the rush of the river.
A diver in wetsuit, lifejacket and harness jumped off the dinghy. For a moment an eddy seemed to suck him under, but then he was thrown up again and managed to get the current to carry him to the tree on which the corpse was caught. He put his arms round the bundle and was laboriously hauled back onto the dinghy.
From the embankments, and from up on the bridge, there came a burst of applause which was lost in the roar of the river.
The Carrion Man, peering over the parapet, was scratching his neck so hard that it bled.
Ramona.
Who had done it? Who had wrapped her in that plastic sheet and thrown her in the river?
It can’t have been God. He doesn’t get his hands dirty.
God always gets others to do things. He gives the orders and someone else has the job of carrying them out.
Why didn’t you tell me to do it? I would have understood. I would have sacrificed my plan to finish the crib. I’ve done everything for you.
He looked around. There were hundreds of drenched people. Among them, perhaps, was the person who had thrown the body in the river.
Who are you? Where are you? I want to talk to you. Perhaps you can help me understand.
He took his head in his hands and pressed his temples.
Too many thoughts were going through his mind. Too many voices were talking to him together and muddling him. Though he sensed that soon these thoughts that were infecting his brain would stop and there would finally be silence.
His mobile, in his pocket, started ringing. He took it out. ‘Hallo?’
‘Hallo, Quattro Formaggi?’
Don’t call me that! It’s not my name, can’t you all get it into your heads? ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s me, Cristiano. Listen to me. It’s important. Where are you?’
‘Nowhere special.’
‘Can we meet at the hospital? I need to talk to you.’
‘When?’
‘Right away. I’ve had an idea. Come quick.’
The Carrion Man heard the sound of a siren behind him. He turned and saw a police car advancing slowly through the crowd. Through the rain-streaked rear window he saw a man.
It’s him. He’s the one who threw the body in the river.
He swayed, his legs were giving way, he clutched hold of the railing.
‘Quattro Formaggi, are you there?’
‘Sorry.’ He switched off his mobile. He began to follow the police car, to stagger among the people, to struggle forward, panting, in that mayhem, frantically elbowing his way through, almost fainting with the pain in his side and shoulder. Everything had dissolved into a darkness crowded with monsters who grew angry, who insulted him, who noticed him, who recorded his face in their memories, but it didn’t matter; he had to follow that man.
At last the car stopped and the siren fell silent.
The Carrion Man wanted to get closer, but a cordon of policemen prevented him from doing so.
A woman holding an umbrella and a torch opened the door of the police car. The man got out, covering his head with a newspaper. The two disappeared down an iron stairway that led to the river bank.
The Carrion Man pushed through the crowd and leaned over to watch them.
He saw them go down a long iron stairway and reach the bank, where Ramona had been brought. He saw the man crouch down beside the corpse and then put his hands over his face.
It’s her father …
He opened his mouth and for a moment a ray of light lit up his heart. He was breathless, overwhelmed by the grief of that man whose daughter he had killed.
What have I done?
But it only lasted for a moment. The darkness enveloped his heart again and he realised that he would never finish the crib. Now they would put Ramona in a coffin and cover her with earth.
Everything that he had done had been in vain. Nobody understood that she had died for something great, something more important. Because God commands it.
The people were beginning to return to their cars. The show was over.
There was a child in a blue raincoat with a helmet of black hair who was holding her mother’s hand and kept sniffing, with tears in her eyes. The Carrion Man stopped, looked at her and felt like crying too. He raised his hand and, sobbing, waved to her. At first the child covered her face, awed by the figure of that thin man crying under a yellow hood. But then she waved back.
They smiled at each other.
Could it have been Rino who threw Ramona into the river? A flash of lightning lit up the dusk of the Carrion Man’s mind.
What if Rino, in the woods, hadn’t died as he had seemed to do? If he had only been pretending?
223
Beppe Trecca, sitting in his Puma, was still stuck in the traffic. If until half an hour earlier the queue had been moving at walking pace, now it had come to a complete stop. He could see the turning a hundred metres ahead, like a mirage.
He snapped his mobile shut, irritably.
The little hooligan didn’t answer.
He had really gone too far this time. What kind of behaviour was this? He tried to help him and the boy just dashed off like a madman. What if something happened to him?
Who’ll get it in the neck? Yours truly!
When he found him he would give him a piece of his mind.
He must have gone to see his father. Where else could he go? But supposing I don’t find him in the hospital? What if the little fool has run away?
He felt as if a boa constrictor was crushing him. He loosened the knot of his tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar and started to hyperventilate, trying to dispel his anxiety.
I’ve even run out of Xanax.
It was impossible to breathe in that damned car. He opened the window, but that didn’t help. It was
that endless queue that made him feel so bad. He was boiling.
He steered the Puma into the emergency lane, switched on the hazard lights, took his folding umbrella from the back seat and got out.
It’s only a panic attack. Once you’ve felt a few drops of rain on your face you’ll feel better.
He leaned with one hand on the bonnet, as if he was exhausted after a long marathon, and looked around. The leaden sky. The honking cars. The never-ending rain.
What am I doing? Why am I still here?
I must go to Burkina Faso.
Cristiano had better go to a home. He had done what he could for him. But now, enough was enough.
And after all … I’m a free man.
He didn’t depend on anyone. And no one depended on him. He could choose to do what he liked with his life. It had been his decision to remain single, free to travel, to explore new worlds, new civilisations.
So why the hell did I get myself stuck in this lousy wasteland? Helping people who don’t want to be helped. If anyone needs help, it’s me. No one asks how this poor bugger is feeling! Not even my cousin, not so much as a phone call …
He glanced at the motionless queue. A dozen metres away was a people carrier. At the wheel a friar. In the back he could just make out two big St Bernards, who had misted up the windows with their breath.
Beppe gazed at the friar in astonishment.
I’ve got to talk to him. Right away.
He went over to the car and knocked on the window. The man started in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
The window rolled down.
The friar had a thin face and straight white hair. An olive complexion. A pair of narrow glasses were perched on his long nose. ‘Do you need help?’
‘Yes.’
‘Problems with your car?’ The huge beasts’ muzzles pushed forward to see who this person was and started dribbling happily over the driver’s seat.
‘Isolde! Tristan! Down!’ shouted the friar and then turned back to Trecca. ‘They’ve been shut up in here for hours …’
‘Can I get in? I want to confess …’
The friar frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘I want you to hear my confession.’
‘Here? Now?’
‘Yes, now. I beg of you …’ implored the social worker. And without waiting for an answer, he jumped into the Espace.
224
The milky glow from the streetlamps bathed the wide stairway of the Sacred Heart hospital. The Carrion Man parked his scooter. His wrapped-round scarf and his hat left only his eyes exposed. All hunched up and limping, he entered the half-deserted entrance hall of the hospital. He saw Cristiano standing in front of the lift.
He went over to him. ‘Here I am.’
At first the boy seemed not to recognise him. But then he grabbed him by the arm: ‘What on earth’s happened to you?’
The Carrion Man was about to tell him the fatuous lie he had prepared (“I fell off my scooter”) when he had a sudden brainwave.
He lowered his gaze. ‘They beat me up.’
Cristiano stepped backwards and clenched his fists as if he was in a boxing ring. ‘Who was it?’
‘Some boys on motorbikes blocked my path and then started kicking and punching me.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘On Sunday evening. I was on my way to Danilo’s …’
‘Who was it?’ An expression of hatred distorted Cristiano’s features. ‘Tell me the truth. Was it Tekken?’
He’s fallen for it.
At this point the Carrion Man, like a consummate actor, nodded.
‘Why didn’t you phone me?’
‘I don’t know … When they went away I picked up my scooter and went home. And then I couldn’t get out of bed.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me when we talked on the phone?’
Quattro Formaggi shrugged.
‘You should have told me, Quattro. Tekken beat you up because you’re my friend. He’s got it in for me so he picked on you. That bastard’s going to pay for this. I swear to God he is.’ Cristiano looked at the cheek covered with a big, purple bruise: ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
The Carrion Man tried to play it down. ‘It’s nothing … I’m fine.’
Cristiano touched his forehead. ‘You’re boiling. You must have a temperature. You can’t even stand up straight … There’s an accident and emergency ward here …’
‘No! I said no. They’d lock me up somewhere. They’re just dying to …’
Cristiano breathed in through his nose. ‘You’re right, Quattro Formaggi. They want to put me in a home, too. Listen, I’ve had an idea. A great one …’
The Carrion Man wasn’t listening. He had turned white and was grinding his teeth as if he wanted to crush them, and puffing his cheeks in and out. It was the third time Cristiano had called him Quattro Formaggi and it wouldn’t do. Nobody must ever call him that again.
He restrained himself from grabbing him and hurling him against a glass door in the foyer, shouting: ‘Nobody! Nobody must call me that. Do you understand? Nobody!’
Instead he gave himself a couple of slaps on the forehead and with an anguished sigh managed to mutter: ‘You mustn’t call me that.’
‘Eh?’ Cristiano had been talking and hadn’t heard. ‘What did you say?’
‘You mustn’t call me that any more.’
Cristiano raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you mean? Call you what?’
The Carrion Man thumped himself twice on the leg and lowered his eyes, like a child who has done something naughty. ‘What you called me just now. You mustn’t call me that any more.’
‘You mean you don’t want me to call you Quattro Formaggi any more?’
‘Yes. I don’t like it. Please don’t do it again.’
225
“So you’re Quattro Formaggi.”
Cristiano Zena seemed to hear Tekken and the others as they kicked him.
“What a nice tasty little pizza.”
That was why he didn’t want to be called that any more.
Tekken, you bastard, I’ll get you for this.
He moved closer to Quattro Formaggi and hugged him tightly, feeling, under his cape, that he had been reduced to a trembling skeleton. And that he smelled.
He had spent all those days on his own. Suffering like a dog. Without eating. And with no one to help him.
He imagined him lying on the bed in that dump where he lived. Cristiano’s throat tightened as if he had swallowed a sea urchin.
In a broken voice he said: ‘I promise. I’ll never call you that again. Don’t worry.’
And he heard him murmur: ‘I’m the Carrion Man.’
Cristiano stepped back and looked into his eyes. ‘What?’
‘The Carrion Man. From today that’s my new name.’
It’s finally happened. He’s flipped.
Rino was in a coma. Danilo was dead. And Quattro Formaggi had gone completely round the bend.
Perhaps the beating they had given him had tipped him over the edge.
‘Listen to me …’ Cristiano strove to speak clearly and slowly. ‘Listen to me carefully. The two of us have got to go away from here. If we don’t run away there’ll be trouble. I know there will.’
‘But where can we go?’
Cristiano put his arms round Quattro Formaggi again so that he could speak in his ear. In the bar behind the glass partition a group of doctors seated at a table were laughing with the barman, who was putting a coin on his elbow and then catching it as it fell.
‘To Milan. We’ll go to Milan. Listen. I’ve heard that a lot of people live underground in Milan. People who don’t want to live with the people on the surface. There’s a king and a kind of army that lives in the tunnels of the metro and decides whether you can enter. I think they put you through some tests. But you and I can pass them. Then we’ll find ourselves a secret hole where we can set up home. Y
ou know, a place with a hidden entrance that only you and I know about. And we’ll put beds in it and a kitchen area. And at night we’ll go out and while everyone sleeps we’ll find everything we need. What do you say? Do you like my idea? It’s good, isn’t it?’
Cristiano closed his eyes, certain that Quattro Formaggi would never go with him. He would never leave the village and his flat.
But he heard him murmur: ‘All right. Let’s go.’
226
The Carrion Man was crying, with his arms round Cristiano.
At last someone had told him what to do. Cristiano, his friend, was there with him, and would never leave him …
Yes, they must go to Milan and live underground. And never come back. And forget everything. Ramona. The rain. The woods.
The horror of what he had done made him giddy and he felt as if the ground was crumbling under his feet. He clung to Cristiano. He wiped away his tears and mumbled: ‘What about Rino? What shall we do with Rino? Shall we leave him here?’
‘Let’s go and see him.’ Cristiano held out his hand. ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’
The Carrion Man grasped it.
227
‘… But in your opinion, father, if I sent her a text message would I be breaking my vow? I wouldn’t actually be seeing her …’
Beppe Trecca and the friar were parked in the layby, while alongside them the queue of traffic had finally started to flow. The rain drummed on the bodywork of the people carrier.
He had told him everything. The night. Ida. Mario. The accident. The African. The vow. The miracle. It had been a liberation.
The friar had listened to him in silence.
He spread his arms. ‘My son, what can I say … A vow is a solemn commitment that is made before God. Breaking it is a very serious matter.’ He looked him straight in the eye. ‘Very serious. Everything else must take second place, whatever the cost …’
Trecca, dismayed, pushed back a St Bernard which had mistaken him for a lollipop. ‘Not even a text message, then?’