Adam's Rib (15 page)

“Yeah, I know. He definitely wants to crush my balls. Is that why you wanted to see me?”

Just then, Ugo brought two glasses of white. Rocco smiled in thanks and the man went back to his bar to serve retirees involved in a lively discussion in their incomprehensible language.

“No,” said Italo, toying with his glass. “I followed the kid, Hilmi, just like you said to do. And I learned something interesting.”

“Let's hear it.”

“He stopped at a video arcade for half an hour, then he drove up to Arpuilles.”

“Where's that?”

“Up above Aosta, it's a pretty good drive, four, five miles, winding mountain roads the whole way.”

“So what did he go up there for?”

“He stopped in a little warehouse kind of place up there. He was in there about twenty minutes, and then he went back to Aosta.”

Rocco finished his wine. Italo hadn't even touched his lips to his. “Where's the news?”

“In the warehouse. Turns out it belongs to Gregorio Chevax. Sanitary fixtures and bathroom tiles.”

“I'm still not getting the news.”

“Because you're not from here. Gregorio Chevax is fifty-three now, but in 1990 they sent him up for five years for
fraud and receiving stolen goods. He sold three paintings that were stolen from a church in Asti.”

“All right, now I see, Italo. This opens up a lovely panorama. Good work.”

At last Pierron drained the glass of white wine in a single gulp. Then he smiled and wiped his lips. “So what do we do?”

“It's Saturday night,” said Rocco. “Let's go have some fun.”

IT WAS NINE O'CLOCK WHEN ROCCO, UNDER THE
Shelter of a black umbrella, rang the buzzer of a small house in the outlying village of Arpuilles.

“Who is it?” replied a harsh voice, clearly out of sorts.

“I'm looking for Gregorio Chevax.”

“Sure, but who is this?”

“Deputy Police Chief Rocco Schiavone.”

Silence. The only sound was the rain pelting hysterically down onto the umbrella's waterproof fabric.

“Come in.” An electronic whinny and the gate swung open. Rocco walked through the front yard, a hundred square feet, following a gravel path that led to the house. A light went on on the ground floor, and a moment later the door swung open. Backlit, a figure appeared: five foot nine, in shirtsleeves. “Come on in . . .”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Schiavone. Forgive me for the timing of this visit, but there's no time off in the work I do.”

The man didn't smile. He shook hands and stood aside to let him in. He took Rocco's umbrella and placed it in a large vase by the door. Now, in the glow from three halogen can lights in the dropped ceiling, Rocco had a chance to get a good look at the man's face. The resemblance with a triggerfish was stunning. Those small, brightly colored fish that live in warm waters and coral reefs, and that have a gigantic, strangely elephantine snout and tiny eyes located in their midsections. The minuscule heart-shaped mouth was separated from the oversize nose by a distance greater than four finger widths, a space so vast that not even Magnum P.I.'s mustache would have been sufficient to cover it. The round expressionless eyes were too far from the root of the nose, as if they'd grown on the man's temples. He looked surprised, just like the little
Rhinecanthus aculeatus
fish, whose reputation as a relentless predator was well known to the other denizens of the barrier reef.

“What can I do for you?”

“It's very simple.” He couldn't take his eyes off him. The monstrosity of that face, humanized by three days' growth of whiskers, hypnotized him. He had to delete the images from the encyclopedia of animals that were dancing through his head, or he'd spend the next half hour in rapt contemplation of that face. “I need a little help. Now, according to my sources you had a little trouble with the law back in 1995, am I right?”

Gregorio smiled. “I've paid my debt to society.”

“Yes, I know that, but that's not why I'm here. I know that these days you're dealing in sanitary fixtures and bath
room tiles. You have a nice little warehouse and I believe you've got a pretty prosperous operation going, don't you?”

“I've got no complaints. I'm an honest businessman.”

“I know that too. But still, you might be able to help me out. You may not know this, but lately there have been a large number of thefts in churches and private collections around here.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Now you do,” Rocco replied. “And we're trying to track down the loot.”

Rocco fell silent and looked him in the eye. Gregorio said nothing, waiting to hear the rest.

“You were in this line of business. So I was thinking you might be able to mention a few names and give us a hand, you know what I mean?”

Gregorio leaned against the wall, on which hung a handsome Neapolitan harbor scene. “No, I don't know what you mean. I don't know anyone and I don't have any idea of what the fuck we're even talking about.”

“Why would you get so aggressive all of a sudden?” Rocco asked politely.

“Because it's nine at night, because I was just going out to dinner, because I don't have anything to do with that shit anymore, and because if you really want to have a conversation with me, you need to send me a subpoena and we can talk in your office.”

“I'm sorry to have bothered you, Signor Cheval.”

“Chevax.”

“Whichever. But now, you see, I have to come up with
some results; otherwise the police chief is going to make my life a living hell.”

“And why does that matter to me?”

Rocco laughed. And his laughter caught the reformed fence off guard. “True, very true, an excellent answer. Way too smart. But now you and I should play a little game. Do you know the game of What If?”

“No, I don't know that game. And I don't feel like playing.”

“What if I were to say to you: I stole some semiprecious stones from an apartment and I need to fence them, then who would I go see? Who would I talk to?”

“Again? I already told you that I don't know anything about it and you should know you're testing my patience.”

“But did you see? I was very polite.” Chevax gave him a blank look. “But you keep acting like a little piece of shit. And that's not right, is it?”

“Now I'm going to—”

“Now you shut your trap and listen to me.” The deputy police chief's eyes had narrowed to two slits. “I don't believe your fairy tales. I can smell a whiff of bullshit that's just befouling the air. And I'm never wrong. So now we're going to stop playing games and shift gears.”

“If you think you can—”

“Shut your piehole, you talk after I'm done, you miserable shitface.”

Gregorio Chevax swallowed uncomfortably.

“You refused to help me and that's a mistake, a terrible mistake. Tomorrow I'll come back up here with a search
warrant and I'll take a look inside your underwear. Here in the house, in your fucking bathroom supplies warehouse, everywhere! Just one thing I don't like and back behind bars you go.” The deputy police chief quickly grabbed his umbrella, so fast that he frightened Chevax, who recoiled as if to escape a punch to the face. “Starting tomorrow, it's going to be nothing but hell for you.”

“I don't have anything to hide and I'm not afraid of you.”

“I'm not here to scare you. I'm just here to tell you that you've made an enemy. And you couldn't have made a worse one. Believe me.”

The deputy police chief opened the door, popped open his umbrella, and left the building, striding decisively. Chevax watched him cross the front yard in the pouring rain. He waited for him to go out the gate, then he shut the front door.

As soon as he had left the little detached house, Rocco pulled out his cell phone: “Italo? Are you and Caterina in position?”

“Yes, we're here. The last thing we needed was this rain.”

“I know, right? Well, I'm going home now because I'm exhausted. Don't forget, keep your headlights off and stay in the car. And your blinkers off too.”

“Certainly, Dottore, of course.”

“I'd say, and it's just a guess, you'll probably have to stay there for a while. This asshole's not going to move until the middle of the night. Try to be patient.”

“All right.”

“
DE SILVESTRI CALLED ME, HE NEEDS TO TELL ME SOMETHING
about Rome,” I say to her, but Marina doesn't answer. “Where are you? Are you here?” But she's not in the bedroom, not in the living room, and not in the kitchen either. The bed is made and untouched and the rain continues to drum against the windowpanes. There is one surprising thing about this city. The ability to withstand seemingly endless amounts of rain and snow. If even a tenth of this quantity of precipitation fell on Rome, can you just picture the banks of the Tiber, the
lungotevere
? There'd be dead bodies, wounded people, a biblical apocalypse. I threw away the pizza, and the refrigerator's so empty that if you talk into it there's an echo. There's half a lemon, a container with some junk in it—I don't even want to guess what it is, before long I expect it to get up on its own legs and take a stroll around the apartment—half a bottle of mineral water, and a bottle of Moët Chandon. What the fuck did I buy that for? What do I have to celebrate? What am I forgetting? My birthday? No, that's in August. Marina's birthday, on the twentieth? Impossible. For her birthday I promised her something, and that's a promise I have to keep. And it wasn't champagne. To commemorate Papà? Papà died in November. Mamma died at the beginning of October. And in any case, that's not the kind of thing you remember with a bottle of Moët. You don't pop the cork on a bottle of champagne to remember the dead. “Why did I buy it, my love?”

“What's the matter with you? Our anniversary,” Marina replies. I can't figure out where she is.

“
Our anni— Oh Christ! You're right! March second . . .”

“We've already missed it,” Marina says helpfully.

“But didn't we celebrate?”

“Of course we did, Rocco. But you bought two bottles.”

March 2, 1998. At city hall in Bracciano, the town where Marina's parents live. I've never drunk that much in my life, before or since. The party was on the lakefront. There are people who still remember it all today. But I don't. My memories of that evening stop more or less at nine. Apparently I even stole a rowboat from the lakeshore resort. “What on earth did I drink, Marì?”

“It'd be easier to tell you what you didn't drink.” And now I smell the scent of her. I turn around and there she is, leaning against the door to the living room. “You need to eat something.”

“I forgot to get groceries.”

“Make yourself some pasta.”

“Without even parmesan cheese?”

“Why don't you go to the supermarket, buy yourself something to eat, and put it in the freezer? That way at least you'll have something to eat every now and then.”

“You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to smoke sixteen cigarettes, drink three espressos, down the whole bottle of champagne, and that'll kill the hunger.”

“Well, that's certainly what I call a nice, balanced meal!” said Marina, with a laugh. How many teeth does she
have in her mouth? More than I do. They're too white to be believed.

“Have you gone back?” I know what Marina's referring to. Did I go back to look for a house in Provence. Our longtime dream. To end our lives there, like old elephants bleaching their bones in the sun. “Have you gone back or not? It's not even two hours from here.”

“No, I haven't gone back. And if you want to know the truth, I haven't even bothered to look on the Internet for farmhouses around Aix.” I flop down in the armchair and avoid looking at her. Still, she asks me anyway. “Why not?”

“Why haven't I gone back?”

“Exactly. Why not?”

How can I break this to her? “Marì, they just cost too much.”

“Money's never been a problem for you.”

“And plus, it's Provence. Everyone speaks French.”

“Yes, that's something you'd have to expect, what with it being in France and all. You always said you could learn it in six months. What happened? Don't you like it there anymore?”

I don't know. “I don't know, Marina. It's just not the same.”

“But you need to have someplace to go, Rocco. Otherwise what are you living for?”

I turn around to look at her, but she's gone. I'm sure she's gone into the bedroom to get that notebook of hers, where she must have jotted down some hard word or other.

“And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these / That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, / Lost, not
a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? / But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou, the sailors' song!”

I turn around. She's back in the living room. She has a book in her hand. “Nice. Who's it by?”

“It's one of your old books. You should know,” and she shows me the cover. I can only make out the colors, not the author. “I don't know, I don't remember.”

She hides it behind her back. “I marked all these poems, my love. They're beautiful.”

I look at her. She runs her hand over her face, she flashes me another smile, and then she vanishes. I sit on the sofa, too depleted to go and get the champagne or even the remote control. I feel as if I'm sinking into a bed of sand. I let myself go. And I think. Maybe this is what dying is like. You just shut your eyes and let go of everything, forever, you plunge into a black mass, lightless, sweet and warm like a mother's womb, you return to a fetal position, you close your eyes and you go back to what you were before being born. An indistinct note that slowly goes back into tune with all the others . . .