Adam's Rib (22 page)

“I know what you want from me,” said Laura, tight-lipped. “But I can't do it.” Then she looked at Rocco again. “And I'll never be able to.”

Rocco nodded. Her eyes were glistening now. On her weary, pale face, here and there he caught a glimpse of Marina. In the twist of the mouth, the angle of her glance, her hairline. Is that what Marina would have been like as an old woman? “I know, Laura. But I have to go on living, and I'm standing here the way I was five years ago. I just want you to know it. For what remains of my life—”

“What remains of our lives is of no importance,” Camillo interrupted him. He slurred his words, and his voice was brittle as glass. “Forgiveness doesn't matter, because when hope dies, nothing matters anymore. You want to know something? I thought that dying would be the easiest thing. But it's not. Look at me. I stand here before you, I talk, I walk, and my goddamned life won't let me go, Rocco. It won't do me this favor. Don't you find that all this goes against what's natural?” he said, pointing to the flowers with a faint smile.

“I don't understand,” said Rocco.

“It's supposed to be the children who put flowers on their parents' graves, no? The day you can explain to me why the opposite has happened to us, that will be the day I'll be able to forgive you and forgive myself.”

He put his arm around his wife and together they walked past Rocco and started toward Marina's grave.

He watched them walk away, side by side, moving slowly. Laura had laid her head on her husband's shoulder. The C/9 bus heading toward the Jewish section of the cemetery went past, lifting the hems of Camillo's overcoat and stirring Laura's skirts. Rocco turned and went back to the car.

Only when he saw his friends leaning against the hood of their car smoking did he stop crying.

“Take me to the airport, please.”

Sebastiano and Furio said nothing. And the whole way to Fiumicino they kept their mouths shut.

WHILE WAITING FOR THE BOARDING ANNOUNCEMENT,
he took out his cell phone and punched in the number of his old office.

“Yes?”

“Deputy Police Chief Schiavone, please put me through to De Silvestri.”

“Just a second,” said the impersonal voice.

He heard a series of background noises, then the voice of Officer Alfredo De Silvestri boomed out of the phone: “Dottore . . .”

“It's all taken care of, Alfredo. The matter is settled.”

He could hear the policeman's labored breathing. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me, but believe me, I only want to get a call inviting me to come down and celebrate your retirement.”

“
Grazie
, Dottore.”

“Don't mention it, Alfredo. Say hello to your niece from me.”

And he hung up.

“Alitalia, flight AZ 123 to Turin, we're now boarding at Gate C 19 . . .”

He stood up, pulling his ID and his boarding pass out of his pocket. He was leaving Rome, his beloved Rome. But he didn't feel the same wrenching sense of loss he'd experienced the first time, just six months earlier. Could it be that just six months' time had changed his city so completely? Could you become a stranger in such a short time? Who was at fault? Had Rome changed? Or had he?

“A SHITTY DAY, ROCCO,” SAID ITALO AS HE DROVE
slowly down the highway from Caselle to Aosta. “The police chief called looking for you three times, and Farinelli of the forensic squad left you a box of stuff in your office.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were in Ivrea, trying to track down someone who might have seen something.”

“Excellent.” The deputy police chief reached out and plucked a cigarette out of Italo's pack. “Listen, I know it won't do any good to go on pestering you about it, but why do you insist on buying Chesterfields?”

“Because I like them, Rocco. In fact, can I have one too?”

Rocco stuck two in his mouth, lit them, then handed one to Italo.

“Thanks. Did you take care of everything in Rome?”

“Yes.” He said nothing more.

“Who went to Esther Baudo's funeral?” he asked after a pause.

“Me and Caterina. We did what you told us. We took pictures of just about everyone. There weren't that many people. Thirty people, more or less. I put the pictures on your desk.”

O
nce again, it had snowed all night long. Rocco hadn't slept a wink. He just couldn't get used to the silence in this city. There were no cars going by, he couldn't hear the neighbors' television sets, there was never anyone shouting, and there weren't even trains in the distance.

Nothing.

In the morning, when he dragged himself out of bed and pulled open the curtains to peer out, he saw that the snow had stopped falling and that the city snowplows had cleared the streets. When had they done that? Why hadn't he heard them? What did they have, silencers on their engines? As always, the sky was a quilt of gray clouds.

Another shitty day.

HE HAD JUST GOTTEN INTO HIS CAR WHEN HIS CELL
phone rang. He wasn't at the top of his game. It was the
second day in a row that he'd forgotten to turn it off. An unforgivable error.

“Who's busting my balls?”

“It's Alberto. Are you in the office?”

It was the medical examiner. “No. I'm on my way in now.”

“So where are you exactly?”

“What do you care? What's up?”

“What did I tell you yesterday? I need to talk to you, urgently.”

“As soon as I get to the office I'll call you back.”

“Listen, it's something about Esther. And I think it's something you'll be interested in.”

“I swear I'll call you. You can count on it.”

“You don't want me to tell you what it's about?”

Rocco rolled his eyes.

“You do know, Rocco, that dead people have stories to tell, don't you?”

“Maybe not out loud.”

“Sure. But their presence is enough, and if you keep your ears pricked, they tell you stories, and how. Believe me, the other day Esther Baudo had some terrible things to tell you.”

“Fine. Then let's meet at police headquarters in twenty minutes or so?”

“No. You come see me.”

“Have you noticed? It snowed all night long.”

“That happens quite often in Aosta, or is that news to you? What's the matter? Are you afraid of a hip fracture?”

“Well, at least wait until they can clean the streets, no?”

“Oh you pathetic yutz, I'm here at the hospital and have been since seven, and the streets were already perfectly clean. And explain this to me: how come I can get places with the snow and you can't?”

“You're such a pain in the ass, Alberto.”

“Listen, Rocco, I worked Saturday and Sunday, because that poor woman's body had to be buried. Have you ever heard of something called a funeral?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I attend quite a lot of them. All right, let me see if the car will start and I'll try to get over to where you are.”

“You have a Volvo XC60 all-wheel drive, hundred and sixty-three horsepower, not even a year old, and you're telling me it might not start? Come on, get your ass in gear.”

BUT INSTEAD ROCCO WENT STRAIGHT TO THE OFFICE.
He had no intention of swinging by the hospital. He'd find some way of luring Fumagalli to police headquarters. It wasn't laziness, and it wasn't a lack of interest. Quite the opposite; he was eager to hear whatever news the Tuscan doctor had for him. But he couldn't bring himself to go to the hospital, and especially not to the morgue, one more time. To have that stench wash over him again, to look at those metal gurneys and those enormous filing cabinets that held the bodies of people who were no longer among the living.

He was starting to be sick and tired of people who were no longer among the living.

He was hurrying down the main hallway in police headquarters, eager to avoid a meeting with a bustling, early-rising Deruta, when something in the passport office caught his attention. The door hung ajar. He tiptoed closer on his crepe sole shoes and took a peek into the room, and didn't like what he saw there, not one little bit.

Officer Italo Pierron was using his tongue to explore the oral cavity of Inspector Caterina Rispoli. They were just standing there, eyes shut tight, arms wrapped around each other like a couple of octopi. In their heads, they weren't in Aosta police headquarters: they were stretched out on some beach in the Caribbean, or maybe just in a bedroom somewhere. Rocco was tempted to cough just for the fun of seeing the two lovers' blushing faces, but then he thought better of it.

Revenge is a dish best enjoyed cold. In fact, as long as we're in Aosta, freeze-dried.

HE HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN TO HIS OFFICE AND HE WAS
already shouting: “Pierron!”

The sound of scurrying feet and the young officer appeared, panting: “Here I am. What's up?”

Rocco looked at him. His shirt collar was undone, his tie was loosened, and his lips were chapped as if someone had gone over them with sandpaper. “What the hell were you doing?” he asked.

“I was going over burglary reports.”

“Get over to the hospital and pick up Fumagalli. He says he has something to tell me. Now, he's going to tell you he
can't come, but you tell him I just got stuck in a meeting with the chief of police.”

“Right, got it. Listen, Rocco . . .”

“At headquarters you call me sir.”

“Ah right, I was forgetting. It's just that there's no one here and I thought . . . anyway, listen, sir, the head of the forensic squad, Commissario Farinelli, called you, a number of times.”

“I'll call him back. You have anything else to tell me?”

“No.”

“Then go do what I told you to, for Christ's fucking sake.” And Rocco slammed his door right in Officer Italo Pierron's face. Who at first felt slightly hurt. And then decided that maybe his boss had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. He definitely hadn't smoked his morning joint yet, and that was probably the reason for such a bitter mood. When he got back, he would surely find Rocco as relaxed and friendly as ever.

“ONE THING YOU SHOULD KNOW, ROCCO, IS THAT THE
cannabinoid receptors are in the basal ganglia, which are connected to the cerebellum, which directs nerve impulses. Also, the hippocampus, which controls memory and stress. And the cerebral cortex, and there we're talking about your cognitive activity, and such.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Alberto?”

“That if you go on smoking it's going to do you serious harm. To say nothing of the tachycardia!”

In fact, the smell of grass was unmistakable in Rocco's office, and there was no point trying to conceal the truth from Alberto Fumagalli. “I don't smoke much, and only in the morning. It helps me.”

“It helps you how?”

“It calms me down and it opens up my mind. I become creative and I can even stand looking at a fucked-up face like yours.”

“It's a miracle.”

“What is?”

“That you managed to find a wife at all, you know?”

“That's a subject I'd recommend you steer clear of. I tend to lose my sense of humor.”

“You're right, sorry. Still, just between you and me, stop smoking joints. I'm telling you as a friend.”

“You're not my friend.”

“All right then, as a doctor.”

“You're not even a doctor. Doctors cure sick people.”

“Well?”

“Tell me what chances of recovery your patients have.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“So tell me what's so amazing.”

“Can I get a cup of coffee?”

“No. The coffeemaker here is even worse than the one you have at the hospital. But just wait a second . . . why not?” Rocco got up and opened the office door: “Pierron!” he shouted.

Italo came in through a side door: “Yes, sir.”

“Would you go get us a couple of espressos from the bar?”

Italo looked at Rocco without understanding. He'd never asked him to do such a thing before.

“Which part of the question did you miss?”

“Can't you ask Deruta?” he said with a smile.

“No. I'm asking you. Wait a second!” He turned to Alberto. “Do you want something to eat, too?”

“No thanks, just coffee.”

“So just two espressos, Italo. Don't take forever, though,” he warned, then closed the door.

He went back and sat down across from Fumagalli. “Well, what did you find out?”

“First, tell me why you're not in a meeting with the police chief. Your officer told me that he'd dragged you into one.”

“True. But in the end I managed to get the matter taken care of because I knew you were coming.”

“Let's run the numbers. It took me less than ten minutes to get over here. And you were having a meeting with the police chief. Then you had enough time to smoke a joint; let's say that took another five minutes. But to judge from the faint aroma in here, I'd say you finished that joint at least seven or eight minutes ago. Therefore you started smoking that joint the minute Officer Pierron started driving over to get me. To complete my thought process, you had a conversation with the chief of police that lasted, if it ever took place at all, less than a minute. So you know what I think? I think that you never even laid eyes on the police chief, that you just dreamed up an excuse not to have to come see me. And in summation, I would say that you're a lying liar, barefaced and shameless. QED.”

“Are you done?”

“Only if you tell me that I was right.”

“You were right. Shall we move on to the things that matter?”

Alberto nodded. Then he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. He opened it. He checked his notes. “Listen carefully. We're talking about Esther Baudo.”

“Go ahead.”

“I sent all the documentation to the judge, but I'm talking to you about it directly. There's something that doesn't add up.”

Rocco pulled a cigarette out of the pack on his desk.

“It bothers me if you smoke.”

“You bother me if I don't. Go on. What doesn't add up?”

“The fractures.”

Rocco's face became a living question mark.

“Not the fractures associated with the blows to the cheekbone; you remember, right? No. I'm talking about old fractures. I found one to the ulna and one to the radius of her right arm. A couple of cracked ribs, and that's old stuff too. And then there was her right cheekbone. It shows an old fracture, from . . . I'd say, roughly, a few years ago.”

Rocco took a long, slow puff. He exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling. “So you're saying?”

“One of two things: either the woman practiced extreme sports . . .”

“No, I don't think she did.”

“In that case, there's nothing left but a car crash. Otherwise, I wouldn't know to explain it to you. I mean, that kind of damage to her bones.”

Rocco stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He stood up and walked over to the window. But he didn't look out at the landscape. He put one hand over his eyes. “This is a terrible thing, you know?”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

Italo Pierron walked into the room with two small plastic cups. He set them down on the desk. “How much sugar?” he asked Alberto with an ironic smile, but the medical examiner said nothing and just tossed back the espresso in a gulp. The officer realized that the silence, like a highlighter on a blank page, pointed to something very important that had just happened. “What's going on?” he asked, glancing at Rocco.

“Come with me, Italo.” Then the deputy police chief looked at Fumagalli: “I'm going to have Deruta take you back to the hospital. Thanks, Alberto, you've been very helpful. Like always.” And as he walked past him, he gave him a slap on the back.

“Aren't you going to drink your coffee?”

But Rocco had already left the room, followed by Italo. The medical examiner tossed back the second cup of coffee too.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” ASKED ITALO.

“Charvensod, to pay a call on Patrizio Baudo's mother.”

“What's going on?”

“A lot of things don't add up.”

“No, I didn't mean that. What's going on between you and me?”

Rocco smiled. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you're being strange.”

“Ah, I'm being strange? You've been fucking Rispoli and I'm being strange?”

“No, wait, what does Rispoli have to do with this?”

“I saw the two of you in the passport room.”

Italo downshifted and then hit the accelerator. “So?”

“Italo, you know I had my eye on her.”

“So what, you have some kind of
jus primae noctis
?”

“So what if I did?”

They drove in silence through a few more curves. “It happened when we were staking out Gregorio Chevax, the other night.”

“Did you start it or did she?”

“Let's just say that I arranged for her to start it.”

“I want the details.”

Italo took a deep breath. “Well, I started things, I guess. I said to her: What if Chevax sees us? And she answered: impossible. So then I said: Should we do like in the movies? We could pretend to be a pair of lovers making out, and that would allay all suspicions. She looked over at me and then said: oh heavens, I'm pretty sure I just saw Chevax's shadow! And she threw her arms around me. And we kissed. And we laughed.”

“And that's all?”

“And that's all.”

“Goddamn,” Rocco said, “that took some imagination.
Technically you brought up the subject, but she took the initiative.”

“Yes, but I knew she liked me. I'd known it for a while.”

“Well, would it have killed you to tell me?”

Italo pulled up in front of Patrizio Baudo's mother's house. Rocco opened the door. “Anyway, don't get too comfortable. I'm still going to make you pay.”

“You're not very sportsmanlike,” retorted Italo, getting out and following him.

“Whoever said I was?” They started walking toward the house when the door opened and Signora Baudo emerged. She had seen them coming. Her face was worried. She was holding a dish towel and clutching it to her belly. “Dottore, has something happened to my son?” were the first words out of her mouth.