The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (13 page)

It seemed to Lojacono that her reference to the fact that he might eventually return home was more than merely professional; or maybe that was just something he hoped.

“That's not home to me anymore. I wouldn't fit in, now that I know the way everyone acted toward me. And after all, the only thing I care about is my daughter, and we're finally on speaking terms again. In fact, I'm going to give her a call right now. She went to a party last night, and I'm a little worried about her.”

Laura laughed.

“How sweet, the doting father worrying over his little girl. Make the phone call, and then get back to work: there are four employees waiting to be questioned. I'm heading back to my office; we'll talk later. And remember one thing: don't do anything too risky. This notary Festa has all sorts of connections, and if he decides he wants to stop us, he knows how. If he gets in your way, call me and I'll step in. Take care of yourself, lieutenant.”

She turned to leave. As usual, her overcoat, her severely tailored skirt suit, and that fact that she wore practically no makeup had done nothing to conceal the shapely figure that had made Piras the subject of endless wisecracks among the city's lawyers, cops, and magistrates. Lojacono sighed and pulled out his phone.

“Hello, Marinella? What are you doing?”

“
Ciao
, Papi. I'm still sleeping . . .”

“What do you mean, you're still sleeping? It's practically noon! Didn't you go to school?”

“No, Papi. I stayed here, at . . . at Enza's, we stayed out so late last night, and . . .”

“What are you talking about—you stayed at Enza's? Just how late did you stay out?”

“Come on, Papi, don't you get started, too. That idiot mother of mine has already called a hundred times this morning . . .”

“I'm not trying to start anything but . . . still, didn't you say you wouldn't stay out super-late, and . . .”

“. . . and instead I stayed out super-late. What's the matter, don't you trust me?”

Her voice had turned hard and mistrustful. Sleepiness had given way to anger and disappointment.

“No, no, of course I trust you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that's all. Sorry to wake you up.”

“Ah, that's better. I'm fine, don't worry. I just need to get some sleep. We had fun last night, but we did stay out late, later than anyone expected. And that's all. Now, if you don't mind . . .”

“Certainly, certainly. Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Can we talk later?”

“
Ciao
, Papi. I'll call you, no worries.”

No worries, thought Lojacono as he went back into the notary's office.

No worries, my ass.

D
eputy Captain Giorgio Pisanelli briefly rings the doorbell, as always, before unlocking the door. Honey, I'm home, he calls.

A rush to the bathroom, just in the nick of time, belt, zipper, he heaves a sigh of relief; but the trickling spray dies out almost immediately, it felt like ten gallons, he thought he wouldn't make it. Instead, barely as much as a single shot of vending-machine espresso, maybe less.

He washes his hands. Today, at the office, he must have gone to the bathroom twenty times. He wonders if anyone noticed. But in there everyone's busy minding their own business. Just as well.

You know, my love, he says, the new guys arrived today. They're not bad. Certainly, we knew that the Bastards were going to be replaced with discards from the other precincts; people that, for one reason or another, nobody wanted anymore. But I expected worse. I really expected worse.

He moves without turning on the lights, in an apartment he knows by heart.

Now he's in the kitchen, making a light cup of tea. He ought to eat dinner, but he isn't hungry. He speaks in a low voice, toward the bedroom.

One of them, my love, actually comes from Sicily. Do you remember, that time we went to see the tragedies performed in Siracusa? It was Aeschylus. You were very critical, but actually the actors weren't bad at all. But he's not from Siracusa, I think he's from Agrigento. He looks Asian, he has almond-shaped eyes and his expression never changes: one of his ancestors must be Chinese. But I think he's good at his job.

He takes off his jacket. He arranges it on the back of a chair, what's the point of hanging it in the closet, he's just going to put it on again tomorrow. He loosens his tie.

Two of them are similar, a man and a woman. They don't talk much, they look around, disoriented. Maybe they're afraid. Maybe they're afraid of themselves, who knows. You know, sweetheart, that's the way it works; as soon as you get one thing wrong, you know it can happen again. And you don't appreciate the fact that you have another opportunity. That's the main thing: having another opportunity. If I'd only had another opportunity.

A new, stabbing need to urinate. Not even five minutes, this time. Damn it. From the bathroom he goes on talking, in a higher-pitched voice.

The other one is a kid, a bit of a blowhard, and you should see the way he dresses. If you ask me, he thinks he's a cop on TV. He's cheerful, though. Maybe something good can be made of him.

He washes his hands again. The fact I have to pee constantly is making me look like one of those hygiene freaks, he thinks, the ones who wash their hands every two minutes.

He goes back to the kitchen. The tea is ready. He pours in milk, opens a packet of cookies. Chocolate-flavored, why not? Let's live a little.

You know I talked to Lorenzo today, sweetheart. He's fine. He was in a hurry, he had class. I know, it's true: he always has class. He's a university professor, after all, not a mechanic or a lawyer who can always find five minutes to talk to his father; he has to follow other people's schedules. Plus the schools up north aren't like the ones we have down here, which are so much more relaxed. They're sticklers up there. No, we didn't really say that much. He's fine, that's the main thing. I think he's still seeing the same girl, I didn't really ask, truth be told. You know, men don't talk to each other about certain things; if he wants to tell me about it, he will, if he doesn't, he won't.

He takes the tray with the tea and cookies into his den, and he turns on the lamp. The light illuminates a wall covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, and a bookshelf packed with file boxes and manila folders, organized under a series of labels bearing names.
Mamma mia
, what a mess. I'm going to have to refile all of this one of these days.

He unbuttons his shirt as he walks into the bedroom.

My love, you know, I'm just not sleepy. Would you mind very much if I work in here? You don't mind, right? You've always been so sweet and understanding.

He takes off his shirt, lays it on the bed, and grabs the old sweatshirt he wears around the house. His back aches from the night before, when he fell asleep at his desk with his head on his papers. It's a good thing I have to wake up to pee, he says to himself.

He looks at the bed. It's empty. And he sighs: we just have to be patient, my love. I know that sooner or later I'll get my hands on him. It's just a matter of time.

And he goes back to his study where, among the photographs tacked to the wall, there's one of a woman who smiles at him tenderly.

Ciao
, my love.

...a
anyway, the lawyer was very clear. We can't see or talk to each other. Just for a little while.”

“You're crazy. And why? It makes no sense. Why don't you just tell me that you want to take advantage of this situation to get rid of me. But not me, I'm not going to let you get away with it, you hear me? I'm not going to let you!”

“No, that's not the way it is! In fact, it's the exact opposite! If we want to stay together, the two of us, if we want to . . .”

“Nonsense. This lawyer of yours is an asshole, or else you're just using him for purposes of your own. The fact is that you want to break up with me, and that you already wanted to do it before . . . before this happened. There, that's the truth.”

“You don't understand. You don't want to understand. Can't you see that I'm calling you from another number? Don't you realize . . . don't you understand what's happened? The lawyer was clear, I can't answer any questions. And you know why not? Because I have no proof. We have no proof. We didn't register in a hotel; we have no witnesses; no one ever saw us. There's not a fucking shred of evidence, not one shred, that we were ever even there, much less that we stayed there the whole time.”

“Oh, sure, because usually when someone goes somewhere to fuck, they call a bunch of witnesses: please, everyone, hurry on down and leave your first and last names, your social security numbers if you have them handy, that way you'll save us the time and effort of tracking you down. And after all, it's your fault, you and your damned obsession with secrecy. Hide and hide, and here's what happens.”

“In any case, I'll tell you again, the lawyer was very clear on this point: no contact, if you want to be kept out of this mess. It's the only way.”

“What about those shitheads who work for you? They've always hated me. How are you going to keep them from saying anything about us? You know they'll start shoveling shit in my direction the minute they have the chance.”

“No, no, calm down. I pay their salaries, they'd never do anything to hurt me. You're the one I worry about; do you think you can manage to be good?”

“You're talking to me as if I were a little girl. Quite a difference, compared to . . . compared to the other times. I guess I wasn't exactly a little girl when that was what you needed. I can be good if I think that I should be, but as you know I can also be very, very bad. I'm not like the other little sluts you've had: I'm a woman, a woman with balls, and my balls are bigger than yours, I've shown you that that's true.”

“That's not what I'm saying, darling. That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm just saying that we're in danger now, so much so that I have to use a phone card in someone else's name, which I'll destroy when I'm done, to talk to you. The lawyer says that . . .”

“I've had enough of this fucking lawyer! Tell that lawyer that you won't be able to keep me a secret much longer. That everything is going to have to come out into the light of day, one way or another, or else I might be capable of anything!”

“Help me understand: what does that mean, that you're capable of anything? I'm sick and tired of your goddamned threats! Don't you know what's happened? Don't you understand? She's . . . God, I can't even bring myself to say it. Don't you have a heart?”

“So what? People die all the time, lots of them, all over the world. And after all, didn't you say it yourself? ‘How I wish she wasn't around anymore.' Don't you remember? That's what you said to me, while I was lying naked in your arms. And not just once! So really, you ought to be happy right now, no? Have the courage, if nothing else, to be consistent.”

“I . . . I feel guilty. I feel like I'm dying myself. Just to have had that thought, to have . . . my God, my God . . .”

“You're crying, aren't you? Go ahead and cry. You're useless, I don't know how I ever got tangled up with you. But now there's no going back. There's no going back, you understand? Now we have to go all the way. The last thing we need is for you to get thrown in jail.”

“It's a real danger, don't you get that? It could really happen. That's why you need to be careful, why we both need to be careful, if for no other reason. Do it for us. Do it for . . .”

“. . . for him, that's right. I'll do it for him. But remember: you have to get everything taken care of very, very quickly. As quickly as possible. Because if you don't get everything taken care of, then I'll talk. I'm not going to wait long.”

“I'll do the best I can. I promise you, but please, please, don't do anything crazy. Listen to me.”

“There we go, good boy. Do the best you can.”

 

 

T
he notary left his office and headed for home. His face was marked by grief, worry, and a sudden, all-encompassing weariness; he was light-years away from the youthful, cheerful, suntanned man who, just an hour before, showed up here after a weekend he had evidently found satisfying.

Lojacono and Aragona watched him go, careful to catch—per Piras's instructions—any warning glances he might send in the direction of his employees, who still needed to be questioned. The notary, however, kept his sad eyes fixed straight ahead; he met no one else's gaze. The oldest employee, Rea, took a step forward as if to intercept him, but she stopped when it became clear to her that the notary had no intention of talking to anyone.

Before leaving, Festa murmured: “The office is closed for business. Advise the clients who had appointments to contact Mr. Dal Canto if they need a notary right away. I'll be back in touch; in the meantime, I don't want to be disturbed.”

The door swung shut behind him with a dull thud. Lojacono and Aragona went into a small, unoccupied office, where they would be asking the employees, one by one, a few questions. The lieutenant knew that these were strictly informal sessions, which wouldn't hold up in court; but what they needed now was a lead, and you could only make out a trail if the tracks were still fresh.

The first to come in was in fact Rea, the employee who had been with the notary longer than anyone else: “Ever since he started the office, lieutenant, more than thirty years ago. We were young, full of passion; and the work was so different then, every document had a story behind it, we weren't working with all these damned thingies, these computers, that make everything seem the same. Tell you about the notary, you ask? The notary is a wonderful person. Intelligent, impassioned, ironic, and kind. He confronts life head-on, never taking the easy way out. We didn't see much of his wife, not much at all. I remember that she used to come to the office every day, years and years ago. Then, little by little, she started to live a life of her own. And the notary . . . the notary isn't the kind of man who can be left on his own. Who will remain alone. No, that's not what I said: I don't know if he had affairs, and it's none of my business if he did. But you can't possibly think he was the one who hurt his wife. He's too straight of an arrow, keeps his nose too clean, the notary does.”