The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (25 page)

“Wait, listen to me, you aren't trying to tell me that . . .”

“If you, or I, or the both of us were indicted, that's what would make a lawyer the most money. If a long, burdensome, tortuous trial began at our expense. Which, in the meanwhile, but only incidentally, would ruin both our lives. And not just our lives, as you know very well.”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what you're saying? This is one of the most respected lawyers in one of the oldest and most celebrated courts in the country, and . . .”

“. . . and he's exactly the same as all the others, just much, much more expensive. I wouldn't blindly trust my own cousin, in this particular situation.”

“Well then? What do you suggest doing? Supposing, just supposing, we decide to go ahead and ignore my lawyer's advice, what would you propose?”

“Simple: we need to talk to them. We keep our cool and our equilibrium, make sure our versions match up perfectly, and tell them calmly and collectedly the things we need to say. Because no one can believe—or even think—that we had anything to do with what happened.”

“You're crazy, you know. Completely out of your head. Believe me, the prisons are overflowing with people who went in to talk to the police, all calm and trusting. Just last week, I read about a man who served twenty-two years—twenty-two years, you understand that? And he was innocent, innocent as a baby. Some other guy turned up, facing charges on who knows what, and he confessed to the murder the first guy did the time for, and you know what they did? They released him, with their sincerest apologies. After twenty-two years! His life is ruined! Don't you get it?”

“You see? You're starting to lose your cool. Which is exactly what you can't do. Now, why don't you just listen to me, for once: which side has the burden of proof?”

“What?”

“Do we have to prove that we're innocent, or do they have to prove, if it ever goes to trial, that we're guilty?”

“What does that have to do with anything? What are you trying to say? Of course, they have the burden of proof. But still . . .”

“Exactly. And just who would you focus your investigation on, if you were the prosecuting attorney? On someone who came forward of his own free will, or on someone who told you that he wouldn't ever talk, not on his life?”

“My God, my God, this is ridiculous. If only it had never happened, if only I'd had a chance to talk to her . . .”

“There, now you're starting to snivel again. Stop and think, instead. And tell me: what would you do?”

“I . . . it's only natural, refusing to talk certainly encourages investigations, the lawyer himself admits it. On the other hand, there's no danger of being caught in a contradiction, which can happen very easily. Or do you think that they'd interview us together, maybe take us out for a pizza? You don't know them.”

“Are you saying you do? Or that your greedy lawyer does? I'm telling you we need to talk to them, I'm sure of it. I can feel it. Let's show them that we're happy to collaborate and you'll see, it'll all go fine. After all, the silver is still missing, isn't it? For all I know they'll decide to focus on the housekeeper.”

“I'll think it over. I don't know, but I promise I'll think it over.”

“And remember: this isn't just our problem anymore. We have someone we have to think about. We can't make mistakes.”

“No. We can't make mistakes. Not anymore.”

W
ith the part of his mind that wasn't feverishly praying he wouldn't plow into a semi at an intersection, Lojacono thought about the city.

To see it like this, from the passenger seat of a compact car without police insignia, charging at breakneck speed down crowded streets and narrow alleys, with Aragona at the wheel, blissfully chatting the whole time as if he were sitting comfortably in the living room of his apartment, was a very odd experience.

Without his noticing it, the lieutenant had begun to change his mind about that very strange city. He'd stopped thinking of it as nothing more than a prison, a domestic exile to which he'd been sentenced because of a damned lying informant, a penalty imposed without trial or cross-examination. He was finally trying to get to know the place a little better, if only so he could work there; a policeman, he knew, has to breathe the air of the city he works in. He has to be able to savor its silences, its hesitations; he has to know the smell of its fear and suspicion, its indifference and arrogance, in order to be able to fight them. Otherwise it's over before it starts.

Certainly, it was no easy matter to interpret such a complicated place, he thought to himself, as Aragona, busy detailing the plot of a movie he'd just seen, missed plowing into a motor scooter carrying three people by a scant fraction of an inch. Ostentatiously elegant streets, lined with designer shops and luxury automobiles, alternated with steep, narrow alleys that ran uphill, crowded with miserable apartments and kids who could barely be called toddlers playing in the road, on stoops, inhaling exhaust fumes. Enormous piazzas, closed off to traffic and watched over by dozens of traffic cops, gave onto tangled networks of narrow lanes where anything and everything could be bought and sold, the stalls and carts loaded with merchandise blocking the way to cars. Broad boulevards, dotted with banks, up and down which professionals in dark suits moved hurriedly, carrying leather briefcases full to bursting, opened out into dark little piazzas fronted by wonderful deconsecrated churches where, indifferent to the howling winds, bare-chested boys surrounded by swarms of mopeds played endless soccer matches. It was as if the souk of Casablanca or the markets of Marrakesh had been transported into the center of Milan. Lojacono wondered what could be said of a place like this.

“An extraordinary actor, let me tell you. You should have seen him, long hair, dark glasses, all ragged and rumpled: a perfect policemen and yet his colleagues kept him at arm's length because they thought he was dirty cop. I watched that movie and I was thinking the whole time that in a certain sense, we're like that too, no?”

Lojacono had understood that today he'd need to give him free rein while he drove, otherwise it would be even worse: Aragona kept looking over at him and slapping him on the shoulder as if they were just chatting at the bar, never slowing for even a second. He wished he could do the driving himself, but he didn't know where to go: Mayya Nikolaeva, housekeeper to the late Signora De Santis, lived in a small alley off of who knew what street, over by the main train station.

The neighborhood, Lojacono soon realized, was for the most part inhabited by foreigners. Men and women of color exited and entered buildings carrying huge bags full of merchandise, making their way through cars double-, triple-, and quadruple-parked; Indians with crowds of children greeted each other as their paths crossed; the grocery stores carried signs in Italian and many other languages, often written in incomprehensible scripts.

Aragona turned down a tiny street, parking the car so that two wheels rested on the narrow sidewalk, blocking it completely.

“Well, this ought to be the place. I don't need to tell you that we can't count on the advantage of surprise, as you can see.”

Nearly all the people who had been crowding the street when they arrived had in fact promptly dispersed, though there was absolutely no insignia identifying the car as belonging to the police.

“They can smell us coming, they can smell us. And immediately the missing visa virus spreads, even if their visa actually is perfectly valid, or their damned country has already joined the European Union and they don't even need one anymore.”

Muttering under his breath, Aragona checked the street number of the building against the Xerox of the young woman's passport. Then he nodded, and walked into a dark, dank atrium.

An elderly woman was scrubbing the steps; they asked her where Mayya's apartment was and, without bothering to look up, the woman said, in a heavy eastern European accent: “Fourth floor, apartment with door.”

They had some difficulty making their way upstairs, because it was getting dark and there were no lights. They could smell a heavy odor of spices and onions, and voices could be heard from a number of apartments, all speaking foreign languages. On the fourth floor there was in fact only one door; the entrance to the other apartment was wide open, and it was deserted.

They knocked on the door and Mayya opened it immediately, as if she'd been standing there waiting.

“
Buonasera
, please come in.”

They found themselves in a place that looked nothing like the rest of the building. Two long-necked lamps cast a warm light onto the spotlessly clean room, which contained a table and chairs, a sofa and an armchair, a coffee table and a flat-screen television. Photographs hung on the wall, most depicting Mayya with her arms wrapped around a tall, dark-haired, powerfully built man, who wore a serious, vaguely embarrassed expression. The general impression was of a normal middle-class apartment whose inhabitants were neither filthy rich nor lacking in the essentials.

“Signorina,” Lojacono said, “you remember us, don't you? We met . . . we saw each other a couple of days ago, in the notary's apartment.”

The girl nodded, her expression pained. Seeing her now, the two policemen realized she looked less young; her face bore the marks of a sorrow that seemed sincere, shot through with faint worry. In that part of town, having two policemen in your home must not exactly be considered good luck.

“Certainly. Please, come right in. I make some coffee?”

The lieutenant shook his head no, while Aragona, rather rudely, wandered around the room studying the photographs.

“No, thank you. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. We preferred to come here, rather than sending for you. It should be quick, no more than a few minutes.”

Mayya ran her hand through her hair—the gesture had to be instinctive because her hair was already perfectly groomed.

“I understand. Okay. Let's sit here.”

She pointed to a sofa and an armchair, and settled herself in the armchair. Her hands were the only part of her that betrayed nervousness: she couldn't stop clenching them, separating them, and wringing them together. The rest of her body was still, stiff; no emotions filtered out through her even, somewhat nondescript features.

Aragona, who had stopped near a photo of the dark-haired man, said: “And this gentleman, in this photograph, who is he? Does he live here with you?”

Lojacono noticed his partner's rude tone; the girl replied without turning around, her voice unflustered.

“That is my boyfriend, Adrian. He works, soon he is home.”

Aragona smirked slyly and looked over at Lojacono, nodding as if he'd just found the guilty party. The lieutenant ignored him and turned to the woman.

“How long had you worked for the Festa family?”

“Two and half years, almost three. Do you want to see work papers?”

Lojacono raised one hand, made a vague gesture.

“No, maybe later. And how did you like it there, with them?”

“Notary was never there, I went nine in morning and then stay till five in afternoon, I only see notary a couple times. The signora is . . . was kind, courteous. I loved her. Very much.”

For a moment, her lips quavered and her eyes filled with tears. Then she gave a short sharp cough and regained her self-control. Lojacono thought to himself that she really had cared for the victim. Or else she was a first-rate actress. Or perhaps she'd just experienced a moment of regret.

“When you got there, in the morning, did the signora let you in?”

“No, I have own keys. So if signora was out, or sleeping, I not wake her up.”

Aragona, still standing behind the girl, asked: “And how long had you had these keys?”

The girl replied, still looking at Lojacono. Aragona's hostility was unmistakable, and she had chosen the interlocutor she preferred.

“After two weeks, the signora gave me keys. I've had ever since.”

The lieutenant resumed: “And the other morning, then, you didn't find anything strange, nothing out of place or anything like that . . .”

“No, everything like always. I not even notice about silver things, not looked on shelves, went in kitchen, made breakfast, went to look for signora, not there in bedroom, I . . .”

She stopped, gulped, and raised her hand toward her face but stopped, mid-gesture. Her bottom lip began to quiver again and a tear rolled down her cheek. She made a visible effort to regain her composure and then brought her eyes, reddened now, back to Lojacono: “Signora was good lady. Kind to me, kind to everyone. I never remember once hearing her yell, she never angry with me, with no one. I don't understand who it could be. I don't understand, how or why. I don't understand.”

Aragona snorted. Lojacono glared at him and asked: “Did you ever hear Signora De Santis argue with anyone, say, on the telephone? Or did anyone ever come to the house, maybe even for just a few minutes? Did you ever see her argue with anyone, maybe with the notary?”

Mayya thought it over. Then: “When I was there, almost no one ever came. Sometimes girlfriend of signora, the baroness, lady a little bit old . . . And she talk to signora in loud voice, but signora laugh, they didn't fight. Only baroness got mad with signora, signora never got mad with baroness.” After a short pause, she continued: “Notary, when home, didn't talk much. He stayed in his office, even when they ate he not talk much with signora. I never hear them arguing, no, not that.”

Lojacono nodded. He could just imagine the baroness denigrating the victim's husband to her, and the way the woman must have let those criticisms slide off her back. It matched up with the information that they'd already gathered.