The Crossroads (49 page)

‘It was you who drove it away when you started walking.'

‘No. It was your father. It was your father who drove it away.'

Cristiano grasped the hands of Rino and Quattro Formaggi, put his face against the sheet and started sobbing.

The Carrion Man stroked the head of the sobbing Cristiano and stared in terror at a dark corner of the room.

He hadn't told the whole story. But he couldn't. Death was there with them. He could see him. He was in the room. He was lurking in the corner, to the right. Behind the trolleys with the monitors on them. It looked like a shadow, but it was him. He was identical – he had the same form as death in the field, the same beak, the same wings on his shoulders, the same long arms ending in aluminium crutches.

The Carrion Man was terrified. All the saliva had gone from his mouth.

I know, you've come for Rino. You've come to take him
.

‘Can you believe that? Saint-Oyen, the Hospice, the St Bernards!' Beppe Trecca was driving along and talking out loud. ‘The guy thought I was going to go with him to Switzerland, into the mountains, to make a complete arsehole of myself talking about Ida and the camper. Do me a favour!'

He had got into his car, shot past the friar, who was letting his dogs out for a pee, and disappeared into the distance.

For safety's sake he checked in the mirror to see if the guy was following him. There was nobody in sight.

The friar had been very clear, though: the vow could not be broken. It was a very serious matter. He had looked at him with an unequivocal expression, the same expression the Lord would wear when Beppe found himself knocking at the gates of heaven. So no contact with Ida, no text messages, no multimedia messages, no letters or anything of that kind.

The truth was that nobody could help him. This problem was his alone. And he was going to have to solve it with his conscience as a man and as a believer.

And there was only one way of solving it. To go away.

He would take Cristiano next day to the judge and then, after packing his bags, go back to Ariccia and from there fly to Africa.

He stopped in front of the hospital just as Cristiano and Quattro Formaggi were coming out.

He's going to hear me this time
.

He honked his horn.

And he cursed himself. He had forgotten there were sick people in there.

Cristiano came over. His eyes were red.

He must have been crying
.

The desire to bawl him out had passed.

He opened the door and let him in.

Cristiano Zena was woken up at six o'clock in the morning by the door of his father's bedroom softly banging, at regular intervals.

He's back
.

Papa's
come home
.

It wasn't possible. He knew that even if his father woke up he wouldn't be able to move from his bed. And yet he got up, hoping, as a man falling from a skyscraper hopes he won't die, that it was him.

Rino's room was empty.

The door was banging because the bathroom window was open and there was a draught. He closed it. He went back into his bedroom, drank some water, sat down at his table and wrote.

He re-read it and thought it was crap. It was a load of rubbish, he wanted to say millions of things but at that moment he couldn't think of them. Anyway, that letter might be used by the police as evidence and might help the social services find him.

He got to his feet and threw it in the toilet, then started packing.

He would find another way of letting his father know that he and Quattro Formaggi were in Milan.

While Cristiano was packing, the Carrion Man was in his own flat, slumped in front of the television.

The fever was devouring him. He was immersed in a shroud of sweat, he felt as if he was boiling. Five minutes earlier his teeth had been chattering with cold.

His mouth was dry and his tongue was covered with cuts and ulcers.

I must call Cristiano and tell him I can't go to Milan today. If
we could put it off till tomorrow
…

‘I can't call him! He'd come here … He'd discover the crib,' he sighed.

During the night he had been delirious. He had watched the sheets and the walls of the room become covered with daisies. Huge iron daisies. He had started picking them, but they were too heavy to hold in your hand.

He would have liked to switch off the television, which was driving him crazy. But to do that he would have had to get up.

‘The latest in a never-ending stream of ground-breaking products from the Garnier laboratories – the new Fructis hair cream, which, when used in conjunction with the shampoo and balsam, help to protect and reinforce the scalp,' someone was yelling from inside the television.

The Carrion Man touched his hair. It hurt and pulsed as if it was made of electric wire.

Then he started spreading that invisible cream on his head, slowly. He felt relief, it was helping a lot and it would soon silence the voices that roared in his head.

Cristiano Zena had filled his rucksack with a few clothes, a jar of pickles, the torch so that they could see in the tunnels, and all the medicines he had found, to give to Quattro Formaggi.

He had a problem. Money. He had twenty-five euros in all, which he had saved up to buy, at some far-off time in the future, a PlayStation. That wouldn't get him to Milan. He had searched everywhere among his father's things, in all his pockets and drawers, and had come up with another three euros.

Twenty-eight euros.

And Quattro Formaggi certainly wouldn't have a cent.

Where could he get more?

Beppe Trecca
.

He went slowly down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible.

The social worker was stretched out fast asleep on the sofa with the television on in front of him. A blonde was explaining how to make a lampshade out of nothing but shoelaces and buttons.

Then the adverts began.

Beppe had hung his trousers and shirt on the back of a chair. And on the floor, by the sofa, he had put his mobile, his car keys and his wallet.

Holding his breath, Cristiano bent down and picked it up.

He was about to open it when the theme tune of the TV news struck up, followed by a summary.

‘The funeral of the young girl Fabiana Ponticelli, who was found yesterday in the waters of the Forgese, will take place today in the church of Varrano. The magistrate authorised her burial
after examining the results of the autopsy which was carried out that same evening by Dr Viotti …'

The image of Fabiana filled the whole screen.

Cristiano, with the wallet in his hand, froze.

It was a rather old photograph, she still had short hair and was laughing.

‘What are you doing?'

Cristiano jumped, and almost threw the wallet up in the air in fright.

Trecca was looking at him and yawning. ‘What are you doing with my wallet?'

He was speechless, trying to think of an excuse. He mumbled: ‘Oh, I just wanted to see if you had any money. I wanted to go and get something for breakfast … I was going to pay you back later. Don't worry.' And he laid the wallet on the chair.

Trecca looked at him dubiously for a moment. Then he seemed to believe him. He stretched and started watching the television. ‘So she was the reason we got stuck in that traffic jam. Poor girl.'

Meanwhile the report on Fabiana had begun. It showed the parents being pursued by journalists. Then the investigating magistrate, a middle-aged woman in a trouser suit, who said that a painstaking search for the murderers had already begun and that no line of enquiry had been ruled out. Then they went on to discuss the funeral that had been arranged for that morning. The service would be held by Cardinal Bonanni in the presence of the civil authorities.

Cristiano held on to the back of the sofa to steady himself. He felt faint. It was as if he was being sucked down to the bottom of a well of icy water, while his muscles and tendons went limp.

Beppe took his shirt off the chair and put it on. ‘She was at your school. Did you know her?'

Cristiano made a superhuman effort to come back up to the surface and reply. ‘Yes …' He wanted to add that he hadn't known her very well. But he didn't have the strength.

‘Isn't it incredible? They raped her and then killed her by smashing her head in. What kind of man could do a thing like that? To a fourteen-year-old girl!'

Cristiano felt that he ought to reply, but couldn't think of anything to say.

I'm going to throw up
.

‘Anyway, the murderer hasn't got a chance. They'll catch him in no time.'

‘Oh … really?' Cristiano found himself saying.

Beppe stood up, still looking at the screen. ‘When you kill someone, they get you. Sooner or later they get you. You can be sure of that. It only takes one little detail, even the most trivial, and you're fucked. Only a complete idiot or a madman would think you can commit murder and get away with it. The only possibility of committing the perfect murder is if no one gives a damn about finding the culprit. It wasn't an illegal immigrant who got killed here. It was a fourteen-year-old girl, brutally raped and murdered. Everyone wants to find the murderer. The family, the police, who don't want to be made to look stupid, the public, who don't want a monster roaming the streets killing their children, supporters of the death penalty, people who are curious to see the monster's face, the television companies and the journalists who make a living out of this stuff. Take it from me, they'll catch this guy in a week at the outside. Without a shadow of doubt. It would take a miracle to save him. If I was the murderer I'd give myself up. Or rather, I'd blow my brains out.'

He put on his trousers.

‘We'll have to go to the funeral. The whole school's going. You must go too. Then we've got an appointment with the judge. To discuss what's the best thing to do. Okay?'

‘Okay.' And for the rest of his life Cristiano Zena continued to ask himself how he had found, that morning, the strength to resist and not to blurt out the whole truth.

The Carrion Man saw Ramona smiling at him inside the television. She had made it onto the TV news.

Thanks to me
.

He smiled and stretched out his arm, trying to stroke her.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he couldn't understand how much time had passed nor whether he had actually been asleep.

Through the door that led into the sitting room he could see the eastern edge of the crib, which reached almost as far as the front door. That was the most desolate area. Sparse vegetation. Sand dunes. It was the land of the robots, the spaceships, the UFOs and the prehistoric monsters. A dangerous, contaminated zone, where the shepherds didn't venture and even the soldiers dared not go.

The Carrion Man raised his head and looked across to the other side of the scene. He remembered where he had found each figurine, each animal, each little car. For example that black robot there, with the red eyes and pincers instead of hands, had come from a fountain in the little public gardens the year before. A mother had given it to her son. The child had torn open the package, grinding his teeth as if it contained an enemy that he wanted to kill. He had taken out the robot, switched on its eyes, made its legs move and then, already bored, thrown it into the fountain with the goldfish.

The woman had crouched down by her little boy and said to him: ‘Antonio, why did you throw it into the water? That's naughty. Mama paid a lot of money for it. You should respect things you're given as presents.' They had left it there, and the Carrion Man had retrieved it and placed it in the future zone.

He wished he could return to those days.

Before any of this had happened.

Cristiano Zena was standing in the middle of the sitting room. Trecca was waiting for him outside.

Perhaps he would never see this house again. He looked at the lounger where Rino always lay. He sat down on it.

He had always loathed this unfinished house beside the highway, but the idea of leaving it made him feel desperately sad. He had been born here. He looked around for something, a keepsake to take with him, but nothing seemed suitable.

‘Cristiano! Come on. We're late.' Trecca's voice outside.

‘Just a minute, I'm coming!'

Then Cristiano saw, dumped in a corner, the threadbare blanket that his father liked to sleep under. He picked it up, sniffed it and put it in his rucksack. Then he went out, slamming the door behind him.

Outside, the sun had only just risen from the horizon, but it was already obvious that a warm, cloudless day was in prospect. The air was transparent and a light wind blew among the foliage of the trees.

‘What have you got in that rucksack?' Beppe Trecca asked Cristiano, putting the key into the Puma.

‘Clothes.'

‘Clothes?'

‘Yes, some of my father's clothes for Quattro Formaggi. When we get to Varrano I'll take them to him, then I'll join you in church.'

They got into the car.

The social worker started up the engine and fastened his safety belt. ‘I don't think that's a good idea. We'll go to the funeral first. They've set aside an area of the church for the students. They're expecting you. Then we must go and see the magistrate and we can take him the clothes after that.'

Cristiano gave a forced laugh. ‘Me? Who's expecting me?'

‘Your teachers, your schoolmates …'

The car turned onto the highway.

Cristiano put his feet up on the dashboard. ‘What are you talking about? They don't give a shit about me.'

‘You're wrong. I've talked to your Italian teacher and told her what happened to your father. She's very sad and she hopes you'll soon be back at school.'

Cristiano shook his head, smiling. ‘The bitch … Aren't people just incredible!'

‘What do you mean?'

Cristiano opened the window and then closed it again. ‘Oh, never mind … What's the point? You don't understand these things …' But then he went on: ‘What did she say exactly? Tell me, come on.'

‘That she was very sorry and that she hoped you would soon be back at school.'

‘That's rich, when she's always telling me the best thing I can do
is to leave school as soon as possible! Why does she want me to go back, then? I don't understand. And do you know what she said about my father, in front of the whole class? Shall I tell you? She said he's a good-for-nothing. Who the fuck is she to say my father's a good-for-nothing? Does she know him? Are they friends? I don't think so. She's a good-for-nothing herself. The bitch. How much effort do you think it takes to say on the phone: “I'm terribly sorry, I hope he'll soon be back at school?” None at all. Zero. Zilch. The effort of moving your lips. I can just imagine how sorry she is that my father's in a coma … I bet she's crying her eyes out all day long. That cow's just hoping he'll die. But she's going to be disappointed, because my father's going to wake up …! I don't want to go to this bloody funeral.'

The social worker flicked the indicator and stopped in an emergency layby, then he looked at Cristiano for a long while before speaking. ‘Look, I don't understand this. Fabiana was a friend of yours.'

‘In the first place, who told you Fabiana Ponticelli was a friend of mine? I hardly knew her. Friendship is something else. In the second place, the only people at that funeral will be the ones who go there to be seen, so that everyone will see how good they are. Pretending to cry. It's all phoney. Nobody gives a shit about Fabiana Ponticelli. Don't you realise that?'