A Walk in the Dark (2 page)

That night the first film on the programme was
House of Games
. One of my ten favourite films. A fantastic story, dark and haunting, about psychiatrists and con men.

There was still at least three quarters of an hour to go before the film started. Margherita saw two women friends of hers at a table, she went up to them and said hello, and they asked us to sit down. Margherita’s friends were a couple and were both called Giovanna. They even looked alike. They both dressed in a masculine way, and both moved in a masculine way. It made me wonder who took which role – if indeed there were roles – in the couple. They attended the same martial arts gym as Margherita.

“Are you staying for the film?” Margherita asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Giovanna said. “Giovanna has to get up early tomorrow.”

“Yes, we’re just going to finish this rum and go,” Giovanna added.

They were ignoring me a bit. I mean they’d both turned to Margherita, were talking just to her, and I could have sworn the way they looked at her wasn’t exactly innocent.

At a certain point, Giovanna asked Margherita if she had decided to enrol with them on the parachute course.

What parachute course?

“I’m thinking about it. I’d really like to. It’s something I’ve been wanting to try for years. But I’m not sure I’ve got the time.”

I managed to cut into the conversation. “Sorry, what’s all this about a parachute course?”

“Oh, a friend of Giovanna’s teaches parachuting. He keeps asking them to join his course. You can get a licence, you know. They’ve asked me too.”

They’ve asked you because they want to fuck you. The lesbian licence, that’s what they want you to take. That’s it – the flying lesbian licence.

I didn’t say that. Obviously. We men of the left don’t say things like that, though we might think them. Besides, the two Giovannas looked as if they could easily have ripped my balls off and played pinball with them for a lot less.

I kept quiet, while they talked about their parachute course and how great it would be, how it didn’t really take up much time – two hours a week, divided between theory and physical preparation – and the fact that you could get a licence after just three jumps.

I felt like making a few acid comments, about how a parachute licence was an essential accessory for a young urban professional woman at the start of the new millennium. And how great it was that you could get that licence after just three jumps. Think of it, guys,
just three jumps
.

I kept quiet, which was just as well. Because having the courage to throw myself out a plane, into the empty sky, without being afraid, was one of my most secret, most forbidden dreams. A dream I’d never had the courage to reveal to anyone, and which I knew perfectly well I’d never have the courage to realize once I’d passed forty.

A dream that lay deep in my childhood fears and
fantasies and was still there to remind me that time was passing. And that there were many other things – large and small – that I’d have liked to do and had never found the courage to do. That I
would
never find the courage to do.

 

 

They managed to convince her that she could find the time to do the course. They agreed to meet two days later at the premises of the parachute club, where they would all enrol together, with a discount, thanks to the friend of the two Giovannas.

“I’m going to see the film,” I said. “It’s starting in a few minutes. But don’t worry, you can stay and talk.” My tone was dignified.

“No, no. I’m coming too. They’re leaving.”

The two Giovannas nodded. One of them knocked back what was left in her glass, like a real tough guy. They said goodbye to us – well, to Margherita, really – and left.

When we entered the little screening room, the lights were already out and the film was starting. Before abandoning myself to David Mamet’s dark, surreal atmosphere, I thought, just for a second, how much I’d like to throw myself into the empty sky, from a plane or somewhere else very high up.

Into the empty sky. Without being afraid.

“Do you want to know where I got the money, Avvocato?”

I didn’t want to know where Signor Filippo Abbrescia, known as Pupuccio il Nero, had got the money. He was an old client of mine, and his trade was defrauding insurance companies – although whenever he was questioned by the judges he gave his occupation as bricklayer.

The following day, his case – he was accused of criminal conspiracy and fraud – was due to be heard in the court of appeal. He’d come to pay, and I had no desire to know where he’d got the money he was about to give me. He told me all the same.

“Avvocato, I hit the jackpot. On the Bari lottery. First time in my life.”

He had a curious expression on his face, Pupuccio il Nero. I told myself he looked like someone who’d spent all his life making money by stealing and now couldn’t believe he’d actually won something. I told myself that, like so many others, he’d become a thief and a con man because of a lack of opportunity. I told myself that I was losing my grip and becoming an incorrigible bleeding heart.

So I called Maria Teresa and gave her the money he’d placed on the desk. Then Pupuccio and I talked about what was going to happen the following day.

We had two alternatives, I told him. One was to plead the appeal. At his first trial, he’d been sentenced
to four years – not a lot, I thought, for all the cons he’d pulled – and I could try to get him acquitted, but if they decided to uphold the sentence, he’d go straight back inside. The other alternative was to plea bargain with the assistant public prosecutor. Assistant public prosecutors – and even appeal court judges – usually like plea bargaining. Things go nice and quickly, the hearing is over by mid-morning, and everyone goes happily home, or wherever it is they want to go.

To tell the truth, even lawyers like plea bargaining in the appeal court. Things go nice and quickly, and everyone goes happily back to their offices, or wherever it is they want to go. But I didn’t say that to Pupuccio.

“And if we plea bargain, how long will I get, Avvocato?”

“Well, I think we can try and get it down to two and a half years. It won’t be easy, because the public prosecutor is a tough nut, but we can try.”

I was lying. I knew the assistant public prosecutor who’d be in court the next day. He’d plea bargain down to two months if it meant he could get away quickly and not have to do a fucking thing. He wasn’t what you’d call a hard worker. But I couldn’t say that to Pupuccio il Nero, or people like him.

The way it works, in cases like this, is as follows. I say the public prosecutor is a tough nut. I say I could try plea bargaining but it won’t be easy and I can’t guarantee anything. I mention a sentence I think I can get with plea bargaining, a sentence that’s quite a bit higher than the one I’m sure I’ll actually be able to get. Then I plea bargain down to the sentence I’ve been thinking of from the start, confirm my reputation as a reliable lawyer who’s really on the ball, and collect the rest of the fee.

“Two and a half years? Is it worth plea bargaining, Avvocato? We might as well go through with the trial.”

“Of course we can try,” I said in a calm, even tone. “But if they uphold the four-year sentence, you go back inside. As long as you know that.”

A professional pause, before I went on.

“Below three years, there’s the possibility of probation. Think about it.”

His turn to pause.

“All right, Avvocato, but try to get me less than two and a half years. It’s not as if I killed anyone. Two or three cons is all I did.”

I was pretty sure he’d done at least two hundred, even though the carabinieri had only discovered about fifteen. He was also part of a conspiracy involved in fraud on an industrial scale, and there were plenty of other things on his criminal record. But I didn’t see the point of splitting hairs with Signor Filippo Abbrescia.

“All right, Pupuccio. Now you just have to sign the special proxy, and you won’t need to attend the hearing tomorrow.” That way I’m not forced to play-act in court, I thought, and the public prosecutor and I can get it all out of the way quickly.

“All right, Avvocato, but please, let’s try to get the minimum.”

“Don’t worry, Pupuccio. Come into the office tomorrow, and I’ll tell you how things worked out. And when you see my secretary, get the invoice.”

He was already on his feet, but was still in front of the desk. “Avvocato?”

“Yes?”

“Avvocato, why bother with an invoice? You’ll only have to pay taxes on the money. Is it worth it? I remember when I first started coming to you, you didn’t bother with invoices.”

I sat there, looking him up and down. It was true. For many years most of the money I’d earned had been undeclared. Then, when I’d gone through a lot of changes in my life, I’d started to feel ashamed about that. It wasn’t that I’d thought clearly about it. It’s just that I was afraid of swindling the tax authorities, and so – nearly always, and according to my own estimate of how much it was right to give to the tax people, in order to do my duty-I started issuing invoices and paid a whole lot of money in taxes. I was one of the four or five richest lawyers in Bari. If you went by my declaration of income.

I couldn’t tell Signor Filippo Abbrescia, known as Pupuccio il Nero, these things. He wouldn’t have understood. On the contrary, he’d have thought I was a bit crazy and changed lawyers. Which I didn’t want. He was a good client, a good man, all things considered, and he always paid on time.

“Customs and Excise, Pupuccio, Customs and Excise. They’re all over us lawyers at this time of year. We have to be careful. They hang around outside our offices, and when they see a client coming out, they check if he has an invoice. If he doesn’t, they come into the office and start an audit. And I end up out of a job. I prefer not to run the risk.”

Pupuccio seemed relieved. I was a bit of a coward, but I was only paying taxes to avoid worse problems. He wouldn’t have done the same, but he could understand it.

He gave me a kind of military salute, lifting his hand to an imaginary visor. Bye, Avvocato. Bye, Pupuccio.

Then he turned and went out.

When at least a minute had passed and I was sure he was out of the office, I said out loud, “I’m an idiot. OK,
so I’m an idiot. Is there any law against it? No, so I’ll be as much of an idiot as I like.”

Then I laid my head against the back of my chair and stayed like that, looking up at some vague point on the ceiling.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Then the phone rang.

Maria Teresa answered as usual, after the third ring.

After a few moments I heard the buzz of the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“Inspector Tancredi, of the Flying Squad.”

“Put him on.”

Tancredi was almost a friend. Although we’d never spent any time together outside work, I felt – and I think he felt too – that we had something in common. He was the kind of policeman you’d like to meet if you were the victim of a crime, the kind you’d avoid like the plague if you were the one who had committed the crime. Especially certain kinds of crime. Tancredi dealt with perverts, rapists, paedophiles, that kind of criminal. None of them had been very happy to have Tancredi on their case.

“Carmelo. How are you?”

“Hi, Guido, not too bad. And you?” He had a deep voice, with a slight Sicilian accent. Hearing him on the phone, without knowing him, you’d have imagined a tall, stocky man, with a paunch. Tancredi was only about five and a half feet tall, with rather long hair, always unkempt, and a thick black moustache.

We quickly got through the civilities, and then he said he needed to see me. On a work-related issue, he hastened to add. My work or his? Mine
and
his, in a way. He wanted to come to my office, with someone. He didn’t say who this someone was, and I didn’t ask him. I told him we could meet after eight, when
I’d be alone in the office. That was fine, and we left it at that.

 

 

They arrived about eight-thirty. Everyone had already left, and I went to open the door.

Tancredi was with a woman about thirty, or a bit more. She was nearly six feet tall, had her hair tied in a ponytail, and was wearing discoloured jeans and a worn leather jacket.

A colleague of Tancredi’s, I thought, even though I’d never seen her before. The typical masculine style of a policewoman from the street crimes squad or the drugs squad. She must have screwed up and now she needed a lawyer. By the look of her – the look of someone you wouldn’t want to mess with – my guess was that she’d beaten up a suspect or someone brought in for questioning. It happens, in carabinieri barracks and police stations.

I showed them into my office, and Tancredi did the introductions.

“Avvocato Guido Guerrieri . . .” I held out my hand, expecting to hear something like “Officer So and So” or “Inspector Whatshername”. Tancredi didn’t say that.

“. . . this is Sister Claudia.”

I looked at Tancredi, then looked at the woman again. He had the barest hint of a smile, as if relishing my surprise, but she wasn’t smiling. She held out her hand, looking me straight in the eyes, with a strangely fixed expression. It was only then that I noticed the very small wooden crucifix she was wearing around her neck, hanging from a thin leather cord.

“Sister Claudia is the director of Safe Shelter. Have you heard of it?”

I’d never heard of it and he told me what it was.

Sister Claudia still said nothing, and kept her eyes fixed on me. She gave off a very slight scent, but I couldn’t have said what it was.

Safe Shelter was a community, housed in a secret location – it was still a secret at the end of the conversation – which provided a refuge for women who’d been victims of sex trafficking, women who’d been rescued from abusive relationships, battered wives, ex-prostitutes, or women who’d turned state’s evidence.