As God Commands (15 page)

Beppe Trecca was driving his Puma along the streets of Varrano
and listening to a CD of dolphin noises mingled with piano music.
He had bought it on a special offer at the service station because
the sleeve notes said the music was suitable for yoga or for
relaxing after a hard day's work, but he didn't find the squeaks
of those animals in the least relaxing, especially after a sleepless
night.

He turned off the stereo, stopped at the traffic light and, as he
waited for it to change to green, opened his briefcase. Inside was a
bottle of Ballantine's. He looked around, took a quick swig and put
it back in the briefcase.

He started the car up again and, pitching his voice, declaimed:
"You see things as they are and say, "Why?" I dream things that
never were and say, "Why not?"

This saying of George Bernard Shaw which he had found in the
Big Book of Aphorisms would make a perfect starting point for the
discussion on "Young people as a motor of change in society" which
he had organized that afternoon for the voluntary workers of the
parish.

He wasn't entirely sure of its relevance to the subject of the seminar, but it sounded good.

Beppe Trecca was thirty-five years old and was from Ariccia, a
small town on the hills outside Rome. He had moved to Varrano
after qualifying as a social worker.

He stood five-foot-six. Over the past few days he had lost weight,
and being pretty slim of build, with those five pounds less looked as thin and spiky as a seahorse. His hair was a mass of blondish
curls which defied even the strongest gels.

He was wearing a blue suit, a white shirt and a striped tie. Plus
a pair of suspenders to keep up his pants, which were a size too
big.

He had dressed like this ever since he had read a book entitled
Jesus as Manager.

This was a study by a certain Bob Briner, a brilliant American
businessman who had made an extensive study of the Gospels in
order to establish why Jesus, besides being the son of our Lord, had
been such an outstanding manager. His launching of a major project,
his selection of his staff (the twelve apostles), his rejection of all forms
of corruption and his good relations with the people of Palestine had
been the key factors in making him the greatest manager of all time.

This had given Trecca the idea that his own job required not a
welfare approach but a managerial one, and consequently he had
taken to dressing like a manager.

He took off his sunglasses and examined the shadows under his
eyes in the mirror. He looked like a raccoon.

He knew that women used some stuff, a cream, to hide them;
maybe he ought to get some.

Ida mustn't see him in that state. Though he was sure she wouldn't
come to the discussion group that afternoon after what had happened between them.

Ida Montanari was the wife of Mario Lo Vino, the director of
the Varrano health authority and possibly Beppe Trecca's best friend.

Possibly, because after what he had done to the poor guy Beppe
wasn't sure he still had a right to call himself his friend.

He had fallen in love with his wife. No, fallen in love was an
understatement, he'd gone nuts about her.

It wasn't like him. He was a guy who believed in values such as
loyalty, fair play and friendship.

But it wasn't his fault if in the dreary world of volunteer work
twenty-seven-year-old Ida stood out like a peacock in a hen house.

It had all begun with an innocent friendship. They had met
through Mario. When Beppe had arrived from Ariccia, depressed
and unmotivated, he had been welcomed into the Lo Vino household like a friend. He had discovered the pleasures of family life, of playing cards in the evening over a glass of wine. He had become
like an uncle to Michele and Diana, their children. The previous
summer he had even gone on vacation with them in the mountains.
And it was there that he had discovered Ida's soul. She made him
feel good and showed him life in all its better aspects. Above all,
she cheered him up. There were days when they never stopped
laughing.

She had been the one to ask him to help her organize the parish's
group of volunteer workers.

Everything, in short, had been fine. Until, three days before, God
and Satan in person had joined forces to plan his ruin.

That evening, for no particular reason, the meeting with the disadvantaged parishioners had been cancelled and Beppe had found
himself alone with Ida in the video-Internet room. Even Father
Marcello, who had never left the rectory in the past fifteen years,
had gone out for a pizza with the alcoholics group.

And here the Evil One had intervened, taking possession of his
tongue and jaws and speaking instead of him. "Ida, I've got a very
interesting video about volunteer work in Ethiopia. I'd like to show
it to you. It's really worth seeing. The guys down there seem to be
doing an excellent job."

Beppe Trecca, as he waited at the traffic light, started punching
himself on the forehead. "In front" punch "of" punch "the video"
punch "about the African children. Shame on you!"

He had to stop because alongside him two boys on a big scooter
were looking at him dubiously.

He gave an embarrassed smile, lowered the window and said:
"Hi boys ... It's nothing ... Thoughts ... Just thoughts..."

Ida had glanced at her watch and smiled. "Mario and the children have gone to dinner at grandma Eva's. Why not?"

"Damn you, grandma Eva!" And with a squeal of tires Beppe
drove out onto the highway.

Beppe had put the cassette in the video recorder, which usually
didn't work, but which that evening, God knows why, was in perfect working order, and the documentary had started.

On one side the two of them, next to each other, in the dark,
sitting on an imitation leather sofa. On the other the children, their
stomachs bloated with starvation and dysentery.

She had been sitting up straight with her legs crossed and her
arms folded, but suddenly she had leaned back and, casually, laid
her hand a few centimeters from his thigh. And he, continuing to
stare at the television, slowly, imperceptibly, but as remorselessly as
the roots of a wild fig tree, had opened his legs till he felt the
knuckles of her hand brush against the flannel of his pants.

He had turned and, with the determination of an Islamic suicide
bomber, kissed her.

Forgetting Mario Lo Vino and the innocent Michele and Diana,
forgetting all the evenings when he had been fed, welcomed, entertained like a friend-no, more than that, like a brother.

And what about her? What had she done? She had let herself be
kissed. Or she had at first, anyway. Beppe still felt the touch of her
lips on his. The taste of her minty chewing gum. That fleeting yet
undeniable contact with her soft, liquid tongue.

But then Ida had recoiled, pushed him away and said, blushing:
"Are you out of your mind? What are you doing?" And she had
stalked out indignantly, like a respectable young lady in a romantic
novel.

The next day she hadn't come to the parish hall, nor had she the
day after that.

During this time Beppe had suffered desperately, as never before
in his life. And the pains were physical. Especially in his intestine.
He had even had a recurrence of his irritable bowel syndrome.

He had discovered that he had been hiding his passion for Ida
from himself as if it was some kind of venereal disease.

He had thought of confiding in his cousin Luisa. Of asking her
for help. But he was too ashamed. And so-alone, confused, and
without even the comfort of a friendly voice-he had suffered in
silence, hoping that this sickness would pass of its own accord, that
his body would immunize itself against the diabolical virus.

He hadn't succeeded. He had been unable to sleep and had started
drinking in an attempt to forget. Impossible. He had cursed himself
for behaving like that, but he had also kept telling himself that there
had been tongue contact. This was true. Undeniable. As true as the
fact that he had been born in Ariccia. If she really had been unwilling
she wouldn't have let him stick his tongue in her mouth. Would
she?

At five forty-three that morning he had sent her a text message.
The text, which he had spent the whole night composing, was:

Forgive me.

That was it. Simple. Precise. She, of course, hadn't replied.

The social worker stopped in front of Rino Zena's house, picked
up his briefcase and got out of the Puma.

That's enough of that, though. Personal problems mustn't interfere with work, he told himself, skipping between the puddles so as
not to dirty his shoes, and he was on the point of pressing the bell
when his cell phone vibrated twice.

A shock wave went through Trecca's body, as if someone had
clapped the pads of an electrostimulator on his heart.

He stiffened, and held his breath as he took his phone out of his
pocket. Next to the envelope symbol was the name IDA.

He closed his eyes, pressed the key and opened them again.

What for? It was wonderful.
Can we meet today?
You arrange it. O

The horny bitch! So she had enjoyed it!

He clenched his teeth, bent his knees and, raising his fists in the
air, said: "Yesss!"

And he rang the bell.

"Terrible weather, isn't it, lads? Well, how's it going?" Beppe Trecca
sat down beside Rino, put his briefcase on his lap and rubbed his
hands contentedly.

"Very well. I'm winning," replied Cristiano, throwing the dice
and looking at him.

There was something strange about him. He was exuberant, yet
since his last visit he seemed to have lost weight, like he'd been ill; his eyes were sunken in his skull and had rings around them, as if
he hadn't slept.

"Excellent! Excellent! You really like Monopoly, then, do you?"

Ever since Beppe had rebuked them for not playing together
enough (play fosters the building of a closer and more confidential
father-son relationship), they had put on this act every time he came
to see them.

Rino threw the dice in his turn and gave a sarcastic smile. "Yes,
we really do. It's nice handling all this money."

Cristiano was always shocked at how calm his father managed
to keep during Trecca's visits. He was unrecognizable. He hated the
man, and would gladly have run him over with his car, yet he glued
a fake little smile onto his lips and replied as politely as an English
gentleman. What a superhuman effort he must be making not to
explode, not to grab him by the tie and punch him in the face ... After
a while, though, Cristiano would get worried because he could see
him turning blue, swallowing air and gripping the edge of the table
as if he wanted to break it, and he would have to think up some
excuse to get rid of the social worker.

Beppe opened his briefcase and took out some printed sheets of
paper. "Rino, here's a questionnaire that I'd like you to fill in."

"What is it?" said Rino suspiciously.

"The trouble with alcohol is that people who have problems with
this social disease deny it. It's natural to the alcoholic to lie and to
do everything he can to hide it, even from himself. And do you
know why, Rino? Because of the stigma attached to the issues
around the abuse of alcoholic substances. That's what contributes
to the denial. You don't need me to tell you what serious damage
alcohol does to your body. And what a bad effect the habit can
have on family, working and social relationships."

Cristiano was uneasy. This guy was just looking for an excuse to
put him in a home. And separate him from his father. Two days
earlier he had passed him on the main street and Trecca had given
him only the most cursory of greetings, as if he was hiding something. And now he'd produced this questionnaire. He seemed to be
planning something.

The social worker smiled. "Listen, Rino, I'm seriously considering the possibility of having you attend a course I'm going to give on the damage alcoholism does to society, so fill in this questionnaire with complete honesty. I know you're a heavy drinker,
you don't have to hide it from me. As a matter of fact, today we're
going to do something. I want you to make a symbolic gesture in
front of your son." He opened his briefcase and took out a halfempty bottle of Ballantine's. "Cristiano, bring us two glasses, would
you?"

Cristiano hurried into the kitchen and returned with the glasses.

"Thank you." Beppe poured two fingers of whisky into one glass
and gave it to Rino, then filled the other glass more than half full
and kept it for himself. "This is the last glass of strong liquor you're
going to have till our next meeting. All right? That's a promise! Do
you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," replied Rino, like a soldier answering his
captain.

The social worker raised his glass to the sky and knocked it back.
Rino did the same.

"Ahhhh..." Trecca twisted his mouth and wiped it with the back
of his hand. Then he straightened his tie. "Can I use your bathroom for a minute, lads?"

"Sure," said Cristiano and Rino, relieved.

The social worker locked himself in the toilet.

"What's got into him? Did you see that? He finished a whole
glass of whisky..." whispered Rino.

Cristiano shrugged. "How should I know?"

Beppe Trecca locked himself in the toilet and washed his face.

He had talked to the Zenas without even knowing what he was
saying. He couldn't stop thinking about Ida's lips, as dark as black
cherries, about the cleavage that she always allowed her dresses to
reveal, and about those fawnlike eyes that made her look like Meg
Ryan. And above all, about where the hell they could meet.

He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head.

I'm too pale. Maybe I need a session under the sunlamp.

His apartment was no good. Too risky. Nor was a hotel. Too
sleazy. What they needed was a special, romantic place ...