As God Commands (46 page)

At that point they were done for. You stuck the point of the knife
inside the shell and the stupid little buggers snapped shut with the
whole blade inside. Then you twisted the blade, the shell broke and
a brown cloud of flesh and excrement gushed out into the water.

What use is a shell if you can be trained not to use it?

It's better not to have one-to be naked-if all it does is help the
knife to kill you. Rino was like that knife blade. Quattro Formaggi
had got used to him, and that made him a serious threat.

And Cristiano was just like his father-he was hiding the truth
from him to thwart him.

Those two are playing me for a sucker.

Rino will open his eyes, pull the needle out of his arm, point at me
and start shouting: "It was him, he killed the girl! Put him in prison!"

He would do it. He knew him well. He would never understand
that he had killed her because...

He saw the white hand and the thin fingers wrapped around his
marble-hard penis.

An icy shiver sank its claws into the back of his head. He closed
his eyes and felt as if he was falling from a skyscraper.

He found himself on the floor, lying among the hassocks, breathing
hard and clutching the crucifix.

He unbuttoned his shirt and put the chain around his neck. The
pendant fell among the dark hairs on his chest. He could feel the
beneficent power of the crucifix spreading like a warm current
through his aching body, into his cracked ribs, into the wound, the
torn and bruised flesh.

He brushed the crucifix with his fingertips and felt as if he was
touching Ramona's smooth skin. And he saw little Baby Jesus hidden
inside the woman's wet body.

"God's will is as obscure to us poor sinners as the darkest of
winter nights. We need a direct line to communicate with the
Almighty," Ricky had told him.

Now he had the direct line.

He got to his feet and limped out of the chapel.

He knew what he had to do. He had to kill Rino.

If Rino woke up he would accuse him.

It was Rino who was opposing the will of God.

God had nearly killed him, and he would finish him off.

In fact he and God were one and the same thing.

He crossed the entrance hall, panting, with his violin-shaped clock
under his arm, and pushed his way into the lift, which was full of
doctors and visitors.

Quattro Formaggi got out on the second floor.

He remembered that this was where the most seriously ill patients
were. He himself had been kept there after the accident with the
fishing rod, before being moved to the floor above.

Trying not to attract attention, he went by the maternity ward.
The big window with the newborn babies in their cots. A glass door.
A long corridor and rows of closed doors. He reached the intensive
care department. On the door there was a notice which detailed the
visiting hours.

It was after hours.

He tried turning the handle. The door opened. Scratching his
cheek, he peered into the corridor.

The lighting in this department was softer, and the ceiling lower.
There was a row of orange plastic chairs along one wall. Through
the window he could see a violet strip which divided the dark sky
from the plain.

While he waited for a nurse to arrive he thumped his left thigh.

The place seemed deserted.

He plucked up courage and entered. He shut the door behind
him as quietly as possible and set off, hardly daring to breathe. To
his right there was a big dark room. At the far end of it a sepulchral light shone down on a bed where a man lay quite still.

There were winking lights all around, and a greenish monitor. He
walked toward the bed with bated breath.

Rino was lying there with his eyes closed. He seemed to be asleep.

Quattro Formaggi stared at him, twisting his neck. Finally he
grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him, as you might a child that
doesn't want to get up. "Rino..." He knelt down beside the bed and,
still holding him by the wrist, whispered in his ear: "It's me. Quattro
Formaggi. I mean ... It's Corrado. Corrado Rumitz. That's my name."
He started stroking his cheek. "Rino, will you tell me where Ramona
is, please? It's important. I have to do something with her. Something
very important. Will you tell me, please? I need the body. If you tell
me, God will help you. Do you know why you're in a coma? It was
God. He punished you for what you did to me. I'm not angry with
you, though. I've forgiven you. You hurt me, but it doesn't matter ... I'm
easy going. Now, please, will you tell me where Ramona is? You'd
better tell me." He looked at him for a moment, sniffing and scratching
his cheek, then snorted impatiently: "I understand, I'm not
stupid... You don't want to tell me. Never mind. I've brought you a
present." He showed him the clock and then lifted it up, ready to
bring it down on his head. "It's all yours..."

"What are you doing here?"

Quattro Formaggi jumped in the air like a champagne cork. He
lowered the clock and spun around.

There was someone standing in the doorway, hidden in the
shadows. "This is not visiting hours. How did you get in?"

The man, tall and thin, in a white coat, came closer.

He didn't see me. He didn't see me. It was dark.

His heart pounded in his chest. "The door was open..."

"Didn't you see the notice with the visiting hours?"

"No. I found the door open and I thought ..."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave. Come back tomorrow."

"I came to see my friend. I'll go now, don't worry."

The doctor came even closer. He was balding, and his head was
small. He looked like a vulture. Or rather, a newly hatched pigeon.

"What were you doing with that clock?"

"Me? Nothing. I was..."

Answer him. Go on ...

"...looking for somewhere to hang it. Cristiano told me Rino
was in a coma and I thought I'd bring him his clock. It might help
him to wake up. You know?"

The doctor glanced at the monitor and adjusted the wheel of a
machine. "I don't think so. All your friend needs is rest."

"All right. Thank you, doctor. Thank you." Quattro Formaggi
held out his hand, but the doctor ignored it and accompanied him
to the door.

"This is an intensive care unit. So it is absolutely imperative to
observe the visiting hours."

"I'm sorry..."

The doctor closed the door in his face.

At four o'clock precisely the alarm clock started ringing.

Cristiano Zena silenced it with a slap. He had slept a long, dreamless sleep without interruption. He hadn't even got up for a pee. His
bladder was bursting. But he felt better.

He turned on the flashlight and stretched.

Outside, the sky was black and dotted with stars.

Cristiano had a pee, washed his face with cold water and put on
some warm clothes. He went down the stairs, trying not to make
any noise. It was warmer on the ground floor.

Beppe Trecca was sleeping on the sofa, with his face against the
back. He was curled up in a blanket that was too short for him and
one of his legs was sticking out.

Cristiano tiptoed into the kitchen, closed the door quietly, took
out a packet of crackers and ate them, one by one, in silence. Then
he drank two glasses of water to wash them down.

Now that he had slept and eaten, he was ready.

From now on every move he made would have to be planned out
at least three steps in advance.

On the kitchen table there was a packet of Dianas belonging to
Rino.

Let's have a nice cigarette.

His father always said that when he was about to start a job.

Cristiano wondered whether now that Rino was in a coma he
still felt the need to smoke. Maybe when he woke up he wouldn't
have the habit any more.

He picked up the box of matches and took one out. He held it
against the brown strip.

Right, if it lights first go, everything will go smoothly.

He struck the match and it lingered for a second, as if unsure
whether to light, but then, as if by magic, a little blue flame
rose up.

Everything will go smoothly...

He lit the cigarette and took two long drags, but his head started
spinning.

He extinguished it immediately under the tap.

"I'm ready," he whispered.

While Cristiano was smoking his cigarette, Quattro Formaggi, in
his underpants and dressing gown, was staring at the TV and
drinking Fanta from a family-sized bottle.

There was a cook with a mustache who was preparing some speck
and couscous roulades and saying that they made tasty and original little bites for a picnic in the country. Then there was a commercial break, after which the etiquette expert, a short man with
dyed hair, began to explain how cutlery should be arranged on the
table and how one should kiss a lady's hand.

Quattro Formaggi pressed PLAY on the videorecorder with his foot
and Ramona appeared, in handcuffs, in the sheriff's office.

"So what do I have to do to avoid going to jail?"

Henry, a muscular black police officer, twirled his baton in his
hands and eyed Ramona. "You have to pay bail. And a high one
too. And I don't think you have any money."

Ramona pushed out her big breasts and said in a knowing tone:
"No, I don't. But there's another way. An easier one."

Henry released her from the handcuffs. "Well, the only thing for
it is to find the little blonde's corpse as soon as possible. You've got
to find her and put her in the nativity scene."

"Okay, boss. I'll go out and find her."

Quattro Formaggi took another sip of Fanta and, with glazed
eyes, murmured: "Good man, Henry." He turned toward the kitchen.
There was a strange buzzing noise. Maybe it was the fridge. But it might be the gigantic wasp that had got trapped. A wasp with a
six-foot wingspan and a stinger as long as your arm.

The insect must have stung him on the chest while he was asleep,
because he could feel his guts rotting, and his skin felt as if there
were a million white-hot needles sticking into it. And his headache
never let up. A fire rose up through his neck and boiled his brain.
When he touched his temples he could feel his forehead, his eyebrow arches and his eyes tingling.

The crucifix wasn't working.

He had never taken it off, just as Ricky had told him, but the
pain, instead of decreasing, was growing.

God is angry with me. I've lost Ramona. I don't deserve anything. That's the truth.

It was cold, but the heavy jacket, flannel shirt and fleece cardigan
covered Cristiano well. The ice-cold air went down his throat, which
was still irritated by the cigarette, as he rolled up the door of the
garage. He turned on the long fluorescent lights, which crackled,
shedding a yellowish glow over the large basement room. By the
work-bench he found a pair of orange plastic gloves, the kind people
use for washing the dishes. He put them on.

He went over to the van, took the keys out of his pants pocket
and opened the back doors, hoping that, for some obscure reason,
Fabiana's body would not be there any more.

He switched on the flashlight and shone it inside.

The corpse was there. Dumped to one side. Like a pile of old clothes.

Like a dead thing.

Inside the van there was a faint but sickly odor.

After twenty-four hours a corpse already begins to smell.

One of the few certainties Cristiano Zena had was that, if he did
things properly, he would dispose of that body in such a way that
nobody would be able to trace it to his father.

This certainty was based on the fact that he had watched all three
seasons of CSI.

CSI is an American TV series in which a team of highly intelligent
forensic scientists studies and examines corpses with technological
instruments, while brilliant detectives elicit information even from the
smallest and apparently most insignificant clues.

E.g.: they find a shoe. They analyze the sole. There's some dog
shit on it. By a study of the DNA they establish the breed. Dalmatian.
Where do dalmatians go to crap? They send troops of officers out
into all the public parks to study the concentrations of dalmatians
and eventually pinpoint with mathematical precision the place where
the murderer lives. That kind of thing.

Often Cristiano, in his previous existence, had found himself
reflecting, as he watched the television news, on the errors committed by Italian murderers. They always made a complete mess of
things, leaving lots of clues, and inevitably got caught.

He would make a better job of it. For everything to work he
would have to imagine that the corpse was just like a supermarket
chicken when you take it out of its wrapper.

Right, here goes.

He took hold of its feet and pulled it to the edge of the van. He
managed to slide it into the wheelbarrow without too much difficulty. He closed the doors.

The cleaning of the van could wait till later.

He pushed the wheelbarrow into the garage, and pulled down
the shutter.

He had worked the plan out carefully. He had to remove all clues
from the body, then wrap it up and throw it in the river.

He took a transparent plastic dust sheet off the piano, then
cleared the ping-pong table of all the cardboard boxes, engine parts
and tires and spread the plastic sheet over it. He found a paintsplashed board which had been dumped in the corner among some
iron pipes, and laid it obliquely against the table. He put Fabiana's
corpse onto the board, levered it up to the level of the table and
rolled it off. Then he laid it out in the middle, as on a dissecting
table in a morgue.

Fabiana seemed heavier than when he had put her in the van the
night before.

Throughout the operation he had avoided looking at the head, but
now he couldn't avoid it. That mask smeared with congealed blood and framed with a mass of curly blonde hair had been the face of the
prettiest girl in the school, the one all the boys lusted after.