Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (17 page)

Scarano eyed him ironically: “Oh, right, because you on the other hand were right here with him to stop them from taking him, weren't you? The brave and powerful daddykins, who happens to live a thousand kilometers away. You don't even remember what he looks like, your son, that's how little you see of him.”

Alberto lunged forward with a roar. Romano stretched out an arm and stopped him with no apparent effort.

“I would advise you not to fly off the handle like that again, Dottore. I really would.”

Eva burst into tears: “Don't you realize that Dodo's in the hands of some complete stranger right this very instant? And the two of you, instead of trying to figure out how to help him, are butting heads like a couple of teenagers.”

Scarano nodded: “You're right, sweetheart, I apologize. To you, not to him.”

Cerchia, massaging the place where Romano had grabbed him, said through clenched teeth: “Right. What matters now is freeing Dodo. But I swear to you that as soon as this thing is over, we're going to come back to this discussion. And we're going to review the whole situation, because it's not at all clear to me that my son is better off living with you here than with me. I'll hire the best lawyers in the country, and we'll see how it turns out.”

“What you do afterward,” Aragona said, “if you don't mind my saying so, is of little interest to us. What's important now is to avoid making mistakes. My partner Romano and I will need to have a talk with Dodo's grandfather. For that matter, it seems clear that it's his money they want.”

Eva blinked rapidly: “Why would you say that?”

Aragona went into his glasses-removal routine and replied in a tone that mimicked—or so he thought—that of the Italian actor who dubs Al Pacino: “Because you, Signora, don't have any cash on hand, as you told us, but the kidnappers still called you, not Dottor Cerchia, who does. And so, if the kidnappers are familiar with the family's finances, then by contacting you they're reaching out to Dodo's grandfather.”

Romano stopped him: “Or else they just called the one number they found in the phone book. Let's not speculate wildly, à la Columbo, Arago', at least not while we have so little evidence. Now we need to go. Dottor Cerchia, why don't you come downstairs with us, I think that would be best.”

“All right, but I have no intention of standing idly by while my son is being held who knows where.”

Aragona eyed him coldly: “We can't stop you from doing what you want. But if you screw up and the child suffers the consequences, you'll have to sort that out with your conscience. My advice to you is to keep cool and wait for news. Maybe, if you think it might help, you could even try praying.”

I
f it had been possible to see Brother Leonardo Calisi, parish priest of the church of the Santissima Annunziata and abbot of the adjoining Franciscan monastery, through the confessional, the sight might have provoked a few sarcastic comments; the chair he'd clambered onto, struggling with the tails of his habit and his sacred vestments, was too tall for his feet to reach the floor.

In fact, it would have been more accurate to call him five feet short instead of five feet tall—not including his church-issued sandals, which anyway added little to his diminutive stature. Little. That's the word that came to the minds of those who crossed paths with him in the aisles of the church, or saw him struggling up the streets of the neighborhood, invariably at a trot, forever working to bring succor to the poor and the needy.

But any aesthetic considerations were quickly set aside because it was immediately clear that there was nothing little about his character. A second glance revealed the clear blue eyes, the curly, snow-white hair, and the captivating, clever face that made Brother Leonardo a figure beloved to young and old. A few years ago, the Catholic curia had expressed their intention to transfer him to another parish, a routine rotation, but such had been the clamor among the faithful that the proposal was immediately discarded.

Brother Leonardo was a good man. Generosity and altruism were the rules, set in stone, guiding his life, a life devoted to compassion and mercy. And yet he never lost the ironic streak that made him excellent company even to those who weren't especially familiar with religion.

While a teenage girl with too strong a sex drive told him about her torments, the Franciscan monk dangled his feet in the air and thought about his best friend, Giorgio Pisanelli. Brother Leonardo suspected himself guilty of a sin, albeit a very venial one, because no man of the cloth, much less a parish priest, and even less than that the abbot of a monastery, ought to have a best friend; he ought to devote the same degree of affection to every parishioner, every fellow brother, every human being. But perhaps it was the Lord's will that Giorgio, in the immense loneliness that had come in the wake of his wife, Carmen's, death, should have found in him of all people the comfort he could not draw from his faith. Leonardo, moreover, took authentic intellectual pleasure from his conversations with the policeman, those over lunch at the trattoria Il Gobbo as well as the more hurried talks they had at the parish church. The conversation was always sparkling and intelligent, and the anecdotes that they exchanged about the neighborhood they both knew like the backs of their own hands were practically endless.

Recently, however, the obsession his friend had developed with the suicides was becoming dangerous. Convinced that someone else's hand—always the same one—was behind the deaths, Giorgio never tired of gathering evidence that could help him to reconstruct the moment in which each poor person had committed his or her last act. Leonardo felt conflicting emotions about his friend's fixation: On the one hand, he would have preferred to see him at peace, but, on the other, he realized that it was this very fixation that allowed him to maintain his grip on life, that gave him a reason to get up in the morning, go to the office, get through the day.

That was the matter he was pondering, even as he did his best to explain to the young lady on the other side of the confessional grate that regularly and devotedly servicing three classmates sexually was not a behavior exactly encouraged by the Catholic church; a reason to live, he mused, however wrongheaded, was still an important thing.

For many years, twelve to be exact, Leonardo had been, day after day, running up against the disease that was raging like an epidemic through large cities everywhere: loneliness. There was no place on earth, he always said, as deserted and empty as a major western metropolis, where invisible men and women carried on lives not dissimilar from those of old, sick animals, exiled from the herd and easy prey for prowling carnivores.

Every day, from dawn to dusk, in the cool shade of the confessional, redolent of incense, in the cozy warmth of the sacristy, out on the streets and in the narrow and intricate
vicoli
of the neighborhood, in dismal living rooms furnished with threadbare sofas that once bubbled with laughter, Leonardo was brought face-to-face with the desire to end one's own life.

And he worked tirelessly to rekindle the flame of bygone happiness, the memory of love or the dream of a future; but far too often his efforts, before the bottomless abyss of drab despair, proved useless.

There were always those who managed to muster the immense courage required to commit the supreme act of existential cowardice. They were few in number, however. Most of them were afraid, or else lacked even the energy needed to swallow a bottle of sleeping pills or throw themselves down the stairs.

What should a spiritual father do? A guide, a brother in faith? These were the questions Brother Leonardo kept asking himself. Should he impart a hasty benediction and go on his way, abandoning these people to their fate? It was easy to help children, tied as they were to the desire for and prospect of the future; or young women who, after overcoming the impasse of a terrible moment, could resume lives of joy; even drug addicts, once freed from their dependencies, possessed a force that allowed them to surmount every obstacle in their paths. In those cases, Leonardo could see the concrete results of his work; it was easy to feel proud in the sight of the Lord.

What was true Holiness? Where did the greatness of a Higher Spirit find its fulfillment? When did the true and complete Imitation of Christ take place? There could only be one answer, as far as Brother Leonardo was concerned: the Extreme Sacrifice of God's greatest gift—one's own soul.

The reasoning was so straightforward that he wondered why it wasn't shared by every Christian. Was there a lonely creature, suffering, with no desire to go on living, who lacked the courage to perform that final, irreversible act? The act that would condemn that creature, and here the Scripture was very clear, to suffer eternal damnation for having taken unto himself a choice that belonged only in the hands of the Almighty? Then the task to help him or her fell to that creature's spiritual father, to the earthly interpreter of God's will; he took unto himself the burden of the sin.

Just as Christ died on the cross, sacrificing Himself for all mankind, it was Brother Leonardo's job to end the lives of those who wished to die but lacked the strength to kill themselves. In allowing those lives to leave this vale of tears, pushing them toward the Light, the diminutive Franciscan obtained two results, both of them of immense importance. He would stain himself with a grave sin, thus achieving the ultimate sacrifice of his own soul, and he'd also alleviate the irremediable suffering of their desperate souls. Simple. Perfectly simple.

As he listened to the young girl's complacent account of a sexual encounter in the school gym with two boys, Leonardo reflected for the millionth time on the interesting theological problem before him. Could helping someone reach the presence of God, if they lacked the courage to commit an unthinkable deed, actually be a sin? What would really become of his soul, once he passed on to a better world? This wasn't a thought he could report in confession, in part because his confessor, Brother Samuele, was something of a stickler in the application of the precepts, but he doubted there lived and breathed a man of the cloth so full of faith that he would not be surprised to learn of what he did for the benefit of the despairing souls in the neighborhood.

The monk, though, had faith. He was deeply convinced of the immensity of Divine Mercy. And also of the value of the intercession, on his behalf, with the Almighty, by those he'd saved from eternal damnation. They'd line up two by two and, in a heavenly chorus, implore the Lord to welcome him, too: their liberator. And the Lord Almighty would certainly grant their request, to great jubilation.

This, however, in many years from now, he hoped, and in accordance with the Lord's will. In the meantime, he still had a great many souls to save.

His mind went back to Giorgio Pisanelli. He was tired, weary, and sick, though it was only to Leonardo that he had confided the truth about the terrible disease that was devouring him. He was an ideal candidate for the particular kind of charity that Leonardo provided; in the afterlife he'd see his Carmen again, another of God's creatures that the diminutive friar had sent to meet her Maker, in order to spare her further atrocious suffering.

The parish priest of Santissima Annunziata had a principle to which he clung without exception: If the individual still had a reason to live, or even merely believed that he or she did, then the person in question could not leave this world. To force them to would be unjust.

Giorgio's case, therefore, constituted an intricate paradox: The only thing that preserved him from Leonardo's help was in fact his stubborn hunt for someone who, as it turned out, was actually Leonardo himself. As long as Giorgio kept hunting, investigating the lives of the poor angels to whom Leonardo had given wings, he'd go on having a reason to live; and that would mean that Giorgio was not yet ready.

Sighing in the girl's direction—she'd decided she'd gone too far just when she was getting to the good part—the monk decided that, while he waited for Giorgio to abandon his mission and thus become eligible for the mercy Leonardo could bring him, he'd work on other cases. He'd weave his usual web of visits, words, caresses, and admonitions, applying the variety of tools that he'd tested out over the years: gas, balconies, ropes, pills, and approaching trains. Always accompanied by a farewell note, written in various hands and using different phrases, always suited to the individual in question thanks to his in-depth knowledge, fruit of his role as confessor.

Just now, for instance, he was working on the case of a woman named Maria Musella: lonely and depressed, increasingly dependent on psychotropic drugs. He would go to see her, and he'd sedate her, and in her torpor he would administer a last, lethal dose of the pills that brought her peace.

Then, his heart light, he'd go have a nice lunch at Il Gobbo with his good friend Giorgio. Brother Teodoro had told him that Giorgio had come by the parish church just a few hours ago, while Leonardo was out looking for a pharmacy in another neighborhood—always best to be careful—where he could buy sleeping pills.

He wondered what Giorgio wanted, as he imposed an exemplary penance on the oversexed young girl. Maybe he wanted to tell him about some crucial discovery he'd made while investigating a suicide that had taken place five years ago.

Poor Giorgio. Leonardo would have been happy to help him, but of course he couldn't.

After all, he wasn't a murderer.

B
y the time they reached the residence of Edoardo Borrelli, night was falling. Now that the sun had set, the air was much cooler; Aragona put on his jacket, but he didn't fasten any extra buttons on his shirt, leaving his carefully waxed and sunlamped chest uncovered.

In the lobby, they approached the private security guard who, after a brief conversation on the intercom, pointed them to an elevator without telling them the floor. And in fact, when they boarded the elevator they found only one button, the corresponding nameplate blank.