The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (10 page)

A young foreign woman came to open the door, either a housekeeper or a caregiver; she had a bony physique and small, light-colored eyes. A strong smell of fried garlic filled the air. The young woman led the two cops into a living room furnished with old but well-kept pieces of furniture, and with embroidered doilies everywhere: on the table, on the backrests of the sofa and armchairs, on the counter of the credenza. Beneath the smell of fried garlic, a pungent smell of urine could be detected, betraying the presence of an elderly person with incontinence problems; sure enough, seated in an armchair by the window was a monumental old woman with a grim expression on her face and a blanket over her legs. Romano was surprised not to see an embroidered doily there, too.

“
Buongiorno
, I'm Warrant Officer Romano and this is Officer First Class Di Nardo, from the Pizzofalcone police station. Are you Signora Amalia Guardascione?”

The woman scrutinized them in silence. She oozed wariness from every pore. Finally she spoke, in a deep voice: “Yes. That's me. Show me your badges. And you,” she added, addressing the foreign girl, “get out of here, all this is none of your business.” While the two police officers were producing their official IDs, she hissed: “Gossipy slut.”

After performing a thorough verification though a pair of eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose, and allowing that she was at least temporarily satisfied, she handed back the two IDs and said: “Out of uniform, eh? So we're saving money on uniforms too, these days. I like cops who look like cops. And then, a girl cop. Well, we'll have to make do.”

Romano and Di Nardo exchanged a baffled glance. Then the policeman spoke up: “Signora, you filed a report claiming that a crime may have been committed. Could you tell us what this is about? That way we can keep from taking up too much of your time and leave you to your more urgent pursuits.”

The unmistakable irony fell flat, because Donna Amalia nodded in satisfaction: “Excellent. Let's not waste time. Now then, from this window, where I spend a fair part of my day, it sometimes happens that I find myself watching the windows across the way.”

Alex decided that she would never want to live anywhere that had windows within eyeshot of that old woman.

“One of those windows, you see it? On the fifth floor of that building.”

Romano took a casual look across the street. He was confirming inwardly that this was a spectacular waste of time.

“It's an apartment that was just renovated; they completed the work about twenty days ago. Then someone moved in.”

She shifted to get more comfortable. The chair groaned beneath her.

After a long silence, during which the two police officers looked at each other with a growing uneasiness, Di Nardo finally asked: “So who moved in?”

Donna Amalia nodded contentedly, like a schoolteacher when a student shows that she's paid attention to the lesson.

“Exactly. Who moved in?”

Romano started losing his patience.

“Signo', let me repeat: we don't have time to waste. If you have something to say, go on and say it. If not, we can leave with our apologies for having disturbed you.”

The woman looked at him with disgust.

“The point, my dear . . . what did you say your rank was? Warrant officer? That's exactly the point. Someone lives there, in that apartment. And that someone is being held prisoner.”

“What do you mean, being held prisoner?”

Donna Amalia clasped her hands together.

“Oooh, Jesus! What do you think being held prisoner means? This person, or these people, who live in there, never leave the apartment. They never look out the window. They never open the windows. They don't answer the buzzer. They're prisoners, I'm telling you. And you need to ascertain the why and the wherefore, which is why I called you.”

Romano sighed.

“Signo', the fact that someone doesn't leave an apartment and doesn't look out the window doesn't mean that person is a prisoner. Even if we accept, for argument's sake, that that's what's going on. Maybe the inhabitants of that apartment are leaving and returning, but they're doing it at moments that, shall we say, elude your surveillance. And maybe they look out windows, who can say, on the other side of the building, where you can't see them.”

The woman shook her head firmly.

“No. I can assure you that that's not the way it is. I can't walk, you know. I depend entirely and for everything on that Ukrainian slut who opened the door for you, and it isn't easy. But my head still works perfectly, I spend my whole day here, and I assure you that something strange, something very strange, is going on in that apartment. I've been here for years and years. My sole pastime is looking out that window, and I've never, let me repeat never, focused on something that later proved not to be true. Once, just once, a woman peeked her head around the curtain: I saw her face, a young woman's face, a beautiful face. The face of a madonna, she had. And there was fear in her eyes. I'm telling you, someone is holding that girl prisoner; and maybe there are other people in there, I wouldn't be able to say. Now, if you want to check it out, check it out; if you don't want to, go on back to your office. I'm at peace with my conscience, you two can do as you like as far as yours are concerned.”

After her lengthy tirade, the woman heaved a sigh and picked up an embroidery frame that lay on a table near the armchair; she set to work, a gesture which explained the presence of all those doilies and also made it clear that the conversation was over.

Romano looked at Di Nardo again, then said: “Signo', a criminal complaint is a serious matter. You shouldn't make them lightly and we certainly don't take them lightly. You've filed one, and I hope that you thought carefully before calling 911; we have received it and we're going to check it out. Thanks, and have a good day.”

Without looking up from her work, the woman shouted in a shrill voice: “Irinaaa! See these gentlemen to the door, get moving!”

T
hey'll come.

They'll come and they'll start asking questions.

They'll delve into the words, into the expressions. They'll try to understand the color of the feelings; they'll sniff like dogs after the scent of a reason for hatred.

Perhaps they'll do a bad job of searching, because they won't search for love. But in fact it is love, in many cases, that puts an end to life. Love is a powerful current, I would tell them; love is like a river, which flows along nice and calm, and then, around a bend that seems no different from any of the others, that seems no different from any of the other bends along the course a river follows from its source all the way to the sea, suddenly, there's a cliff, and the river turns into a violent and terrible waterfall.

You can live for love, I'd tell them. Love is a force that takes you by the hand and leads you to the end of the day, of the month, of the year, of the night. Love is a dream, a mere illusion: but you can treasure it and foster it, that illusion, you can make it grow until it's big enough for you to live in.

They'll come, and maybe they'll delve into the documents, in search of some foul-smelling trace made up of money and vested interests. And maybe they will find traces, and they'll think they're on the right trail.

I would tell them to look elsewhere, to delve into caresses. Into sighs and flesh—that's where I'd say to look. Because maybe the reason for everything is there, in an old acquaintance, in a gaze held for an extra fraction of a second. Because that is how an illusion is born, with a gaze and a fraction of a second. And you imagine something, and you cradle it in your arms like a newborn baby, helping it to grow, feeding it until it becomes so big that it takes up every bit of room there is.

I would tell them that love is to blame for everything. That those who get in love's way always run a terrible risk. Because love is powerful, and when it rushes down to the sea it doesn't recognize obstacles, it uproots, it overturns, it undermines, it crushes; and then it carries away the pieces.

I would tell them not to search for money, because the logic of love is much stronger than any mere pecuniary interest. And I would tell them that I tried to make her understand how absurd it is to try to stand in love's way. I explained to her, speaking with my heart in my hand, that right around that last bend that resembles all the others, lies the abyss. That this wasn't like the times before, that we were all now faced with real decisions. But she wouldn't listen to what I said.

We'll watch them delve into the usual motivations, but they'll be searching in the wrong direction. Because they won't think of love, and all its reasons.

I would tell them, if they only asked the right questions. I'd explain it to them, because it happened.

Because I did it.

But I won't tell them, because they won't search in the right direction. And the one who'll pay is the one who ought to.

Love will pay.

 

 

T
hey really did take five minutes to reach the address that Ottavia Calabrese had given Lojacono. A shiny brass plate next to the front door of the luxurious building announced: “Arturo Festa, Notary.”

It was early, not yet ten o'clock. The lieutenant wondered whether anyone was already in the office. He couldn't reasonably linger to give the husband the news in person. He had his cell phone number: he could try to call him. But what he really wanted was to observe the reactions of the people who knew the notary well, when they heard the news of the murder.

They went over to the doorman, a diminutive, middle-aged fellow who was sorting catalogues into the various mailboxes. Without even turning around, the man gestured to the foot of a flight of stairs with his head: “Mezzanine, Staircase A,” he said.

Which meant that someone was already there.

Aragona rang the doorbell, and from inside someone hit a button to open the door automatically. They walked into a small waiting room, and a young woman, short, pudgy, and wearing glasses, came toward them; her manner was businesslike: “Hi there. Can I help you?”

Lojacono saluted and said: “Perhaps.
Buongiorno
, signorina. My name is Lojacono and this is Officer Aragona, from the Pizzofalcone police station. We'd like to speak with the notary Arturo Festa.”

The young woman seemed unsurprised. It couldn't have been unusual for the police to show up at this office.

“I'm sorry, the notary isn't in just now. Could you tell me what this is about? Did you have an appointment, have you spoken to him directly?”

“When do you think that we could talk with him? This is a confidential matter, and it's quite urgent. You are . . .”

“I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Imma, Imma Arace. I'm in charge of bills of exchange and promissory notes, the only part of the office that is open for business at this hour. The other employees come in later on; now it's only me and the preparer, Rino. I'm sorry, but I really wouldn't know how to help you.”

“How many other people work in this office, signorina? And what time do they come in?”

“There are two other employees, both women, and they get here by 10:30. We leave earlier, so their shift is staggered with respect to ours. You'd just have to wait . . .” she glanced at the clock, “half an hour, more or less, for the entire staff.”

Lojacono and Aragona exchanged a glance.

“Perhaps we could speak with the two of you, in that case. While we wait for the other office employees to come in, and for the notary himself. And, signorina, you really ought to tell me where the notary is.”

Signorina Arace noticed the change in Lojacono's tone of voice, now more emphatic and urgent. And she realized that these two police officers weren't here to handle some confidential bureaucratic procedure: this must be something far more serious.

“Please, come right this way.”

She led them into a large room with wood-paneled walls, which contained six desks. Only one desk was occupied, by a stout bespectacled man with thick lenses who was sorting an array of promissory notes into separate little piles.

The man narrowed his eyes when he heard the trio enter the room. The woman spoke to him in a worried voice.

“Rino, these two gentleman are from the police and they'd like to talk with us. They were looking for the notary.”

The man put down the promissory notes he was still holding and walked around the desk, coming to stand next to Imma. Side by side like that, they seemed like relatives: both of them tubby, both bespectacled, both frightened and surprised.

“They were looking for the notary. The notary isn't here, he's out of town. Did you tell them that?”

The young woman nodded, looking insulted: “Of course I told them, what kind of fool do you take me for? But they still want to talk with us.”

“Still want to talk with us. But what can we tell them, if the notary isn't here? They'll just have to come back, is what they'll have to do.”

The girl had lost her patience. Clearly, Rino wasn't the brightest bulb.

“Then you try talking to them. I already told them, and I'll tell you again. They said that they would wait.”

“They would wait.”

Aragona glanced at Lojacono: it seemed like a farce. The man's habit of repeating the last few words that the young woman said was like an old-fashioned comedy routine straight out of the commedia dell'arte.

The lieutenant broke the spell: “We need to speak with the notary, whom you certainly know how to get in touch with. We need to speak to him now.”

The man ran a trembling hand over the comb-over that spread what little hair remained to him across the top of an otherwise bald head, as if checking to make sure every hair was in order.