The Goodbye Kiss (14 page)

    "Come
back tomorrow at the same time," the lawyer dismissed me. "Your
explanation of your predicament was crystal clear. Nonetheless, you do
understand I must make the necessary inquiries."

    "Your
problem, sir, is called rehabilitation," he began to explain the next day.
"Our penal code contains the provision that a convict, after giving proof
of spotless conduct for five years, may petition a surveillance judge to regain
his civil rights. In short, the acceptance of this petition removes the stigma
of being a previous offender."

    "And
then everything becomes easier," I observed.

    The
lawyer smiled. "Yes, precisely. From what I gather, you finished serving
your sentence around three years ago-"

    "Three
years and two months."

    "Within
a couple years, therefore, we shall be able to present a petition of
rehabilitation, provided your demeanor following your prison release has kept
within the bounds of the utmost legality."

    I
shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "Well, for a time I worked at a
lap-dancing joint. Police, carabinieri and revenue officers would often pay us
a visit, and my name must turn up in their reports, especially since my
employer went to jail for drug dealing."

    "Were
you directly involved in the investigation?"

    "No."

    "Then
we have nothing to worry about. The important thing is that, starting now, you
must avoid traveling in circles that are not above reproach. I am already
convinced you are doing this if, from what I gather, your intention is to
invest in a restaurant, a profitable activity that is completely
respectable."

    "Exactly.
I have at my disposal a certain amount, and my goal is to open a decent
place."

    "How
much?"

    "Half
a million."

    "The
savings of a lifetime," joked the lawyer. "Around here it isn't
important to know where the money originates," he added, turning serious
again. "But it mustn't stink of wrongdoing. On the contrary, it should
carry the fragrance of hard work and a creative intellect. You understand what
I mean?"

    "Perfectly.
This is precisely why I have turned to you."

    "You
have done well. Follow my instructions, and I guarantee you shall obtain what
you wish."

    The
first instruction involved his fee. For his feasibility study he demanded ten
thousand, in cash. Before dismissing me he asked where I was living. I gave him
the name of a hotel on the outskirts. The lawyer was shocked.

    "The
police have the hotels in that area under constant surveillance," he scolded
me, shaking his head. "If they discover that you are unemployed, you risk
an expulsion order."

    He
took a pair of keys from a drawer. "A friend of mine owns a pied-a-terre
in the centro. Small but comfortable."

    I
reached out a hand. "How much?" I asked.

    "One
thousand a month."

    The
lawyer was telling the truth. The small apartment was tastefully furnished. And
the view over the roofs of churches and ancient palazzos was enchanting. A glance
at the bathroom and the fridge was enough to tell me nobody ever lived there.
The place was a love nest. Probably belonged to the lawyer himself, who took
his lady friends there and staged his little orgies. I moved in, bringing only
the suitcases filled with money and the pistol with the silencer. Dumped my
clothes the day before. Decided to change my look and finally get my clothes
from a tailor. Like somebody with self-respect. I also went to a beauty salon.
While I was waiting my turn to get a manicure, I flipped through some magazines
without paying much attention. Found myself staring at a photo of the widow,
when she was still young and smiling. The weekly had dedicated a three-page
spread to her. I didn't waste time reading it. The title said it all:
"Accident or Suicide?"

    Some
ten days later I walked into Brianese's office dolled up like a real gentleman.
The lawyer gave me the once-over without a word. I took a seat and lit a
cigarette.

    "Good
news," the lawyer began, examining a set of pages spread across the desk.
"But before I explain my plan to you, I would like to discuss my
fee."

    "How
much?" I was up front.

    "One
hundred and fifty thousand in monthly installments until you obtain the rehabilitation
and ten percent of your profit for the next five years."

    I
stared at him, not buying it. The figure sounded steep. "What kind of
guarantee are you offering?"

    Brianese
shrugged. "None. But the chances for success are reasonably good."

    I
could've threatened him. Promised him a bullet in the head if the thing flopped
or, worse, if it turned out to be a rip- off. But the man wasn't stupid. He
couldn't be unaware of the risks involved, and he certainly knew his business.

    "OK,
counselor. I'm listening."

    La
Nena was an old osteria downtown, run by an elderly couple. Toni and Nena. Once
she'd been a knockout, turned heads, especially with loads of customers. Now
past seventy, she couldn't wait to retire with her husband to a cottage in the
country. Their two kids had studied at the university and didn't want to follow
in their parents' footsteps. Brianese's plan had me starting off as a waiter at
the osteria and gradually taking charge. Once rehabilitated, I'd become the
owner, changing the place to suit myself. In the meantime I'd learn the trade
by taking some specialized courses.

    Toni
and Nena had obviously agreed, and they already fixed the purchase price. Half
when I began working, the rest when we closed the deal.

    "We
won't hide your past," the lawyer explained. "People are going to
find out about it anyway, and that would make it worse. We'll present you as a
decent guy, the victim of bad companions, ready to demonstrate the change in
your behavior as well as your intrinsic worth. Your attitude must be
unobtrusive but at the same time simpatico: you need to be well-liked. Above
all, you must avoid any display of wealth. The clothes you're now wearing must
be stored away till you become the owner. Shop for clothes at the big department
stores, as every waiter does. Don't frequent expensive restaurants or cafes and
certainly not nightclubs or lap-dancing joints. Your life must be home and
work. I'll provide your clientele. Select and first-rate. In time we'll turn
the osteria into an exclusive spot. I intend to enter politics, and La Nena
could become my club."

    "Politics?
What kind of politics?"

    "Moderate
and destined to govern," he answered with a wink. "I represent a
group of businessmen and professionals who have long been marginalized in the
political life of this city. But now the wind has changed, and we intend to
count more and more. Here and in Roma. You'll have the opportunity to make
contacts that will prove useful as you become a seamless part of the urban fabric.
What do you think?"

    "The
plan seems perfect," I answered, cautious.

    "It
is."
He was offended. "Provided you don't ruin it by doing
something foolish."

    "I
don't have the slightest intention of doing that."

    Brianese
changed the subject. "Since you'll be forced to draw on your capital for
my fee and the down payment on the osteria, I can direct you to a reliable
person who will help you recoup part of the money."

    "How?"

    "Loans.
Consistent, fast and profitable. If you have any ready money on hand, take
advantage of this investment opportunity. It's good business."

    The
lawyer spoke for another hour. Instructions, advice, cautions. That guy in San
Vittore was right. Sante Brianese was up on his stuff. He thought of
everything. In a couple years I'd build a respectable position, putting my past
behind me forever.

    When
I left the office, I was tempted to celebrate in a deluxe restaurant. But I
remembered the lawyer's warnings and slipped into a self-service eatery that
belonged to the Break chain. Then straight home.

    In
the days that followed I met several of Brianese's reliable people, those who
would look after the fiscal end of the operation. I also became acquainted with
the employment consultant who ran the loansharking scheme. A bank manager sent
him clients who needed loans. The money was doled out by a financial
institution that acted as a broker, providing credit and handling debt
collection. The scheme was well put together. He tried to convince me I could
trust him with a hundred and twenty-five grand, but in the end I gave him only
thirty-five. I decided to keep something in reserve, just in case the deal went
south and I was suddenly forced to go on the lam.

    At
last Brianese accompanied me to my restaurant. It was located beneath the
porticoes of an old street, near Piazza del Mercato. Toni and Nena welcomed the
lawyer with fearful reverence. They must've owed him a huge debt of gratitude.
With me they limited themselves to a simple handshake. Toni had the look of a
drinker at the end of a long night. But Nena was full of energy, still trying
to act like the boss. They both wore blue smocks. I hadn't seen that since I
was a kid. Even the regulars weren't young anymore. Apart from some groups of
students and weirdoes with braids and face jewelry who I'd toss out at the
first opportunity. The place-one large room scattered with tables and wooden
chairs-smelled of reheated food, stale smoke and wine. A marble counter lined
an entire wall. Opposite stood the bathroom and a door that opened onto an
inner courtyard, which communicated with a storeroom packed with demijohns.
Everywhere oil paintings done in the most different styles. For a while, it
seems, Toni took in washed- up artists who paid for some meals with their work.
Nena told me she and her husband came into the place as soon as the war ended.
The Jews who ran it before were taken away by supporters of the Republic of
Salo in '44. Since then nothing had changed. The same wine as always, the same
menu. Stewed tripe, cod with polenta, braised beef, chicken cacciatore. On the
counter lay plates of sliced calf's head, meatballs, vegetable omlets,
hard-boiled eggs with pickles, grilled soppressata and boiled baby octopus.
Brianese told me it was among the last of the old-fashioned osterias in Italy.
A local group had in fact put it on a list of historical landmarks to be
preserved. The lawyer had a very different idea. An architect friend of his was
going to turn it into a trendy joint. Salmon-colored walls, French decor. They
did have a point. The osteria definitely needed a good coat of paint.

    I
started washing dishes and waiting on tables. The place opened at seven in the
morning and closed at eight in the evening. By the time I got home, I was done
in. A shower, a plate of pasta, then I headed out for my lesson with the
cavaliere Minozzi. For forty years he ran the best restaurant in the city-
until gambling debts prevented him from paying his suppliers. The matter
might've wound up in court, if Brianese hadn't intervened just in time to calm
down the creditors. At that point, Minozzi's kids made him sell the place and
withdraw into private life. He was a spry old man, who in exchange for his
advice obliged me to play countless card games. I was a jail- house gambler,
slick and light-fingered, and I took him for a ride. He was amused, and between
hands he'd give me the best tips for my future occupation. His wife, a pretty
little woman who fussed over us like a mother, made sure we were fortified with
slices of torta and liqueurs. Minozzi proved to be an invaluable teacher. After
a couple months I introduced the first two epoch-making changes in the history
of La Nena. I eliminated the bulk wine and the old glasses. I substituted a
selection of bottles from the best vineyards in Veneto, Trentino and Friuli, in
addition to some good reds from Piemonte and Toscana. And I replaced the
Duralex glasses with goblets and flutes. Obviously prices rose, and pensioners
were the first to search for another spot to drink their euro's worth of red
wine. Toni and Nena cast silent looks of disapproval in my direction. To the
old customers who asked for explanations, they could furnish only vague,
long-faced replies. Toni just kept repeating, like a robot, "Times change.
Things ain't what they used to be."

    The
next move was to spruce up the dishes on the counter. Cold cuts, tartines,
sandwiches. These innovations, along with a thorough housecleaning, were enough
to set going a gradual change in clientele. After the old people, the students
and weir- does cleared out. For some time now the place was losing money, but
luckily the cash I invested in the loans was more than enough to stop the
leaks. Thanks to Brianese's word-of- mouth, the osteria started to draw a
fashionable crowd. They'd show up at cocktail hour. Prosecco and finger food.
Plus a flood of advice. Everybody had something to recommend. From wines to
salads. Most of the time it was names I'd never heard of. It seemed as if
people from a certain class were only concerned with money and what they
stuffed in their mouths. I soon realized something had happened in this
country. There'd been a change in taste. I set up a table for consulting
specialized guides and magazines. Customers would constantly ask for them so
they could show friends a review of a restaurant or an oak-aged wine. Everybody
played gourmet. Toni and Nena didn't resist all these changes. No, they asked
the lawyer if they could step aside earlier than the agreement stipulated.
Brianese told them to spread the word they intended to sell out, and in the
meantime I'd stand in for them. First off I hired a couple young guys to wait
on tables. On the advice of an antique dealer, I dressed them like waiters in a
Parisian brasserie. Despite all my efforts and the quality of the snacks and
the wines, the place still remained an osteria. The weak point was the kitchen.
The new clientele wasn't nostalgic for Nena's rich, oily dishes. Cavaliere
Minozzi put together a light menu for me, with some pastas and a variety of
salads. I found a young cook who'd just graduated from a school for the hotel
trade, and in no time I was able to get a stream of customers to come regularly
for lunch. I enrolled in a course for sommeliers as well as in every course
organized by the various gourmet clubs and associations. I spent almost every
evening at tastings and lectures in oenology, and frankly it was pleasurable.