The Goodbye Kiss (19 page)

    It
took him a good half an hour to show up. From the bread crumbs on his cassock I
figured he spent it having breakfast.

    "Now
tell me what happened."

    "Padre,
I did a very bad thing. I cheated on Roberta," I said immediately to
attract his attention. I wanted him to remember every word of that
conversation. "One night I couldn't resist temptation, so I bought the
body of a prostitute. I realized I erred when I found my fiancee waiting for
me. In the beginning I didn't have the courage to confess what I did, so I lied
to justify going out that night. Then, through a series of events, my lie was
discovered, and I was forced to tell the truth."

    "Lies
have short legs," he remarked, satisfied. "What do you want from
me?"

    "Roberta
doesn't want to marry me anymore. You must persuade her to reconsider her
decision. She won't talk to me."

    "Perhaps
you are not the right man for her. Her parents have always been convinced of
it. In the past you were guilty of grave offenses, and even now, a few months
before your marriage, your conduct continues to be immoral."

    "It
was a moment of weakness. It will never happen again. I am deeply in love with
Roberta. I'm certain I can make her happy."

    "I
shall try to speak to her. But I promise you nothing. To lie and to go with
prostitutes are grave sins. That girl does not deserve such pain."

    I put
on a contrite expression and left in silence.

    My
second stop was a local library. At that hour of the morning it was filled
mostly with pensioners. I found the book I wanted. Verified the accuracy of my
memories and left for work. The day passed without a hitch. A customer came to
ask me for a loan. Two and a half grand. He'd pay me back three the following
week. I gave him what he wanted. Sometimes regulars would ask me for small
amounts in cash. Till then I'd send them to one of the loansharks I did
business with. But after giving it some thought I decided I could set up a
little bank in the osteria. The secret to preventing the cops from nosing
around was to limit yourself to low figures. All through the day I acted happy.
Talked to various people about the wedding, asked their advice about flowers
and photographs. Shortly before closing I received a phone call from Roberta.

    "I
have to talk to you."

    "Don
Agostino?"

    "Yes,
he convinced me. We must look into the depths of our hearts and determine the
sincerity of our feelings."

    "I'll
wait for you at home."

    Her
face looked wasted. She seemed worn-out. She sat in the armchair.

    "It
hurts me to see you suffer like this."

    "It's
your fault."

    "What
have your mother and your friends been telling you?" I asked to get the
lie of the land.

    She
shook her head. "I haven't said anything yet. I'm too ashamed to say what
you've done."

    "You
did right not to tell anybody about it. I'm certain we'll be able to reach an understanding.
And everything will go back to what it was before."

    From
her bag she took out a handkerchief and started to whimper. "I don't trust
you anymore."

    "Please,
don't cry. It'll be hard to talk."

    She
dried her eyes and blew her nose. "I've never felt so bad in my entire
life."

    I
caressed her cheek. "Have you had dinner?"

    She
shook her head. "I can't get anything down."

    "You'll
make yourself sick." I raised my voice, worried.

    "I'll
eat something at home."

    "I've
brought a couple orders of cannelloni with ricotta from the osteria. I was just
about to sit down and eat. Come on, keep me company."

    I
added another plate. Offered her a glass of wine while the meal was heating up
in the microwave. I let her serve herself. She took only one of the cannelloni.
I passed her the grated cheese. We ate in silence.

    "Don
Agostino thinks you're not suited to marriage. He's convinced you're an amoral
person."

    "He's
wrong."

    "Then
why did you go with that prostitute?"

    "It's
your fault. Sexually you leave a lot to be desired."

    She
blushed with shame. "I need time. You have much more experience, and
besides, I don't like some of the things you want to do with me. They seem
dirty, unnatural between two people who want to marry."

    "Is
that your opinion or Don Agostino's?"

    "He's
my confessor."

    "But
he has no experience in this area. And he's giving you bad advice. For example,
what do you think about when you touch yourself?"

    "Stop
it. I don't want to talk about these things."

    "You
should've taken your fantasies to bed, not to the confessional. We would've
enjoyed ourselves, and I wouldn't have felt the need to drill a
prostitute."

    "Don't
use language like that. It's disgusting."

    "Why
did Alfio leave you?"

    "That's
none of your business."

    "You
couldn't satisfy him. That's the truth. He broke the engagement. I went looking
for pleasure elsewhere. What do you think the next guy will do?"

    She
burst into tears. I decided to tone down the discussion. By now she had to be
convinced I went out that night to satisfy the needs of the flesh.

    I
hugged her tight. "I love you, Roberta. I don't want to lose you. I swear
on the memory of my father and mother I'll never go with another woman again.
I'll make love only to you. Without forcing you. And with respect for your
sensitivity."

    She
took my face in her hands and looked me straight in the eyes. "Do you
really swear it?"

    "I
swear it. Don Agostino made me realize sex is only one aspect of a couple's
life."

    "How
I'd like to believe you."

    "Do
it, and you'll be happy."

    "I'm
confused. First the story about the murdered policeman. Then the humiliation of
being betrayed with a common whore."

    "Don't
think about it anymore. Think of our future." "I can't," she
came right back, depressed. "Was she prettier than me?"

    I
smiled. "That would be impossible."

    "Was
she black?"

    "No."

    "Did
you kiss her on the mouth?"

    "No."

    "Did
you use a condom?"

    "Yes."

    "I
want to know what you did."

    "Enough
now. That would be humiliating for both of us."

    A
tense silence fell on the scene. I let her chill a bit. Offered her a cigarette
and a liqueur. Switched on the TV. Tuned in that comic news program,
Striscia la Notizia.
Gabibbo, the life-size puppet, put her in a good mood.
I suggested she have a slice of tiramisu. It was her favorite dessert. And the
cook at La Nena did an excellent version of it.

    "Are
you trying to ply me with sweets?" she joked.

    "With
everything. Just to win back your heart."

    She
ate two slices. Washed them down with some aged Marsala. Then she stood up.
"I'm going home."

    "Stay
here, please. Being together will help us get back on track."

    "OK.
Besides, I'm too tired to drive home."

    When
she woke up, I brought her breakfast in bed. Latte macchiato and some
store-bought cookies.

    "I
want to treat you like a princess."

    She
smiled at me. "I have to hurry. Otherwise I'll be late for work."

    "I'll
expect you for lunch."

    At
the osteria I served her linguine al pesto. With lots of parmigiano. Her mood
had improved. Even if she still felt tired. And annoyed by a persistent itch on
her face and hands.

    "Your
body is reacting to the stress of these past few days," I remarked.
"It'll pass soon."

    When
she came back that evening, the itch was worse. It spread to her chest and
groin.

    "Go
to my place. I'll get there as soon as I can. And don't eat too much. Maybe
it's an infection. There's some yogurt in the fridge."

    I
waited about an hour. Then I told the waiters I was worried about my fiancée,
she wasn't feeling well. I asked the oldest guy to take care of the closing
that night.

    When I
entered the house, I noticed the yogurt container on the edge of the armchair.
I picked it up. It was empty. I went into the bedroom. Roberta was lying in
bed. In a nightgown. Motionless. Her face transfigured by the pink wheals of a
serious skin eruption.

    "I
feel sick. Call a doctor."

    "That
doesn't seem necessary," I said.

    She
touched her face. "Oh God," she moaned. "What's happening to me?
"

    I sat
on the edge of the bed. "You're dying, Roberta. You've swallowed an
excessive quantity of aspirin. And you know that acetylsalicylic acid may be
harmful to your health."

    "What
are you saying?"

    "I
put crushed aspirins in all the food you've eaten in the last twenty-four
hours," I explained as I slipped into her bag the box of aspirin I used.
"In the cannelloni, the milk, the parmigiano-"

    "You've
poisoned me."

    "Yes.
I remembered you once told me you were allergic to aspirin. I had an aunt with
the same problem. The thing struck me because, at the time, I couldn't believe a
medicine might kill a person." "Call a doctor, I beg you."

    "It
isn't necessary. My diagnosis is correct."

    "Why
are you killing me?"

    "I
can't let you go around telling people you met Anedda here. Not even that I
went out for a walk the night he was murdered."

    "It
was you?"

    "Yes.
Don't ask me why. Pray instead. From what I could verify today at the library,
according to the international medical literature, you should pop off in a
couple hours at the most."

    She
grabbed her throat. "Help, I can't breathe."

    "It's
the respiratory attack. You're on your way out, bella mia.

    Roberta
fought for life tooth and nail. She started to curse me. Her voice had become
hoarse. And unbearable. I went into the living room and switched on the stereo.
Caterina Caselli's voice filled the house.

    You
need to have a heart so pure

    To
see the heaven that's hidden here

    You
need to love, be ever so sure,

    To
banish every fear

    Roberta,
in the meantime, had turned cyanotic. Blue lips and nails. From the way her
lips were moving, I could tell she was remanding her soul to the Lord. I looked
at the clock. She could die of respiratory insufficiency or cardiovascular
collapse. The important thing was that she be quick about it. As soon as she lost
consciousness, I called the ambulance. And put on my pajamas.

    "I
woke up and found her like this."

    When
they loaded her on the stretcher, she was still alive. But she wouldn't make
it. Too late. I sighed with relief. I was fed up with playing the role of
sweetheart. All that soap-opera mush I'd been forced to say turned my stomach.

    The
autopsy revealed the cause of death. Respiratory insufficiency. The
toxicological tests isolated the substance that produced it. The parents maintained
that never ever would their Roberta have taken acetylsalicylic acid. They were
so convincing a couple carabinieri in plain clothes showed up at my house. The
osteria was closed for mourning.