Three-Card Monte (9 page)

“How do you write that?” Officer Galan asked.

It's going to be a long day, Massimo thought. Me and my big ideas.

 

At about 7:30 that morning, Massimo had been in the bar with Tiziana, trying to decide what to do with the day. The conference was no longer his problem: the evening before, he had received a phone call from a secretary clearly in a state of panic who had announced to him that the work of the conference had been temporarily suspended by the organizing committee “out of respect for the memory of Professor Asahara,” and that this also included the suspension of the catering service for the breaks in the conference. Out of respect for the memory my ass, Massimo had thought, but had nevertheless considered it wise not to tell the secretary that he knew perfectly well how things stood. Clearly, both inside and outside the conference, there were now those who were in a position to spread the news effectively. In the meantime, though, his week's schedule had all gone to pot.

Having planned to spend his mornings and afternoons at the conference, Massimo had asked Tiziana to come in for the whole week, on overtime pay, and so Tiziana had showed up punctually at seven to take over the bar. Punctually and pointlessly, given that Massimo no longer had any outside commitments and given that, the weather being what it was, it didn't look as if the bar was going to be doing much business anyway. Heedless of the calendar, which boldly showed the date
May 23
, the sky had decided to annoy Pineta and its inhabitants with a nice cold day, the kind of treacherous spring cold that grabs you by the ankles and calves, which are bare of socks because it's supposed to be summer, and had compounded the insult with one of those dull, persistent drizzles that seem not so much to wet you as to anoint you, not strong enough to make you take an umbrella, but just strong enough to form puddles in which, walking quickly because of the cold, you inevitably end up sooner or later. Be that as it may, since you can curse the sky as much as you want but you can't change it, what you have to change is your day's schedule, and this was what Massimo had started to discuss with Tiziana.

“If you want to rest, I can stay in the bar,” Tiziana had said. “Seeing as I'm here. I think one person will be more than enough today.”

“No, thanks, I don't need to rest,” Massimo had said. “The fact is, I have nothing to do. I organized things so that I could work here and at the conference. Now there's nothing happening at the conference, and as for the bar, you're right, it's quite likely there'll be nobody coming in. But if I'm going to twiddle my thumbs, I prefer to do it in the bar rather than at home.”

After a brief silence, a sly gleam had come into Tiziana's eyes. “Listen, Massimo,” she had said, “if you really want to be here, I have a proposition to make. In the interests of the bar.”

“I'm listening,” Massimo had replied, wondering how likely it was that Tiziana was about to propose coming to work topless.

“I've been working here for four years, right?”

Oh, God. She wants a raise.

“Now, don't get offended, but in the four years I've been here this place hasn't changed one bit. The same walls, the same pictures, the big-screen TV over there, the tables there . . . Don't you ever get bored?”

I don't know, Massimo had thought, letting his eyes wander around the bar. I don't think so.

“Anyway, I was thinking it wouldn't be a bad thing to freshen it up a bit. Paint a couple of the walls a nice color, maybe with a sponging effect or something like that. Put up some nice reproductions or some nice photographs, put some nice curtains on the windows. Something to make the place a bit more cheerful. Don't misunderstand me, I don't mean it's dirty or badly maintained, but on a day like today anyone coming in would look at the place, see the old codgers, and wonder what time the funeral starts.”

Massimo had looked around. On closer inspection, it did indeed seem that Tiziana might not be entirely wrong. The fact was, there were things that Massimo really didn't pay attention to until they were pointed out to him, and so he had never noticed the fact that the inside of the bar was starting to look a tad stale.

“So, tell me, Miss Architect,” Massimo had said. “What would you change?”

“Well, it really wouldn't need much,” Tiziana replied, smiling with all thirty-two of her teeth and starting to look a little overexcited. “First of all, two of the walls should be in color. I'd make one yellow, it gives a feeling of light, and one to match the counter and the floor. Of course, I'm not sure what would match that slate-gray floor, but I'll think about it. Then I'd put up three or four reproductions, I really like the ones printed directly on canvas, but the ones you get around here are crap, maybe a few nice black and white photographs would be better, something like Mapplethorpe, I don't know if you know the kind of thing I mean. One here, one there, two here, maybe a bit out of line, to give more of a sense of movement, otherwise it'll look too much like an exhibition and that wouldn't be right. Before anything else, we have to get rid of the two monstrosities hanging there, we can put a curtain or a Venetian blind over the big window, that should make us look more decent from the street. If it's O.K. with you, I'll have a look around today, and then tomorrow we're closed anyway so I can come in and arrange everything. What do you think?”

Help. I've unleashed a monster.

Massimo had again let his eyes wander around the bar before coming to rest on what Tiziana had called “the two monstrosities”: a framed page from a newspaper showing the Torino soccer team, with the caption “1942-1949: Only Fate Could Beat Them,” and a front-page from the
Gazzetta dello Sport
, dated December 5, 1993, announcing a record jackpot on the pools. Thanks to a biunivocal correspondence between that Sunday's results and the ones written by Massimo on the coupon, our hero had come into possession of part of that jackpot, as a result of which he had said goodbye to mathematics, his doctorate, and an uncertain future, and had bought the bar.
His
bar and nobody else's. At least, that was what he had thought at the beginning. First, it had been invaded by the veterans of the Alpine brigades, and now even Tiziana was throwing a monkey wrench in the works.

“What can I say? I don't know. I can't picture it.”

“But do you like it?”

“Tiziana, I just told you I can't picture it. You sound like my grandmother, who used to ask me if I liked the soup even before I'd tasted it.”

“All right, then? Will you let me do it?”

The moment of decision. To be honest, she was kind of right. Why not?

At that moment, the telephone had rung, and Massimo had gone to answer it.

“Good morning, Bar Lume.”

“Hello, is that the Bar Lume?” It was the familiar voice of Officer Galan.

“Yes, it's still the Bar Lume, just as it was before. Why don't you trust me?”

A moment's silence.

“Pineta Police Station here. Inspector Fusco would like to speak with you. I'm putting you through. Please hold on.”

“Hello, Signor Viviani? Am I disturbing you?”

Am I disturbing you?
What's happening? Politeness, from Fusco? Come on, let's respond in kind. He deserves it.

“No, Dr. Fusco, please go ahead.”

“I have an enormous favor to ask you. First, though, I need to check something. I've been told you speak English fluently. Is that right?”

What now? For a moment, Massimo had seen himself sitting at a desk, in the company of Fusco as a child in a blue smock, though already with a mustache, and reciting, “Lesson number one. Listen and repeat. The book is on the table, and the pencil is on the book.”

Recovering, he replied, “Yes, it is.”

“Good. Could you join me at the station? I really need you urgently. I repeat, this is a favor I'm asking. I can't force you. But—”

“Don't worry, it's no problem. I'll be right there. At least it's something to do.”

Hanging up, Massimo had seen the disconsolate look on Tiziana's face: she had clearly grasped the fact that the phone call had turned her from an architect back into a barmaid.

“Do you want me to stay here?” she had said, in a voice that seemed to repaint the whole day gray.

Massimo hadn't had the heart to say yes. “No, it isn't necessary. In a while, the retirement home will be here. You can leave Aldo in charge, especially since nobody will be coming in this weather anyway.”

“So can I do what I said?” she had asked, once again emboldened.

“Of course. Listen, I give you carte blanche. There are only two things I'm going to veto. No curtains or blinds. There are already people who mistake this bar for a nursing home, I don't want them to start thinking it's a brothel too. And you're not to touch what you call ‘the two monstrosities.'”

“Couldn't we at least move them?”

“Maybe. But they stay on the walls. Right, I'm off. See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Yes, bwana. See you tomorrow. And thanks.”

 

Immediately on arriving at the police station, he had been shown into the inspector's office, which contained, apart from the Representative of Law and Order himself, a man of about sixty and a slightly younger woman, blonde and very thin, who was sitting on the edge of her chair, throwing all her weight onto the balls of her feet, the muscles of her legs tensed as if she were ready to get up at any moment. The man, on the other hand, was resting against the back of his chair with his hands folded over one thigh, although the constant drumming of his index fingers betrayed a certain nervousness. Both men had gotten to their feet when Massimo entered, while the woman had remained on the starting blocks, merely turning her head in a brave but unconvincing attempt at a smile.

“Good morning, Signor Viviani,” Fusco said. “Let me introduce Professor Marchi and Signora Ricciardi. The professor is the scientific organizer of the conference, and Signora Ricciardi is the head of the organizing committee.”

Professor Marchi identified himself with a nod of the head and a “Good morning” uttered in a cordial if slightly shrill voice.

“I sent for you,” Fusco resumed when Massimo had sat down, “because we have a problem. As you may recall, a Japanese professor who was a guest at the conference died suddenly two days ago. Now”—Fusco was looking closely at Massimo, trying to make sure that Massimo wasn't going to let slip the fact that he already knew the whole story—“we have a problem.”

“Go on,” Massimo replied, reassuring Fusco with a movement of the head that he hoped was imperceptible, or incomprehensible, to the other two.

“Unfortunately, the doctor was unable to issue a death certificate. In fact, certain elements have come to light that clearly indicate that the professor's death cannot be ascribed to natural causes. All this makes it necessary to open an official investigation,” Fusco said, making his voice a touch harsher on the word “necessary,” as if to implicitly remind everyone in the room that he was merely doing his duty and that if chemists murdered each other at conferences it wasn't his fault.

Professor Marchi nodded to show that he had understood. “Necessary, but not painless,” he said, in that shrill voice that clashed a little with his elegant and nonchalant air and his thick beard streaked with gray. “In other words, from the way things have been presented by Inspector Fusco, we realize that an investigation is necessary. And we agree with it. At the same time, we find ourselves in a difficult position. I'm sure you understand,” Marchi said in the amiable tone of a person accustomed to not having to raise his voice in order to be listened to. “We're running a conference, which means implicitly that we are responsible for our guests.” A pause, to let his listeners absorb the concept. “It has already been quite distressing to learn of the death of one of them. Now we are told that there is a possibility that another one may be arrested. And that disturbs us, insofar as we are, as I've said, responsible for our guests.”

“Nobody mentioned any arrests,” Fusco said, drumming with his pencil on the desk. “But we do find ourselves having to question people. I thought it only good manners to call you here and warn you in advance, rather than present you with a fait accompli. I'm perfectly well aware that the situation is unusual. In fact, and I beg you to believe me, from my point of view it's a disaster. To sum up the situation, I'm faced with the need to question a large number of people who are potential witnesses. Most of these people will leave the conference and Italy on Saturday, which means that I have three days to question them, because there's no way I can put two hundred people in custody, let alone force them to stay in the country. Once everyone has been questioned, I should ideally be able to establish what happened and, if there has indeed been a crime, to identify the culprit and make an arrest.”

Fusco slowed down the rhythm of his drumming, looked at the two academics, then resumed:

“But let's be honest. Given the situation, and given the time limit, it's very unlikely I'll be able to discover what happened, and I don't have the slightest hope of being able to arrest anyone. What concerns me, I want to make this quite clear, is to do things as best as I possibly can and not make glaring errors. I don't want to be criticized or reprimanded as far as form goes, because, I repeat, as far as substance goes, I can't guarantee a result. On the contrary. I think I can assure you that, whatever happens, we don't have the slightest chance of obtaining a result.”

Fusco put down his pencil and looked at Massimo. God, it's down to me. I think I already got the idea, but let's hear it.

“Now this is where we are. As I said, there isn't much time and I have to make some choices. In theory, there are 226 people I should question. Most of them don't speak Italian. For that reason, I need interpreters. I asked Police Headquarters in Pisa for help, but they flatly refused. I also approached Florence, and they may send me one person tomorrow. It's not enough. I need outside help, and I can't use any of the conference delegates, since theoretically they're all possible suspects. That's why I need you, Signor Viviani, to be my interpreter for the first part of the interviews. Are you willing to do that?”