As I was turning over these ideas about pipe smokers and beachball players, it occurred to me that I must really be a lot better if I had regained a little of my healthy intolerance.
At that moment there entered my field of vision a young black man with goods of all sorts hung on a kind of flexible rod balanced on one shoulder and in a large, tattered bag hanging half open. He was wearing a colourful ankle-length kaftan and a little drum-shaped hat. I stopped with my feet in the water for several seconds before I realized why I was looking at him.
When it had dawned on me, without having any particular aim in view, I decided to pay some attention to the way he worked and moved around the beach. Naturally I had no precise idea in mind. It occurred to me for a moment to ask him if he knew Abdou. But I dropped that and confined myself to watching him.
He seemed perfectly at home as he moved among the deckchairs and the towels stretched out on the sand. At almost regular intervals he gave a wave to one of the women on the beach, and they waved back. One of them called to him from a distance, but I didn’t grasp the name. He turned and went up to her, smiling, dumped his stuff on the sand, shook hands and began talking. Obviously I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was clear from his gestures that he was describing his wares. He stayed there more than five minutes, and in the end the woman bought a handbag. He resumed his round and I continued to follow him. With my eyes at first, but then on foot, keeping about twenty paces behind him. The scene I had witnessed was repeated several times in the course of half an hour. For no
particular reason I decided to pass close by him, to get a look at him and then go away, because I’d had enough of spying on him. And just when I was close, walking beside him near enough to touch, I heard a shrilling sound inside his bag. He stopped and drew out an old Motorola mobile with the volume evidently turned full up.
He said
pronto
like the blacks in third-rate movies, that is
brondo
. Exactly like that. I thought that if he’d been Chinese he’d have said
plonto
. It wasn’t a very brilliant thought, but it was precisely what passed through my mind at that moment.
The conversation was short and took place in Italian. That is, Italian of a sort.
Yes, he was working. On the beach, friend. Quite much people. Yes, friend, at Monopoli, beaches of Capitolo. He could come tomorrow, tomorrow morning. All right, friend. Ciao.
He switched off the phone and resumed his round. I stayed where I had knelt on the sand to listen to the call. An idea had just occurred to me.
And I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before.
27
“Don’t you see, Guido, this is the best time of our lives. We can do whatever we like.”
“Excuse me, but in what sense?”
“Sod it, Guido, you of all people. Since you’ve been alone you’ll have gone from one screw to another with no problems. And you ask me in what sense.”
“Ah, from one screw to another,” I said noncommittally.
“Come off it, Guido, what the fuck’s got into you? We haven’t met for a year, maybe more, and you tell me nothing.”
I was walking rather slowly towards the law courts, carrying two heavy briefcases containing the material I needed for the hearing. My friend Alberto had some trouble in keeping up with me, on account of being overweight and his sedentary life. We had met in the street, after more than a year. He had just turned forty, with two children and a wife who had grown fat and bad-tempered.
He owned a law firm – inherited from his father – that worked for banks and insurance companies and made a load of money. His favourite topic was
screwing
. To judge from his talk, he was a real specialist.
As a boy he had been a great charmer. One of those who is funny by nature, who always swore blue murder and made everybody laugh. But
everybody
. Because the way he did it, you just couldn’t help laughing. He was someone who ought to have done a different job,
maybe then he would have been happy, or something like it. Instead he had become a lawyer. Over the years the comic side of him had disappeared, along with his hair and everything else worth while. Alberto still swore but – I thought that morning – it had been a long time since he had made anyone laugh. He was a desperate man, even if he didn’t know it.
“There’s nothing to tell you, Alberto. I’m not going out with anyone.”
“What, now that you’re alone and can do what the fuck you like?”
“Yes. Life’s an odd thing, isn’t it?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone queer, eh?” And off he went, telling me about someone I ought to have known, or at least remembered. I didn’t remember him, but I didn’t tell Alberto. This fellow I didn’t remember – a certain Marco – was married and even had a son. At a certain point his wife had noticed a thing or two and become convinced that he had someone else. She had put a private eye on to him, and this operative had done a good job. He had discovered the intrigue and all about it. There was just one little problem. The fellow didn’t have a girlfriend, he had a boyfriend. A butcher by trade.
“Don’t you see, Guido, fuck it. His wife thought he was a dirty old man who was screwing some young chick and instead he was getting himself buggered by a butcher. Get that, Guido. A butcher. Perhaps he brought him horsemeat sausages for a snack ... Don’t tell me you’ve gone queer and get yourself buggered by, well, let’s say a grocer?”
I assured him I had not gone queer and tried not to get buggered by anyone, within the bounds of possibility.
We reached the entrance to the law courts. Time for
goodbye and each to his own work. We absolutely must meet one evening along with the rest of the gang. He said some names that faintly rang a bell. For a pizza or perhaps a good game of poker. Of course, a real reunion. Yes, we’ll call each other this week or next at the outside. Ciao, Guido, fucking hell it’s done me good to see you. Ciao, Alberto. Me too.
He disappeared towards the lift up to the fifth floor, where the civil courtrooms were. I stood there watching him, thinking that in some far distant place lost in the mists of time we two had been friends. Really friends.
The very thought was beyond belief.
Farewell, Alberto, I wanted to say. And I did say it, quietly, but audibly enough for anyone who happened to be close by at that moment.
But no one was.
Before the hearing started I had a word with Abdou. I had to find out whether the idea that had come to me on the beach made sense and could be followed up.
It could. Perhaps we had one further chance, but I did my best to repress any enthusiasm. When you get an idea that seems perfectly brilliant it usually doesn’t work, I told myself. In which case it’s a let-down for you.
As had happened all too often. But not often enough to make me accept it.
Margherita arrived on the dot of half-past nine. She greeted me with a smile from the public benches. I beckoned to her to come and sit near me. She shook her head and gestured with both hands as if to say she was all right where she was. I went up to her.
“You look very fine in your robe,” she said.
“Thanks. Now come and sit next to me. You’ve done your law exams, so it’s permitted.”
She gave a short laugh.
“If it comes to that, I’m even a member of the Bar Association. My father never gave up and went on paying the dues for me year after year. If I want to, I can start practising law at any moment.”
“Excellent. Then come and sit by me. If you want to see how this trial is going, that’s the best place to see it from.”
She nodded agreement and came and sat on my right. I was glad to have her there. It gave me a sense of security.
We began with the police doctor. He confirmed what he had written in the autopsy report. He said that the boy’s death had been caused by suffocation. He could not be more precise, because the causes of suffocation could be many. The boy had not been strangled, because there was no trace of the pertinent injuries. But he could have been smothered with a pillow, or by blocking his nose and mouth, or else suffocated by being kept in a very restricted space, such as the boot of a car. It was also possible – scientific literature cited several cases of the kind – that the suffocation had taken place during violent oral intercourse.
However, there were no signs of sexual violence and search for seminal fluid had given negative results. When his body was recovered, the boy was fully dressed in the clothes he had been wearing when he disappeared.
When thrown into the well the boy was already dead, because there was no water in the lungs.
I had no particular interest in cross-examining the doctor. I confined myself to getting him to state more clearly that the references to oral violence were merely
the fruit of his conjectures, and that there were no objective data from which it could be inferred that that form of sexual violence – or any other – had in fact been used on the child.
After the police doctor the prosecution called Sergeant-Major Lorusso, second-in-command of the operations unit in Monopoli. Of the investigators, he was the most important witness. The reports of the main investigations had nearly all been drafted by him. I had come across him in other trials, and knew that he was a hard nut to crack. He looked like a clerk or a teacher, with glasses, thin fairish hair, and off-the-peg jacket and tie. At first sight he looked innocuous enough. But his eyes, if one managed to see them behind his spectacles, were cold and intelligent. Previously he had worked in the organized crime department in Bari, then he was involved in a story of violence inflicted on a suspect, along with a captain and another non-commissioned officer. They were all transferred, and Lorusso himself spent two years training recruits. For a cop like him that was a fitting punishment.
The examination conducted by Cervellati lasted more than an hour. The witness told of the searches for the boy, of how they had come to identify the witnesses; he spoke of Abdou’s arrest, the searches of his lodgings, everything.
It was a clear and effective deposition. Sergeant-Major Lorusso was someone who knew his onions.
Counsel for the civil party, as usual, had no questions. What the prosecution did in this case was always all right with him. Then the judge called on me.
“Good morning, Sergeant-Major.”
“Good morning, Avvocato.” He answered without looking in my direction. He was sharp enough to know that my cordiality was aimed entirely at the jury.
Leave off the tomfoolery, Avvocato, and let’s see what you can do. That is what was behind his “good morning”. So be it, I thought.
“Would you repeat the nature of your appointment?”
“I am second-in-command of the operations unit in Monopoli.”
“And what was your previous appointment?” I might as well get down to the knuckle at once, I thought.
“What has that got to do with it, Avvocato?”
Touché.
“Would you please tell the court the nature of your previous appointment?”
He hesitated a moment, seemed about to glance at Cervellati, then set his jaw briefly and finally answered.
“I was an instructor to the Carabinieri Cadet Battalion at Reggio Calabria.”
“Not a position in the criminal police, if I understand rightly.”
“No.”
“And before that?”
At this point Cervellati intervened.
“Objection, Your Honour. I do not see the relevance of the sergeant-major’s previous appointments to his deposition.”
The judge turned to me.
“Avvocato, what is the relevance of the witness’s previous appointments to this trial?”
“Your Honour, I need to ask these questions for purposes as under Article 194 sub-section 2 of the procedural code. The answers, as will become clear in due time, are of use to me in assessing the reliability of the witness.”
The judge was silent for a moment, then the associate judge said something in his ear. At last, after another pause, he gestured to me to go ahead.
“So then, Sergeant-Major, what was your appointment previous to being an instructor of recruits?”
While I was asking this, Lorusso turned towards me for an instant and gave me a glare of hatred. I was about to do something not often done. I was about to violate the tacit pact of non-aggression that exists during trials between defence counsel and cops. He had realized this. If he ever got a chance, he’d make me pay for it. For sure.
“I was attached to the operations unit of the operations department in Bari, first section, organized crime.”
“That is, the unit comprising the best investigators in the whole province. So if I have understood rightly you were transferred from a position in the front rank to that of ... of an instructor of recruits in Reggio Calabria. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Was this a normal occurrence or was there some particular reason?”
I didn’t much like what I was doing, but I had to shake his calm before going on to what really interested me.
“Avvocato, you know very well why they transferred me, and that I emerged from that business without a stain on my character.”
“Would you tell us what business that was?” My tone was one of false cordiality. Perfectly odious.
The judge intervened, this time without waiting for the prosecution.
“Avvocato, take care not to abuse the patience of the court. Come to the point.”
“Sergeant-Major, can you tell us why you were transferred to Reggio Calabria?”
“Because a crook caught red-handed in the possession of a kilo of cocaine with intent to peddle it, with a
police record three pages long, had accused me, a captain and another NCO of having beaten him up. We were all three acquitted and that gentleman got ten years for drug trafficking. Will that do?”