Temporary Perfections (24 page)

When the huge truck pulled back into the right lane I accelerated and passed it. Caterina lowered her window and gave the driver the finger, holding her hand out until distance must have made it completely invisible. As a rule, I’m opposed to this method of manifesting one’s dissent, especially when the guy driving the other vehicle easily
weighs over two hundred pounds. But in this case, his driving had been so insanely homicidal that I couldn’t really blame Caterina. In fact, I almost did the same.

“What an asshole. I hate those fucking trucks. The drivers would kill you as soon as look at you,” she said.

I nodded, waiting for the adrenaline surging through me to ebb. As often happens in these cases, an idiotic thought had come to mind. If we had been involved in an accident and the police had come, they would have discovered that I was about to fly to Rome with a twenty-three-year-old girl, unbeknownst to anyone. They would have assumed questionable intentions. If I had died in the crash, I would have been unable to tell anyone about the real reasons for that trip, and—in the world’s recollections of me—my death would forever be linked with a tawdry trip with a young woman more than twenty years my junior.

That demented thought brought up an old memory from years earlier.

One of my friends from the eighties and nineties was getting married. He was the first of our group to tie the knot, so we decided to organize a big bachelor party for him. Since it was our first bachelor party, we had no idea how squalid and unseemly the whole business is. Somebody said we should get some hookers or at least some strippers, or it wouldn’t really be a bachelor party worth holding. All—or nearly all—of us agreed, but it turned out that none of us had the contacts, the knowledge, or even the self-confidence to contact hookers or strippers. After further consultation, we changed plans. We’d get some porn films and show them at the party. It was much easier to get porn flicks—and much less awkward. Each of the organizers
managed to get at least one videotape. For reasons that now elude me, I was appointed to transport the batch of pornography to the party location.

I was driving alone in the dark to the restaurant out in the country where the party was going to be held, and it suddenly dawned on me that if I was involved in a crash, I would be found dead in a car full of videocassettes with titles like
Clockwork Orgy, Ejacula, The Sexorcist, Edward Penis-hands, Breast Side Story, Free My Willy
, and
Sperminator
.

I realize that I may give the impression of being completely mentally unbalanced, but I had a sudden powerful urge—that I was barely able to resist—to toss out all the porn tapes so it wouldn’t happen. I imagined my mother and father learning in one fell swoop not only that their son was dead, but that he’d been a professional pervert. I imagined my girlfriend—who would become my wife, and later my ex-wife—learning in a single tragic moment that she had loved a compulsive porn addict. I wouldn’t even be able to apologize, as I’d be dead. The best I could hope for was to end up in purgatory. From there, I’d be forced to watch their suffering, yet unable to do anything to alleviate it.

I swear, every one of these stupid thoughts went through my mind. In the end, I didn’t throw all the porn movies into a ditch, but I did drive the whole way to the restaurant with the speed and caution you might expect from an eighty-year-old nun.

We got to the airport, made it through check-in and security, and found ourselves at the gate with plenty of time to spare. There was no place to hide, so I started to look around
for familiar faces, especially fellow practitioners of the law, who might notice me traveling with a girl half my age and turn it into a prize piece of gossip.

I figured I could reduce the risk by strolling around to look at the shops by myself. Caterina remained seated near the gate, listening to music on her iPod, with an expression that looked like a vacant gaze into a deep void.

I drank an espresso I didn’t really need. With exaggerated interest I examined all the articles in a leather goods store. I bought a couple of newspapers. Finally, I heard the announcement that our flight was boarding, and I walked back unhurriedly.

Caterina was where I had left her, and her expression remained unchanged. When she saw me, though, she smiled, removed her earbuds, and told me to sit down next to her.

“The flight is boarding,” I said, remaining on my feet and picking up my overnight bag.

“Why should we stand in line and wait with everyone else? Let everyone else get seated, and we can just be the last to board.”

No thanks. My natural anxiety keeps me from doing anything so perfectly rational. I prefer to stand in line, for fifteen minutes or even more, ready to catch and scold disapprovingly anyone who tries to slip ahead of me. Lest all the seats fill up, for fear the plane might leave without me.

That’s not what I said, though. I sat down and started leafing through one of the newspapers I’d bought. After a couple of minutes, during which time the line of passengers boarding had not budged an inch, Caterina tapped me on the shoulder. I looked over.

“Do you like hip-hop?”

As she said it, she plucked one of the earbuds from her ear and handed it to me, leaning her head very close to mine. I put the earbud next to my ear, so that my cheek was almost grazing hers. Then the music exploded. It took me about ten seconds to recognize it.

“It’s Mike Patton doing ‘We’re Not Alone,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

She looked at me with an expression of genuine astonishment. The idea that I might know that music, and in fact that song, clearly didn’t fit into her worldview. She was about to say something when someone nearby called my name.

“Guerrieri!”

I looked up and saw, right in front of me—make that right in front of us—the uniform of a policeman, and above that uniform, the face of a man who knew me but whose name I couldn’t conjure up.

I awkwardly got the earbud out of my ear and stood up, grasping the proffered hand and shaking it.

“Are you going to Rome, Counselor?” he asked, looking at Caterina, who had remained seated.

“Yes, apparently they’re boarding the plane now,” I said in the most nonchalant tone of voice I could muster, as I wondered whether I should introduce Caterina and, if so, how I should introduce her. I couldn’t think of a good solution. What could I say? Let me introduce my daughter? Let me introduce my colleague? Let me introduce my latest steamy affair?

“I’m working here at the airport now. I’m with the border police. I left the judicial police. I was exhausted. You can’t work like that your whole life,” said the policeman, continuing to look over at Caterina, who just kept listening
to her music and ignoring him, me, and everything that was happening around her.

“That was a wise decision,” I said, struggling to remember the policeman’s name, but without success.

“Are you traveling for business, Counselor?”

Maybe you should mind your own fucking business, friend. It’s great that we said hello. It’s wonderful that we had a short, polite chat. I’m delighted that you updated me on the latest developments in your career, unasked I might point out, and okay, I can see you eyeing Caterina as if you wanted to have sex with her right here in the airport, but now do you think you could get the hell out of here? Please?

That’s not what I said, however. I told him that, yes, in fact, I was going to Rome on business, and I hoped he would excuse me, but it was time to get in line. Otherwise I might not find room to stow my bag; it looked like this flight was going to be pretty full. I was happy to have run into him, congratulations on his new job, best of luck. I turned and walked over to the boarding line. Unhurriedly, with a smile, Caterina joined me.

The plane was taxiing onto the runway and Caterina finally was obliged to turn off her iPod.

“How do you know about Mike Patton?”

“Why, is that confidential information?”

“Come on, you know what I mean.”

“You mean I’m too old to know about that kind of music.”

“No, but you have to admit it’s not the kind of music people your age listen to. It’s pretty hardcore hip-hop. My parents listen to the Pooh and Claudio Baglioni.”

“How old is your dad?”

“Fifty-two. My mom is forty-nine.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“I have a younger brother. He’s seventeen.”

That information stirred up a series of vague and unsettling thoughts that I rapidly suppressed.

“What did you tell your parents?”

“What do you mean?”

“About this trip.”

“I said I was going to Rome because there was a party tonight. Sometimes I go to Rome for things like that. I decided that it would just be too complicated to explain
everything, so it might be best to avoid a lot of questions. Do you think I did the right thing?”

I ignored the question.

“Tell me about Nicoletta. What’s she like?”

“Anxious and insecure. She’s very pretty, as I told you, but that’s not enough to make her confident. And she can’t seem to make a decision, even about something that’s not important.”

“She’s not like you.”

She was about to say something but then changed her mind and—I’m certain of this—said something else instead.

“Why did you ask me for a picture of Michele yesterday?”

“Did you find one?”

“I found a few group pictures, but none of them are close-ups. You can’t really make out the faces. Why do you need a picture of Michele?”

I hesitated for a moment, but then I realized I couldn’t conceal the reason from her.

“I talked to an old client of mine. He’s a coke dealer, and he works the so-called respectable circles of Bari. I asked him if he had ever heard of someone named Michele in his milieu. He doesn’t know him, but he asked around a little bit, and he found a small-time dealer who might know a guy by that name. To be certain, he needs to show him a photograph.”

“And who are these two coke dealers?”

“Why do you care? I can’t imagine their names will mean anything to you. The important thing is the information they can give us. That is, if it turns out there’s a link to Manuela’s disappearance, of course.”

I realized that I’d answered her sharply, with irritation, more or less the way a policeman answers when someone—a
prosecutor, a lawyer, or a judge—tries to pry the name of a confidential informant out of him. It just isn’t done. Caterina looked at me with a mixture of astonishment and resentment.

“Why are you getting mad?”

“I’m not getting mad. It’s just that there’s no reason for you to know the names of professional criminals. Among other things, I’m a lawyer, and I can always claim attorney-client privilege, but you don’t have that option.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if for any reason, which we can’t even imagine right now, we were questioned about what we’re doing, by the police, by the Carabinieri, or by a prosecutor, I could refuse to answer by invoking attorney-client privilege. But you would have to answer their questions, and you’d have to tell the truth about anything you know concerning crimes and people who may have committed them. Believe me, the less you know, the better.”

I paused for a moment, then added, “And I’m sorry if I sounded a little harsh.”

She seemed about to say something, but then she decided against it and just shrugged.

A short while later, the plane began its descent toward Rome.

We finally got a taxi after standing in a long line. While we were in line, Caterina started talking to me again. She’d been giving me the silent treatment to let me know she was offended, I guess. If she wanted to make me feel guilty for what I’d said to her on the plane, she had succeeded brilliantly.

There were no books in that taxi. Instead, there were decals with Fascist double-headed axes and silhouettes of Il Duce. The taxi driver was a twenty-something with a soul patch, a shaved head, an imperial Roman eagle tattooed on his neck, and a dangling lower lip. I felt a sudden, intense desire to land a few hard punches to his head and face and wipe away his dull-eyed, arrogant expression.

I told Caterina about the taxi driver I had the last time I was in Rome and how he’d learned to love reading. It didn’t seem to make any particular impression on her.

“I don’t really like reading. I rarely find a book that I care much about.”

“Have you read anything lately that you liked?”

“No, nothing recently.”

I was about to push a little further and ask about the last book she had read, even if it wasn’t very recent. Then I realized that I probably wouldn’t like the answer, and decided to drop the subject of reading entirely.

“What do you do in your free time?”

“I really like listening to music. I listen whenever I can, especially on the Internet. I like to go to concerts when I can, and I like to go to the movies. Then I work out at the gym, I see my friends and … oh, I almost forgot the most important one of all: I love to cook. I’m a good cook. I’ll cook for you sometime. Cooking relaxes me. The best thing is if there’s someone else who cleans up after me. But I haven’t asked you anything about yourself. Are you married, do you live with someone, do you have a girlfriend?”

“I could be gay and have a boyfriend or even be living with a guy.”

“That’s impossible.”

“What makes you think that’s impossible?”

“The way you look at me.”

That hit me like a straight-armed slap to the face, a fast one that I hadn’t seen coming. I had difficulty swallowing as I tried to come up with a clever answer. Of course, I couldn’t think of one, so I just pretended I hadn’t heard her.

“No, I’m not married. I used to be, but that ended a long time ago. I don’t have a girlfriend, either; haven’t for a while.”

“What a waste. You don’t have children, either, do you?”

“No.”

“Well, here’s what we’ll do. One evening when we’re back in Bari, you invite me over for dinner. You’ll do the shopping—I’ll tell you what to get, but you’re free to pick the wine—and I’ll cook, but I won’t wash up. Are you in?”