The Goodbye Kiss (18 page)

    I
found Roberta at home. She was waiting for me, reading in an armchair.

    "Where
have you been?"

    "I
had a drink with Brianese at another club."

    "Did
you talk about the hearing?"

    "Yeah.
Not much time now."

    "You
weren't with another woman, were you?"

    "Please,
amore, don't start again."

    She
threw the home-decorating magazine on the table and opened her arms to welcome
me. "Come here."

    I let
her cuddle me. I needed to relax. I closed my eyes and again saw the scene of
Anedda's death. Killing him was necessary. And satisfying. I always liked
murder. Ever since the time I shot my friend Luca in the head in that fucking
Central American jungle. I also wanted to shoot the bull in the head. And not
use the whole clip. I had to do it for fear of missing vital organs. Wounded,
even if seriously, he could still draw his nine caliber and pay me back in
kind. The investigators would certainly think the killer was unskilled and in a
rush. I would've liked them to come upon the work of a pro. A shot in the head
is solemn, like a court verdict. It's justice.

    Two
days later articles about the discovery of Anedda's corpse appeared in the newspapers.
Everybody in town was talking about it. The national TV channels arrived in
troupes. The journalists speculated about international terrorism. But the
media's interest in keeping the story alive didn't match the investigators'.
The cops and judges knew very well they weren't dealing with a state servant
who sacrificed himself in the line of duty. And they didn't have a single shred
of evidence pinpointing a murderer. The people who usually hung around the area
didn't mention anything out of the ordinary. The attention to the case lasted a
couple days, then vanished, swept away by other events. My tension also
vanished. I convinced myself the investigation wouldn't turn up anything
related to me. My plan worked.

    That
night I returned home a little later. I noticed Roberta's bag next to the
phone. An unexpected visit. She'd come down with the flu and preferred to stay
at her parents'. I found her in the living room. In the dark.

    "Do
you feel bad, amore?" I asked thoughtfully.

    She
didn't answer. I switched on the light. Her eyes were puffy from crying. In her
hand was a copy of the town daily. She held it up so I could see Anedda's
photo. My whole world came crashing down on me. Fate continued to torment me.
First Ferruccio the bull. Now my fiancee, suddenly transformed into another
dangerous threat.

    "It's
the man I found in this room a week ago," she said in an accusatory tone.

    "You're
mistaken. Newspaper photos are deceiving."

    "On
television I saw some film clips. It's really him. And the night he was killed
you weren't home."

    "You're
accusing me of the crime?" I asked, as if unwilling to believe it.

    She
started to sob. "I don't know what to think. I'm certain I met this person
here."

    I
acted indignant. "I already told you it wasn't him. Besides, I was with
Brianese when they shot him. If you don't believe me, ask him."

    I
knew she wouldn't dare approach the lawyer to ask him a question like that. My
answer should've calmed her down. But she was still ripped by doubt.

    I
hugged her. "How can you think I'm a murderer? Do you want me to die of
grief?"

    She
squeezed me tight. "I can't believe you're a monster. But you knew that
policeman, and you have a duty to report what you know to the
investigators."

    The blood
froze in my veins. The thing was getting worse. I had to cook up something
else. Otherwise she'd go to the cops and tell them she saw Anedda at my house
forty-eight hours before he was whacked.

    I
took her face in my hands. "Yeah, I knew him," I admitted. "I
was one of his informers. The terrorists are reorganizing, and my experience
proved useful to him. I didn't tell you before because it involves tricky,
secret investigations. But I'm not the one who killed him. Get it into your
head once and for all."

    "One
more reason to clear yourself," she stubbornly insisted. "Your
information can help to capture the murderer and his accomplices."

    "I
can't believe that'll happen. But even if it did, it would mean blowing my
cover, turning myself into a target. I'd have to go into hiding, leave my job,
give up the idea of living with you.

    This
argument threw her civic sense into crisis. Now was the time to lay it on
thick. "In a few days I'll have the chance to remove the stigma of being
an ex-convict. A new life awaits me. A life with you. If I go to the police,
the petition process will be suspended, and who knows how long I'll have to
wait. Don't force me to give you up. I want to marry you. And I want a
child."

    My
soap-opera performance worked. Roberta wept buckets, letting go of every doubt.
I picked up Caterina Caselli's CD. Played "I'll Never See You Again."
Then I took her in my arms and carried her to bed. Whispered sweet words of
love. When she fell asleep, I sighed with relief. For the moment I was out of
danger. But in future? Taken by surprise, I slipped her the wrong lie. I
should've told her I already spoke to the investigators, maintaining my cover
as an informer. Too late now to put it right. My only hope was marriage. To tie
her to me with a knot that can't be untied. Till that moment I'd been firmly
opposed to the religious ritual. As soon as she awoke, I'd tell her I changed
my mind and we'd get married in her parish church. And we wouldn't miss a
single class in the prenuptial course. Ours will be a blessed union. Absolved
from every sin.

    It
was a winning move. My fiancee relaxed and didn't mention the topic of Anedda
again. She went back to busying herself with the preparations for the wedding.
And I made the acquaintance of her confessor, Don Agostino, who was going to
guide us on the path to the sacrament of matrimony. An old priest, sour and
pigheaded. The loathing was mutual from the first time we met. But I was ready
to put up with anything just to lead her to the altar. The day of the hearing
for the rehabilitation arrived. The surveillance judge read out a long report.
He asked me several questions. Then he gave the word to the public prosecutor.

    "I
do not object to granting the benefit." He said no more.

    Brianese
spoke for five minutes. He described my wish for reinstatement in calm,
effective language.

    "How
did it go?" Roberta asked the lawyer when we left the courtroom.

    "Fine.
Now it's just a matter of waiting for the decision. As Giorgio probably
explained to you, the court of surveillance will communicate it in writing.
You'll have to be patient a few more days."

    We
celebrated at La Nena after closing. Because it was convenient. Ten or so
friends and the lawyer. Champagne, terrines of foie gras, a torta. Sante
Brianese began amusing us with courtroom anecdotes. Suddenly I heard Roberta's
voice asking, "What are they saying about the policeman killed in the
parking lot?"

    The
lawyer shrugged. "Next to nothing. The anti-terrorist squad is
investigating, and their lips are sealed. To tell the truth, it's a case I
haven't followed much. The day of the murder I was in Roma for a suit in
appellate court, and when I returned, there was no longer any talk of it."

    Fucked.
That's just how I felt then. I was celebrating the rehabilitation, and my
fiancee was digging my grave with her fucking questions. Roberta was pale; she
stared at me, confused. She remained in this condition till the party ended. We
went home without saying a word to one another. She locked herself in the
bathroom and cried. For the second time in a few days I sank into a state of
absolute desperation. When she calmed down, she'd expect some answers. And
there wasn't a lie in the world that could get me out of this mess. I could
only hope to cut my losses.

    All
of a sudden I found myself in front of her. Her face streaked with mascara.
"Where did you go that night?"

    "Brianese
is mistaken. He always has too much going on. He got confused."

    "Where
did you go?" she shouted.

    "Maybe
I'm the one who's mistaken. I really don't remember. I may have taken a
walk."

    "Where?"
She screamed so loud she turned red in the face.

    I had
one last move to shake off her suspicions. "OK. You asked for it." I
screamed back. "I was with another woman."

    "You
bastard." She attacked me, trying to hit me in the face. "You went to
bed with that whore Martina, didn't you?"

    "No.
I picked up some woman on the street." I hugged her close. "It was
just a fuck. You're the one I love."

    She
got free and ran to lock herself in the bathroom. Ten minutes later she opened
the door. She had washed her face and combed her hair.

    "I
don't want to marry you anymore."

    "What
are you saying?"

    "I
thought you were a different person. But you're just a liar."

    "You're
upset now. You have reason to be, but this isn't the time to make decisions
that can jeopardize our future."

    She
left without listening. I collapsed on the couch. I felt like hitting the bottle
of whiskey, but I needed a clear head. Losing Roberta was no big deal. That was
sure as shit. Our relationship was hanging by a thread, and to go through with
the wedding plans would be plain stupid. I'd start circulating some
not-very-flattering rumors about her. After a while the gossip about our
break-up would die down. Replacing her wouldn't be hard. The real problem was
different. Would she keep her mouth shut about Anedda's murder or blab about it
to her mother, her girlfriends and Don Agostino? The answer was obvious. She'll
have to go into detail about why she called off the wedding, and you can bet
she'll tell how she made me confess my betrayal. Then the meeting with Anedda
at my place will pop out. Somebody'll persuade her to talk to the cops. But she
won't even need to put the police on my trail. A story like that could generate
all kinds of rumors-which will eventually reach the wrong ears. Even if Anedda
was a corrupt cop, his colleagues were still keen to find who filled him with
lead.

    I
weighed the idea of clearing out. I was sitting on a nest egg that'd take me a
long ways away. But I shouldn't have to start all over again. It wasn't right.
Suddenly it dawned on me: I had to kill Roberta. I didn't want to go that far,
but the rule "no witness, no risk" stood out crystal-clear. Still, it
was just as clear I was dealing with a problem that had no quick fix. If she
died violently, suspicion would fall on her fiancé, who was just rehabilitated
but nonetheless had a shady past. She was a nice girl, conscientious about her
job, with a deeply religious outlook on life. In her world, murder wasn't
considered a likely event. No, it was so unusual the police would be obliged to
carry out a serious investigation. If it was a question of a hooker, a junkie,
a vagrant, an illegal immigrant or simply a woman connected to some marginal
character, the news of the murder would take up a paragraph in the dailies and
half a page of a police report. I sized up various possibilities. The most
convincing was passing off the crime as the work of a maniac. But in the end
the cops would still come knocking at my door. No matter how I looked at it, I
remained the principal suspect. I closed my eyes. Thought about her from the
first time I spotted her in the osteria. The memory of a conversation made
something click in my mind. At first I didn't know what. The more I thought
about it, the more precise it grew, and an idea took shape. Then a plan.

    I
woke up earlier than usual. I waited for Don Agostino to finish saying the
seven o'clock mass. I caught up with him on his way to the rectory, followed by
two altar-boys.

    "I
need to talk to you. It's important."

    "I
don't have time this morning," he answered rudely.

    "Something
serious has happened between me and Roberta. Give me a few minutes.
Please."

    He
raised his eyes towards the sky. "Wait for me in my office. I'll be with
you after I change."