Morning
HE HAD BEEN BACK at work for a little over a month. It was a peaceful time. No one mentioned the shooting or the crimes. By now they were in hands of the public prosecutor’s office and the killers were in prison. Vasile’s accomplices, Hagi’s four employees who had traded Nadia for a vehicle to use for a robbery, were dead. Camarà’s killer was an unknown motorcyclist who had argued with him at the entrance to Bella Blu. There was no connection between the two cases. And even less of a connection between ENT and the secret intelligence service.
Balistreri was living with Linda, but also without her. With love, but no sex. He did things he had never done before, such as fixing a leak under the kitchen sink, watching a detective film on television, and attempting to play golf. He spent a whole Sunday in Linda’s garage, getting oil and grease all over himself, trying to repair her old moped.
In the lazy days of summer, enthusiasm for the Italian national soccer team was reaching a fever pitch. There was a growing excitement in the air. Italy’s march toward the World Cup final in Berlin was as unexpected and all-consuming as it had been twenty-four years earlier. There were Italian flags on balconies, and every evening the center was blocked by crazy traffic as Italians drove around rejoicing. In offices, churches, and hospitals and on the streets, the talk was of nothing else. Only “national” dishes were being served in bars and restaurants: salads of tomato, mozzarella, and lettuce, or watermelon, honeydew, and kiwi. The country chose to ignore Lombardy’s talk of secession and dedicate its allegiance once more to the flag. In the hazy heat of a scorching July, Italians were caught up in their team’s adventures on German soil.
Even politics and the great disagreement with foreign residents had been put on the back burner in the newspapers, on television, and in conversation. Indeed, many foreigners—some from conviction, others out of pure opportunism—had become Italian supporters, making a great deal of money selling counterfeit national team shirts on every street corner. People hugged each other in the celebrations after the games. No one could give a damn about killings anymore.
In the middle of the morning, Balistreri and Dioguardi were talking on the phone.
“While the match is on and the city center’s empty, let’s take Linda and Margherita for a nice long stroll,” Balistreri suggested.
“Margherita really wants to watch the final. Everyone’s going to Alberto’s house. Your brother tells me he’s even convinced Linda we should come. Apparently they all think we’re antisocial.”
“Then the two of us can go for a walk and they can join us later. Italy’s going to lose. The center will still be deserted later.”
“We’re going to win, Michele, and Margherita and Linda will be out celebrating with everyone else.”
“Linda would never go out celebrating, Angelo.”
“Okay, but if Italy does win, it’s going to take Linda three hours to get home from Alberto’s.”
They both had a sense of déjà vu, yet they both studiously avoided the subject. They had never spoken again of that night in 1982, but they’d both lost interest in soccer afterward. Together they came to the only possible solution: a walk through the deserted city center, and after the game another walk if Italy lost, or a strategic retreat to Linda’s little terrace if the team won. Just the two of them.
. . . .
For Giovanna Sordi, it had been a Sunday morning the same as all the others for the past twenty-four years. The eight-thirty tram to Verano cemetery, because Sunday was the day she brought fresh flowers: tulips for Elisa’s romantic heart, red carnations for Amedeo’s socialist one. A brief moment of silence without tears and then she recited, “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,” in a whisper: twenty-four times for Elisa, ten for Amedeo. Then the tram again to the old house on the outskirts where she still lived. Midday Mass at the local parish church, and then confession, with no sins to list, just the usual plea, the one that the old priest no longer even heard and for which he granted absolution without penance.
Lord, at least tell me who did it.
Evening
Strolling through the center of Rome, they felt as if they were on the moon. Even innocent tourists who had never seen a soccer game in their lives had gathered in the squares where the final was being shown on enormous screens. Down the deserted streets, the total silence was broken by collective roars. It was impossible to ignore the game’s progress completely, the result in the balance, the beginning of extra time. Along with the sounds, Michele Balistreri and Angelo Dioguardi were accompanied by an emotion that had nothing to do with the game. They walked along without saying a word, and the more they walked the more the memory wormed its way in gradually, subtly, inexorably. It grew very slowly, soft as a heavy snow fall on a winter’s evening. For almost two hours they wandered around without exchanging a single word, surrounded by the historic center’s overwhelming, incomparable, and silent beauty.
By the time the game reached the decisive shoot-out, they stood pale and exhausted outside the front door of Linda Nardi’s apartment building. In the silence, as millions of people held their breath, they lit cigarettes and traveled back twenty-four years. Balistreri and Dioguardi hurried up the staircase while the crazy crowds rushed onto the streets. They took refuge on Linda’s terrace while the joy spread around them.
During an uproar like this, a monster cut Elisa Sordi to pieces while we couldn’t give a damn.
Balistreri heard a whistling sound close by and turned to see the fireworks display. A line of white was running directly up into the sky; at any moment it would explode in a thousand colors. Instead, it reached a point in the sky, couldn’t manage to go any higher, and fizzled out.