Standing motionless in the narrow passageway between two buildings in utter ruin, Brigadier Raffaele Maione scrutinized several young men sitting outside the Osteria del Campiglione. To keep from being noticed, he’d left the automobile some distance away and had moved stealthily to that observation point.
His mind went back to the brief conversation he’d had with the doctor before setting out. Modo had joined him in the hospital courtyard, and they’d stood talking, battered by the chilly wind that was already sweeping away the old year and which would soon, just a few hours from now, usher in the new year. Modo’s lab coat was spattered with blood and his face was marked by unspeakable weariness; his snowy white hair was tousled and messy. His eyes, ravaged by grief, were empty of the wit and spirit that distinguished them; this was yet another crime that whoever had beaten poor Lina so mercilessly would have to answer for.
The doctor had spoken in no uncertain terms. He had come to the same conclusions as the policeman, but absolutely insisted that no arrest be forthcoming. He had mentioned the unfortunate woman’s unshakable determination, expressed clearly before she lost consciousness; now the reason for her words had become eminently understandable. As he sadly took a drag on his cigarette, Modo had told Maione that he of all people could grasp the reason for that request. He had then explained that he was every bit as reluctant as Maione to let that beating go unpunished, but it was unfortunately not up to them to make that decision.
Maione had objected vehemently: he was still a public official and, having become aware of a crime, he could hardly turn a blind eye. A violent act of assault and battery, moreover, demanded punishment as the law prescribed.
The doctor had replied firmly and grimly, reminding Maione of the terms they’d established when he’d asked for his help and had shared important and confidential information with him. Therefore, if Maione recognized the bonds of friendship that linked them, he was honor-bound to respect his wishes, which in fact happened to be Lina’s wishes: a mother who, via the person of someone dear to her, was asking a favor of a father. No request could be more sacred than this.
In spite of his instincts, Maione had been forced to agree. As he left the hospital, however, he’d felt a seething pool of rage bubbling up inside him, so much so that, instead of returning home to enjoy a nice, hot slice of the onion pizza that Lucia had made to snack on while awaiting dinner, he’d instead headed straight to the garage at police headquarters, where a pair of mechanics were busy repairing the damage to the bodywork of the Fiat 501, accompanied by a string of furious curses. The two mechanics had detected something distinctly discouraging lurking in the brigadier’s eyes, and had preferred to make no objections when Maione had demanded the use of the vehicle.
And so now Raffaele was at the Masseria del Campiglione, sheltered from the breeze that was kicking up clouds of dust all along the wide road, staring at those young thugs, brutal beaters of women, as they laughed wildly, in all likelihood already tipsy even though it was still many hours until midnight. Every time he wondered what he was doing there, he gave himself the same, irrefutable answer, quite suitable when it came to allaying any doubts he might feel.
He crossed the street, heading straight for the little group.
The thugs elbowed each other and darted looks in Maione’s direction to alert the others. There were four of them, they were young, and they thought they were stronger and meaner than anyone else they were likely to encounter; they were about to encounter a bastard cop from the city police, the sort of person they despised above anyone else on earth; what’s more, this reviled denizen of the halls of justice had been so reckless as to show up, unaccompanied, on their own home territory. Two of them furtively caressed the knives that lurked, unseen, in their pockets. And they exchanged smiles.
When he arrived at their little table, Maione said: “Good afternoon, guagliu’. Which one of you is Camillo?”
The four young men slowly rose to their feet. The youngest of the group, a handsome fellow with a light complexion and fair hair, asked: “Why? Who wants to know?”
The policeman pretended to take no notice of the bold response.
“I’m Brigadier Maione from Royal Police Headquarters.”
To his left, one of the other three let out a faint raspberry. Keeping his eyes on the fair-haired young man, Maione let fly with an open-handed smack and caught the one who’d made the rude noise full in the face, knocking a couple of incisors out of his mouth and laying him out flat on the ground, blood oozing from his face.
The remaining two pulled their knives, ready for a brawl, but Raffaele was too fast for them. He grabbed them both by the collars and slammed their heads together, making a sound like cracking walnuts. Their bodies slumped to the ground, stunned.
It had all unfolded in the space of a handful of seconds, during which time Maione’s calm and seemingly sleepy eyes never wavered from the eyes of the young man, whose expression rapidly shifted from insolence to astonishment and then to pure terror.
The young man looked down at his companions, now rolling on the ground and moaning in pain. The one who’d been hit first held his hand over his bloody mouth. He tried to get to his feet but fell back to the ground; then he got up and vanished at a dead run.
Maione spoke calmly: “I’m going to ask you for the last time: Are you Camillo?”
The other man nodded, taking a step back. The brigadier lifted his fist and the man froze in place, as if obeying a direct order.
Raffaele went on, softly: “Again, I’m not going to ask you twice. Tell me what happened, calmly but without stopping. And don’t try to lie to me: I give you my word I wouldn’t hurt you, but I’m still making up my mind if I feel like keeping that promise.”
Camillo gulped. When he finally spoke, his voice came out in a falsetto: “Matteo, my friend, the one who ran awa . . . who left, was in the city fifteen days ago. He helps his uncle, and sometimes he goes to construction sites to unload building material. A bricklayer took him to a . . .”
Midway through that sentence, thinking he could take Maione by surprise, he whirled around and tried to take to his heels. The brigadier’s arm, as if endowed with a mind of its own independent of the motionless body to which it was attached, shot out at lightning speed, snatched the would-be fugitive up by the collar of his jacket, hoisted him into the air without apparent effort, forcing him to pirouette on his toes, and then returned him to the exact spot he had just attempted to flee.
“Guaglio’, let me give you some advice. Finish what you were telling me, and maybe you’ll come out of this in one piece. Maybe. If you try that again, things will not go well for you. Nod your head if you understand.”
The young man confirmed with a vigorous nod of the head, as he massaged his neck.
“They went to the brothel, and he saw my . . . She comes here when she can, but my grandfather sends me away, he doesn’t want me to meet her. I’d never understood why, but Matteo explained to me. Can you imagine, Brigadie’? My mother is a whore! The others said that . . .”
One of the two young men still lying on the ground, not yet fully conscious, tried to reach out for the knife that had skidded close to him. Again, without losing his composure, Maione lifted one boot and slammed it down hard on the young man’s hand. There was the sound of dry sticks breaking, and the young criminal screamed.
The brigadier went on as if nothing had happened: “Go on, if you please.”
Staring in horror at his friend who was desperately clutching his fractured fingers, Camillo hastened to reply: “They wanted to punish her, Brigadie’, and I was ashamed of being the son of a brothel whore. How could I take that? If they hadn’t found out . . . But now that everyone knew, what could I do?”
The brigadier replied in a tone that almost sounded empathetic: “Your mamma is always your mamma, guaglio’. Still, just maybe, the doctor is right: to go on living with the knowledge of what you’ve done to the only person in the world who cares for you is a sufficient punishment, for someone like you.”
And with that, Maione turned and headed toward his car. Then he had a second thought and turned on his heel. With a wide wheeling motion of his arm, he described a semicircle in the air: this terrible backhanded smack split Camillo’s lip open and knocked him back a yard through the air.
“I just thought you might need a little reminder. Happy ending, and happy beginning.”