It only took me a few minutes to get to the Bar Riviera, which was virtually empty at that hour of the afternoon. I went upstairs to the terrace and took a table with an unbroken view of the Adriatic Sea. This was exactly where I used to sit when I was in college. I’d come here with my friends and spend endless, crazy, wonderful afternoons talking.
One of those afternoons in particular surfaced from my memory. We had just finished a seminar in political economics, and after wandering around town for half an hour we ended up at the Riviera. I’m pretty sure that, as usual, we started off talking about girls. Somehow, I’m not sure how, we wandered from that topic to characters from novels—with whom did we identify with most, who would we have most liked to be. Andrea said Athos, Emilio said Philip Marlowe, I said Captain Fracasse, and, lastly, Nicola said that he wanted to be Athos, too. There ensued a lively exchange of views as to which of the two—Andrea or Nicola—had a better claim to play the role of the Comte de la Fère. Andrea pointed out that Nicola—who made excessive use of cologne and aftershave—might realistically hope to be Aramis, but if the truth be told he really was perfect for the role of Milady. This piece of advice raised the volume of the debate, and Nicola allowed that expert testimony as to his personal virility could be provided, in considerable detail, by either Andrea’s mother or his sister.
If I half-closed my eyes I could still hear our voices, rendered up intact and authentic from the archives of my memory. Emilio’s deep tenor, Nicola’s nasal voice, the quick cadence of Andrea’s, occasionally rising to a shrill pitch, and my own voice—which I have never been able to describe. All those voices were there, hovering in the air of that big empty room, reminding me that ghosts exist and wander among us.
That memory could have triggered a bout of sadness. Instead, it gave me a faint, inexplicable sense of excitement, as if the past were suddenly no longer past and instead formed a sort of extended present, simultaneous and welcoming. Sitting in that café, waiting to meet with a coke dealer, I felt for an instant as if my mind had embraced the synchronic mystery of time and memory.
Then the coke dealer arrived, and that odd enchantment vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.
We ordered two cappuccinos and sat silently until the waiter brought them to our table and vanished down the stairs, leaving us alone. Only then did we begin talking.
“So, Damiano?”
“I asked around, and I may have found something.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s a young gay guy I know who sells coke in clubs and discos. Actually, he’s sort of a hybrid dealer/user: Basically, he sells coke to pay for his personal use. He told me that he does know a certain Michele who often has plenty of cocaine. He said that sometimes he bought small amounts from him, and that other times he sold coke to Michele. This is fairly normal between small-time dealers: They go back and forth—when one guy has it he’ll sell to the other, and vice versa.”
“Why do you think this could be the Michele we’re looking for?”
“You told me your Michele is handsome, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“My gay friend said this Michele was a prime hunk of meat. His exact words.”
“Let me guess: The problem is that he doesn’t know his last name.”
“No, he doesn’t, but if we could just show him a picture …”
Right. If we could just show him a picture. I had to stop wasting time and find a way to get that picture. I’d have to call Fornelli. Or maybe, I thought, maybe Caterina could get me a photograph of Michele. That reminded me that I needed to call her to arrange our departure the following day.
“Counselor?”
“Yes?”
“Can I be sure that this guy isn’t going to get in trouble because of the things he’s telling me?”
“You mean this gay friend of yours?”
“Well, he’s not actually a friend, but yes, I mean him.”
“Don’t worry, Damiano. The only thing I care about is finding out what happened to Manuela. You and I never even had this conversation, as far as I’m concerned.”
Quintavalle seemed relieved.
I raised my hand to stop him. Of course I understood his concern perfectly. For someone in his line of work, just asking questions could be dangerous. I thanked him, told him that I’d try to find a picture of Michele and I’d call him when I did. Then we both left the bar and went back to our respective—more and less legitimate—jobs.
I called Caterina on my way back to my office. I told her that I’d reserved an 11:00 A.M. flight to Rome the next morning and that I’d come by and pick her up on my way to the airport at 9:30. I asked her if her address was still the same as the one listed in the transcripts of the interviews with the Carabinieri; she said, yes, that was the address, but to make things easier we could just meet in front of the Teatro Petruzzelli. I felt an unmistakable wave of relief at the idea that I wouldn’t have to go to her house and risk that her mother or father—who were probably more or less the same age I was—might see me, realize that their daughter was consorting with a middle-aged cradle robber, and decide to take drastic steps, possibly involving pipe wrenches or baseball bats or other instruments of dissuasion.
I remembered the picture of Michele just as I was about to hang up.
“Oh, Caterina?”
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of Michele Cantalupi, would you?”
She didn’t answer right away, and if silence can have an intonation, her silence was followed by a big question mark.
“What do you need it for?” she said at last.
“I need to show it to someone. Anyway, we’d better not talk about it on the phone. I’ll explain tomorrow. You think you can find one?”
“I’ll take a look, but I don’t think I have one.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow.”