Deputy Captain Giorgio Pisanelli briefly rings the doorbell, as always, before unlocking the door. Honey, I’m home, he calls.
A rush to the bathroom, just in the nick of time, belt, zipper, he heaves a sigh of relief; but the trickling spray dies out almost immediately, it felt like ten gallons, he thought he wouldn’t make it. Instead, barely as much as a single shot of vending-machine espresso, maybe less.
He washes his hands. Today, at the office, he must have gone to the bathroom twenty times. He wonders if anyone noticed. But in there everyone’s busy minding their own business. Just as well.
You know, my love, he says, the new guys arrived today. They’re not bad. Certainly, we knew that the Bastards were going to be replaced with discards from the other precincts; people that, for one reason or another, nobody wanted anymore. But I expected worse. I really expected worse.
He moves without turning on the lights, in an apartment he knows by heart.
Now he’s in the kitchen, making a light cup of tea. He ought to eat dinner, but he isn’t hungry. He speaks in a low voice, toward the bedroom.
One of them, my love, actually comes from Sicily. Do you remember, that time we went to see the tragedies performed in Siracusa? It was Aeschylus. You were very critical, but actually the actors weren’t bad at all. But he’s not from Siracusa, I think he’s from Agrigento. He looks Asian, he has almond-shaped eyes and his expression never changes: one of his ancestors must be Chinese. But I think he’s good at his job.
He takes off his jacket. He arranges it on the back of a chair, what’s the point of hanging it in the closet, he’s just going to put it on again tomorrow. He loosens his tie.
Two of them are similar, a man and a woman. They don’t talk much, they look around, disoriented. Maybe they’re afraid. Maybe they’re afraid of themselves, who knows. You know, sweetheart, that’s the way it works; as soon as you get one thing wrong, you know it can happen again. And you don’t appreciate the fact that you have another opportunity. That’s the main thing: having another opportunity. If I’d only had another opportunity.
A new, stabbing need to urinate. Not even five minutes, this time. Damn it. From the bathroom he goes on talking, in a higher-pitched voice.
The other one is a kid, a bit of a blowhard, and you should see the way he dresses. If you ask me, he thinks he’s a cop on TV. He’s cheerful, though. Maybe something good can be made of him.
He washes his hands again. The fact I have to pee constantly is making me look like one of those hygiene freaks, he thinks, the ones who wash their hands every two minutes.
He goes back to the kitchen. The tea is ready. He pours in milk, opens a packet of cookies. Chocolate-flavored, why not? Let’s live a little.
You know I talked to Lorenzo today, sweetheart. He’s fine. He was in a hurry, he had class. I know, it’s true: he always has class. He’s a university professor, after all, not a mechanic or a lawyer who can always find five minutes to talk to his father; he has to follow other people’s schedules. Plus the schools up north aren’t like the ones we have down here, which are so much more relaxed. They’re sticklers up there. No, we didn’t really say that much. He’s fine, that’s the main thing. I think he’s still seeing the same girl, I didn’t really ask, truth be told. You know, men don’t talk to each other about certain things; if he wants to tell me about it, he will, if he doesn’t, he won’t.
He takes the tray with the tea and cookies into his den, and he turns on the lamp. The light illuminates a wall covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, and a bookshelf packed with file boxes and manila folders, organized under a series of labels bearing names. Mamma mia, what a mess. I’m going to have to refile all of this one of these days.
He unbuttons his shirt as he walks into the bedroom.
My love, you know, I’m just not sleepy. Would you mind very much if I work in here? You don’t mind, right? You’ve always been so sweet and understanding.
He takes off his shirt, lays it on the bed, and grabs the old sweatshirt he wears around the house. His back aches from the night before, when he fell asleep at his desk with his head on his papers. It’s a good thing I have to wake up to pee, he says to himself.
He looks at the bed. It’s empty. And he sighs: we just have to be patient, my love. I know that sooner or later I’ll get my hands on him. It’s just a matter of time.
And he goes back to his study where, among the photographs tacked to the wall, there’s one of a woman who smiles at him tenderly.
Ciao, my love.