That morning Monica woke me with a kiss. It wasn’t a usual habit of hers, and I happily welcomed it. I’d spent half of my life with my wife and – despite the wrath that would need an exorcist to calm it down – I was hopeful that I would have her by my side for many years to come. She understood how I was feeling and was doing her best to perk me up, to catch me before I fell into the depths of depression. At this, my wife had always been better than me.
I was driving my daughter Rebecca to nursery, we talked about the Disney cartoon that we had seen the night before. Simple things like this helped me fight through the day with more strength.
I stopped at the bar for breakfast. I noticed that they were all talking about political elections, despite nobody knowing which names had been put forward yet. The general tendency seemed to be not to vote for anyone – people didn’t believe in politicians any more, their comments were full of reflective criticisms and rejections. When I heard so many people speak like that, I always wondered who on earth had voted for the terrible politicians who had raided and jeopardised our beautiful land over the last few decades – those very politicians who had drawn on public funds for illegal activities like paying off clients and gaining favours. I swept the powdered sugar from the piece of cake that I’d been eating off my clothes and, once I was back in my car, I drove to Porta Nuova. The roads were reasonably free of traffic. Near the cathedral, I noticed a couple of female tourists in shorts – they were admiring the majolica domes of the church. They made me think about the mysterious foreign man that Fabrizio met, which in turn made me feel nauseous. I was driving near the central police station when I noticed that most of the grey clouds that covered the sky that morning had cleared away. Warm, bright sunshine now shone on the tall palm trees in Villa Bonanno.
I parked in piazza Indipendenza and made my way to the passport office. I had thought carefully about what I should say to the officer that I was about to meet, but I hadn’t come up with anything.
I asked the guard to take me to the director.
“The help desk will surely be of assistance,” the policeman said, dismissively.
“No, I need to talk to the director in person.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but if you introduce me to him, I’m sure the director will find time for me. Tell him that Mr Corsaro is waiting for him.”
Reluctantly, the policeman stood up and walked away to find the director. My mobile phone vibrated in the pocket of my blue jacket. It was Valeria.
“How are you, darling?” I answered the call, trying to swallow down the knot in my throat. I smiled as if she was in front of me.
“Wonderful,” she whispered, “but maybe I won’t be able to take part in the Miss Italia competition this year.”
“That’s a shame, you would have aced it.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m working for my brother.”
“That’s what I called you for.”
She paused, interrupted by painful coughing.
“I know that you need help. I’m feeling better, if you bring some of your papers over to the hospital, I’ll work on them.”
“Shut up, you need to rest. Recover fast and you’ll be back to work sooner than you expect.”
“Please, don’t. Give me some work to do, or this place will drive me insane. My relatives treat me like I’m a baby, they think that I don’t notice their forced, fake smiles. I’m scared to death, Roberto. Give me some of your work – it’ll be my alternative to morphine.”
I wanted to hug her. She was one of the four women that I loved the most in my life. Something diabolical was taking her away from me.
“Okay. If I make it, I’ll pass by today to bring you something. Get some rest now. Speak soon.”
“Laters,” she replied in a whisper.
I turned round and found the policeman standing before me.
“Follow me, please.”
He led me through a corridor where the paint on the walls was peeling – we walked up to the last door on the right. The policeman knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a reply. He introduced me to the director, invited me to enter the office, then walked away.
The man that I wanted to talk to was sitting behind a desk that was buried beneath piles of papers. His tie was loose, he had bags under his eyes and a grey beard that made him look older than his age. His hair was greyer than the last time that I’d seen him and he’d put on weight. To use one of my brother’s phrases — the deputy police superintendent Domenico Fisichella looked like shit.
“Good to see you, my friend,” he said in his strong Sicilian accent that reminded me of one of the characters from Martoglio’s comedies.
“Good morning, it’s been a while.”
“Sounds like you’ve missed me. Have a seat.”
He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Whenever somebody smokes indoors and I have to be there with them, I become incredibly irritable. I tried to control my nerves.
“What’s the matter – you lost your passport?” He asked, pulling a benevolent smile, which didn’t light up his tired, listless face. That man didn’t know how to smile any more. The man who – according to my brother but also many others – had been the best policeman in Palermo, had been downgraded to a pathetic caricature of himself. He had led the homicide team – we were introduced to each other when we worked on a case that was known to the public as ‘Barabbas’s riddle’, a complicated double investigation, in which Mr Fisichella had shown remarkable investigative qualities. When he was nominated to become head of the central police station, life had struck him one of its terrible blows. His wife – according to what my brother heard – had dumped him out of the blue. She had been charmed by a younger musician with long hair, and the whole thing sounded like one of those stories they told in those cheap romantic books. She had taken their son with her and had moved to the north of Italy, leaving Fisichella alone and depressed. His health had slowly gone downhill from that moment. There were rumours that he had become an alcoholic. He had beaten up a couple of his colleagues a few times, they said. Eventually, after his personality had become clearly unsuitable for his sensitive public role, he had been downgraded to the passport office. There, he worked without bothering anybody, slowly sinking into an ocean of his personal pain.
Fisichella and Fabrizio were friends. Their relationship was based on the fact that Fabrizio, as a journalist, had been able to confer with Fisichella to learn interesting inside information, and they respected and trusted one another. I was desperate for help. The fact that I was hoping to be helped by somebody who in turn needed help in his life probably showed the extent of my desperation.
“No, I’m not here for a passport. I’m here for my brother Fabrizio.”
“I don’t think he needs a passport,” he commented, half laughing. I could smell alcohol and it wasn’t even ten in the morning.
“You know what happened, right?”
“I’ve heard, yeah.”
He had another drag of his cigarette, then tossed the butt into an ashtray that was overflowing.
“You know that Fabrizio isn’t that type of man.”
“I’m not a fortune teller, my friend. You said that I know. The reality is that I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“You know him well.”
“Listen, my friend, I don’t know what you’re here for. You say that I know him well, but I don’t think that’s true. Do you really think anyone could know somebody else that well? ‘I know him well, I’d bet my life on it. Horseshit!’ Even those that you think you know are capable of doing the most terrible things to you, my dearest friend.”
“I’m here to ask for your help.”
“My help? I don’t know what you’re talking about – I really don’t see how I can be of any help.”
“Fabrizio has always said that you’re the best policeman in the city of Palermo.”
“For starters, I’m not from Palermo, as you can probably hear from my accent. That said, I hate Palermo almost as much as the motherfucker who stole my wife – but maybe you’re not aware of my personal troubles. Secondly, your brother has always been a son of a bitch, with his head up in the clouds. Compliments that come from this type of man are not to be taken seriously. Third, in case you forgot already, I’m still a policeman, even if they keep me here to stamp papers all day long like an asshole, and I can’t help somebody who’s the lawyer of a suspected murderer.”
“I understand that, and I’m trying to talk to you as a friend, rather than as a lawyer. I’m sorry if my request has offended you. I’ve been a little stressed, that’s all.”
I stood up. Fisichella stared at me with his mouth open, looking confused.
“Are you off? You’re a good lawyer – you don’t need me to get your brother out of that prison.”
I nodded slightly and stared at him without uttering a word.
“I know what you’re thinking – ‘this poor man’s in terrible shape.’ You know what? I don’t give a shit about what you think, or what anybody else thinks for that matter. I’m tired of this filthy world, I’m done.”
He pulled out another cigarette without looking at me.
“Have a good day,” I whispered, turning towards the door.
“Hang on a second,” he said, as I was about to leave the office.
I turned around, resigned, to listen to what he had to say.
“Can you ask the guard at the entrance to get me a beer?” He looked amused.
I walked away. I could hear his laughter echoing along the corridor.