We had started with the basics – the full name. The Internet had done all the work for us. We had typed Concetto Pantano into the online archive of a Milan newspaper and we had immediately found an article about the accident in which Mr Pantano had lost his life. A high-powered motorbike had hit him as he had been walking home. I wasn’t surprised to read a few clichéd phrases, such as ‘all attempts to revive him were in vain’. The article was dated at the beginning of the millennium. Mr Fisichella started his investigation from that date – he decided to call the local police station in Monza and found the address of the dead man.
I’d been staying in a hotel. I put on a light shirt and a sweater and I was waiting for a taxi. In the city, preparations for the festival of St John were underway, the receptionist had given me a leaflet that advertised the traditional medieval march. I arrived at via Natale Lucca after midday. The area was quiet, not a single dog was barking in the neighbourhood. I was outside an anonymous block of apartments – there were two staircases at the front of the building (which was being repainted), a few scrawny trees scattered around and a small playground that was visible beyond the sentry box at the entrance. I walked towards an old man who looked like he was the caretaker – he was sitting down and he looked drowsy. When I spoke, I emphasized my Sicilian accent as much as I could and asked for information about Mr Pantano.
“My friend, I’m afraid you’re a little late for Mr Pantano.”
“You’re the caretaker, right? Doesn’t he live here any more?”
“Don’t look for him here, go to where everybody sleeps.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You’ll have to go to the cemetery. He’s having a lie down there.”
“A lie down?”
“He’s dead, for goodness sake!”
I didn’t know whether it was the linguistic or the cultural differences between the north and the south of Italy – or both. I continued with the conversation.
“How long has he been there?”
“About ten years. Maybe twelve. Are you from his hometown?”
“Yes, but I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“That’s the life – the Lord calls to himself the good ones, the bad ones are left here in tribulation.”
I nodded, despite being unsure of what he was trying to get to.
“You don’t have a clue what I’m saying – be honest.”
“Not really, but it sounded great.”
“Nice one. Your fellow countryman died in an accident. He was run over by a motorbike. His old house was sold.”
“What about his daughter, Antonella?”
“She’s a beautiful woman. I haven’t seen her for a good while.”
“Do you know where she lives now?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Did she come around here often with her husband?”
“With her husband and with her son Angelo, a peaceful one.”
“A peaceful one?”
“A well behaved kid. He was a little blonde angel. He was a teenager when his grandfather died, he must have been fifteen or sixteen years old. I wonder what he’s doing now.”
“What name did Antonella take on when she married?”
“I don’t remember. Her husband worked as a nurse at Gerardo’s hospital.”
He must have been ‘the doctor’. Italian immigrants have a tendency to exaggerate their stories to impress their fellow countrymen.
“What was her job?”
“I don’t know, I don’t really think about the people who live here.”
That would have made him the first caretaker in Italy that wasn’t interested in other people’s lives. An old lady with a shopping bag walked through the gate that led to the building. She was incredibly short.
“Mrs Russo,” the caretaker called her. Then he turned to me. “Why not ask the lady – she knew your friend very well.”
I walked towards the old lady and introduced myself as a friend of Mr Pantano.
“He died a long time ago, poor man.” I could hear in her accent that she had lived in the north of Italy for a long time but that she was originally from the south.
“Could you help me find his daughter, Antonella?”
The old lady stared at me, she looked perplexed. She pulled a confused face and wrinkled her nose. She looked like a leprechaun.
“Antonella is also dead, poor lady.”
I was startled.
“When?”
“Three years ago. No, maybe two. I don’t remember it very well. Colon cancer. There’s no escape from that beast.”
“Were you friends with her?”
“Her father lived in the apartment next to mine. We knew each other a little. We wished each other happy Christmas… things like that. Then one day I decided to give her a call. Her son, a very sensitive young man, told me that she died. That young man loved her so much. What an unlucky family. First the father, then the husband, then her.”
“Her husband died too?”
“Yes. A heart attack. He was still very young.”
A tragedy. Bad luck hits hard sometimes.
“Do you have their home telephone number? I’d like to try and contact the son.”
“I have it at home. Come with me, I’ll introduce you to my husband.”
I didn’t know if she’d mentioned her husband to avoid being judged by the caretaker or to discourage me from any criminal intent. I followed her lead and offered to carry her shopping bag.
Six floors later in the lift, we were at her apartment. From outside the front door, I could already hear the voice of an anchorman reading the news. The TV was so loud that it resonated like a Black Sabbath concert. The old lady’s husband, who was sunk into an armchair about a metre and a half away from the TV, was staring catatonically at the screen. A couple of goldfinches were singing from inside a little cage – they were probably on the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the excessive noise.
“Italo, I’m back. We have a guest,” the lady announced. I thought that I’d heard a grumble in reply, but it was quickly covered up by the voice of a journalist who was talking about the popularity of breast implants among young girls.
Mrs Russo fumbled inside a drawer that was full of bits and pieces – she pulled out a couple of pegs, a corkscrew, three buttons and two small photo albums. The woman took one and silently flicked through the pages. Then she handed it to me and pointed to a photo that had been taken without a flash. In the darkness of the photo, I could make out Mrs Russo, she was about fifteen years younger and she was standing with Antonella Pantano. Antonella was still beautiful, as she was in the photo with Mr Palillo, but she looked around forty. They were both smiling and a teenage boy was standing between them – he had light blonde hair, which framed his sullen, baby face.
“Angelo was so handsome, wasn’t he.”
I nodded to her comment and kept my eyes on the photo – I was hypnotised by some detail that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Mrs Russo led me towards a small piece of furniture next to the armchair where her husband sat. She picked up an old diary and opened it on the kitchen table. She wrote Antonella Pantano’s married surname and a telephone number with a 039 prefix on the side of a page from an old newspaper. She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to me. I read her writing and understood.