I’d always liked the scent of late afternoons in June, when jasmines and damp soil filled the air with their mixed perfumes. Together, they become the scent of summer and soar towards the clear sky, caressed by the sweetest sunshine Sicily can offer. For me, it was the scent of freedom, despite the perimeter of my freedom being limited to that of my balcony.
I was still an inmate, but after living for weeks in a prison, home felt like the waiting room to heaven. I had some limitations on receiving visitors, but at least I was free to receive calls – for the first two or three days, I spent most of my time on the telephone. My friends congratulated me like I had just won the lottery. After all, I was still under investigation for murder, but all those who knew me didn’t even seem to consider that I might be guilty. Don Trovato had called me, he sounded pleased and I thanked him for his bright hunch.
“Thank God for your brother, my dear son,” he said to me. I agreed with him straight away, even though I was still doubtful whether the god that he referred to really existed. His Majesty Tucci called. He lectured me with an unnecessary ten minute monologue on the excessive power of the courts. He informed me of how forcefully the newspaper had written in my favour. “No need to thank me for it, Mr Corsaro,” he repeated multiple times. His tone told a different story though. Same old story. Kindness and friendly support lose their value when one brings them up to your face – they have to be silent acts of love and should never be boasted of. He obviously didn’t think the same. It’s sad to respect somebody just out of fear.
I couldn’t get the prison out of my soul. Sometimes, I surprised myself imagining what my friend Pino Mistretta – the gentleman pusher – or the few other inmates who had left a mark on my life, were doing at that very moment. Maria lovingly cared for me, but the negative vibes we had felt when she had visited me in prison never really disappeared. Something between us was broken, it was like some kind of bitter aftertaste that we couldn’t get rid of and it ruined the taste of our kisses the first night that we were reunited.
My sleep was haunted by nightmares, handcuffs, hanging inmates, black mould stains on the wall and hurried trials, carried out publicly whilst I was wearing only a tank top and no trousers. Sometimes, I would wake in a puddle of sweat, screaming like a possessed person. Maria would take my hand and comfort me like a child until I fell back to sleep. Every morning, I would wake up more tired than I was the night before.
That morning in June was no different from the others – it was two days since the request for commitment to trial for premeditated murder had been submitted. I got up after a night full of bad dreams. Maria offered to make coffee for me – she gave me the impression that she was trying to keep herself busy to avoid looking me in the eyes. She was trying to avoid having a conversation with me, as every attempt had become more and more difficult.
I watched her potter around in the kitchen – she looked full of good intentions and positive energy. I noticed that the kitchen didn’t look anything like the dive that it had been during my glorious years as a single man. I watched her confident gestures and tried to focus on my first memory of her – that day seemed so far away. I had met her in the oratory of a church in a little village up in the mountains where she had lived. I tried to taste again the excitement of our first dates, her strong, independent personality that had seduced me and swept me off my feet like a teenager, but I just couldn’t remember. I tried to listen to my favourite music to find consolation, but the high pitched notes in Creep weren’t of much help. I convinced myself that I didn’t need to be surprised that, after so long, I couldn’t see in Maria the young woman she had once been. The courageous fighter who would fight any battle in the name of justice. The truth was that, ever since I had come out of prison, I could barely remember who I was. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I would see the look of a confused man… a man who had become increasingly more surly, tired and grey-haired; a man who couldn’t help but stare hopelessly back at his own reflection in the morning.
The sound of the telecom surprised us both. My first thought was that a patrol was calling in to check on us. When Maria mentioned my brother’s name I relaxed a little.
Roberto entered the apartment holding a bunch of newspapers under his arm. He laid them on the coffee table in the living room, next to the vase of withered flowers that uncle Valentino sent me after I had been released from prison. He then made certain that nobody from outside could see him.
“I have some reading for you.”
“You’re becoming a little too caring.”
“I just miss the kids. I don’t really have anything else to think about,” my brother said. He sat down next to me.
“When are they back? I can’t wait to see them again.”
“If everything goes smoothly, you’ll see them tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow at most.”
“If everything goes smoothly as it’s supposed to… what do you mean?”
“There’s something about the investigation that I couldn’t tell you before. Too many ears were listening. We’ve got it now, Fabrizio. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
I didn’t like his expression.
“Uh oh, what are you hiding from me?”
Roberto grumbled, he looked annoyed at my question.
“I know what happened.”
“Are you saying that you know the motherfucker who killed Mr Palillo?”
“I’m saying that you were right. The nightmare is over, or nearly over.”
“I don’t like the ‘nearly’ bit, and I don’t like your expression this morning. Please tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
I thought about the times that we had investigated together. I hated feeling left out.
Roberto glanced at his watch. He was looking more and more like our father every day.
“I have an appointment now, it’s not far from here.”
“Just tell me if you’ve found the culprit,” I asked.
“I found more than that, Fabrizio. I found the truth. In fact, we found the truth – both of us. I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t worry, the night’s nearly over.”
He walked out without saying anything else. Maria handed me a cup of coffee.
“What did he say about the night?” She asked me.
“I don’t know what the fuck he meant, but it doesn’t sound very promising.”