Marco Aragona had slept really well.
Truthfully, it was only rarely that he didn’t. Ever since he’d been a child, he was out like a light as soon as he laid his head on the pillow; and he slept beautifully until the alarm clock brought him back from the bliss of slumber.
Getting up was no burden. Why should it be?
He was doing the job he’d always dreamed of, he was working hard, he was fitting in well with a team of superheroes who were kicking the mistrust that had originally surrounded the restaffed precinct to the curb. He was one of the Bastards of Pizzofalcone: Doff your caps when you see us going by, you idiots. He’d worked alongside Lojacono, the guy who’d caught the Crocodile, that terrible serial killer; and at the end of the investigation they’d teamed up on, the Chinaman had told the commissario that much of the credit for cracking the case belonged to him, Corporal Marco Aragona. And now he was working a kidnapping with Francesco Romano, aka the Hulk, a human pressure cooker who was always a second from blowing his lid, a ticking time bomb. Who was better than him? Who was better than Marco Aragona?
After taking one quick last look at himself in the mirror, he left his room on the eleventh floor of the hotel. A well-groomed appearance was very important. Movies, TV shows, and novels were all very clear on this point: A policeman has to leave no doubt that he’s a tough guy, otherwise the criminals will eat him for breakfast. A sporty blazer; an unbuttoned shirt so that everyone could see he liked the outdoors and physical exercise; the blue-tinted aviators that always obscured his actual expression—one’s true feelings were an advantage one should never give away; his hair combed back in a pompadour, carefully arranged both to signal male vigor and to cover that fucking bald spot right at the top of his head—where his father, who had gone bald at forty, damn him, had started losing his hair; elevator shoes to give him that extra inch and a half that could prove decisive in a confrontation with a suspect, when you’re eye to eye and the one who looks away first knows he’s been beat.
As he walked down the hallway he passed the housekeeper who cleaned the rooms and flashed her his sunniest smile. He’d spent a lot of time practicing: a slight arching of the eyebrow to make it clear that this was no formal greeting and that the recipient enjoyed his special attention, if only for that fraction of a second; the upper lip lifted to reveal his bright white teeth; a tilt to the right to accentuate the cleft in his chin. Irresistible, he thought to himself.
Just look at that asshole, the young woman thought to herself, disgusted at the prospect of having to tidy up the mess in his room.
He headed for the stairs, which he’d climb with his stellar, athletic gait until he reached the roof garden, where he’d have breakfast. This was his moment, the brief interval that gave meaning to the rest of the day: He’d see Irina, the woman he was secretly in love with.
Well? You got a problem with that? he would have asked his audience, if he’d had one. Maybe a tough, pitiless policeman, a hero who fights crime from dawn till dusk, an investigator who, only because he’s trying to keep a low profile, refrains from putting his colleagues to shame by showing off his investigative brilliance, maybe a guy like that, in other words, maybe a guy like him, can’t have feelings, too? Have you forgotten, my faithful viewers, that in every novel and in every movie the merciless cop always has a weakness, a woman whose presence reveals that under that steely chest there beats a human heart?
Aragona had a crush. Was her name really Irina? He knew that that was the name written on the cunning little pin fastened just above her marvelous breasts because that angel had been sent down from heaven to serve breakfast to the guests on the roof terrace of the hotel that, by pure luck, he had chosen as his new home.
Today, Aragona said to himself, the gods had even heard his prayers and given him the gift of a beautiful day.
Of course even if it rained that was no tragedy; in that case, breakfast was served indoors and the guests still enjoyed a magnificent view: sky, sea, and volcano tempest-tossed by the fury of the elements. But nothing could be finer than the sparkling May air, light and sweet-smelling, and the still-gentle sunshine that showered warmth and light on the romantic expanse of rooftops stretching out below.
Unfortunately, though it was just a minor detail, Aragona hadn’t yet been able to speak to Irina. His mouth dried up every time, and when he’d tried to ask her for a second cup of coffee, all that had come out of his lips was a horrible rasping stammer that he’d covered up with a fake cough.
As for smiling, though, he did smile at her. More importantly, she smiled at him, splitting open the clouds and brightening his morning with her spectacular blue eyes, with her hair, and with the fine, impalpable blonde fuzz that he could make out on the delicate, fair skin of her forearms.
Living at the Hotel Mediterraneo wasn’t cheap, that was true. And the many advantages had to be weighed against the loss of certain freedoms, as well as the worried phone calls from his mother, who scolded him for living out of a suitcase. But to see Irina, who knew what he wanted before he asked for it, who whipped up a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, his standard morning fare, was more than a good enough reason for him to stay. His investigator’s intuition had wisely led him to observe that the young lady wore no wedding ring, and that her lithe body—which was none too tall, luckily for Aragona—showed no signs of the lumps and bumps of cellulite. He therefore hoped that she had no boyfriend, though he felt sure she must have suitors, and in great numbers.
Seated at his small table, chosen specially because it was kissed by the rays of his friend the sun, Marco watched the girl dance among pitchers of soy milk and tureens of natural yogurt, as she kept the bounteous buffet properly stocked. It was early and, aside from him, the only guests were a couple of ruddy Germans busy shoveling down food in an indecent manner, and a large northern Italian woman with two horrible boys who were trying to kill each other with their forks.
Irina looked at him and he put on an expression that suggested he was engrossed in thought—the one he liked best because it seemed to speak of some secret sorrow—and, to complete the effect, gazed off at the distant horizon. Sensitive soul that she most assuredly was, she’d wonder about the cause of his subtle suffering, and she’d immediately set out to offer some remedy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her approach; his pulse quickened. He pretended not to notice her presence until she spoke, in the low, warm voice that so excited him. “Coffee?” she asked.
It was the only word she’d ever spoken to him. And every morning he replied: “Double corto espresso in a large mug, thank you.”
The longest sentence he could think of concerning a cup of coffee.
She smiled at him, as she did every morning, and as she did every morning, she went off to fulfill his wishes. At least as far as the coffee went.
Who knew where Irina came from. Who knew if that was her real name or just a nickname. And who knew where she lived, if when her shift was over she had other jobs, if she had to walk through neighborhoods where she risked being robbed or raped. Whether she needed the protection of superhero.
If I could only speak to her, thought Aragona. If I could only manage to say two fucking words to her other than “double corto espresso in a large mug.”
Irina continued to flit between the three occupied tables, serving sweet pastries and caffelattes, smiling at everyone but, Marco felt sure, at no one as much as at him.
He knew it, he could sense it: Irina liked him, the same as he liked her. It was just a matter of time. They were destined to be together.
One of the bratty little boys got up and, hopping on one foot like a lame pigeon, went over to the waitress: “Will you bring me another pastry?”
“Certainly.”
The little brat wasn’t done: “Hey, will you tell me where you’re from?”
Aragona saw her tilt her head to one side. The sun played over her hair, kicking up a cloud of gold dust.
The girl patted the little kid’s cheek and said: “Montenegro. I come from Montenegro, but I’ve been here for a long time.”
That must be a wonderful place, Montenegro, Marco thought to himself, as he took in this new, fundamental piece of information with fascination. Creatures of her sort could only come from an earthly paradise.
“So, does that mean you’re a gypsy?” the boy asked, and Marco would gladly have tossed him headfirst over the railing of the roof garden.
Irina laughed, and her laughter was like a cascade of stars.
“No, I’m not a gypsy. I’m just a south Slav.”
At last the child’s mother realized how much of an all-around pain in the ass her son was being and, lifting her snout from the dish of butter, jam, and honey she was rooting around in, called him back to the table. Irina went back to the counter to get Aragona’s coffee, but before she did, to his immense surprise, she turned around and shot him a look.
Marco’s heart stopped: Why had she looked at him? What was she trying to tell him, with that look?
Perhaps she meant for him to understand something. Perhaps the short conversation with the pestiferous child had been designed for his use and consumption, to tell him something about her.
He sighed, enchanted, lost in a reverie.
In the meantime, however, something had wormed its way into his brain, forcing him to think of the kidnapped child. Was it because of the little boy who had asked the indiscreet questions? No. It had been something else, like a dark outline moving beneath the surface of a pond, rapid but unmistakable.
What was it? What had jogged his mind?
Smiling at the wonderful Irina, who was bringing him a double corto espresso in a large mug, the light illuminating her from behind, Corporal Marco Aragona began, deep in his subconscious, his working day.