The next day I went back to work. I paid Gastone Vallaresso for the days he took my place, and I went back behind the counter. Gastone had done a good job, nobody complained, and he always remembered to give a receipt. I was happy to get back to replacing heels and duplicating keys. I felt better, even if I couldn’t think clearly about what happened at Siviero’s house. The muscles in my arms and back hurt me; that was the only real sensation I felt. Everything else was obscured by the darkness of death. Even blood had a strange color, as if I were seeing it in black and white. Clara had guided my justice. And this was enough. I felt a touch of excitement when I thought about Ivana Stella. I still wasn’t finished with her. In the afternoon she came by to see me at the supermarket.
“Ciao, good-looking.”
“Ciao, lovely. What are you doing in these parts?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“You can come see me tonight.”
She blushed. “I almost never go out after a certain hour. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to Vera.”
She still hadn’t said a word about our relationship to her daughter. I decided to have a little fun. “You’re right. Then I’ll come to your house.”
Another blush. “She might get wind of something between us.”
“You’re old enough to live your life as you think best.”
“Everything in its time. Don’t rush it, please. I want to avoid problems with Vera.”
I gave her an understanding smile. “Then we could see each other Sunday afternoon.”
Before heading back home, I drove past the cleaners, Siviero’s house, and the dump. The gate was down, the shutters were closed, and silence reigned amid the trash.
For dinner I defrosted a pre-cooked portion of zuppa di pesce. I added a drop of oil and stuck it in the microwave. As I ate, I followed the news on a few local channels. No one had yet noticed Oreste and Daniela’s disappearance.
It was only a question of days, and then it would become a juicy news item for journalists and bar gossips. I wasn’t worried. In fact, I felt a bit curious. For the first time since the tragedy, the future actually seemed interesting to me.
The first articles appeared on Sunday. As I left the cemetery, I noticed the headlines at the newsstand: “Couple Missing. Relatives Suspect Foul Play.” I bought the three dailies. They reported substantially the same information, leaked by the police and the command of the carabinieri. Daniela Borsatto’s parents and Oreste Siviero’s sister, worried they hadn’t heard from either, learned that the cleaners had been closed for several days, and they received no answer when they knocked on the door of the house on via San Domenico. They then reported the disappearance to the police. Investigators were proceeding with caution, given the nature of the case. The couple were adults and could have decided to go on vacation for a few days. They made clear, all the same, that the routine procedures had been set in motion. They questioned neighbors in the vicinity and customers at the cleaners. Everyone expressed surprise. They described the couple as punctual, methodical, and friendly. I threw the papers in a trash can and went back home. I had to do some cleaning before Ivana Stella arrived.
Sexually, the woman was a disaster. All she knew how to do was keep her legs open and pant with a certain degree of participation. I cruelly forced her to confront the issue.
“It’s all my husband’s fault,” she squawked at one point.
“Maybe this is why he left you. A little imagination never hurts in bed.”
“Could we change the subject?” She was in a huff.
“I like you a lot, Ivana Stella, but I’m looking for a complete woman. Maybe we should just drop everything.”
“Please, don’t talk that way. You’ll see, I’ll learn. I’ll be good, I promise you.”
I gave her a couple pats on the bottom. “Then next time we’ll start here.”
On Monday the local channels broadcast the news about the discovery of Siviero’s SUV.
On Tuesday the police forced open the gate at the cleaners and the door of the house. Absolutely no trace of the Siviero couple.
Two days later, while I was making a copy of a butterfly key, Superintendent Valiani came by. He lit a cigarette and waited for me to finish the job.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I said calmly.
The cop pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and showed me a color photo. The subject was me. I was strolling on the sidewalk near the cleaners.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered.
“There are others. The narcs were keeping an eye on the African hairdresser’s next to Siviero’s shop; bosses in the Nigerian mafia used to get together there. You were spotted in the area many times. But you were interested in the cleaners, and you certainly weren’t a regular customer. We found one receipt made out in your name.”
“So what?”
“I’ve been a cop too long not to find the coincidence a bit strange. What was your relationship to Oreste Siviero and Daniela Borsatto?”
“I was their customer. That’s it.”
“I combed through the archive and discovered Siviero had been a suspect in a number of robberies. He always got off because we never managed to find enough evidence. Earlier he did a stretch in prison for car theft.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because Siviero used to hang out at a pool hall where Raffaello Beggiato was often seen.”
“Do you think he’s the accomplice?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m only trying to understand. Something isn’t right here.”
He threw his butt on the floor and left without saying goodbye. I went back to work. I wasn’t worried. I had a clean conscience.