Superintendent Valiani was surprised to see me. It’d been a while since I showed up at the police station for news about the investigation. He stood up from a desk stacked with files and held out a hand with nicotine-stained fingers.
“Buongiorno, Signor Contin.” His tone was guarded.
“I need to talk to you.”
“The investigation’s been closed for a while now.”
“I know all about it. But Beggiato’s sick with cancer, and he might get a suspension of his sentence.”
“Might.”
“I’ve talked to the surveillance judge: the probability is high.”
“So what?”
“Once free he might get in touch with his accomplice.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him. The fact that we haven’t managed to capture the accomplice doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten about the matter. In a couple years I retire, and when I leave I’d like to make a big splash.”
“I can relax, then?”
“I’ll take care of it personally.”
When I said goodbye, it struck me a younger, sharper policeman would’ve given me more confidence. The accomplice had come back to prey on my thoughts full-time, but at least now his capture seemed within reach. Provided Beggiato managed to get released and then decided to contact him. The fact that the murderer stuck to the code of silence made me think the other guy was still alive, free, and living in Italy, maybe right in this town. Otherwise Beggiato would’ve felt no qualms about talking. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that once he got on the outside, he’d look for his partner. But this time the police wouldn’t let him get away. My threat to stop Beggiato’s release was just a bluff. Fact is, I couldn’t wait for him to get out so he could lead Valiani’s men to the shooter. He should be more or less Beggiato’s age. He’d die in jail, serving his sentence. Beggiato would precede him. Dead. All of them. The crooks, Clara, Enrico. And sooner or later it’d be my turn.
Don Silvio waited for me to finish dealing with a customer.
“What happened?” he asked me, worried.
“What do you mean?”
“Beggiato’s upset. He didn’t want to tell me how the meeting went.”
“Maybe because there’s nothing to tell about it.”
“You won’t forgive him, then?”
I shrugged and started the machine to file down some heels. The priest gave up after a couple minutes. He said goodbye with a weak wave that signaled defeat.
That evening I found a summons from the carabineri in my mailbox. I went to the barracks immediately. A brigadier in civilian clothes informed me it had to do with the request for a pardon submitted by Beggiato.
“I’m sorry to disturb you with something like this,” he said sincerely.
“Don’t worry. I was expecting it.”
“What do I write? A favorable or an unfavorable opinion?”
“Unfavorable.”
The man who was waiting for me at the exit must’ve been around forty. He said his name was Presotto and he was a journalist. There were three dailies in town. One was center-right, another center-left, and the third was the local supplement of a big national newspaper. Presotto worked for the first.
“We’ve heard Raffaello Beggiato filed a petition for a pardon,” he said. “I imagine you’re opposed.”
I glanced at his double chin, his olive complexion, the glasses he wore (he was nearsighted). I didn’t want to talk to him just then, but he obviously meant business, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake him off easily.
“Yes, I’ve just entered an unfavorable opinion.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for Beggiato? He’s got cancer and doesn’t have much time left.”
Journalists are always like this. One question leads to another. I tried to lie without being self-conscious. “From a human point of view, I regret the state of his health, but the crime he committed is too serious to merit clemency.”
“Is it true that you met with him in prison?”
“Yes.”
“Was it you who wanted the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was curious. He wrote to me, asking for my forgiveness. He swore that he’d become a different person, that he repented—”
“But instead?”
“This wasn’t the impression he gave me.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No, I’m tired, I want to go home.”
“One last question. Today his lawyer De Bastiani filed a petition for a suspension of sentence due to illness, and in all probability it will succeed in gaining Beggiato’s release. What do you think of the fact that the murderer of your loved ones will soon be free anyway?”
“The decision will be made by the Court of Surveillance, which isn’t bound to ask for my opinion.”
“Then you’re opposed?”
I didn’t answer right away. I had to make a choice between preventing Beggiato from being released and helping him in an effort to get to his accomplice.
“Let’s just say the matter doesn’t concern me. Besides, the suspension doesn’t cancel out the sentence. Beggiato will still be a convict sentenced to life.”
“I’m really surprised,” said Presotto, “and a little disappointed. I was expecting a harsher, more determined reaction. Personally I think this criminal deserves to stay where he is. My newspaper has taken a clear political position. I think you know what I mean. It could have been useful to you.”
I understood perfectly. I shook his hand in silence and walked quickly away. I didn’t want to say too much to Presotto. I didn’t know how to act; I was afraid of saying things that might hurt my still murky plan. I hoped I hadn’t made any mistakes. Anxiety and unease made me stop in a bar. It’d been a long time since I did that. I ordered a caffè corretto with Vecchia Romagna. The barista was a young foreigner who served the coffee without deeming me worthy of a glance. He kept on talking to the girl behind the cash register. I was grateful for it. I really needed a moment to think.
I used to be able to deal with people. Now I was always on the defensive. With customers too. If someone wasn’t happy with my work, I couldn’t even justify it and defend myself. I preferred to let them not pay. But this rarely happened. Concentrating on heels, soles, and keys gave me a break from my obsessions. TV had the same effect. Spending hours in front of the screen was essential to wrenching time away from my anguish, although it was a job to find programs that didn’t remind me, even indirectly, of my loved ones’ violent deaths.
I avoided the news, discussions, crime movies, cop shows. I didn’t even follow football. Two Sundays before the tragedy I went to the stadium with Enrico. He had fun and made me promise to take him more often. My preferred programs were quiz shows and ones with singers, comedians, and dancers. I glanced at the news in the papers every morning, before opening the shop. At that hour of the day I was stronger. The most dangerous time was the evening, when I opened the door and knew I’d find no one waiting for me. Then I’d switch on the TV to break the silence of the solitude that could only unleash memories.
With these thoughts on my mind I slid the key into the lock. I switched on all the lights and raised the volume on the TV. Instead of taking the frozen penne al salmone from the fridge, I decided to cook. Broth from bullion cubes and pastina. Something hot to get rid of the acid from the caffè corretto. I set the timer for cooking the pasta. Seven minutes. I added butter and parmigiano. As Clara used to do when she made it for Enrico. That night wasn’t going to be so easy.
Presotto’s article came out two days later. I had to reread it a couple times. The emotion prevented me from concentrating. Near the title was a photo of Clara and Enrico. They were smiling. Beside it was a photo of the murderer. The serious, indecipherable expression of the hardened criminal. Beneath was mine. It’d been taken at the trial. I stared at my bewildered eyes. They still hadn’t gotten used to death’s dark abyss.
RAFFAELLO BEGGIATO SOON TO BE RELEASED?
Everyone in town will remember the ruthlessness with which the robber Raffaello Beggiato and his never identified accomplice killed Clara and Enrico Contin fifteen years ago. It was a brutal crime, and Beggiato should have paid for it with life imprisonment. Should have. It seems, however, that the convict will soon regain his freedom because of a malignant tumor recently diagnosed by prison doctors. Technically it is defined as a suspended sentence for illness. It should be applicable only in cases where the discontinuance of imprisonment enables the sick inmate to be cured so as to allow him to serve the rest of his sentence. Beggiato, condemned as well by illness, should not benefit from it. Yet pity often oversteps the limits of the law, and the surveillance judges tend to interpret the articles of the code with incomprehensible benevolence. Obviously, citizen-inmate Beggiato has the right to receive the best course of treatment. But why set him free when he can be treated in prison? The fact that in all probability he will fail to recover from the cancer cannot in any way soften the rigors of the law. Life imprisonment is the most severe sentence provided by our penal system, and in the case of Raffaello Beggiato it is amply merited.
The murderer’s wish is to meet his Maker as a free man. And in fact his lawyer has filed a petition for a pardon. This, however, will certainly not be granted because of the unfavorable opinion expressed by the plaintiff in the person of Silvano Contin. The father of little Enrico and the husband of Clara, who were basely murdered by Beggiato and his accomplice, Signor Contin recently visited the prison to meet the inmate; he wanted to determine whether Beggiato was truly remorseful, as he had declared in the letter that implored the bereaved man for his forgiveness. Signor Contin made a noble gesture that demonstrates how, notwithstanding the terrible tragedy, he has preserved a profound humanity. But he did not grant his forgiveness. Beggiato did not convince him.
Why, then, should he be set free? It is evident that, in his condition, the suspended sentence would be equivalent to granting a pardon. No one wishes to torment a sick man, but why is it necessary to forget the gravity of the crimes that put him behind bars? When citizens are taken hostage and killed in cold blood only to enrich oneself, one also needs to have the courage to pay one’s debt to society. Of course, we do not ask Beggiato to demonstrate that he has this courage. But we urgently ask the Court of Surveillance to do so. And we ask the Minister of Justice to continue to demonstrate the resolve that has thus far distinguished his mandate.
Presotto’s newspaper had begun its campaign. Beggiato didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out. The minister wouldn’t permit it. And so my plan would go up in smoke. I had to resign myself to the fact that Beggiato’s accomplice would continue to get off scot-free.
The photo they ran with the article didn’t resemble me anymore, and nobody deigned to so much as look at me. That day too I was Signor Heels in a Jiffy.
I felt strange. More uneasy than usual. The events of those days had provoked feelings that altered the precarious balance governing my life. The howl was more difficult to repress. It ripped open my mind with its obsessive rhythm and plummeted straight to my chest. “Everything’s gone dark, Silvano. I can’t see anymore, I’m scared, help me, it’s so dark.” I wanted to head home and stretch out on the bed, but it would’ve only gotten worse. I tried to concentrate on my work. One nail, one blow of the hammer. Another nail, another blow. Then I turned on the machine. Cut, shine, shine again.
“Everything’s gone dark, Silvano.”
“I know, my love. I know.”
The next day the newspaper published another article along with various opinions from readers. Presotto had succeeded in rekindling the city’s interest in the case. I read a few lines, then threw the paper in the trash can at the supermarket.
It took two days for me to calm down. In front of the mirror I summoned up the courage to admit I was a wreck, incapable of confronting the changes in a world I’d constructed with so much effort.
Then I received two visits. All of sudden, everything in my life changed. Once again.
The first visitor was an elegantly dressed lady, about forty-five. She reminded me of someone, but I recognized her only after Don Silvio had introduced her. She served as a juror in the trial in the Court of Assizes. She was the third from the left. Then too she was a classy broad, the kind you know comes from the right side of town as soon as you see her. She gave me a warm smile, as she had often done during the testimony.
“Excuse me if I’m disturbing you,” she said with a slight Venetian accent. “But after reading Presotto’s article I felt it was important to tell you how terribly sorry I am for having supported Beggiato’s life sentence.”
I looked at the priest with open hostility. “You never give up, do you?”
“Listen to her, please.”
“To what end?” I asked, my blood boiling. “I’ve already given an unfavorable opinion about the petition.”
“One can always remedy this,” insisted the chaplain.
The woman placed a hand on my arm. “At the time I thought it was just that Beggiato should pay with life imprisonment, but over the years I gave it more thought, and I realized that life is an inhuman sentence. Everyone, even the worst criminals, has a right to a second chance—”
“Bullshit,” I interrupted her. “You’re another fanatic. A child of Jesus who’s afraid to take responsibility. Beat it.”
She didn’t. She squeezed my arm tighter. I stared at her, dumbstruck. She was a beautiful woman, green eyes, a well-shaped mouth. “I’m not religious,” she corrected me with firmness. “After my experience in the Court of Assizes, I became a volunteer in an organization that helps inmates. I’ve devoted years to understanding my error.”
“Beggiato’s really pulled one over on you, eh?”
“I’ve never met him. I visit a prison in another city.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A gesture that is responsible. And human.”
“That’s all?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, please.”
“Get out of here,” I blurted. “Both of you. And you, priest, don’t let me see you anymore.”
The woman put a card on the counter. “If you feel the need to speak with me, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I’ve already got the priest’s number. He told me the exact same thing. I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
She gave me a sad smile and left, followed by the chaplain.
The second visit I received the following night. I found Raffaello Beggiato’s mother waiting for me at the door to my building. She was exactly as I remembered her, just older. I was tempted to ask her what she’d done to get hold of my address; my name isn’t listed in the phone book. But it wasn’t hard to guess she must’ve gotten it from the lawyer, De Bastiani.
“Beat it.”
But the woman just leaned up against the lock. “They’ll let him die in prison, now that those bastard journalists have gone and stuck their noses into it.”
I showed her the keys. “Let me go inside.”
“The lawyer says he’ll never manage to get the suspended sentence without a compassionate word from you.”
I was fuming. She was making me lose my patience. “I don’t forgive your son. I’ve already put it in writing. Now let me get by.”
“I’m not talking about forgiving Raffaello. Just tell the newspapers you’re not against the suspended sentence.”
I lost it. I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the door. “You ugly fucking whore, I can’t wait to see your son die. I hope he suffers like a dog.”
Signora Beggiato started to scream, scared shitless. I pushed her aside and opened the door. I sat in the kitchen drinking wine straight from the carton. I remembered how, when Enrico did it with the orange juice, I always told him off. I grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim. My throat was dry from tension. And shame. I put my hands on an old woman. I said terrible things to her. It certainly wasn’t her fault if her son had become a murderer. Besides, she must’ve suffered a lot over the years. She was trying to look after him as only a mother knows how to do. I felt relieved nobody had seen us. The neighbors were complete strangers, and I didn’t want to become the hottest gossip in the building. The wine calmed me down. I switched on the TV and tried to concentrate on the final questions in a quiz show.
I was sure I’d never see Beggiato’s mother again, at least not near my house. But exactly twenty-four hours later I found her planted where I’d left her. She was tense and nervous. With one hand she clutched a pocketbook, with the other the collar of her dress.
“Don’t keep this up,” I said, staying a good distance away from her. I didn’t trust myself.
She burst into tears. “Raffaello told me you want that name,” she moaned between sobs. “I know it.”
I suddenly felt drained. “Then go to the police and get them to arrest the criminal.”
“I’ll tell you. If you get my son out.”
The surprise left me speechless. But the woman was lucid and ready to deal.
“Tell the papers you’re in favor of his release, and I’ll help you find the man you’ve been trying to track down for fifteen years.”
“Did your son send you?”
She pulled a handkerchief out of the pocketbook. “No. And he doesn’t have to know anything. This is between me and you. If Raffaello finds out, he won’t ever look me in the face again. But I have to help him. I’m his mother. I don’t want him to die in prison.”
I looked around. A neighbor stood at her window, following the scene, but at that distance she couldn’t hear our conversation.
“Come on. Let’s take a spin in the car.”
The next morning I took the former juror’s card from my wallet. Her name was Ivana Stella Tessitore.
“Please forgive my behavior.”
“I wasn’t offended, believe me. I completely understand your state of mind.”
Empty words. Politeness devoid of reality. Nobody could know how I felt. Least of all her, who felt pity for murderers. I was ready to hang up, but I’d made a deal with Signora Beggiato.
“I’d like to meet you, tonight if possible,” I said without giving a reason. It wasn’t necessary. I was sure she’d agree without hesitation. In fact, she invited me over to her place. When I got back from work, I showered and put on some cologne. I wasn’t used to going out after dinner. The city seemed hostile and strange to me. On a street I used to drive down almost every night before, I saw only some Eastern European kids selling their bodies. They were blond and thin. They smiled at the cars that passed by.
Signora Tessitore lived in a residential area where I once knew lots of people. Pretty townhouses immersed in greenery. A girl about twenty answered the door. “I’m Vera,” she introduced herself, squeezing my hand. “Come in, mamma’s expecting you.”
Ivana Stella wore a dark blue pullover and a skirt the same color. The simplicity was only apparent. The fabric and cut of the clothes were high quality, and the pearl necklace must’ve come from the best jeweler in town. She had me take a seat on a couch and offered me a premium cognac. Once I would’ve sniffed it and warmed it in my hands, treating it in the appropriate way. This time I just gulped down a good half of it, as I searched for the right words.
She tried to put me at ease by talking about herself. I learned she’d separated a few years ago and Vera was her only child. She was independently wealthy, but she made emphatically clear that she didn’t do volunteer work because she was suffering from the boredom of the idle rich. When I had enough of her chitchat, I came straight out with it: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m in favor of the suspended sentence, and I’d like to find a way to make it known.”
She didn’t say anything for a couple minutes, taking in the news. “May I know why?”
“No. I’d rather not get into it.”
“I understand. Forgive me; perhaps it was a stupid question.”
“The problem is that I really don’t know how to make a move. I need advice. I don’t want this act of benevolence to hurt me.”
Ivana Stella poured herself another finger of cognac. “I hope I’m equal to the task. Why didn’t you turn to Don Silvio or the laywer, De Bastiani?”
“One is a prison chaplain, the other a young lawyer without experience. But you were a juror at the trial, and you know this town well.”
“I think you’ll be forced to deal with the press. A letter or an interview could be useful, but don’t expect to be understood by everyone.”
“This is precisely why I want to take the most prudent course of action. I don’t want to be beseiged by journalists.”
Signora Tessitore once again fell silent, absorbed in thought. Only then did I become aware of the soft music coming from the expensive stereo in the bookcase that lined an entire wall. It sounded beautiful. I didn’t recognize it, but it had the power to touch me. It ended almost immediately, and I was tempted to ask her if she’d let me hear it again.
“I think the best move might be a letter,” said Ivana Stella, cutting off my train of thought. “Addressed to all three local newspapers to prevent any jealous rivalries over the scoop. In this way, you can avoid direct contact with journalists and clarify your position without any possiblity of misunderstanding.”
“It sounds like a great idea to me. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. If I prepare a draft, would you be willing to look it over?”
“Very willing. Come see me whenever you like.”
At the door she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She barely grazed it with her lips. “I admire you a great deal,” she said in a whisper.
All the way back home I caressed my cheek, trying to reproduce the soft touch of her lips.
I had carefully organized all the words in my mind, and in no time I knocked out a draft of the letter I’d send to the papers. I could’ve done without seeing Ivana Stella again. But I wanted it to get around that my decision had been a hard choice, made after much consideration. Fact is, it gave me pleasure to see that woman. She aroused my curiosity, so much I would’ve liked to peep on her in her house. Maybe it was because when I looked at her I could better imagine how my Clara would’ve been at her age. I’d give a lot of thought to it, trying to imagine the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth in order to drive out the thought of her corpse in the coffin. Eventually I learned about the process of decomposition so I could know the state of her body at every moment. I could never “see” Enrico in the coffin that was sealed in the vault. The only sharp image I retained of him was the one of his corpse at the coroner’s.
“Is he your son?”
“Yes.”
“Sign here, please. I’ll fill out the form for the identification.”
“Grazie.”
The letter was a page full of bullshit. A handful of words in exchange for a name. But Ivana Stella was moved.
“What beautiful words,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her left eye with the tip of her middle finger. The nail was painted an elegant red. I took advantage of the gesture to examine her hands; they looked like a young girl’s. A sign of high-priced creams and no manual labor. I closed my eyes and sniffed her perfume. A classic with staying power. Clara wouldn’t have been so unimaginative. As Ivana Stella continued to read the letter out loud, I stood up to help myself to another drink, and my eyes wandered over her hair and down her back. The elastic from her pantyhose was sticking out from the waist of her skirt.
“It’s perfect,” decided the murderers’ solace. “I can scarcely imagine how difficult it must have been for you to write it.”
I shrugged. “It had to be done.”
I walked to the door, asking myself whether she’d give me another kiss. Instead she took my hand in hers. “I’m really happy to have met you.”
I arranged to meet Beggiato’s mother at the entrance to a tobacconist’s near the train station. A mailbox was nearby. When I turned up, she was already waiting for me. She looked scruffier than usual; her hair was uncombed and dirty. I was holding three envelopes addressed to the local newspapers. They were still unsealed.
“Here, read,” I said in a low voice.
She took one of them and read a few lines to be sure I’d kept my end of the bargain. Then she gave it back to me.
“I’ll tell you the name when you put the envelopes in the box, O.K.?”
“I’ll keep my word.”
Despite everything, she was still hesitating. She was betraying her son. I said nothing. I knew in the end her mother’s love would win out.
“Siviero. Oreste Siviero. The address is in the phone book.”
It wasn’t a particularly unusual name, but hearing it pronounced was like getting an electric shock. The envelopes made a dull thud when they hit the bottom of the box. I started to shake, and the howl filled my chest.
Signora Beggiato was afraid. She began to back away, her eyes fixed on me. Then she turned and ran. I managed to drive the howl back into the dark recesses of my mind. I walked away, muttering that name so many times it finally turned into a kind of hiss. I drove to the police station tormented by a thousand questions. One in particular troubled me: how had he lived for the past fifteen years? Definitely better than me, quiet and happy, enjoying the money from the robbery. I imagined a fat guy with a moustache and a gold tooth that stuck out between his lips when he talked. But maybe he blew it all and now was poor and full of regrets: those people didn’t know how to save and build a future. When the cash ran out, they’d go somewhere and make a withdrawal with a gun and a balaclava. That’s all it takes. If the police turn up, you grab a couple hostages, and if it comes down to killing them, you do it. “Clara, now I’m going to fuck him but good. Let him have fun till Superintendent Valiani drops by. Are you Oreste Siviero? Yeah, why? You have to come down to the station with us. Can I know the reason? Clara and Enrico Contin. The time to pay up has arrived.”
I parked near the bar where the cops from the station hung out. While I was backing in, I saw Valiani exit with some coworkers. The superintendent must’ve said something funny because the others had burst out laughing. Maybe I also made them laugh when I used to come by and ask about the investigation. Maybe they even gave me a nickname. For them, catching criminals is a job. One case after another. Solved, unsolved. After all, they do what they can without allowing themselves the luxury of suffering for the victims. When another cop dies, it’s different. I got wind of this at the funeral for an inspector killed near Grosseto, when they stormed an apartment during a drug deal. A South American trafficker shot him in the face and managed to get away. Wandering through the clusters of people at the service, I heard the other cops swear revenge. Their words were hard and burning like bullets. I never learned how the thing turned out, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they killed the trafficker in a shoot-out or as he tried to break through a road block.
Valiani would ask me how I’d come by the info. I’d never give up Beggiato’s mother. The murderer would find out about it, and he’d hate her. She didn’t deserve it. I’d answer “personal inquiries.” And that was really the truth. After years of searching, the name finally popped up. If I called it quits when the superintendent advised me to, I would’ve never hit on it. Still, I hadn’t been completely straight with Signora Beggiato. I didn’t tell her the accomplice’s arrest might delay her son’s release. There was no evidence of Siviero’s involvement, and the police would have to search for it. In the meantime, they couldn’t run the risk of letting the accomplice walk. Besides, after the arrest there’d be interrogations, testimony from witnesses, documents from judges and lawyers. In Italy, justice never moves fast. Who knows how Raffaello Beggiato would react. Maybe he’d defend his partner and try to exonerate him. But it’d all be useless. The investigation would pin the murders on him.
I thought about all these things and couldn’t decide whether I should get out of the car. Valiani had already been back in the station a few minutes, and I was still sitting there, thinking, remembering, trying to put that name in the proper context as I held tight to the wheel. My knuckles were white with tension. I stayed like this a long time, till I realized I couldn’t go in the station that day. The time to tell the superintendent hadn’t yet arrived.
Siviero Oreste, via San Domenico 26. And just below, Siviero Oreste, Daniela Cleaners, via Cimabue 115.
A working-class neighborhood, partly rebuilt in the 1960s with those big apartment buildings you see in every city. At that hour of the morning, it was filled with people going in and out of shops. There were also lots of students who divided up the cost of the rent. The science faculties were nearby, and this had persuaded many landlords that university students were good business.
The cleaners sat between a pharmacy and an electrician’s workshop. Two windows were papered with colored signs in felt pen, advertising various offers. The writing was clearly a woman’s. I took a peek inside. A woman was standing behind the counter, waiting on a customer. Behind her I noticed a curtain. Maybe Siviero was in the back room. I started walking, stopping every once in a while to check out the shops. Just beyond was an African hairdresser that shared the space with a grocery store for immigrants. I retraced my steps. The woman was wrapping a pair of trousers. She had to be the Daniela the business was named after. She was tall and thin with a bony face and straight hair, dyed blond, shoulder-length. She was no great shakes and didn’t dress flashy, not at all what you’d expect of a crook’s girl. Ordinary. But at least he had a woman at his side. I wondered if she knew anything. Ever since I’d begun watching her, she hadn’t stopped a second to jaw with the customers. Her smiling face didn’t seem to be hiding any secrets she couldn’t confess. Siviero must’ve been leery about confiding in her; sometimes love ends and turns into hate, and anything can happen. Even words worth a life sentence might escape a mouth. I would’ve never imagined him opening a cleaners. One night on TV I saw a documentary about Belgian mercenaries. As soon as they got home, bunches of them got into the business of washing people’s clothes. A psychologist explained that the need to clean up the blood they spilled drove them to a life among washing machines. It seemed like a load of shit to me. I didn’t think it fit Siviero either.
I went to see the house where the robber lived. The neighborhood wasn’t far away, just on the other side of the railroad tracks. Via San Domenico was a short, narrow street that joined via Santa Rita da Cascia with via San Bernardino. An area of recently built houses, all exactly the same: two floors, an attic, and a garden. I parked in front of number 26. The house was shut up. The lawn was well-manicured; in the back stood a gazebo in the Tyrolean style and a brickwork barbecue. They must’ve used it for summer dinners. Steaks, chicken alla diavola, sausages, chilled wine, two corpses on your conscience, an accomplice up for life. Siviero must’ve thought he was real slick, but the party was about to end. He’d be sporting handcuffs and eating the swill in the slammer. The house was the first thing that contrasted with the image of the unassuming shopkeeper suggested by the laundry. Had to be worth around 250,000 to 300,000 euros. It dawned on me that I wanted to know everything about him. And I wasn’t planning to run to the police. I felt different, more lucid, less weighed down with pain. Even euphoric at times.
I showed up at work almost four hours late. The optician who opened a shop next to mine asked me if something was wrong. Nothing like this had ever happened in all the years I’d been there. Even some customers were amazed.
“Had to get some documents,” I answered, and the guy took it as an opportunity to complain about taxes and insult the minister of finance.
I started working, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to head back to Siviero. Wanted to see him, follow him, spy on his life. When a customer asked me when he could pick up his resoled boots, I told him to come back next week. I knew a pensioner who used to work in a shoe factory and often turned up at the supermarket looking for odd jobs. On many occasions he offered to fill in for me, but I always declined. I wouldn’t have known where to go or what to do with a little free time.
I found him in the bar on the upper level. He was drinking a glass of prosecco and chatting with the tobacconist’s daughter, a plain girl with a fat ass who dropped out of school to sell cigarettes, candy, and lighters.
“I’m not cut out for studies,” she once told me. “Besides, I earn a decent salary here, and the job is secure. Why should I study?”
The pensioner’s name was Gastone Vallaresso. He was about sixty-five, sharp and witty.
“I can start right away,” he said, enthusiastic. I didn’t discuss the pay, but I reluctantly had the drink he insisted on buying me. I couldn’t wait to leave. I explained the few things he didn’t know and told him to make sure he always gave a receipt.
“How long do you think you’ll need me?” he asked.
“I have no idea. A few days, a week.”
I ate a sandwich in the car while I kept an eye on the cleaners. Every time the door opened, I had a jolt I wasn’t able to control. I couldn’t breathe, and my heart pounded. The anxiety was starting to torment me. Sometimes it blurred my vision. The darkness of death seeped past the edges of my mind. “Clara, love,” I implored, “let me be.” But I felt a mounting wave of desire to go inside the laundry and free the howl.
“Everything’s gone dark, Silvano. I can’t see anymore, I’m scared, scared, help me, it’s so dark.”
I murmured it softly as I sometimes did before I fell asleep, when I switched off the lamp on the night table and darkness took possession of the room.
The few men who went into the shop that afternoon were all customers. To see Oreste Siviero in person I had to wait till closing time. First the woman left, heading towards a yellow Smart car parked almost in front. Then a man who immediately turned his back to me to lock the door and pull down the gate. He showed me his profile when he climbed into an SUV that had to cost at least 25,000 euros. He started the engine and left calmly. I stayed right where I was, weeping, my head leaning against the wheel. “I found him, Clara. I found him.”
When I reached via San Domenico, the cars were already safely in the garden. The lights in the house were on, and a normal life was unfolding there—talking, the noise of dishes, taps running, the TV in the background. People who were alive, looking at one another, touching one another. It wasn’t just that Oreste Siviero should live my reality, what was mine by right. His had been built by destroying mine. That motherfucking bastard in his pretty little house, with the lawn and the barbecue—he was the only one who’d gotten something out of it. Me, Beggiato, his mother—we’d all been fucked. Me most of all.
It was a long night. I couldn’t calm down. New scenarios continually took shape in my mind. Triumphant epilogues of justice prevented me from sleeping, but in the morning I didn’t feel tired. I was ready to start over.
At seven I again stationed myself in front of the house. An hour later the electric gate opened. First the Smart drove out, then the SUV. They took different directions. Obviously, I followed him. He stopped in front of a bar. Through the window I saw him greet a couple people. The asshole was in a good mood. I got out of the car and went into the place without exactly knowing what to do. Siviero was standing at the counter, stirring a coffee.
“Un caffè,” I ordered in a loud voice. Then I slowly turned around to look at him. He did the same thing, giving me a distracted glance I found reassuring. He hadn’t recognized me. He raised the cup to his mouth. And I took the opportunity to eyeball him more closely. He must’ve been my age, just under fifty. He had the same build as Beggiato, but he was healthy and in good shape. His conscience hadn’t troubled him enough to let his appearance and health go to hell. He had a broad face, a small, fleshy nose, dark, determined eyes, short hair with long, neatly trimmed sideburns. He had on designer clothes, and he wore them naturally. I spotted a Rolex on his wrist, but unlike the hoods on TV he wasn’t flaunting rings and chains. Just a thin band on the ring finger of his left hand. He was normal. Like so many other guys. He was with a woman who was like so many other women. His life couldn’t have been anything special.
“Ciao, Tosi, see you later,” he said in a low, deep voice.
“Oreste, don’t forget the points on the pool,” said the cashier.
He waved and left.
I looked at the coffee, then the barista: “A Vecchia Romagna, please.”
I was acting on instinct. It was too much of an effort to think. I’d found Beggiato’s accomplice after fifteen years, and I didn’t know what else to do but go with the flow. I went home, grabbed two pairs of trousers and a jacket that had been perfectly cleaned and pressed, and threw them on the floor to get them dirty and wrinkled. Then I shoved them in a plastic bag and showed up at Siviero’s cleaners.
The woman was helping other customers. She greeted me with a quick, impersonal smile. I knew it well; I also used it at Heels in a Jiffy. He wasn’t in sight; he must’ve been in the back operating the machines. I tried to steal a glance behind the curtain. No luck. I killed time by getting a better look at the woman. The neckline of her blouse opened onto a small chest. Her hands were cared for, but her skin wasn’t as white and soft as Ivana Stella’s. Economic differences could be noticed in the little details. Her face revealed the rural origins typical of our country. She had a small scar on her forehead. When it was my turn, she flashed me another smile. I pulled the clothes out of the bag and put them on the counter. She checked them and bent down to write the receipt. This gave me a chance to stretch out my neck and sniff her scent. She smelled of spices and chocolate. A bit vulgar and trendy.
“Your name?” she asked.
Once again it was instinct that guided me. “Contin, Silvano Contin,” I said in a loud voice. The woman had no reaction, and this was proof her husband had kept her in the dark about everything. From the corner of my eye I saw the curtain just barely move. I quickly shifted my line of vision. The slit was parted by a hand, and my eyes met Siviero’s. The curtain suddenly closed.
“You can pick them up the day after tomorrow in the afternoon,” the woman said.
I paid, slipped the change and the receipt into my wallet, and returned to my car, parked a short distance away.
Siviero came out a few minutes later, looked around, then went back inside. After so many years something had shattered his confidence, and he needed to know if the guy whose wife and son he killed had come into his shop purely by chance. He’d seen me a few hours before in the bar, but it wasn’t clear whether he recognized me. One thing was certain: from now on he’d pay attention to my face.
After about twenty minutes I saw him come out again and head for a phone booth. He talked a short time, although obviously worked up. He had a peculiar way of gesturing, shaking a rigid hand as if to wave air in his face.
He left his wife the nightly task of closing up. I easily followed him through the city. He parked near the start of a bus route and had to run so he didn’t miss it. He got off at the third stop and turned around, eyes worried-looking, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. I kept behind the bus, which moved slowly in the traffic. Near the center of town I saw Signora Beggiato get off. This is who he’d phoned from the booth. I slammed on the brakes and ran after her. I reached her in an instant and grabbed her by the arm.
“Why’d you meet him? What were you talking about?” I asked.
The woman raised a hand to her heart. “Holy Madonna, what a fright.”
I waited for her to calm down, but I kept squeezing her arm hard. I tried to reassure her with my look, but that poor woman was in a tizzy.
“Raffaello asked me to contact Siviero so he’d get a passport and his share of the robbery ready for when he got out. That’s how I knew his name. Today he phoned to tell me everything was ready.”
“Why are you telling me this? Don’t you want your son to get away?”
“No! I want him to stay with me. I’ve been waiting fifteen years.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game. Stay away from Siviero. The police are going to turn up soon.”
“You’re the one who’s playing with fire. What got into your head to make you go to the cleaners?”
Nothing had gotten into my head. I just did it. At that moment I thought Clara might be guiding my actions. And right away I convinced myself there could be no other explanation. Clara knew what I had to do. One part of me felt the only sensible thing would’ve been to knock on the door of a psychiatric hospital and say: “I’ve got a problem.” But another part of me was engulfed in death’s dark abyss and couldn’t see a thing. It was dark. Pitch dark.
I let Signora Beggiato go, and she walked away, mumbling insults at me.
In the meantime, a motorcycle cop had stopped next to my car and was writing me a ticket. “Did you see where you stopped?”
Half the car covered the zebra crossing. “No. But you’re right; I deserve a ticket.”
He gave me the once-over to see if I was pulling his leg, but the expression on my face told a different story. The cop tore the ticket from the pad and handed it to me.
“Next time pay more attention,” he warned me.
Back home I took a shower. Then, in pajamas, I went into the kitchen to find something to eat. I found würstel in the fridge and boiled the sausages in a pan of water. I ate them with some crackers and red wine. They had a strange taste. I looked at the expiration date on the wrapper. They should’ve still been good. When I read the label more carefully, I saw they were made from chicken. Chicken würstel? I’d never eaten them before. I thought they were only made from pork. I couldn’t get them out of my mind all night. I went to bed asking myself if they ate that chicken crap in Germany too.
I dreamt of Enrico. I was holding him in my arms. His head belonged to an eight-year-old, but his body was a newborn’s. He didn’t want me to rock him. We stayed stock still till he shut his eyes and fell asleep.
The next morning, as I waited for Siviero at the bar, I read the local papers. They all made the publication of my letter front-page news. The commentary came from every direction. Presotto’s article maintained that he understood the great human value of my words, but once again he appealed to the judiciary and the minister to act so that the rigor of Beggiato’s sentence would remain unchanged. In accordance with justice. The center-left paper assigned the commentary to an expert who asked why the relatives of victims were entrusted with a decisive role that recalled a tribal social structure more than a constitutional state. The local insert of the national daily limited itself to a point-by-point summary of the case, which they ran with large photos of the protagonists. Living and dead. In the center they placed my letter in italics.
Dear Editor,
I would like your newspaper to give me the opportunity to state, once and for all, my position concerning the request for pardon and the subsequent petition for a suspended sentence filed by Raffaello Beggiato, a convict serving a life term. This man, with an accomplice who remains unknown, killed my wife and my eight-year-old son after taking them hostage in the course of a robbery. For these most grave crimes, he was given the maximum sentence provided by our legal system. Fifteen years after the events, inmate Beggiato, seriously ill with a tumor, asked for my forgiveness. After meeting with him in prison, I decided not to grant it for strictly personal reasons that I do not intend to make known. Regarding his request for a suspended sentence, however, after a long and painful deliberation, I believe it to be appropriate to make public my favorable opinion by means of this letter. Even if it is not binding on the judicial decision, I feel it is right to communicate my thinking. Raffaello Beggiato is seriously ill with no hope of recovery, and his death will not give me the least bit of comfort. The pain from the loss of my Clara and my little Enrico will remain unaltered. But this does not prevent my conscience from siding with an act of humanity. To let Beggiato die in prison would be pointlessly cruel, and I hope this does not happen because it would be revenge, not justice. Besides, the suspension of the sentence for illness does not cancel out the crime, and Beggiato would remain, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner sentenced to a life term. I hope that Beggiato, should the petition be granted, might utilize his freedom, not only to undergo treatment, but to reflect with serenity on the terrible crimes he has committed in expectation of the Lord’s judgment.
For my part, I ask only that I be left to my pain, which I do not intend to share with anyone ever again. Least of all do I wish to transform it into news or spectacle. We relatives of innocent victims deserve only silent respect.
Silvano Contin
Ivana Stella was right: the letter was perfect. I didn’t make a fool of myself, and it enabled me to avoid journalists in the future. Above all, it helped me to find Siviero. Through the window I saw his car pull up a few minutes later.
When he rested his elbows on the counter, waiting for his coffee, I materialized at his side.
“Un caffè, grazie.”
The sound of my voice made him turn, and our eyes met a second time. He blanched and suffered a moment of confusion, uncertain whether to take off or to act as if nothing had happened. At this point, he must’ve realized I wasn’t there by chance.
“Remember me?” I asked. “Yesterday I brought clothes to the cleaners.”
Siviero didn’t answer, but he managed to articulate a sound that could’ve resembled a yes. He drank his coffee without putting any sugar in it and quickly moved over to the cashier. At the door, he turned back to look at me. I waved goodbye.
I was disappointed. Siviero was such a normal guy that he was quaking in his boots. Armed and protected by the balaclava, he could rob and kill, but in the end he was just like everybody else. It was obvious I had enormous power over him. The mere sight of me must’ve conjured up terrifying words in his mind, words like police, life sentence, prison. I think he would’ve done anything he could to avoid catastrophe. That was it. Before sending him to prison for the remainder of his life, I had the chance to make him understand the meaning of pain, anguish, loss. Then he’d understand the rest.