I felt too secure. And that was an inexcusable mistake. You can feel secure only when you’ve never done anything outside the rules. All a guy like me could do was rely on the odds. At the most I could say I felt “reasonably” secure. That was the only way you stopped yourself from lowering your guard. But a mistake I made in the past—and I made lots of them—came back and caught me with my pants down. Anedda. I looked up and found him in front of me. The first thing that crossed my mind was I should’ve killed him to stop him from coming back into my life. He sure wasn’t paying me some courtesy visit. Ferruccio the bull was in a jam. A big jam. You just had to look at him to see he was desperate. Suit wrinkled, face unshaven, eyes glassy and feverish, hair mussed. Before me stood the ghost of the man I once knew. His look said I was his last hope. I poured him a brandy. Cheap stuff. What I used for a caffè corretto. He knocked it back.
“I got to talk to you.” He was hoarse. The tension between us was almost as thick as the smoke from his cigarette.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“I’ll see you tonight at your place.”
“We’re not understanding one another.”
“You don’t understand,” he hissed. His cockiness was back. “Do what I tell you and don’t give me any shit.”
As he walked out, I stared at his back, full of hate. I surveyed the customers to see if anybody caught our testy exchange. Everything looked calm. I poured myself two fingers of Lagavullin. The heat of the whiskey wiped out the chill that gripped my gut—for a moment. I too felt desperate. You could bet he wanted to get me involved in some nasty business that’d jeopardize everything I built. Eighteen more days till the hearing for the rehabilitation. I didn’t deserve this insult from fate.
I lowered the shutter of the osteria and headed home. The cop didn’t ask me for the address. He must’ve already gotten the lowdown on me. As I was opening the gate, I saw Anedda from the corner of my eye, getting out of an Alfa Romeo black as night. He followed me without a word. Threw himself on a couch.
“I’m bushed,” he whined.
He took a cigarette from a pack as wrinkled as his suit.
“What do you want?”
He got right to the point. “You have to ice some dude.”
“Forget about it,” I shot back. “I’m not killing anybody for you. I’ve gone straight.”
“I know. You’ve become a regular guy. But if you don’t do me this favor, I’m in deep shit. And to limit the damage I’ll be forced to cooperate. I’ll drag you down with me.”
Smart cop. He had me by the balls. I poured myself a drink. “Who am I supposed to kill?”
“An informer of mine. A shitty Algerian who infiltrated the Islamic Salvation Front. We did a couple jobs together. Then he disappeared. I heard he started working for the carabinieri. If I don’t shut him up right away, he’ll fuck me big time. The carabinieri always manage to make you spill everything.”
“Where is he?”
“In Bologna. I spent three days and nights tracking down his hideout. I moved mountains.”
“Why don’t you do this job?”
He burst out laughing. “I’d be happy to do it. But when that asshole goes to a better life, I’ll be at my office in Milano. I need an airtight alibi.”
“Then you’re already under suspicion?”
“Yeah. But they still don’t have anything definite on me. They’re investigating because I was the Algerian’s contact.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“I won’t risk a life sentence in the dark. I want to know about the jam you’re in.”
“A courier on his way from Iran. A briefcase filled with dollars. You need to know more?”
I shook my head. “How should he die?”
“A bullet in the head. You still have that .22 with the silencer?”
“I’ve gone straight. I don’t need guns anymore.”
“Then I’ll get you one.”
“When do I lay him out?”
“Day after tomorrow. I hope it isn’t already too late.”
“And after?”
“After what?”
“Are you going to turn up every time you’re in deep shit and need somebody whacked?”
“Relax. Once the problem is solved, you’ll never see me again.”
Right then I knew Anedda wanted to eliminate me as well. Otherwise he would’ve gotten snotty to remind me I was on-call for him. The business with the Algerian taught him a lesson. No witnesses, no risks.
I heard the key turn in the lock. Roberta. As far as I knew, she should’ve been at her parents’ that night. She rushed into the living room.
“Amore, I have a surprise!” she said, pleased. “A CD with Alessandro Haber singing ‘I’ll Never See You Again.’”
When she realized she was in the presence of somebody she didn’t know, she immediately buttoned up. “Excuse me,” she grumbled, embarrassed. “I thought Giorgio was alone.”
The cop got to his feet. “I was about to leave,” he said with a forced smile.
“I’ll see you out.”
“I notice you’ve stopped going with professionals,” he remarked under his breath.
“I’ve gone straight,” I told him for the zillionth time.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll drop by the osteria,” Anedda promised.
As I closed the door, I muttered a curse.
“Who is he?” asked my fiancée.
I shrugged. “A wine dealer.” I cut it short.
“What did he want?”
“He made me an offer.”
“Why here at home? They usually go to the osteria.”
Roberta was asking too many questions. I hugged her. “I can’t wait to hear Haber’s version.”
She smiled, happy, forgetting about her curiosity. A few seconds later the room filled with the warm voice of the actor who let himself be tempted by music. That night she was the one who wanted to make love. It was the farthest thing from my mind.
“Some other time,” I said. My tone was snippy. Her presence rubbed me the wrong way. I needed to be alone to think. In the next twenty-four hours I’d have to kill a man and try not to get myself killed.
I couldn’t sleep. Roberta slept calmly at my side, her hand resting on my chest. The problem wasn’t murdering the Algerian, but stopping Ferruccio the bull from eliminating me. He had to have a plan already. He wouldn’t try anything the day the Algerian died. The need for an alibi forced him to stay put at police headquarters. For several days. Till he’d shaken off the suspicion of being a corrupt cop. After he waited a bit, one night he’d shoot me right in front of my house. Or he’d invite himself over for a drink. More likely. Then he’d have to get rid of Roberta as well. She got a good look at his face. In my company. I wasn’t afraid. But I was racked by the unpredictability of fate. I couldn’t bear the idea of a life at the mercy of events. If I got through this business, what else was waiting for me? A tumor? A car crash? Brianese’s arrest? My heart was pounding, and I had to get up. What the fuck was happening to me? I went into the living room and made myself watch TV. A movie with Franco Franchi. He was playing the part of a monk who went to visit his aunt, the manager of a brothel. After a little while I felt my heartbeat return to normal. I went back to the bedroom to see if my fiancée was sleeping. Then with a screwdriver I pried loose a piece of the baseboard from the wall in the hallway. A recess dug into the wall hid a nylon pouch. I lied to Anedda. I saved the pistol. You never know what might happen. And I made the right decision. The Ruger .22 I used to kill Ausonio and Ciccio Formaggio was dismantled. I’d wrapped the various parts in rags soaked in oil. Barrel, spring, chamber, stock, clip. I screwed on the silencer. Released the firing pin. I was ready to defend my life the only way I knew how. I went back to bed. Roberta squeezed up against me.
The cop showed up after noon. He ordered a coffee. “Tonight I’ll drop by your place. I’ll bring you the guy’s photo and the piece.”
“No,” I answered, prepared. “My girl will be there. Let’s meet at the parking lot behind the bus station.”
He mulled over the change in plans for a few seconds. “OK. One-thirty. Sharp.”
March had just begun, and the nights were still bitter cold. I slipped on a dark jacket and a warm wool cap. Gifts from my fiancée. The leather gloves I’d bought just that afternoon. I took my bicycle from the storeroom and headed for the meeting. It was a Bianchi from the ’50s, repaired and repainted. It cost an arm and a leg, but I couldn’t resist because it was identical to my grandfather’s. When I was little and went to see him, he’d sit me on the crossbar and take me around town. I used it every day to tool around the centro, now closed to traffic. The parking lot really wasn’t deserted. It was scattered with parked cars where Nigerian and Albanian whores took their johns. The black Alfa Romeo was smack in the center of the open space. Ferruccio the bull wanted to be sure he could see who was coming. I stopped at the passenger side. He signaled me to get in. With my foot I lowered the Bianchi’s kickstand and opened the door just enough to slip the pistol inside. I pulled the trigger ten times. Every bullet in the clip. The silencer muffled the noise from the shots and smothered the bursts of flame that accompanied each discharge. Sure, people in the parking lot might’ve noticed that long series of flashes in the darkness, like a strobe light. But they saw and heard absolutely nothing. The shit was dead. Head leaning against the wheel. Eyes wide-open. A trickle of blood dripping from his mouth. I carefully closed the door, climbed on the bike and rode off, pedaling at an easy pace. I got rid of the gloves and the gun, tossing them into a trash can. I was sorry to say goodbye to the Ruger. It had served me faithfully, but at this point it was too hot. The bullets and casings were back in Anedda’s body and car. Keeping the gun would be suicide. I was content. But not calm. To take him by surprise I had to give up a safer plan. I would’ve preferred to lure him to a quiet place, out in the country, so I could torch his car and corpse. But he was too sharp to fall for a trap that obvious. When his body was discovered, the investigators would find the stuff he was going to hand over to me. The gun and the photo of the Algerian. The danger: something might tie me to him. A note. An address. A phone number. A wise precaution would’ve been to make myself scarce for a while. But I couldn’t do that. I’d have to come up with too many explanations for too many people. All I could do was wait. And risk being arrested.
I found Roberta at home. She was waiting for me, reading in an armchair.
“Where have you been?”
“I had a drink with Brianese at another club.”
“Did you talk about the hearing?”
“Yeah. Not much time now.”
“You weren’t with another woman, were you?”
“Please, amore, don’t start again.”
She threw the home-decorating magazine on the table and opened her arms to welcome me. “Come here.”
I let her cuddle me. I needed to relax. I closed my eyes and again saw the scene of Anedda’s death. Killing him was necessary. And satisfying. I always liked murder. Ever since the time I shot my friend Luca in the head in that fucking Central American jungle. I also wanted to shoot the bull in the head. And not use the whole clip. I had to do it for fear of missing vital organs. Wounded, even if seriously, he could still draw his nine caliber and pay me back in kind. The investigators would certainly think the killer was unskilled and in a rush. I would’ve liked them to come upon the work of a pro. A shot in the head is solemn, like a court verdict. It’s justice.
Two days later articles about the discovery of Anedda’s corpse appeared in the newspapers. Everybody in town was talking about it. The national TV channels arrived in troupes. The journalists speculated about international terrorism. But the media’s interest in keeping the story alive didn’t match the investigators’. The cops and judges knew very well they weren’t dealing with a state servant who sacrificed himself in the line of duty. And they didn’t have a single shred of evidence pinpointing a murderer. The people who usually hung around the area didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary. The attention to the case lasted a couple days, then vanished, swept away by other events. My tension also vanished. I convinced myself the investigation wouldn’t turn up anything related to me. My plan worked.
That night I returned home a little later. I noticed Roberta’s bag next to the phone. An unexpected visit. She’d come down with the flu and preferred to stay at her parents’. I found her in the living room. In the dark.
“Do you feel bad, amore?” I asked thoughtfully.
She didn’t answer. I switched on the light. Her eyes were puffy from crying. In her hand was a copy of the town daily. She held it up so I could see Anedda’s photo. My whole world came crashing down on me. Fate continued to torment me. First Ferruccio the bull. Now my fiancée, suddenly transformed into another dangerous threat.
“It’s the man I found in this room a week ago,” she said in an accusatory tone.
“You’re mistaken. Newspaper photos are deceiving.”
“On television I saw some film clips. It’s really him. And the night he was killed you weren’t home.”
“You’re accusing me of the crime?” I asked, as if unwilling to believe it.
She started to sob. “I don’t know what to think. I’m certain I met this person here.”
I acted indignant. “I already told you it wasn’t him. Besides, I was with Brianese when they shot him. If you don’t believe me, ask him.”
I knew she wouldn’t dare approach the lawyer to ask him a question like that. My answer should’ve calmed her down. But she was still ripped by doubt.
I hugged her. “How can you think I’m a murderer? Do you want me to die of grief?”
She squeezed me tight. “I can’t believe you’re a monster. But you knew that policeman, and you have a duty to report what you know to the investigators.”
The blood froze in my veins. The thing was getting worse. I had to cook up something else. Otherwise she’d go to the cops and tell them she saw Anedda at my house forty-eight hours before he was whacked.
I took her face in my hands. “Yeah, I knew him,” I admitted. “I was one of his informers. The terrorists are reorganizing, and my experience proved useful to him. I didn’t tell you before because it involves tricky, secret investigations. But I’m not the one who killed him. Get it into your head once and for all.”
“One more reason to clear yourself,” she stubbornly insisted. “Your information can help to capture the murderer and his accomplices.”
“I can’t believe that’ll happen. But even if it did, it would mean blowing my cover, turning myself into a target. I’d have to go into hiding, leave my job, give up the idea of living with you.”
This argument threw her civic sense into crisis. Now was the time to lay it on thick. “In a few days I’ll have the chance to remove the stigma of being an ex-convict. A new life awaits me. A life with you. If I go to the police, the petition process will be suspended, and who knows how long I’ll have to wait. Don’t force me to give you up. I want to marry you. And I want a child.”
My soap-opera performance worked. Roberta wept buckets, letting go of every doubt. I picked up Caterina Caselli’s CD. Played “I’ll Never See You Again.” Then I took her in my arms and carried her to bed. Whispered sweet words of love. When she fell asleep, I sighed with relief. For the moment I was out of danger. But in future? Taken by surprise, I slipped her the wrong lie. I should’ve told her I already spoke to the investigators, maintaining my cover as an informer. Too late now to put it right. My only hope was marriage. To tie her to me with a knot that can’t be untied. Till that moment I’d been firmly opposed to the religious ritual. As soon as she awoke, I’d tell her I changed my mind and we’d get married in her parish church. And we wouldn’t miss a single class in the prenuptial course. Ours will be a blessed union. Absolved from every sin.
It was a winning move. My fiancée relaxed and didn’t mention the topic of Anedda again. She went back to busying herself with the preparations for the wedding. And I made the acquaintance of her confessor, Don Agostino, who was going to guide us on the path to the sacrament of matrimony. An old priest, sour and pigheaded. The loathing was mutual from the first time we met. But I was ready to put up with anything just to lead her to the altar. The day of the hearing for the rehabilitation arrived. The surveillance judge read out a long report. He asked me several questions. Then he gave the word to the public prosecutor.
“I do not object to granting the benefit.” He said no more.
Brianese spoke for five minutes. He described my wish for reinstatement in calm, effective language.
“How did it go?” Roberta asked the lawyer when we left the courtroom.
“Fine. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for the decision. As Giorgio probably explained to you, the court of surveillance will communicate it in writing. You’ll have to be patient a few more days.”
We celebrated at La Nena after closing. Because it was convenient. Ten or so friends and the lawyer. Champagne, terrines of foie gras, a torta. Sante Brianese began amusing us with courtroom anecdotes. Suddenly I heard Roberta’s voice asking, “What are they saying about the policeman killed in the parking lot?”
The lawyer shrugged. “Next to nothing. The anti-terrorist squad is investigating, and their lips are sealed. To tell the truth, it’s a case I haven’t followed much. The day of the murder I was in Roma for a suit in appellate court, and when I returned, there was no longer any talk of it.”
Fucked. That’s just how I felt then. I was celebrating the rehabilitation, and my fiancée was digging my grave with her fucking questions. Roberta was pale; she stared at me, confused. She remained in this condition till the party ended. We went home without saying a word to one another. She locked herself in the bathroom and cried. For the second time in a few days I sank into a state of absolute desperation. When she calmed down, she’d expect some answers. And there wasn’t a lie in the world that could get me out of this mess. I could only hope to cut my losses.
All of a sudden I found myself in front of her. Her face streaked with mascara. “Where did you go that night?”
“Brianese is mistaken. He always has too much going on. He got confused.”
“Where did you go?” she shouted.
“Maybe I’m the one who’s mistaken. I really don’t remember. I may have taken a walk.”
“Where?” She screamed so loud she turned red in the face.
I had one last move to shake off her suspicions. “OK. You asked for it.” I screamed back. “I was with another woman.”
“You bastard.” She attacked me, trying to hit me in the face. “You went to bed with that whore Martina, didn’t you?”
“No. I picked up some woman on the street.” I hugged her close. “It was just a fuck. You’re the one I love.”
She got free and ran to lock herself in the bathroom. Ten minutes later she opened the door. She had washed her face and combed her hair.
“I don’t want to marry you anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I thought you were a different person. But you’re just a liar.”
“You’re upset now. You have reason to be, but this isn’t the time to make decisions that can jeopardize our future.”
She left without listening. I collapsed on the couch. I felt like hitting the bottle of whiskey, but I needed a clear head. Losing Roberta was no big deal. That was sure as shit. Our relationship was hanging by a thread, and to go through with the wedding plans would be plain stupid. I’d start circulating some not-very-flattering rumors about her. After a while the gossip about our break-up would die down. Replacing her wouldn’t be hard. The real problem was different. Would she keep her mouth shut about Anedda’s murder or blab about it to her mother, her girlfriends and Don Agostino? The answer was obvious. She’ll have to go into detail about why she called off the wedding, and you can bet she’ll tell how she made me confess my betrayal. Then the meeting with Anedda at my place will pop out. Somebody’ll persuade her to talk to the cops. But she won’t even need to put the police on my trail. A story like that could generate all kinds of rumors—which will eventually reach the wrong ears. Even if Anedda was a corrupt cop, his colleagues were still keen to find who filled him with lead.
I weighed the idea of clearing out. I was sitting on a nest egg that’d take me a long ways away. But I shouldn’t have to start all over again. It wasn’t right. Suddenly it dawned on me: I had to kill Roberta. I didn’t want to go that far, but the rule “no witness, no risk” stood out crystal-clear. Still, it was just as clear I was dealing with a problem that had no quick fix. If she died violently, suspicion would fall on her fiancé, who was just rehabilitated but nonetheless had a shady past. She was a nice girl, conscientious about her job, with a deeply religious outlook on life. In her world, murder wasn’t considered a likely event. No, it was so unusual the police would be obliged to carry out a serious investigation. If it was a question of a hooker, a junkie, a vagrant, an illegal immigrant or simply a woman connected to some marginal character, the news of the murder would take up a paragraph in the dailies and half a page of a police report. I sized up various possibilities. The most convincing was passing off the crime as the work of a maniac. But in the end the cops would still come knocking at my door. No matter how I looked at it, I remained the principal suspect. I closed my eyes. Thought about her from the first time I spotted her in the osteria. The memory of a conversation made something click in my mind. At first I didn’t know what. The more I thought about it, the more precise it grew, and an idea took shape. Then a plan.
I woke up earlier than usual. I waited for Don Agostino to finish saying the seven o’clock mass. I caught up with him on his way to the rectory, followed by two altar-boys.
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“I don’t have time this morning,” he answered rudely.
“Something serious has happened between me and Roberta. Give me a few minutes. Please.”
He raised his eyes towards the sky. “Wait for me in my office. I’ll be with you after I change.”
It took him a good half an hour to show up. From the bread crumbs on his cassock I figured he spent it having breakfast.
“Now tell me what happened.”
“Padre, I did a very bad thing. I cheated on Roberta,” I said immediately to attract his attention. I wanted him to remember every word of that conversation. “One night I couldn’t resist temptation, so I bought the body of a prostitute. I realized I erred when I found my fiancée waiting for me. In the beginning I didn’t have the courage to confess what I did, so I lied to justify going out that night. Then, through a series of events, my lie was discovered, and I was forced to tell the truth.”
“Lies have short legs,” he remarked, satisfied. “What do you want from me?”
“Roberta doesn’t want to marry me anymore. You must persuade her to reconsider her decision. She won’t talk to me.”
“Perhaps you are not the right man for her. Her parents have always been convinced of it. In the past you were guilty of grave offenses, and even now, a few months before your marriage, your conduct continues to be immoral.”
“It was a moment of weakness. It will never happen again. I am deeply in love with Roberta. I’m certain I can make her happy.”
“I shall try to speak to her. But I promise you nothing. To lie and to go with prostitutes are grave sins. That girl does not deserve such pain.”
I put on a contrite expression and left in silence.
My second stop was a local library. At that hour of the morning it was filled mostly with pensioners. I found the book I wanted. Verified the accuracy of my memories and left for work. The day passed without a hitch. A customer came to ask me for a loan. Two and a half grand. He’d pay me back three the following week. I gave him what he wanted. Sometimes regulars would ask me for small amounts in cash. Till then I’d send them to one of the loansharks I did business with. But after giving it some thought I decided I could set up a little bank in the osteria. The secret to preventing the cops from nosing around was to limit yourself to low figures. All through the day I acted happy. Talked to various people about the wedding, asked their advice about flowers and photographs. Shortly before closing I received a phone call from Roberta.
“I have to talk to you.”
“Don Agostino?”
“Yes, he convinced me. We must look into the depths of our hearts and determine the sincerity of our feelings.”
“I’ll wait for you at home.”
Her face looked wasted. She seemed worn-out. She sat in the armchair.
“It hurts me to see you suffer like this.”
“It’s your fault.”
“What have your mother and your friends been telling you?” I asked to get the lie of the land.
She shook her head. “I haven’t said anything yet. I’m too ashamed to say what you’ve done.”
“You did right not to tell anybody about it. I’m certain we’ll be able to reach an understanding. And everything will go back to what it was before.”
From her bag she took out a handkerchief and started to whimper. “I don’t trust you anymore.”
“Please, don’t cry. It’ll be hard to talk.”
She dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I’ve never felt so bad in my entire life.”
I caressed her cheek. “Have you had dinner?”
She shook her head. “I can’t get anything down.”
“You’ll make yourself sick.” I raised my voice, worried.
“I’ll eat something at home.”
“I’ve brought a couple orders of cannelloni with ricotta from the osteria. I was just about to sit down and eat. Come on, keep me company.”
I added another plate. Offered her a glass of wine while the meal was heating up in the microwave. I let her serve herself. She took only one of the cannelloni. I passed her the grated cheese. We ate in silence.
“Don Agostino thinks you’re not suited to marriage. He’s convinced you’re an amoral person.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Then why did you go with that prostitute?”
“It’s your fault. Sexually you leave a lot to be desired.”
She blushed with shame. “I need time. You have much more experience, and besides, I don’t like some of the things you want to do with me. They seem dirty, unnatural between two people who want to marry.”
“Is that your opinion or Don Agostino’s?”
“He’s my confessor.”
“But he has no experience in this area. And he’s giving you bad advice. For example, what do you think about when you touch yourself?”
“Stop it. I don’t want to talk about these things.”
“You should’ve taken your fantasies to bed, not to the confessional. We would’ve enjoyed ourselves, and I wouldn’t have felt the need to drill a prostitute.”
“Don’t use language like that. It’s disgusting.”
“Why did Alfio leave you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You couldn’t satisfy him. That’s the truth. He broke the engagement. I went looking for pleasure elsewhere. What do you think the next guy will do?”
She burst into tears. I decided to tone down the discussion. By now she had to be convinced I went out that night to satisfy the needs of the flesh.
I hugged her tight. “I love you, Roberta. I don’t want to lose you. I swear on the memory of my father and mother I’ll never go with another woman again. I’ll make love only to you. Without forcing you. And with respect for your sensitivity.”
She took my face in her hands and looked me straight in the eyes. “Do you really swear it?”
“I swear it. Don Agostino made me realize sex is only one aspect of a couple’s life.”
“How I’d like to believe you.”
“Do it, and you’ll be happy.”
“I’m confused. First the story about the murdered policeman. Then the humiliation of being betrayed with a common whore.”
“Don’t think about it anymore. Think of our future.”
“I can’t,” she came right back, depressed. “Was she prettier than me?”
I smiled. “That would be impossible.”
“Was she black?”
“No.”
“Did you kiss her on the mouth?”
“No.”
“Did you use a condom?”
“Yes.”
“I want to know what you did.”
“Enough now. That would be humiliating for both of us.”
A tense silence fell on the scene. I let her chill a bit. Offered her a cigarette and a liqueur. Switched on the TV. Tuned in that comic news program, Striscia la Notizia. Gabibbo, the life-size puppet, put her in a good mood. I suggested she have a slice of tiramisù. It was her favorite dessert. And the cook at La Nena did an excellent version of it.
“Are you trying to ply me with sweets?” she joked.
“With everything. Just to win back your heart.”
She ate two slices. Washed them down with some aged Marsala. Then she stood up. “I’m going home.”
“Stay here, please. Being together will help us get back on track.”
“OK. Besides, I’m too tired to drive home.”
When she woke up, I brought her breakfast in bed. Latte macchiato and some store-bought cookies.
“I want to treat you like a princess.”
She smiled at me. “I have to hurry. Otherwise I’ll be late for work.”
“I’ll expect you for lunch.”
At the osteria I served her linguine al pesto. With lots of parmigiano. Her mood had improved. Even if she still felt tired. And annoyed by a persistent itch on her face and hands.
“Your body is reacting to the stress of these past few days,” I remarked. “It’ll pass soon.”
When she came back that evening, the itch was worse. It spread to her chest and groin.
“Go to my place. I’ll get there as soon as I can. And don’t eat too much. Maybe it’s an infection. There’s some yogurt in the fridge.”
I waited about an hour. Then I told the waiters I was worried about my fiancée, she wasn’t feeling well. I asked the oldest guy to take care of the closing that night.
When I entered the house, I noticed the yogurt container on the edge of the armchair. I picked it up. It was empty. I went into the bedroom. Roberta was lying in bed. In a nightgown. Motionless. Her face transfigured by the pink wheals of a serious skin eruption.
“I feel sick. Call a doctor.”
“That doesn’t seem necessary,” I said.
She touched her face. “Oh God,” she moaned. “What’s happening to me?”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re dying, Roberta. You’ve swallowed an excessive quantity of aspirin. And you know that acetylsalicylic acid may be harmful to your health.”
“What are you saying?”
“I put crushed aspirins in all the food you’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours,” I explained as I slipped into her bag the box of aspirin I used. “In the cannelloni, the milk, the parmigiano—”
“You’ve poisoned me.”
“Yes. I remembered you once told me you were allergic to aspirin. I had an aunt with the same problem. The thing struck me because, at the time, I couldn’t believe a medicine might kill a person.”
“Call a doctor, I beg you.”
“It isn’t necessary. My diagnosis is correct.”
“Why are you killing me?”
“I can’t let you go around telling people you met Anedda here. Not even that I went out for a walk the night he was murdered.”
“It was you?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me why. Pray instead. From what I could verify today at the library, according to the international medical literature, you should pop off in a couple hours at the most.”
She grabbed her throat. “Help, I can’t breathe.”
“It’s the respiratory attack. You’re on your way out, bella mia.”
Roberta fought for life tooth and nail. She started to curse me. Her voice had become hoarse. And unbearable. I went into the living room and switched on the stereo. Caterina Caselli’s voice filled the house.
You need to have a heart so pure
To see the heaven that’s hidden here
You need to love, be ever so sure,
To banish every fear
Roberta, in the meantime, had turned cyanotic. Blue lips and nails. From the way her lips were moving, I could tell she was remanding her soul to the Lord. I looked at the clock. She could die of respiratory insufficiency or cardiovascular collapse. The important thing was that she be quick about it. As soon as she lost consciousness, I called the ambulance. And put on my pajamas.
“I woke up and found her like this.”
When they loaded her on the stretcher, she was still alive. But she wouldn’t make it. Too late. I sighed with relief. I was fed up with playing the role of sweetheart. All that soap-opera mush I’d been forced to say turned my stomach.
The autopsy revealed the cause of death. Respiratory insufficiency. The toxicological tests isolated the substance that produced it. The parents maintained that never ever would their Roberta have taken acetylsalicylic acid. They were so convincing a couple carabinieri in plain clothes showed up at my house. The osteria was closed for mourning.
I played the role of the shattered man. I didn’t manage to impress them.
“Were you aware of the fact that your fiancée was allergic to aspirin?” asked the marshal.
“No, I didn’t know.”
“How was that possible?” asked the sergeant.
“How was what possible?”
“That you didn’t know,” explained his partner.
“She never told me.”
“The medical examiner told us it would take quite a bit to die. How can it be that you noticed nothing?”
“Roberta came to the restaurant. She said she didn’t feel well—”
“We know all about this. We talked to the staff. We asked you a different question.”
“When I came home, Roberta was in bed. She was sleeping.”
“She wasn’t sleeping. She was dying—”
“She seemed to be sleeping. I put on my pajamas and got into bed.”
“And you noticed nothing.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even kiss her good night?”
“No.”
“That’s strange. Fiancés and newlyweds always kiss good night.”
“That night we didn’t.”
“How did you notice your fiancée was sick?”
“I had to go to the bathroom. I switched on the light. I saw Roberta’s face was swollen and her lips were purple. I immediately called the ambulance.”
“But when you got into bed, you didn’t notice her face was swollen?”
“No. She was turned on her side.”
They remained silent for a little while, staring at me, perplexed.
“Were you getting on well together?” asked the marshal.
“Recently there were some differences. But everything had been settled.”
“What was the nature of these ‘differences’?”
“I don’t think they’ll interest you.”
“But they do interest us.”
“Don’t play asshole, Pellegrini,” the sergeant intervened. “Even if they’re cleaning up your record, you’re still a criminal to us. And we beat the fuck out of criminals.”
“Do what you want.”
“Don Agostino told us a juicy little tale.”
“OK, so I’ve been with a whore.”
“Do you remember which one?”
“No.”
“Do you at least remember where?”
“The highway near the industrial zone.”
“What day was it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t remember. What does it matter anyway?”
“We’re paid to ask the questions. Even the ones that don’t matter.”
“You want to hear a question that matters?”
I spread my arms. “Let me hear it.”
“Did you give your girl the aspirin?”
“No.”
“Then where did she get it?”
“In a pharmacy, I guess.”
“Her family says that’s impossible. She knew it would kill her.”
“Then I don’t know.”
“In the days before her death, did she talk about having a headache, menstrual cramps, fever or some other ailment?”
“She told me she was bothered by a bad itch.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
The marshal closed his notebook and headed for the door, promptly aped by his colleague.
He put his hand on the knob, then turned towards me. “Only three theories explain Roberta’s death: accident, homicide or suicide. We can easily exclude accident. Either she decided to put an end to the pain and humiliation you caused her or you killed her.”
“Why would I kill Roberta? I loved her, I wanted to marry her.”
“Right, the motive,” he said, thinking. “If it were up to me, I’d throw you in jail till the investigation is over. But no judge would sign an arrest warrant on the basis of suspicion, without a clear motive.”
“We’ll see you soon,” added the sergeant. “Maybe back at the station.”
I went to the kitchen to make myself coffee. Lit a cigarette and took my time, enjoying it. The thing went well. The cops had nothing. The inquest would be shelved. Only a question of time. I was dead sure. But just to cover my back I phoned Brianese.
“Don’t worry, Giorgio.” His tone was sympathetic. “I’ll speak to the prosecutor. And I’ll ask our friends in uniform to intervene. I guarantee you these two guys won’t bother you again.”
Yes, our friends. All of them were at the funeral. Even the loansharks. In church only Roberta’s parents and relatives didn’t deem me worthy of a glance. Somehow they held me responsible for her death. Sante Brianese came to sit at my side.
He squeezed my arm. “The notification from the court of surveillance has arrived. You’ve been rehabilitated.”
I burst into tears. Of happiness. I’d done it. The nightmare was over. I could finally be like everybody else. Just a face in the crowd. I wiped my eyes. I couldn’t wait for that torment to end. Somebody squeezed my hand. It was Martina. In her look I read the determination to take Roberta’s place. I returned her squeeze. I’d marry her. And I’d never kill anyone else. No need to. I finally managed to cut off every tie with the past. The present and future were represented by a community that had a sense of friendship and solidarity. Plus business sense. I’d be considered a respected and honest citizen, employed only in earning his daily bread. And enjoying his money.
The cemetery was lit by a beautiful warm sun. The mourning procession followed the hearse in absolute silence. You could hear only the noise of steps on the gravel paths.
My wreath was the biggest. On the ribbon I had them write “Arrivederci amore, ciao.” A goodbye kiss. I couldn’t think of anything else.