Have a good evening, people.
Have fun, laugh, get excited, feel comforted. Do what you can to get the chill out of your bones from this long workday.
Rid yourself of the dirt and grime, try to be reborn. You can do it, if you make an effort and a little sacrifice; you can pry loose the icy fingers of ugly thoughts from your mind.
You can do it. Or, at least, you can try.
Lojacono was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving, when Marinella walked in to get her makeup.
“Papà,” she asked, “since when do you shave twice in a single day?”
The lieutenant replied vaguely.
“You know, he’s an old friend, I haven’t seen him in ages. I don’t want him to see me looking shabby, he might think I’m aging badly.”
The young woman burst out laughing.
“Do you know that all the girls in my class are in love with you? They saw you at the start of the school year, when you brought me to school, and they went nuts, they say you’re a heartbreaker.”
“Oh come on, I’m falling apart. But wait, what about you: are you getting made up to go eat a bite at Letizia’s? Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”
“Papà, a real woman never goes out of the house without makeup on, you know what they say: a hint of makeup, a hint of high heels.”
He gave her a sidelong glance in the mirror.
“A real woman? But you’re just a little girl, and I don’t want you to forget it. And listen, you stay in that restaurant until Letizia’s done, then you go straight to bed. That way tomorrow you won’t be exhausted for your math test.”
The two faces in the mirror were incredibly similar, with narrow eyes upturned at the corners and high cheekbones, one face covered with shaving cream, the other half made-up.
“Don’t worry, Papà. You don’t have a thing to worry about. I love math, and you know that.”
Have a good evening.
Or at least try to have one.
Make a serious effort, because for all you know it’s an opportunity. Don’t just think about how to kill a few hours.
It might seem like any old evening, and instead turn out to be “the” evening you’ve been waiting for.
An evening that, if you let it slip by, you’ll never get a shot at again.
Alex pressed her ear against her bedroom door. She couldn’t hear a thing.
She’d told them once again that, after the meeting, she was going out for a pizza with her colleagues. In a tone of annoyance, as if it were an almost intolerable burden, she’d explained to her parents that Commissario Palma cared deeply about team spirit, and that in order to indulge this fixation of his, she’d be obliged to go out to dinner, though she would have been just as happy to skip it: It’s just that, you know, Papà, I’d be the only one to miss it.
She’d said goodnight and gone to change: you two go to bed, I’ve got the keys, I’ll see you in the morning.
Rosaria in her head. Rosaria in her heart. Eagerly awaiting Rosaria on her flesh.
She’d chosen a pretty aggressive set of intimate wear, a thong and a push-up bra that she’d bought in a shop in another part of town, far from home and far from the police station, as well as a garter belt supporting a pair of fine-mesh fishnet stockings.
Then she had put on a dark dress, neither particularly short nor with a plunging neckline, but snug and close-fitting, which emphasized her lithe, petite figure. The dark makeup she’d applied made her cheeks look slightly gaunt and hollowed, giving her a feral look. Which is what she wanted.
I’m a she-wolf tonight, she thought, as she gazed into the mirror. Tonight I want you to know that you’ll be devoured by my ferocious maw. Tonight, you’re not in charge, Senior Director Martone. Tonight, I’m in charge.
Her overcoat, her purse, and out the door. Five brisk strides down the hallway, and she’d be gone.
Her father, in his dressing gown, was standing by the door, barring her way.
She felt as if she were about to die. She thanked God she was already wearing her overcoat, and she immediately clutched her collar tight to her throat to conceal the dress and the thin gold chain she wore around her neck.
“Papà, are you still up? You scared me.”
Her father studied her. For the umpteenth time, she felt the same sensation she had when she was a little girl and she felt those empty eyes delve into her, bringing her darkest emotions up into the light.
“So you go to meetings at the office all dolled up? With all this makeup?”
Her heart was pounding in her ears. Now what am I supposed to do? What am I going to do?
“No, you know, Papà, it’s just that . . . yes, it’s a meeting, that’s true, but afterward we’re all going out to dinner and I just . . . ”
Unexpectedly, the General broke into a smile.
“You’re a big girl, now. Do you think that your mother and I don’t know that? You don’t have to tell me about it, I know that you’re a shy, intensely private person and there are certain things you don’t like talking about, but I do understand that there’s someone you’re sweet on, one of your colleagues from work. And I’m happy for you. I just hope he’s a serious, respectable young man, because you deserve someone like that.”
In some strange way, that sly conniving smile filled her with even greater horror than the severity that terrorized her on a daily basis.
“Come on, Papà, please, don’t think that . . . there’s no one, don’t be silly, I . . . ”
The man gave her a wink. That had never happened in her twenty-eight years here on earth. Oh my God, now I’m going to vomit on his slippers.
“Go on, go ahead. Maybe, if you feel like it, you can tell me all about it tomorrow morning. But not a word to your mother, or she’ll start to worry. You know how apprehensive she can be. Have a good evening.”
Have a good evening, that’s right.
But instead, maybe, it’s anything but a good evening.
Maybe it’s just the umpteenth fake pearl in a necklace made up of evenings all the same and without a reason why.
Maybe this evening will come into existence and then die without a trace, if not for the usual wake of melancholy.
Maybe it would have been better if it had never come at all, the damned evening. Because at least during the daytime you can throw yourself into your work, seeking out problems and worries elsewhere, while instead, in the damned evening, you bump your nose up against the you that you’re not.
Maybe it’ll kill you, the good evening.
The effect of the car’s heater took just two seconds to vanish when Romano shut the engine off. Too cold outside.
And likewise too cold inside, he thought.
He couldn’t hold out for more than a couple of days at a time. Every time he swore to himself that he’d never go back there, but instead, not forty-eight hours later, here he was again.
Even when it was a thousand degrees below zero, like it was tonight. Even after a long day of working myself blind. Even when I could be cozy under a blanket, fast asleep.
Here I am, outside of Giorgia’s place.
To be exact, he thought to himself, this is Giorgia’s mother’s place. Giorgia’s place is the apartment I have the keys to in my pocket. Giorgia’s place is the apartment I can’t bring myself to come back to, now that she no longer lives there. Giorgia’s place is the apartment she abandoned with a fucking letter.
He could just glimpse the dull glow of a television set on the fourth floor. Couldn’t I offer you anything more than an evening in front of the TV? Wasn’t it better to stay with me?
The temperature had dropped even further. The body of Francesco Romano, AKA Hulk, showed no sign of awareness: no shivering, no sneezing. Maybe it’s true that rage makes me stronger, he thought to himself. Maybe I really do turn green and incredibly strong. I’m full of rage, you know that, my love? Jam-packed with it.
The irony was that if a woman had come into the police station and said: you know, Warrant Officer Francesco Romano, my husband, the one I broke up with because he hit me, that’s right, just once, but hard, terribly hard, well, every other night he comes and parks downstairs from my mother’s apartment, where I’m living now, and he sits there looking up at the windows, if anyone had come in to report such a thing, then he himself, Warrant Officer Francesco Romano, would have gone straight out to pick him up, and he would have told him, look out, buddy, keep this up and you’ll find yourself in deep trouble.
And instead it was none other than he, Warrant Officer Francesco Romano, sitting there doing it. Sitting in a car outside her house and watching. And waiting.
Waiting for what? He couldn’t say. If someone had asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to answer.
Maybe she’s going out tonight. She certainly would have every right to do so. She’s a free citizen of a free country. Maybe she feels like going dancing, who knows. She could do that. It would be her prerogative. Policemen like him were paid to ensure that people enjoyed their rights. What would he say, if he actually did see her go out, those spectacular legs, that thick head of chestnut hair, that generous, sensuous mouth, if he saw her leaving for a dinner out, followed by dancing and even, why not?, taking some strange man to bed?
What would he say?
What would he do?
He saw the light turn on in the narrow bathroom window. Maybe she’s getting ready to go out. The light went off again almost immediately. No, she was just taking a pee.
He settled in to his seat to get more comfortable and raised the lapels of his overcoat. Then he put both hands under his armpits to keep them warm and got ready for the wait ahead.
Have a good evening, Warrant Officer Francesco Romano, he thought to himself.
Have a good evening.