He knew he’d find him there, and sure enough, there he was. Sitting at the far end of the big room, his eyes lost in the empty air, a glass in hand, while the others sang around a cracked, out-of-tune guitar.
He crossed the tavern to reach him, waited for an invitation to sit down that never came, and then took a seat on a stool. The clamor of the merrymaking was deafening. A tavern down a narrow lane near the harbor on a Saturday night.
He looked at him for a long time, then he said:
“You could at least say hello to me. Do you know the risk I’m running, coming here? They could see me.”
The other man replied, slurring his words, without lifting his gaze from the empty air.
“Well, who asked you to run that risk? Go on, get out of here. That’s what you do best, the lot of you.”
The newly arrived man slammed his fist on the table, making the bottle clink.
“And what you do best is whine and complain. I’m here to ask you just one question: Was it you? I have to hear it from your lips.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the drunk murmured. “And I’m not interested to find out. I told you before, get out of here and leave me alone.”
The music broke off suddenly and two men started arguing furiously. The tavernkeeper moved fast, grabbing them both by the shoulders and tossing them out into the street. The guitarist resumed playing.
“So, was it you? The wife, Anto’ . . . was that necessary, the wife, too? And did it have to be done that way?”
In the eyes of the man who had been called Antonio there was a gleam of interest.
“What are you talking about? Speak plainly!”
“I can’t tell if you’re toying with me or not. All things considered, maybe it’s better that I not know. So let’s just pretend that you don’t know anything, and I’ll go ahead and tell you. Yesterday morning Garofalo and his wife were found murdered. Stabbed to death, the pair of them. Is that clear, now? Now you know. If I were you, I’d get out of town; the first freighter for America, and it’s goodnight Irene. That’s what I came here to tell you, and now my conscience is clear. Good night, Anto’. You can finish getting drunk now.”
He stood up and left, shoving his way through the drunken dancers.
Antonio sat there, his gaze once again lost in the darkness. He gently shook his head and murmured:
“This, too. This, too, you stole from me. Damn your soul.”