The Past is a Foreign Country Page 12

  I didn’t know what to do. Gino’s chin was trembling, like a child’s when it’s about to cry and is trying desperately to hold back the tears. The lock of hair hung pathetically, looking like a false appendage.

  I felt something grow quickly inside me and go through me as uncontrollably as a wave of water rushing through pipes that are too narrow.

  And I hit him, too.

  I slapped him, not as hard as Piero, but hard enough, and on the same side of the face.

  I slapped him to stop him shaking. I slapped him out of spite. And out of anger. The kind of anger that takes hold of you when you’re confronted with someone else’s weakness and cowardice and you recognise – or are afraid to recognise – your own weakness and cowardice. When you’re faced with someone’s failure and you try to destroy the fear that sooner or later you’ll fail in the same way.

  I slapped him, and for a moment he had a look of astonishment in his eyes, which immediately gave way to a resigned expression, as if he thought he deserved to be hit.

  Then I spoke, in order not to think about what I had just done. What I was doing. I spoke to hold back the wicked smile I could feel creeping up on me. A smile of satisfaction at what I’d been capable of doing. But I also spoke to protect him. To prevent Piero from hitting him again. One way or another, I took control of the situation.

  ‘Why are you forcing us to do this?’

  I assumed a disappointed yet understanding expression. As if he were an old friend of mine who’d betrayed my trust but I was still willing to forgive him, if only he’d let me.

  With a pathetic gesture of vanity, Gino tried to put the hair back in place over his bald spot, as if to regain a modicum of dignity now that we were talking and he had to answer me.

  ‘But I don’t have the money. I’d like to give it to you, but I don’t have it right now. I’ve had a few problems. I can try to get it, but at the moment I don’t have it.’

  Absurdly, I felt like saying, OK, that’s fine. Sorry we had to hit you, but you know how it is, business is business – and as soon as you have the money we’ll meet again. I’d say that and then go.

  Instead, Piero intervened. He had been quiet up until now, surprised, I imagine, by the turn the situation had taken and my unexpected behaviour.

  He said we’d talked too much. Gino had to sign some bills of exchange, ten, twelve at the most. Naturally there’d be interest to pay, for the delay and the bother. We – he said we – would redeem those bills of exchange at the bank and he would do well to make sure they were covered. He didn’t change his tone of voice, not even when he said that if a single one of the bills wasn’t covered, he’d be back to break Gino’s arm.

  Gino the lawyer turned to look at me. He seemed incredulous that someone like me was involved in something like this. I looked away, nodding gravely. I was playing my part. As if to say, Of course I don’t like it, but if you don’t behave, it’s going to happen. Don’t force us to do it.

  Technically, I’m committing extortion.

  These words formed in my mind independently of my will. I heard them and at the same time saw them written down, as if printed on a document. Or a police statement.

  We stood there in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘Let’s go and get that coffee,’ Piero said at last. ‘That way we can sit down, do those bills of exchange and then we can all go home.’

  Gino the lawyer made one final, weak objection. ‘But where will we find the right documents at this hour? Everywhere’s closed.’

  ‘I brought them with me, don’t worry,’ Piero said, touching his indecently large shoulder bag. You had to hand it to him, he was a professional.

  We went to a bar and sat down at a table, at the far end, almost in the back room. I felt dizzy and vaguely nauseous. When the coffee arrived I couldn’t drink it. Piero took out his packet of Cartiers and offered it to us. Gino said, no thanks, if he didn’t mind he preferred his own. Piero insisted, in his usual voice, that he take one of his. Gino did as he was told. I took one, too, but after lighting it I let it burn down without smoking it.

  Gino the lawyer signed the bills of exchange, maybe ten, maybe twelve. He wrote with his head down. I looked at those pieces of paper and his hand moving to form that elegant, painfully affected writing. I couldn’t take my eyes off that pale hand, and that two-lire ballpoint pen, on the greenish surface of that cheap table.

  When it was all done, I stood up, took the bills of exchange, rolled them up, and put them in my trouser pocket. Then I stood there motionless, not knowing what to do or what to say. The only things that came into my mind were absurd phrases like: thanks, see you again. Or: hope to see you again when things are better. Or else: I’m sorry, but business is business and unfortunately debts have to be paid. In all these imagined phrases, I spoke to him with a degree of respect. As I would if we’d met in other circumstances. After all, he was the same age as my father.

  I was about to give him my hand, as if to express a craven sympathy, when my companion spoke. My accomplice.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He sounded impatient, as if he was thinking that amateurs shouldn’t do the work of professionals. Or perhaps I imagined that, and he simply wanted to go. I hesitated another few seconds, then turned and walked to the door without saying anything.

  When I reached the door, I turned. Gino was sitting at the back of the bar, exactly where we had left him. He had his head propped on one hand, his elbow on the table, his other arm dangling by his side. He seemed to be looking at something with a certain vague interest.

  But where he was looking there was nothing but the peeling wall.

  17

  LAST NIGHT THE forty drops of Novalgin hadn’t worked. The headache had lessened, but that dull, oppressive shadow over his eye and temple had remained. That familiar sensation, which at any moment could become a throbbing, unbearable pain.

  ‘Can I come in, lieutenant?’

  ‘Of course, Cardinale.’ He gestured to him to sit down, picked up the packet of cigarettes – thinking as he did so that he probably shouldn’t smoke with a headache – and offered him one.

  ‘No thanks, lieutenant,’ Cardinale said. ‘I’ve quit.’

  ‘Oh yes, you told me. What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘I’ve been looking over the files on the assaults committed by that…maniac we’re looking for.’

  Chiti took the cigarette out of his mouth, without having lit it, and leaned imperceptibly towards the sergeant. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Lieutenant, I think the most important thing isn’t where the assaults took place. The most important thing, in my opinion, is where the victims were coming from.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The girls were all on their way home from clubs, pubs, discos, that kind of place. Two of them worked as waitresses, four – including the one two days ago – had been in these places as customers.’

  ‘How do you know they were coming from clubs?’

  ‘It’s in their statements.’

  He was right. It was in their statements and Chiti hadn’t even noticed. He had read them over and over, on the lookout for similarities in the MOs, or in the meagre, practically non-existent descriptions of the attacker. He hadn’t paid any attention to what had happened before. He felt a pang of envy. Cardinale had been more intelligent than him.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think the attacker goes to these clubs. He looks around, chooses his victim, maybe a girl who isn’t with anyone – I mean, not with a man, with a group of other girls – then when she leaves he follows her and…well, does his business.’

  ‘What about the girls who work in these places?’

  ‘The same thing, sir. He goes to the club or pub, maybe late in the evening, and eyes up the waitress or barmaid. He sits down, drinks, waits. When it’s closing time he leaves, follows the girl if she doesn’t have anyone to walk her home or to pick her up…’

  ‘…and it’s also possible he’s been to
that club several times, to choose his prey, study her habits. Right. Right.’

  At this point he lit his cigarette, in spite of his headache. For a few moments, he was lost in thought, caught between his admiration for Cardinale, his envy at not having thought of it himself, and his anticipation of the work they still had to do. And there was also a small but growing sense of excitement: at last, they had a lead, or at least a valid hypothesis, something to give impetus to this sluggish investigation.

  ‘Have the girls said which clubs they were coming from?’

  ‘Some have, some haven’t. We’d have to question them all again. See if they noticed anyone on the night of the attack, or the previous nights. A man on his own, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Right. We’ll definitely question them again. In fact let’s start with the latest one. And the two friends she said she was with. We’ll see them all straight away. They’re the ones with the freshest memories.’ He put out his cigarette, which he’d only half smoked. ‘Well done, Cardinale. Well done. Let’s get them in here today. Caterina Whatshername first. We can get the details of her friends from her. Well done.’

  Well done, damn it, he repeated to himself, lighting another cigarette, after the sergeant had left the room.

  The headache was gone.

  18

  CATERINA WHATSHERNAME DIDN’T remember anything else about that night. She hadn’t noticed anyone unusual in the bar. Yes, it was a place she and her friends often went. No, they hadn’t noticed anything unusual on the previous nights and weeks either. No, she couldn’t say if she had been followed before.

  Two of her friends said practically the same things.

  Things didn’t get off to a much better start with the fourth girl. She was pretty, with large breasts and a mischievous but not very intelligent expression. Cardinale and Pellegrini, who were taking her statement, couldn’t take their eyes off her.

  ‘Now, Signorina…’

  ‘Call me Rossella.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Rossella. Could you please tell us your full name and address?’

  She told them and then, for the fourth time that day, Chiti asked to hear what had happened that night. Caterina and Daniela had left first because they had classes the next day. She and Cristina had stayed a while longer, drinking and chatting.

  ‘All right, Rossella. Now I’d like you to concentrate on what happened earlier. I mean, before your friends left. Did you notice anything or anyone unusual in the club? A man on his own, someone who looked…well, different? Maybe someone you’d seen there before, another night?’

  Rossella shook her head, about to say, No, no one. And then that would just be one more idea that had led nowhere, and they’d be back where they’d started. But then the girl stopped shaking her head and seemed to concentrate, as if she’d just remembered something.

  ‘Well, there was this guy who came in…but no, it couldn’t be him.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who came in?’

  ‘We’d been sitting there for a while, when this guy came in and sat at the bar. He was there for ten minutes and then left. But it couldn’t be him.’

  ‘Why? What do you mean?’

  Rossella looked him straight in the eyes, shook her head again and paused for a moment. ‘He was handsome. I can’t believe he’d attack anyone. A guy like him could have any girl he wanted. He would never have followed Caterina…’

  What the girl probably meant was: Someone as handsome as him would never have attacked someone like Caterina.

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. I’d definitely have remembered him if I’d seen him before. But really, I don’t think…’

  ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

  Of course she would recognise him. From the way she said it, it was clear she would have liked to do more than just recognise him, she would have liked to get to know him.

  Chiti got her to describe him – one metre eighty tall, light eyes, dark hair – took her statement, and then showed her the photograph album they had put together of all the men with records for that kind of crime. Even though he didn’t think it very likely that this Alain Delon lookalike would have a record as a sex maniac.

  And of course he didn’t. With a grimace of disgust, the girl leafed quickly through that unsettling collection of faces, their features contorted either by nature, by their own inner passions, or simply by the beating-up they had received before being photographed and filed. She closed the album, pushed it away from her with an emphatic reflex, and shook her head.

  For a few moments, Chiti did not move, then he said, ‘Listen, Rossella, you say you remember this man well. Would you be able to describe him to our artist, so that we can put together an identikit?’

  ‘OK. But it couldn’t be–’

  ‘Yes, I realise that. You say it’s very unlikely he could be the man we’re looking for. You’re probably right, but it’s our duty not to rule out any possibility.’

  As he spoke, Chiti was thinking something else. He felt strangely excited, and if he could have translated the feeling into words, he would have said, It could be him, it could be him, somehow it fits perfectly with something, I don’t know what, but it fits. Perfectly.

  ‘Pellegrini, please send for…what’s the name of the artist, that corporal with the moustache?’

  ‘His name’s Nitti, lieutenant. But he’s not here.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not here? Where is he?’

  ‘Convalescing, lieutenant. He had a motorcycle accident and broke his arm. The one he writes and draws with.’ He paused. ‘Maybe the police could lend us one of theirs. They have at least two at headquarters. Surely…’

  ‘So what are you saying? We just call up Police Headquarters, tell them to give us a sketch artist to help us solve the case of these sex attacks, and they immediately say yes, of course, dear carabinieri, here’s our artist, take him, and we’ll leave you alone to get on with your investigation? Is that what you think they’ll say?’

  Pellegrini shrugged, pursing his lips. As if to say, We’re in a blind alley anyway, so any idea’s a good one.

  But Chiti had another idea. Maybe a ridiculous one, maybe not.

  In any case, it wasn’t something it was easy for him to say to his men.

  Why? he wondered. Because he was a little ashamed to tell his subordinates that he could draw and that he would try to do a portrait of the attacker himself.

  So he simply didn’t say it, but put it into practice.

  ‘Cardinale, please fetch me some blank sheets of paper, a pencil and a rubber.’

  The sergeant looked at him in silence, frowning and narrowing his eyes, as if he hadn’t quite understood. Which was in fact the case.

  ‘Well? Are you going?’

  Cardinale roused himself and went out. He came back a few minutes later with paper, pencils, a rubber, and a pencil sharpener.

  ‘Now please go out and leave me with the young lady.’

  That was all he said. He didn’t want to give them any explanations. The two men went out without a word, without even looking at each other.

  He and the girl stayed there for at least an hour. When Pellegrini and Cardinale went back in, there was a portrait on the desk.

  Pellegrini couldn’t stop himself saying, ‘Did you do this, lieutenant?’

  For a long time Chiti said nothing, looking from the drawings to his subordinates’ faces to the girl.

  ‘Rossella says it looks like the man she saw twice at the club…’

  The girl looked around, and was about to say something, then just nodded. She seemed very uncomfortable. There were a few more seconds of embarrassed silence.

  Then Chiti thanked the girl for her time, asked her to sign the statement, and told her she could go home. If they needed her again they would call her. He himself walked her along corridors and down the stairs to the exit.

  When he got back to his office, the two men were on their feet in front
of the desk. They stopped talking when he came in.

  ‘Well?’

  The same embarrassed silence as before.

  ‘Well? I think we have something to work on.’

  Silence again. The two men just nodded.

  Chiti was about to ask what the problem was. Because clearly there was a problem. But without knowing exactly why, he decided to say nothing. Instead, he sent the two of them to make photocopies of the drawing. When they came back, he told them they would have to show the photocopies to all the girls and question them again about what had happened, finding out which clubs they had been to on the nights of the assaults, checking if any of them – apart from the waitresses – had been to the same places on the previous nights. He spoke quickly, too quickly, impatient to be left alone.

  ‘When shall we start, lieutenant?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago. Thanks, that’s all.’

  And he gestured to them to go. Less politely than usual, in fact not politely at all. The two men roused themselves, saluted and left. He stayed where he was, sitting at the desk.

  Alone at last with the original drawing. At last able to look at it calmly.

  He looked at it for a long time, while his muscles tensed throughout his body.

  What had his men seen in it? And what did he see in it?

  The face of a nameless criminal psychopath, or something very similar to a self-portrait? The more he looked at that sheet of paper, the more he had the terrifying impression that he was looking at himself in a mirror.

  In the end the tension became unbearable.

  So he screwed up the paper, put it in his pocket, and escaped from the office.

  19

  NONE OF THE girls recognised the face in the drawing. On the nights when the assaults had taken place, they had all been in different clubs. None had anything to add to their original statements.

  The drawings were shown around in bars and clubs. The owner of one of them said he thought he had seen the face in the drawing before, somewhere. Probably in his bar, but he couldn’t be sure. They had kept insisting, but the man hadn’t been able to remember anything else. He thought he’d seen him, but he couldn’t say where or when. And that was it.