A Fine Line Read online

  The second alternative was to get on my bike and go for a ride around the outskirts of town, trying to out-pedal my anxiety. I dismissed this idea, too, and decided to go to the Osteria del Caffellatte, the night bookshop run by my friend Ottavio. He’s a former schoolteacher who suffers from insomnia. He hated his work as a teacher and abandoned it without hesitation or regrets when, thanks to an inheritance from an old aunt, he had the idea of starting a bookshop-café that opens at ten in the evening and closes when the sun comes up. It’s my favourite place in Bari.

  As soon as I saw the splash of warm yellow light from the Osteria, I already felt reinvigorated. The tables were out on the pavement, and only one was occupied, by two customers who were regulars there, winter and summer. We greeted each other vaguely. From having seen each other there so frequently, we were almost friends, although we’d never actually introduced ourselves.

  As always, Ottavio was in his place. I greeted him and he replied with his usual short, cordial wave of the hand. Surrounded by all those books, in that friendly glow in the heart of the night, my anxiety had already passed.

  Natalie Merchant’s voice spread through the shop at moderate volume, singing a song whose title I couldn’t remember.

  There was only one customer. A woman of about sixty-five, with perfectly groomed white hair, a plain jacket, and a leather bag over one shoulder.

  She was holding two books, which she’d already chosen to buy. Unlike the two sitting at the table, I had never seen her before. I started to wander down the rows of shelves, thinking about how I’d like to find something I really liked, one of those books you can’t put down. After taking down several and putting them back again, I came across a title that aroused my curiosity: How to Talk about Books You Haven’t Read. The cover was like a blank page that had been crumpled then smoothed out again. I had just picked it up and was leafing through it when I heard behind me a voice with a slight, indeterminate Northern accent. An elegant voice. It was the lady with the shoulder bag.

  “It’s very good. One of the best things that’s been written about reading in the last few years.”

  “About reading?”

  “The title’s misleading. The book is a reflection on the idea of reading, on the fact that between reading and not reading there are various intermediate gradations, and that the distinction isn’t as obvious as it first seems.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You know Montaigne never remembered anything of what he read? He knew he had read a book and had an idea of its contents only because he’d written notes in the margins. In a case like that – a book we’ve read and then forgotten – are we entitled to talk about the book or not? I don’t know if I’m making much sense.”

  “Very interesting. I should point out that in moments of grace I am capable of formulating expressions less banal than very interesting.”

  The lady smiled, causing delightful old dimples to appear on her cheeks. She smelt good: a perfume she must have put on several hours earlier. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who.

  “The author’s a psychoanalyst and a professor of literature.”

  “Oh, two categories I try to avoid.”

  “Then you’re out of luck tonight.”

  “Now you’re going to tell me you’re a psychoanalyst or a professor of literature. Or both. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Actually, I teach comparative literature. In Paris. What do you do?”

  “Put my foot in it. Big time.”

  Again that smile.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  We introduced ourselves.

  “What’s a lawyer doing in a bookshop at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “The same as someone who teaches comparative literature. More or less.”

  “Right. It was a stupid question. Why don’t you like psychoanalysts and professors of literature?”

  “It was meant partly as a joke, but sometimes both of them strike me as inclined to make statements that are too categorical. Which, since neither psychoanalysis nor literature are exact sciences, does annoy me a little.”

  The lovely lady didn’t reply immediately. She seemed to be weighing up what I had said. “I’m afraid you’re right. After a couple of days at a conference with my colleagues, I tend to think the same way.”

  “Are you here in Bari for a conference?”

  “It finished today. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “How did you end up here, at this hour?”

  “I’d read about this bookshop and was curious. It’s one of the reasons I accepted the invitation without any hesitation. It’s really a… remarkable place.”

  “My salvation on sleepless nights, like this one. Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, I’d love one.”

  We went to the counter to pay. I felt it my duty to introduce her to Ottavio, because I was actually rather proud of him. This lady lived in Paris and had heard about the Osteria del Caffellatte, a place I felt was mine, as if I were a partner. She had practically come to Bari specially to see it.

  “This is Ottavio, the owner.”

  She held out her hand. “Elena,” she said.

  “What have you chosen, Elena?” Ottavio asked.

  She showed him the two books, the covers of which I hadn’t seen. One was called Italian Beat Poets and the other was Of Cats and Men by Patricia Highsmith.

  “I was sure I’d never sell this,” Ottavio said, indicating the volume of poetry. Then he touched the Highsmith book with his finger. “I assume you like cats. Only cat lovers buy this one.”

  “Yes, I do like cats.”

  So does Annapaola, I thought.

  “And you chose the Bayard,” Ottavio said to me. “A good book, it clarified a lot of ideas for me. What are you drinking?”

  “Can I get a stinger?” Elena asked.

  “Of course. What about you, Guido?”

  “I’ll have the same. I don’t know how many years, many lifetimes it is since I last drank a stinger.”

  While Ottavio fiddled with the shaker, the cognac and the crème de menthe, Natalie Merchant started singing “King of May”.

  “This is dedicated to Allen Ginsberg,” I said. “Talking about beat poets.”

  “The song?” Elena asked.

  “Yes, Natalie Merchant also wrote one in honour of Jack Kerouac, but this one is much better.”

  She half closed her eyes, as if to concentrate on the words.

  “I like to understand what songs are really about, especially to discover the quotations they contain,” I added, without knowing why, after a few seconds.

  “For example?”

  “Well, for example, there’s that song by Fossati – ‘C’è tempo’ – which is from Ecclesiastes.”

  “I’d never noticed. It’s true. Tell me another.”

  I felt an odd but pleasant sensation. I was like a little boy who has to take an exam but is happy because he’s done his revision and can demonstrate how good he is to a grown-up he likes. “There’s a song by De Gregori that’s really beautiful: ‘Un guanto’.”

  “I remember it. A rather impenetrable song.”

  “It’s inspired by a set of drawings by Max Klinger. It’s much easier to understand if you listen to it while you’re looking at them. Paraphrase on Finding a Glove, I think that’s what the cycle is called.”

  Ottavio placed the two cocktails on the counter. “Would you like to sit outside?”

  We went to one of the three tables.

  “Max Klinger isn’t an artist everybody knows. Are you sure you’re a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “There you are. If you’d asked me to guess what job you do, I’d never have come close.”

  “Have you got a bias against lawyers?”

  “A few years ago I had to deal with lawyers and judges over an inheritance matter. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Yes, I’d say I have a valid bias against the whole lot of them.”


  I sipped the stinger. I used to drink them when I was married to Sara. Thinking of that time and the fact that it was over gave me a sudden sense of freedom, which left me breathless for a few moments.

  “Tell me some more. I mean: quotations in songs.”

  “The latest I’ve discovered is ‘Alexandra Leaving’ by Leonard Cohen. It’s a heartbreaking song about a love affair that’s ended. I was listening to it and I seemed to recognize something but I couldn’t figure out what. Then I realized – it’s ‘The God forsakes Anthony’, by Cavafy.”

  “I met Leonard Cohen once.”

  It was an extraordinary piece of information, but on a night like that it struck me as normal. There are nights when normal things seem extraordinary and exceptional things go to make up the whole as naturally as the silent everyday objects in the paintings of Vermeer. That’s why I didn’t ask what Leonard Cohen was like or how she had come to meet him.

  We continued chatting while customers arrived with calm, nocturnal regularity, entered the bookshop, and all came out with a purchase contained in one of Ottavio’s famous bags. On one side, there’s a drawing of a blue cup without handles, filled with steaming coffee, along with the name of the bookshop. On the other side, a page from a novel, a poem, a quotation from an essay. Things Ottavio likes and that he wants to share with his customers.

  We were on first-name terms, but still rather formal with each other. It had a subtle, slightly out-of-focus effect on me. Whenever she said, Listen, Guido – the same way you’d speak to the butler or the chauffeur, with warmth but detachment – I felt a rush of intimacy that would have been impossible if we’d become more familiar. We had another stinger, enjoying the unreality of the situation and knowing that at any moment it would fade.

  It was after three when we agreed it was time for bed. I asked her where she was staying, and she named a residential development in the centre, just a few blocks away from the Osteria.

  “Would you like me to walk you there?”

  “Are you making a pass at me, Guido?”

  The words hung in the air for a moment. I didn’t know what to say – in a situation like that, making a joke can be very risky – and for a few seconds she kept her serious expression. Then she gave a brief laugh, like a chord, with one cheerful note and one sad one in perfect harmony.

  “No, thanks. I like walking alone at night. It makes me feel free, although I do get a bit scared sometimes. But you want to know something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty years ago, or even ten, I’d have accepted your offer. And not because I was scared of walking back alone at night in those days.”

  Then, before I could reply, assuming I’d even found an appropriate response, she came closer and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Goodnight.”

  23

  Switching on the phone after recharging it overnight, I saw that Tancredi had tried to reach me three times the previous evening. I had a shower, dressed and decided to have breakfast in a café. I called him when I was out in the street.

  “Sodom and Gomorrah yesterday, eh?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why else would you switch off your phone at ten in the evening?”

  “Yes, of course. I switched off the phone so as not to be disturbed in the middle of an orgy. Nothing to do with the fact that the battery only lasts three hours now. Next time, I’ll invite you. Why were you trying to get in touch?”

  “How about you buy me a coffee?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Headquarters. And you?”

  “I just left home. The corner of Via Sparano and Corso Vittorio Emanuele in fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Carmelo?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “See you in fifteen minutes.”

  Click. Of course, mobile phones don’t go click, although I still think it’s the clearest way to say that a call has finished, that one person has hung up while the other person is still waiting for an answer.

  I arrived a few minutes early. Just as the fifteen minutes were up, Tancredi appeared. He was walking fast, but limping, and there was something dejected in his expression.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Someone who didn’t want to be arrested. It took four of us to stop him.”

  The only thing I could think of to say was a dumb line about the appropriateness of participating in arrests once you’re over fifty.

  We went into a café, had breakfast without sitting down, and when we came out Carmelo lit his usual cigar and we walked in the direction of the Teatro Margherita.

  “Are you sure you want to walk, with that leg?”

  “I wasn’t shot, just kicked. Rather hard, but it was just a kick.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “A crook who’d just punched a local policeman as a mark of his disgust at getting a fine. I was with three of my men, we were coming back from the Prosecutor’s Department and happened to pass by just as the radio message came in.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Luckily he didn’t break anything, but my shin looks like a plum.”

  We walked another block without saying anything.

  “Is there a connection between this story and the reason you called me?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “So what is this all about?”

  “It’s sunny; let’s go to the sea wall. Maybe I’ll get a little colour back in my cheeks, I look like Nosferatu’s cousin. I have to put my dinghy back out to sea again. We’ll go for a ride one of these days. It’s not right for me to be so pale. Do you know what they called me when I was a boy? Carmelo the Turk, because of how dark I got after a few days at the seaside.”

  He was talking too much. A sign that something was wrong.

  We sat down on a bench. At that hour there was nobody about, and the breeze was cool. I was getting restless.

  “I’ve been asking myself for a couple of days if I should tell you what I’m about to tell you, Guido, or else if it was better not to. There seemed to be excellent reasons to choose either of those options. In the end I decided to go ahead.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “I haven’t had any medical tests, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not ill.”

  That was in fact what I’d been thinking.

  “Well, then?”

  “You never told me – that’d be all I needed, you telling me everything you do in your work – but I found out you’re representing Larocca in that corruption case in Lecce.”

  He paused briefly, to check that I had nothing to say in reply. I remained silent, merely turning towards him a little more and placing my arm on the back of the bench.

  “Actually, it isn’t exactly classified information. People are talking about it.”

  Another pause.

  “What do you mean, ‘People are talking’? Which people?”

  “Different people. The people you mix with and the people I mix with.”

  “And who do you mean by the people you mix with? The police or the others?”

  “The police and the others.”

  “And what are the people you mix with saying?”

  “That you’re doing a good job for Larocca, and that he’s grateful.” He hesitated, and took a deep breath as if to steel himself. “They say that before, in order to get… friendly treatment in the appeal court, you had to go to Salvagno, and that now they’ll have to see you.”

  “Friendly treatment? What does friendly treatment mean?”

  I felt a mixture of contradictory things. Part of me was getting very anxious about what he was saying, which wasn’t exactly clear but didn’t sound promising; the other part was upset about Tancredi’s embarrassment – I had never seen him looking so ill at ease.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m talking to you because when I heard that I felt very uncomfortable, and I’m tell
ing you because I think it’s best that you know.”

  “I’m not getting you wrong, but that’s partly because I don’t understand a damned thing you’re saying.”

  Tancredi tormented his cigar, crumpling it between thumb, index finger and middle finger, pursed his lips so hard they vanished beneath his moustache, and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I know perfectly well that you’re a defence lawyer, that obviously many of your clients are guilty, and that obviously that’s nothing to do with you. Defending them is your profession. End of. It’s normal, and I feel stupid just repeating something so banal.”

  “But?”

  “But there are clients and clients. If you defend a corrupt judge it’s inevitable that—”

  “Hold on. Who says he’s a corrupt judge? You mean, a judge accused of corruption.”

  He looked at me for a few seconds. His expression said that what he had imagined was indeed happening. He grunted in frustration. I wasn’t making things any easier for him.

  “If you ask me if I have proof that your client is corrupt, the answer is no. Nobody’s saying it on the record, apart from Capodacqua. The only proceedings against him are those in which you’re defending him, and from what I hear he’s going to be exonerated, unless something unexpected happens. So he’s a wonderful example of propriety, honesty and competence.”

  “Go on.”

  “But if you ask me if anyone in the murky world I have to mix with for my work says that your client is a crook, the answer is: yes, they do, and how.”

  I felt my head spinning. Not just figuratively: I really did feel dizzy. Maybe this was all rubbish, but I had the feeling that if I stood up, I’d find it difficult to keep my balance. The reason wasn’t difficult to pin down. Ever since this whole thing had started, ever since that evening when Larocca came to my office and drained almost a whole bottle of white wine, it hadn’t occurred to me even for a moment that he might be guilty. Not even for a moment had I speculated on the possibility that he might have done what he was accused of. From the first moment, I had tried to put together what seemed to me a balanced interpretation of the facts. The crux of this interpretation was: Larocca didn’t take money for that ruling, because it’s inconceivable and therefore impossible. To use a legal formula: the fact is without foundation. That made it necessary to figure out the reason why Capodacqua had said those things to the prosecutors, because it was highly unlikely he’d made them up: making a deliberately false accusation is a stupid and self-defeating thing for someone who’s turned state’s evidence to do. Maybe Salvagno was a boaster, maybe Ladisa was a fantasist. The only possibility I hadn’t considered even for a second – and it was only now that I realized this – was that Judge Pierluigi Larocca, a judge with what I thought was a blameless reputation, really was corrupt.