Cold for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read online

  Illegal street vendors, dozens, hundreds of illegal street vendors. Africans, with sheets spread out on the pavement and an array of counterfeit designer handbags, and hand-carved wooden animals. Asians, standing at stalls selling portable radios, battery chargers and cases for cell phones, barometers, tripods for video cameras. Slavs, selling vintage objects from their homeland or, perhaps, fished out of dumpsters in the night and repaired to the best of their abilities. And then, Italians, touting bouquets of flowers, pairs of socks, brooms, pairs of shoes, T-shirts emblazoned with phrases in dialect and sky-blue banners and scarves, eagerly buttonholing passersby, even grabbing their arms, whiny and intrusive, as annoying as mosquitoes, and then, later, all standing in line, Romano thought bitterly, to get their dole checks, all of them angrily demonstrating outside the windows of government buildings, chanting em-ploy-ment, em-ploy-ment, em-ploy-ment, as if they didn’t earn a cent by selling merchandise in the market, as if they didn’t earn a cent by working as carpenters and plumbers and installing dish antennas, for cash, under the table, without receipts: Dotto’, I can save you money.

  The borderline.

  The hundred, thousand, ten thousand lawyers, their ties loosened to one side, or else teetering on five-inch high heels, leather satchels bulging with incomprehensible documents, hurrying up and down the stairs of the courthouses in an attempt to speed up a verdict that’s endlessly delayed and they know they won’t get paid until it’s handed down. Years and years of study, dozens of internships, conferences, ridiculous lists of publications, master’s degrees and other post-graduate certificates of all kinds, and all for miserly fees: Counselor, I’m a cousin of that old friend of yours, can’t you save me a little money?

  The borderline.

  Magistrates, fearful, intimidated by high-placed connections boasted but impossible to verify: you never can tell. Notaries, worried by the stagnation of the real estate market, by the cost of living that no one can afford anymore, by the fog of uncertainty around contracts that their bigger clients increasingly seem to come up with. Businessmen, appalled by the specter of bankruptcy, cruising like ravenous sharks in search of cash to cover the check that’s going to be deposited against their account tomorrow morning. Loan sharks, not as confident as they once were because there are more and more borrowers out there who will never pay them back, and you can break all the legs and slap all the faces that you want, but they still can’t pay, the miserable losers, and they don’t even bother to run away: they’ve lost all hope, do what you want to me, I don’t care anymore. Profiteers, who are busy transporting money that doesn’t exist from one country to another, from one mutual fund to another, from one void to another.

  The borderline.

  All together now, with indifference and resignation, everyone bearing their own invisible cross, everyone crushed by a nameless destiny, everyone with their own private borderline: two million islands in a single, vast archipelago without bridges or ferryboats. Everyone together, out in the street, shivering in the bitter cold, hopping and pounding their feet, clapping their hands together, covering their ears, dreaming of the luxury of still lying abed, back in the warmth of their home, snug under their blankets and with the comfort of sleep to ward off the despair of the morning awakening, instead of being out there, facing the perils of that miserable jungle.

  Dreaming they could get back into bed to avoid being forced to cross it, at least today, that borderline.

  Aragona, who hadn’t once stopped chattering away about how the cold wasn’t as damp where he came from, and therefore much more tolerable, while Romano replied only intermittently with monosyllables, pointed to the sign outside the school.

  Professoressa Macchiaroli, tracked down by the custodian, joined them in the atrium, not far from a small electric heater that was barely powerful enough to warm itself. From the courtyard came the shouts and laughter of children in the midst of a volleyball match during their hour of phys ed.

  “Buongiorno. Welcome. I’m glad to see you. I confess that I’m struck by such a prompt response. I was sure my words would fall on deaf ears. So it’s not true what people say, the police aren’t indifferent to the plight of ordinary citizens, it’s not true that unless there’s a dead body they won’t even bother to answer the phone. On my way back from the police station, I felt sure that you had just taken me for an old madwoman who had become fixated on some imaginary situation, and that you weren’t going to waste your energy on me.”

  Aragona, who was still convinced that Professoressa Macchiaroli was an old madwoman who had fixated on some imaginary scandal that wasn’t worth the time they were wasting on it, rocked from one leg to the other, uneasily. Could that old witch read their minds?

  “And I even thought that one of you might say: the others get to investigate, oh, I don’t know, a double homicide and we’re stuck chasing after the fantasies of a middle-aged woman.”

  A shiver ran down Romano’s spine. He decided it was time to cut short this interview: worst case, they’d just spent some time out in the cold.

  “Would you care to tell us how you came up with this idea, Professoressa? Did you talk to the girl?”

  A grimace was etched on the woman’s face: “If only it were so simple, you know? All too often, my dear officer, children will say one thing and then, before you know it, the exact opposite. We’re used to it, we teachers, and when they confide in us we tend to take what they say with a grain of salt, especially when it comes to certain topics. But it’s quite another matter when the information reaches us, so to speak, in an involuntary manner; when that’s the case, then you can rest assured that it’s not some kind of retaliation against parents or classmates, that there’s no intention of committing mischief. Because sometimes that’s what’s going on.”

  Aragona looked around without bothering to conceal his boredom in the slightest. At last, he could no longer contain his impatience.

  “So, do you have any evidence about this case you came to tell us about? Can we take a look at this evidence, if so?”

  The schoolteacher sliced him into pieces with a sharp glance.

  “I thought I’d already explained at the police station just a few hours ago, officer. If I’d had any proof, I’d have come in to file a criminal complaint, not just a simple report. But that’s my fault, at my age I should have long ago recognized that there are people in the world who are slow on the uptake. Please, follow me to the teachers’ lounge.”

  As they were following Professoressa Macchiaroli up the stairs, Romano shot his partner an irritated glare and whispered: “The less bickering we do, the quicker we can get back to the police station. Do you really have to play the idiot? You just don’t know how to keep your trap shut, do you?”

  Aragona ignored the scolding.

  “We’re wasting our time, I know that and so do you. All this zeal is pointless: the woman’s a fool, an attention-seeker, plus she’s homely as a toilet. Let’s wrap this up and get the heck out of here.”

  As if she’d overheard, Professoressa Macchiaroli stopped in front of a closed door and hissed: “Then again, if you think it’s a waste of time to find out more, we can say goodbye immediately. But in that case, I’m not sure why you bothered coming over in the first place.”

  Romano nodded.

  “That’s right. So tell us more, please.”

  The schoolteacher opened the door and gestured for the two policemen to follow her. Sitting at a long conference table were other teachers; a couple were reading the paper, a few more were correcting papers or taking notes. When the three of them entered the room, everyone looked up curiously, but Professoressa Macchiaroli made no move to introduce them. She opened a small locker and took out a handful of official forms folded in half lengthwise, shot the two policemen another glance, and left the room. Romano and Aragona followed her out, after an embarrassed farewell to those present, who made no reply.

&nb
sp; The minute they were back in the hallway, Professoressa Macchiaroli explained: “These aren’t things I discuss with my colleagues. Maybe it’s really nothing at all, but if what I suspect should turn out to be true, then we’re dealing with a deadly serious situation. Now I’m going to take you to see the principal, whom I informed before coming to see you at the police station this morning.”

  As they walked down the hallway, which was crowded with kids changing classrooms, going to the restroom, or buying drinks from vending machines, Romano thought to himself that the more widely held the fear that a crime may have taken place, the less likely that it’s the figment of someone’s imagination. If Professoressa Macchiaroli had spoken about it with her direct superior and the two of them had decided it was worth contacting the police, then it would be a mistake to underestimate the seriousness of the matter.

  The principal got up from her desk and came to greet them, and Aragona’s attention was focused instantly. She was a young and very attractive woman, with long chestnut-brown hair and big lively eyes. Her slender figure was sheathed in a soft woolen dress, which highlighted her breasts and left her long and shapely legs uncovered well above knee-length.

  A smile was stamped on Aragona’s face that, in Romano’s opinion, only multiplied manyfold his usual already idiotic expression.

  The woman introduced herself.

  “I’m Tiziana Trani. Thanks for coming, I’ll confess we weren’t expecting you.”

  Aragona held on to her hand and gazed at her with a look that was meant to be alluring, except that it was hidden behind blue-tinted lenses.

  “Why would you think such a thing, Dottoressa? We aren’t the kind of police officers who turn up their noses at useful tips from citizens. We immediately realized that it was necessary to come here and get to the bottom of the matter. I’m Corporal Marco Aragona, enchanted to make your acquaintance.”

  Romano couldn’t believe his ears. That scoundrel really had no shame.

  “I’m Romano. We don’t want to take you away from your work, Signora, so if you’d be good enough to tell us what you know about this situation, we’d be grateful.”

  “Of course. Please, have a seat. Professoressa Macchiaroli can tell you all about it.”

  Professoressa Macchiaroli laid out on the desktop, one beside the other, the official forms she’d taken from the locker, smoothing them out with one hand: classroom essays, at a glance; certain passages had been underlined in red pencil. Then the woman put on a pair of eyeglasses that she wore around her neck on a thin chain.

  “These are three classroom essays that the student Martina Parise wrote during the current school year. The subjects of the essays vary, of course: the first is about changing seasons in the city, the second has to do with immigration and integration, the third, from just a few days ago, is about personal relations. The last one was assigned specifically to verify certain suspicions aroused by the reading of the first two: with the principal’s approval, naturally.”

  Principal Trani nodded her head.

  “That’s right, Professoressa Macchiaroli had come to see me after reading the first essay, but we wanted to get more evidence before taking any concrete steps. Go ahead and read.”

  Romano took the first sheet of paper from Professoressa Macchiaroli’s hands, noticed the round and precise handwriting, and read the part underlined in red.

  . . . so the seasons in the city don’t differ very much, except in the cold and the heat. Especially at home. I always want to get out of the house, even if the weather is nasty, because certain situations are hard to take, especially if every time I go to bed there’s someone who insists on petting me and kissing me, and won’t let me sleep.

  Romano handed the sheet of paper to Aragona, in silence. He felt a faint sense of embarrassment, as if he’d accidentally walked into the ladies’ restroom.

  “Well, it’s not like it gives us that much information. That is, it doesn’t tell us a name, and it just talks about petting and kissing . . . ‘Every time I go to bed . . . ’ It might just be someone wishing her sweet dreams . . . There’s no reference to rape or anything like that. It really seems like an overabundance of affection that annoys her, more than anything else.”

  Professoressa Macchiaroli handed Romano the second sheet.

  . . . and I don’t understand what kids are complaining about when they’re sent to orphanages or into foster care. They don’t understand how important it is to be alone, to be able to get far away from your parents. I’d be fine if I never had to deal with my father, with his fixations, like lying down next to me in the bed, with that bad breath of his. If only I could sleep in one of those big dormitory rooms, where the girls all sleep together and there are no fathers and at the very most they might see their fathers once a month.

  This time, Romano had no comment. He handed the sheet of paper to Aragona, who read it and emitted a faint sigh of surprise.

  Principal Trani broke the silence: “After that, Professoressa Macchiaroli and I discussed the matter again. It still seemed insufficient to justify calling the mother: you can imagine, you don’t want to destroy a family’s harmony just because of a hunch, and we certainly didn’t want to run that risk, did we, Emilia?”

  “We did not. We’re educators, and we should never forget the immense responsibility that comes with the job. So we wondered what would be best in this situation, and, as I’ve already explained, we decided to assign an essay on a more specific subject: maybe the fact that Signorina Parise wasn’t an experienced writer might have led her to put down certain details that could be read in more than one way. We hoped that what would emerge was a picture of a happy domestic setting, and then we’d be able to set aside our concerns.”

  “So what happened?” Aragona asked.

  Instead of answering, the schoolteacher pushed the last essay across the desk, toward Romano. She did it with just one finger, as if she found it disgusting just to touch it.

  I don’t understand why. He can see how he disgusts me, that I move away every time he comes near me, but he keeps doing it anyway. He can’t seem to stop himself. I shut my eyes and try to think about other things. I dream of climbing out the window and being able to fly, up, up, all the way to the clouds, and from there into the sky, to heaven. I wish I could die, that way I’d never have to feel those hands all over me, everywhere. I wish I could die.

  Romano realized that he was trembling. He heard the blood rumble in his ears, while deep inside he felt that unpleasant familiar sensation building up inside of him, the run-up to those bursts of uncontrolled rage that had ruined his career and his personal life. It was as if a new driver had taken over the steering wheel of his mind. It wasn’t as if he lost mental lucidity, it was more a matter of a change in his point of view: it suddenly seemed natural to him to set aside all forms of rational behavior and just follow his most destructive instincts.

  Doing his best to control himself, he handed the sheet to Aragona, who read it quickly and murmured under his breath: “That damned pig.”

  Principal Trani had her eyes trained on Romano, as if she had guessed at the conflict now boiling up inside of him. She went on talking in that calm voice of hers: “We summoned the girl here, to my office. Aside from the matter of possible sexual molestation, we were also worried about the suicidal impulses manifested in the last essay.”

  Romano was having difficulty breathing: “What did she say to you?”

  Professoressa Macchiaroli replied: “Oh, she’s a tough one. Silent, but strong. She’s one of the leaders in a class of special students, all girls who are the daughters of respected professionals and businessmen, very wealthy people. She comes from a middle-class family, but the other girls still follow her . . . ”

  She fell silent and looked over at the principal, as if she had remembered that it was Principal Trani’s responsibility to describe the case. And the principal d
idn’t have to be asked twice.

  “We asked her to explain what she had written. She replied that she had just been speaking in generalities, that she’d merely been letting off steam, that she’d simply made it all up . . . Still, though, she was clearly hesitant, we could tell that she had changed her mind, that she was afraid now. So we suggested that we might give her mother a call to talk it over, but she told us not to, in fact, she begged us not to.”

  Aragona snapped.

  “What do you mean, she made it up? Here it is, written as clear as day that people are putting their hands on her. You can’t just make this stuff up, at age twelve!”

  Principal Trani nodded her head.

  “That’s exactly what we said to her but, as her teacher explained, she’s a tough one. She claimed that when she wrote the essay, she had just imagined a character, another self who was being molested in that way. She told us: give me a bad grade if you like, but don’t tell anyone else. We still tried to talk to her mother, very cautiously, but the signora cut the conversation short, she didn’t want to hear what we had to say.”

  Romano asked: “And at that point?”

  Emilia Macchiaroli took off her glasses.

  “And at that point, I came to see you.”

  VIII

  Lojacono nodded at Alex and she stepped away to put in a call to the police station: the information that they now had was sufficient to activate Ottavia Calabrese’s research, constantly connected as she was with the central mainframes and with the other police units, as well as the internet, of course. It was astonishing how quickly necessary information could be obtained, or just useful tidbits to move an interview forward, thanks to this prompt assistance.

  While he was waiting, the lieutenant took advantage of the opportunity to find out something more about the victims, their neighbors, and the young man who had stumbled upon the crime.