The Crossroads

  Looking more closely, he saw that she wasn’t really a bit like Irina. She had the same milky-coloured skin, long legs and narrow hips, and a beautiful neck. But the face was different. This girl had a longer nose and a protruding chin. And she couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

  But how the hell did she get here?

  Rino tried to think back to the concert. He remembered crossing the floor, certain that she was Irina, and realising that she wasn’t.

  But after that, nothing.

  Darkness.

  He must have brought her home.

  He touched his cock. It was numb.

  He had screwed her.

  A confused image was fixed in his mind. Him on top and her underneath. His hands clutching her hair.

  Rino was about to get up to go for a pee when he noticed that beside the mattress, on the blonde’s side, there was a syringe, complete with needle, and all the other accoutrements of the perfect junkie.

  Rino looked at the girl’s arm. It was peppered with tiny coagulated holes surrounded by purple skin.

  A fucking needle freak. And she shot up here, while I was asleep, with Cristiano in the other room.

  Rino grabbed her by the neck, lifted her up off the mattress and put his hand between her buttocks as if he intended to penetrate her with his fingers, but instead hurled her like a sack of potatoes, and she opened her mouth and didn’t even have time to wake up, scream, do anything at all, before she bounced off the door of the built-in wardrobe and found herself lying on the floor in a corner of the room.

  ‘Jesus!’ she screamed, coming to her senses, in terror. She put one arm round her neck and held the other out in front of her in an attempt to shield herself, then got on her hands and knees and started crawling round the room.

  ‘Get out, you scum! You’ve been shooting up in my house!’ Rino gave her a kick in the backside which lifted up her legs. The junkie ducked forward, rubbed her face on the carpet and found her nose two centimetres away from the pistol lying on the floor.

  Rino, who was standing up, stark naked and as wild as a demon, dived to get it away from her, but she nimbly grabbed the weapon, held it in both hands and backed into the corner. ‘Don’t come any closer, you son of a bitch! I’ll kill you, I swear I will.’ She was breathing hard, her eyes wide open. Then she seemed to get her surroundings into focus: the flag with the swastika on the wall, the tattooed psychopath who wanted to kill her. ‘You fucking Nazi, you’re dead!’ And she shot him.

  ‘You stupid bitch! It’s not loaded.’ Rino shook his head. He opened his right arm, spread the fingers of his hand and moved towards her, but he stepped on the syringe and the needle stuck in the sole of his foot. He stifled a yell and started hopping about holding his foot in his hand.

  The girl seized her chance and made a dash for the bedroom door.

  Rino grabbed a glass ashtray full of cigarette stubs and hurled it at her like a frisbee. It hit her on the shoulder. She bent forward, dropped the pistol and managed to slip out.

  47

  Cristiano Zena was woken up by the frantic shrieks of a woman.

  Papa’s screwing one of his whor … Before he could finish the thought someone burst into the room screaming.

  Cristiano screamed too. He turned on the light.

  It was a naked, terrified woman who kept bumping into the walls like a swallow that had flown in through the window by mistake.

  Rino entered the room, in the nude. He was clutching her clothes and handbag in one hand and her pointed boots in the other. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his jaw was quivering with rage.

  He’s going to kill her, thought Cristiano, and he clasped his head in his arms.

  But instead Rino threw her clothes in her face. ‘Get out of here, you bitch.’

  The woman picked them up and wanted to make her escape, but was scared to go past him.

  Finally, clutching her clothes in her arms, she summoned up the courage. She dashed towards the door, getting a kick in the backside from Rino as she passed. She tripped and fell headlong on the landing. Cristiano heard her stumble downstairs and slam the door.

  His father went over to the window. ‘Good. She won’t be coming back.’

  Cristiano curled up under the bedclothes. ‘What happened?’

  Rino came over the bed. ‘Nothing. Just a tart. Go to sleep. Good night.’ And he went back to his bedroom.

  Saturday

  48

  There was no school on Saturday so he could sleep late.

  It was eleven thirty when Cristiano Zena stuck his head out from under the bedclothes.

  At one o’clock Trecca would be arriving. There was barely time to wash and have breakfast.

  He was starving. He could have eaten a whole chicken – bones and all. At the thought his stomach started rumbling.

  But he was going to have to make do with bread and jam.

  He rubbed his eyes and, yawning, looked out of the window, and laughed as he thought of that poor girl who had fled from the house stark naked and with a footprint stamped on her buttock.

  That afternoon he fancied going to look at the motorbikes in the showroom. Maybe he could ask Quattro Formaggi to give him a lift.

  He got dressed and went downstairs. The television was tuned to MTV.

  Rino was in the kitchen and was already set for the meeting with the social worker. Whenever he saw him dressed up as if he was going to a wedding Cristiano could hardly help laughing. He looked like a tailor’s dummy. Light-blue shirt. Tie. Blue trousers. Low-heeled shoes with laces.

  ‘Take a look at this!’ His father pointed at the formica top of the dresser.

  There was a sheet of greaseproof paper on which a dozen slices of mortadella were laid out, and on a plate a big wedge of fresh stracchino and a baguette. The smell of coffee hung in the air. And a pleasant warmth emerged from the oven door.

  The mortadella and stracchino sandwich was in Cristiano’s opinion the best sandwich in the world (closely followed by the one made with mozzarella and cured ham) and there was nothing better than eating it in the morning with caffè latte.

  What had happened? This wasn’t Christmas, nor his birthday.

  ‘I did a bit of shopping. Tuck in.’

  Cristiano didn’t need telling twice. They ate in silence, relishing every mouthful. Rino held his sandwich well away from his chest for fear of staining his shirt.

  49

  Beppe Trecca was driving his Puma along the streets of Varrano and listening to a CD of dolphin noises mingled with piano music. He had bought it on a special offer at the service station because the sleeve notes said the music was suitable for yoga or for relaxing after a hard day’s work, but he didn’t find the squeaks of those animals in the least relaxing, especially after a sleepless night.

  He turned off the stereo, stopped at the traffic light and, as he waited for it to change to green, opened his briefcase. Inside was a bottle of Ballantine’s. He looked around, took a quick swig and put it back in the briefcase.

  He started the car up again and, pitching his voice, declaimed: ‘You see things as they are and say, “Why?” I dream things that never were and say, “Why not?”

  This saying of George Bernard Shaw which he had found in the Big Book of Aphorisms would make a perfect starting point for the discussion on ‘Young people as a motor of change in society’ which he had organised that afternoon for the voluntary workers of the parish.

  He wasn’t entirely sure of its relevance to the subject of the seminar, but it sounded good.

  Beppe Trecca was thirty-five years old and hailed from Ariccia, a small town on the hills outside Rome. He had moved to Varrano after qualifying as a social worker.

  He stood one metre seventy tall. Over the past few days he had lost weight, and being pretty slim of build, with those two kilos less looked as thin and spiky as a seahorse. His hair was a mass of blondish curls which defied even the strongest gels.

  He was wearing a blue suit, a white shirt a
nd a striped tie. Plus a pair of braces to keep up his trousers, which were a size too big.

  He had dressed like this ever since he had read a book entitled Jesus as Manager.

  This was a study by a certain Bob Briner, a brilliant American businessman who had made an extensive study of the Gospels in order to establish why Jesus, besides being the son of our Lord, had been such an outstanding manager. His launching of a major project, his selection of his staff (the twelve apostles), his rejection of all forms of corruption and his good relations with the people of Palestine had been the key factors in making him the greatest manager of all time.

  This had given Trecca the idea that his own job required not a welfare approach but a managerial one, and consequently he had taken to dressing like a manager.

  He took off his sunglasses and examined the shadows under his eyes in the mirror. He looked like a raccoon.

  He knew that women used some stuff, a cream, to hide them; maybe he ought to get some.

  Ida mustn’t see him in that state. Though he was sure she wouldn’t come to the discussion group that afternoon after what had happened between them.

  Ida Montanari was the wife of Mario Lo Vino, the director of the Varrano health authority and possibly Beppe Trecca’s best friend.

  Possibly, because after what he had done to the poor guy Beppe wasn’t sure he still had a right to call himself his friend.

  He had fallen in love with his wife. No, fallen in love was an understatement, he’d gone nuts about her.

  It wasn’t like him. He was a guy who believed in values such as loyalty, fair play and friendship.

  But it wasn’t his fault if in the dreary world of voluntary work twenty-seven-year-old Ida stood out like a bird of paradise in a hen house.

  It had all begun with an innocent friendship. They had met through Mario. When Beppe had arrived from Ariccia, depressed and demotivated, he had been welcomed into the Lo Vino household like a friend. He had discovered the pleasures of family life, of playing cards in the evening over a glass of wine. He had become like an uncle to Michele and Diana, their children. The previous summer he had even gone on holiday with them in the mountains. And it was there that he had discovered Ida’s soul. She made him feel good and showed him life in all its better aspects. Above all, she cheered him up. There were days when they never stopped laughing.

  And it had been she who had asked him to help her organise the parish’s group of voluntary workers.

  Everything, in short, had been fine. Until, three days before, God and Satan in person had joined forces to plan his ruin.

  That evening, for no particular reason, the meeting with the disadvantaged parishioners had been cancelled and Beppe had found himself alone with Ida in the video-Internet room. Even Father Marcello, who had never left the rectory in the past fifteen years, had gone out for a pizza with the alcoholics group.

  And here the Evil One had intervened, taking possession of his tongue and jaws and speaking instead of him. ‘Ida, I’ve got a very interesting video about voluntary work in Ethiopia. I’d like to show it to you. It’s really worth seeing. The guys down there seem to be doing an excellent job.’

  Beppe Trecca, as he waited at the traffic light, started punching himself on the forehead. ‘In front’ punch ‘of’ punch ‘the video’ punch ‘about the African children. Shame on you!’

  He had to stop because alongside him two boys on a big scooter were looking at him dubiously.

  He gave an embarrassed smile, lowered the window and said: ‘Hi boys … It’s nothing … Thoughts … Just thoughts…’

  Ida had glanced at her watch and smiled. ‘Mario and the children have gone to dinner at grandmother Eva’s. Why not?’

  ‘Damn you, grandmother Eva!’ And with a squeal of tyres Beppe drove out onto the highway.

  Beppe had put the cassette in the video recorder, which usually didn’t work, but which that evening, God knows why, was in perfect working order, and the documentary had started.

  On one side the two of them, next to each other, in the dark, sitting on an imitation leather sofa. On the other the children, their stomachs bloated with starvation and dysentery.

  She had been sitting up straight with her legs crossed and her arms folded, but suddenly she had leaned back and, casually, laid her hand a few centimetres from his thigh. And he, continuing to stare at the television, slowly, imperceptibly, but as remorselessly as the roots of a wild fig tree, had opened his legs till he felt the knuckles of her hand brush against the flannel of his trousers.

  He had turned and, with the determination of an Islamic suicide bomber, kissed her.

  Forgetting Mario Lo Vino and the innocent Michele and Diana, forgetting all the evenings when he had been fed, welcomed, entertained like a friend – no, more than that, like a brother.

  And what about her? What had she done? She had let herself be kissed. Or she had at first, anyway. Beppe still felt the touch of her lips on his. The taste of her xylitol chewing gum. That fleeting yet undeniable contact with her soft, liquid tongue.

  But then Ida had recoiled, pushed him away and said, blushing: ‘Are you out of your mind? What are you doing?’ And she had stalked out indignantly, like a respectable young lady in a romantic novel.

  The next day she hadn’t come to the parish hall, nor had she the day after that.

  During this time Beppe had suffered desperately, as never before in his life. And the pains were physical. Especially in his intestine. He had even had a recurrence of his spastic colitis.

  He had discovered that he had been hiding his passion for Ida from himself as if it was some kind of venereal disease.

  He had thought of confiding in his cousin Luisa. Of asking her for help. But he was too ashamed. And so – alone, confused, and without even the comfort of a friendly voice – he had suffered in silence, hoping that this sickness would pass of its own accord, that his body would immunise itself against the diabolical virus.

  He hadn’t succeeded. He had been unable to sleep and had started drinking in an attempt to forget. Impossible. He had cursed himself for behaving like that, but he had also kept telling himself that there had been tongue contact. This was true. Undeniable. As true as the fact that he had been born in Ariccia. If she really had been unwilling she wouldn’t have let him stick his tongue in her mouth. Would she?

  At five forty-three that morning he had sent her a text message. The text, which he had spent the whole night composing, was:

  Forgive me. ?

  That was it. Simple. Precise. She, of course, hadn’t replied.

  The social worker stopped in front of Rino Zena’s house, picked up his briefcase and got out of the Puma.

  That’s enough of that, though. Personal problems mustn’t interfere with work, he told himself, skipping between the puddles so as not to dirty his shoes, and he was on the point of pressing the bell when his mobile vibrated twice.

  A shock wave went through Trecca’s body, as if someone had clapped the pads of an electrostimulator on his heart.

  He stiffened, and took his mobile out of his pocket with bated breath. Next to the envelope symbol was the name IDA.

  He closed his eyes, pressed the key and opened them again.

  What for? It was wonderful.

  Can we meet today?

  You organise it. ?

  The little tart! So she had enjoyed it!

  He clenched his teeth, bent his knees and, raising his fists in the air, said: ‘Yesss!’

  And he rang the bell.

  50

  ‘Terrible weather, isn’t it, lads? Well, how’s it going?’ Beppe Trecca sat down beside Rino, put his briefcase on his lap and rubbed his hands contentedly.

  ‘Very well. I’m winning,’ replied Cristiano, throwing the dice and looking at him.

  There was something strange about him. He was exuberant, yet since his last visit he seemed to have lost weight, like he’d been ill; his eyes were sunken in his skull and had rings round them, as if he ha
dn’t slept.

  ‘Excellent! Excellent! You really like Monopoly, then, do you?’

  Ever since Beppe had rebuked them for not playing together enough (play fosters the building of a closer and more confidential father–son relationship), they had put on this act every time he came to see them.

  Rino threw the dice in his turn and gave a sarcastic smile. ‘Yes, we really do. It’s nice handling all this money.’

  Cristiano was always shocked at how calm his father managed to keep during Trecca’s visits. He was unrecognisable. He hated the man, and would gladly have run him over with his car, yet he glued a fake little smile onto his lips and replied as politely as an English gentleman. What a superhuman effort he must be making not to explode, not to grab him by the tie and nut him in the face … After a while, though, Cristiano would get worried because he could see him turning blue, swallowing air and gripping the edge of the table as if he wanted to break it, and he would have to think up some excuse to get rid of the social worker.

  Beppe opened his briefcase and took out some printed sheets of paper. ‘Rino, here’s a questionnaire that I’d like you to fill in.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Rino suspiciously.

  ‘The trouble with alcohol is that people who have problems with this social disease deny it. It’s natural to the alcoholic to lie and to do everything he can to hide it, even from himself. And do you know why, Rino? Because of the stigma attached to the issues around the abuse of alcoholic substances. That’s what contributes to the denial. You don’t need me to tell you what serious damage alcohol does to your body. And what a bad effect the habit can have on family, working and social relationships.’

  Cristiano was uneasy. This guy was just looking for an excuse to put him in a home. And separate him from his father. Two days earlier he had passed him on the main street and Trecca had only given him only the most cursory of greetings, as if he was hiding something. And now he’d produced this questionnaire. He seemed to be planning something.