I’d only just had the bodywork repaired.
The right side, above the front wheel, was dented, and there were bumps on the bonnet too. The right windscreen wiper was bent.
What did I hit – a brown bear? Will the insurance cover something like this? he wondered, getting hurriedly back into the car.
He shut the door and selected first gear, then changed his mind, put it into reverse and started driving backwards.
I want to have a look, just out of curiosity …
He travelled less than fifty metres and then braked. The white light of the reversing lights had fallen on something brown curled up on the edge of the asphalt.
There it is!
A dog! A damned dog.
He reversed three more metres and noticed that the dog was wearing a pair of trainers with the Nike ticks on their soles.
163
He must have done about ten kilometres and he still hadn’t reached the turning for San Rocco.
Maybe it’s been blocked off. Or perhaps I didn’t see it and I’ve come too far.
Cristiano Zena was pedalling in the middle of the deserted highway. The dim light produced by the dynamo barely lit up a couple of metres of road in front of the wheel.
He was shivering with cold, but inside his jacket he was boiling. The rain was stinging his eyes, the back of his head and his ankles were frozen and he had lost all feeling in his chin and ears.
He had been a fool not to pump up the tyres. It was costing him three times the effort. If he didn’t find the turning soon he was sure his legs would give out.
Now and then, for an instant, the electric glow from a flash of lightning would light up the storm-battered fields as bright as day.
Since he had spoken to his father on the phone more than half an hour must have passed.
If only I had a motorbike … I’d be there by now.
It was incredible, whatever he did his brain always returned to motorbikes.
An articulated lorry with a German number plate came up behind him, immense and silent like a humpback whale. It honked its horn and emitted a yellowish glare.
Cristiano dived in towards the side of the road.
The HGV went past very close, drenching him from head to foot.
While he was still recovering from the fright he saw up ahead a blue sign proclaiming: SAN ROCCO 1000 METRES.
So the turning did exist and he was near to it!
Though his fingers were stuck to the handlebar and his nose was an icicle, he stood up from the saddle, leaned forward, gritted his teeth, and with his muscles flooded with lactic acid pushed on the pedals, which were as stiff as rusty cogwheels, and shouted: ‘Go, Pantani! Go!’ Finally he took the turning at full speed and found himself, leaning over steeply to the side, in a puddle just around the bend. The wheels lost their grip and the bicycle skidded as if on a sheet of ice.
When he opened his eyes again he was lying on the ground. He got up and checked what he’d done to himself. He had grazed the palm of one of his hands, his jeans were torn at the knee and the sole of one shoe had been pared away by the asphalt, but apart from that he was all right.
He straightened up the handlebar and set off again.
164
I’ve hit a man.
Beppe Trecca, with his head turned back over his shoulders, continued to gaze through the rear window at the bundle on the road. His heart was pounding and his armpits were as cold as ice.
(Go and see.)
It wasn’t my fault. I was driving very slowly.
(Go and see.)
The idiot must have crossed the road without looking.
(And you were putting the CD into the stereo.)
A second. It only took me a second …
(Go and see!)
If he’s …
(Go and see!!)
He must be hurt. Maybe he’s not too badly injured, though.
(GO!!!)
He ran his tongue over his teeth in his dry mouth and said: ‘Okay, I’m going.’
165
The road to San Rocco was narrower and had no reflectors at the sides.
Cristiano, with his head down, was pedalling and following the white line painted on the asphalt. The wind had dropped and the rain fell so straight and fine that, in the feeble light from the bicycle’s lamp, it resembled the silvery hair of a witch.
He didn’t want to look up. Hidden in the darkness that surrounded him there might be castles haunted by skeletons, alien spaceships standing in the wilderness, chained giants.
When he finally did raise his head he saw a luminous dot which grew into a yellow patch and then turned into a sign, in the middle of which a black patch formed and became a dog-like creature, with six legs and with fire coming out of its mouth.
The Agip service station.
166
The man was lying at the edge of the road, curled up, as if he was asleep in bed.
Beppe Trecca walked around him, his left hand pressed to his lips. His tracksuit was already soaking wet and his hair drooped over his forehead like a mass of blond fusilli.
He’s black.
One of the many Africans who worked in the local factories, or more likely one of the countless illegal immigrants.
The man wore a heavy beige jacket, and underneath it a coloured tunic from which protruded two long black legs and two enormous basketball shoes. Beside him lay a big red rucksack.
Senegalese, I should think.
His face wasn’t visible. His head was tucked into his chest. His hair was short and flecked with grey.
Breathe deeply, the social worker told himself. And take a look at him, to see who he is.
He felt like throwing up. He breathed in several times through his nose, then at last found the strength to bend down over the body. He reached out, stopped for a moment with his hand five centimetres from the man’s shoulder, then gave a gentle push, and the man rolled over on the asphalt.
His face was round. His forehead broad. His eyes closed. Well shaven. About forty years old.
I’ve never seen him before. I don’t think so, anyway.
Beppe often met Africans in the course of his work. In the factories. In the centre for hospitality and orientation. Or when he went to visit them in the dormitory houses.
What now?
He tried shaking him and then stammered: ‘Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?’ but the man neither replied nor moved.
What now?
The only thing his mind was capable of producing was that fatuous question.
What now?
He felt bewildered, so confused that he didn’t even notice the rain and the wind.
What if he’s …?
He couldn’t even bring himself to finish the sentence.
That word was too terrifying for him even to think of it.
No! He can’t be.
He tugged at his arm.
If he was … Beppe’s life would be over.
His first thought was for Ida. If he went to prison all his plans for a life with her would be destroyed. There would be lawyers, court cases, police … But Ida and I must … He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident.
Why did I get out that CD?
Two yellow headlights appeared out of the darkness and dazzled him.
This is it.
Beppe Trecca, bent over the body, raised his arm and shielded his eyes.
167
‘Papa! Papa! Rino! Rino!’ shouted Cristiano Zena, with the crossbar of the bicycle between his legs.
The huge yellow canopy of the filling station cast a cold light on the pumps and on the pools of rainbow-coloured fuel oil.
His father wasn’t there. Nor was the van. There was nobody there.
Not once along the way had it crossed his mind that when he got to the filling station his father might not be there.
The panic that had lain hidden in the coils of his guts, and that had only made itself felt when instilling in him the
doubt that the turning for San Rocco might have been closed off, now invaded his head and blocked his throat.
‘You said … the Agip … And I’m here. I know … I’ve been a long time, but it was a long way. You … said … the Agip. Where are you?’ he moaned, running his fingers through his wet hair.
He took another turn around the carwash and the cashier’s booth.
Go and look further on.
He started pedalling again, but barely two hundred metres from the petrol station the road began to rise gradually and went into the wood.
The light of the bicycle lamp fell on the black tree trunks that lined the roadside.
I don’t like this place. He can’t be here.
Perhaps the van had been parked before the petrol station and he hadn’t seen it as he had gone by.
He was about to turn his bike round when something stopped him. Music, so faint as to be almost imperceptible. It mingled with the rain that lashed the road and the foliage of the trees and with the rustle of the wheels as they turned on the asphalt.
He stopped, with his guts twisting tight and an unpleasant tingling at the back of his neck.
Elisa.
The singer. He knew her.
Elisa singing: ‘Listen to me … Now I can cry. I know I need you … We are light that … Like a sun and a star …’
He thought he could make out, on the other side of the road, a square silhouette which gradually took on the shape of a van. The rain was drumming on its bodywork. A dim glow tinged the glass of the window covered with raindrops.
The Ducato!
The music was coming from its radio.
Cristiano couldn’t even feel glad, he was so scared.
What if it wasn’t his father in the van, but someone else?
Don’t be a wimp.
He got off his bike and laid it on the ground as quietly as possible. He tried to swallow, but the saliva had gone from his mouth.
Shit, I’m terrified.
His frozen feet slopped in his shoes as he moved closer. He was less than a metre from the van. He stretched out his hand and felt the bumper. It was dented. And the indicator light was broken.
It was their van all right.
Two steps, grab the handle and … I can’t.
His legs wouldn’t support him and his arms were so tired …
If I open the door …
All that came afterwards was dripping with blood and soaked with death.
I’m going to call someone …
With a sudden lunge he grabbed the handle, opened the driver’s door and sprang back, ready to dodge the attack of a murderer.
There’s nobody here.
The red display of the car radio on the dashboard lit up the driver’s seat. He switched it off. He saw the key in the ignition. Underneath the passenger’s seat was the toolbox. He opened it. He took out a long torch. He switched it on. Then he picked up the hammer, got out of the van and opened the big rear door.
But there was nothing in there either, except for a bag of cement, a couple of planks, a plastic bag containing the remains of the picnic, and the wheelbarrow.
Pointing the torch beam at the ground he checked the whole of the layby. Two rubbish bins, a notice saying DANGER OF FIRE, and an electricity hut.
No, there was nothing else.
168
Beppe Trecca was kneeling by the African, awaiting his fate.
The car, which was black with alloy wheels, stopped in front of him with its headlights full on, illuminating the road and the rain.
Beppe couldn’t see who was inside.
It looked like an Audi or a Mercedes.
Finally the window lit up and rolled down.
Sitting at the wheel was a man of about fifty. He wore a camel-coloured jacket and a light-blue polo neck sweater. A thick black beard grew almost up to his cheekbones. His hair was slicked back with gel. He had a cigarette in his mouth. He stubbed it out in the ashtray, then moved over towards the passenger’s window and, raising one eyebrow, looked out. ‘Has he gone?’
Beppe raised his head, stared at him uncomprehendingly and stammered: ‘What?’
The man pointed at the body with his chin: ‘Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know … I think …’
‘Did you hit him?’
‘… Yes, I think so.’
‘Is he a nigger?’
Beppe nodded.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ asked the man, as if he was enquiring when the next bus was due.
‘What?’
‘What are you waiting for? Why don’t you just get out of here?’
The social worker couldn’t manage to reply. He opened his mouth and closed it again as if a ghost had just stuffed a spoonful of shit down his throat.
The man stroked his beard. ‘Has anyone else come past?’
Beppe shook his head.
‘Well get moving, then, what are you waiting for?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I must be off. Bye, then. Good luck.’
The window rose and the Audi, or whatever it was, vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
169
Cristiano Zena went out into the middle of the road, with the faint hope that someone would pass by.
How was it possible that this fucking road, which was a constant stream of cars, bicycles and motorbikes in the daytime, could be so deserted at night, as if there were monsters in the woods?
‘Papa! Papa! Where are you?’ he shouted at length towards the woods. ‘Answer me!’ His voice died away against the dense vegetation.
I wouldn’t go into that wood even if …
But, now that he thought of it, the background noise he had heard during the phone call had been that of rain falling among trees.
What if he’s in there?
He walked over to the guardrail. There was a gap between the metal strips from where a little path began and threaded its way through the weeds and brambles. Plastic bags, bottles, a condom, an old car seat among the moss-covered rocks. He pointed the torch ahead. Black trunks and a tangle of branches dripping with water.
He took one step, stopped and then started jumping up and down, trying to shake off his fear.
‘Why do you do this to me? You bastard! I was in bed … If this is a joke …’ he muttered between his teeth.
He stood there, rooted to the beginning of the path, shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other. Then he breathed in deeply and, raising the hammer, took one step and the mud sucked in his shoe, took another and it wrapped round his ankles. He set off down the path and the trees seemed to be waiting for him, stretching out their branches towards him (Come! Come!) and anyone might be there in the darkness, ready to leap out from behind a tree trunk and hit him from behind.
He had only gone a few metres but he already felt as if he was a thousand kilometres from the road. The rainwater dripping off leaves and running down tree trunks. The moss soaked with water. The air saturated with water, earth and rotten wood.
He imagined a pack of wolves with eyes as red as molten lava appearing out of the darkness.
His right hand held the hammer aloft, ready to strike anyone who appeared in front of him, while his left hand shone the torch around frenetically.
Sabre-thrusts of light flashed on the big jagged rocks, on the branches, on the trickles of water that dug rivulets in the mud, and on a pair of black boots.
Cristiano screamed, took two steps backwards, tripped over a branch and fell down on his back. He got up again and, with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, shone the beam of the torch on the boots, the paint-splashed boots, on the cape, grey with an orange reflector strip, that his father used when he worked, on his shaven head immersed in the slime, on his hand and on his mobile phone which lay in a puddle.
170
Beppe Trecca was still kneeling in the rain, beside the corpse, and continued to ask himself: What are you waiting for?
The man in the Audi had made it quite clear th
at he would have driven on if he had been in his shoes.
But that man wasn’t him. He wasn’t a hit-and-run driver. He helped other people, he didn’t abandon them.
(Just call the police and an ambulance. That’s all you have to do.)
Why? To ruin my life? If this poor bugger had been injured, or dying, I’d have rushed him to hospital. But like this?
He dried his face with the palm of his hand; he was trembling and his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He shook the African again. There was no response.
He’s dead. That’s it. Say it. He’s dead.
And so … So there was nothing to be done.
Why couldn’t he go back in time? Just a little way, just half an hour, to the moment before he had taken out the Rod Stewart CD?
The dreadful idea that there was no way of putting things right, that no one was capable of granting this simple wish, filled him with terror.
(Get a grip on yourself! Accept responsibility for what you’ve done.)
But what would it change? Nothing. It wouldn’t bring him back to life. And I’d be up to my neck in shit.
So one unfortunate life had been snuffed out and another would be ruined for ever.
‘There’s no sense in it. No sense at all,’ he whimpered, with his hands over his face. ‘It’s not fair. I don’t deserve this. I can’t do it, just now, when …’
Snap out of it! Move. Get into the car and drive away before anyone passes. As the man said: “What are you waiting for?”
Beppe Trecca stood up and, hanging his head, got back into the Puma.
171
Cristiano had imagined a thousand different ways in which his father might be killed (stabbed in a fight or crushed in the wreckage of the Ducato or falling off the scaffolding of a new apartment block).
And he had always imagined that they would give him the news at school. The headmaster calling him: “There’s been an accident … I’m terribly sorry … ”
“You don’t give a damn, you arsehole,” he would answer, and he wouldn’t cry. Then he would set fire to their house and sail away on a merchant ship and never return to that fucking place again.