‘Anyway, the Prime Minister was taken to the secret pool and swam in it. For a mere ten minutes. No more. A couple of lengths, in freestyle. And the cancer vanished. Dissolved. The doctors couldn’t believe it. And now he’s fine.’ The little dwarf dangled the crucifix in front of him like a hypnotist. ‘Now look at it! You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you, but it’s as true as the fact that we’re here at this moment. Do you know how long it lay in that pool? For ten years. I’m not joking. Ten long years. While the world was changing – wars were breaking out, the Twin Towers were falling, Italy was being invaded by illegal immigrants – this crucifix lay immersed in the miraculous water.’ He sounded as if he was doing a commercial for a pure malt Scotch whisky. ‘It was a nun … Sister Maria. She hid it in one of the pool’s skimmers and then secretly gave it to me. Do you see it? That’s why it’s so dull and tarnished. I tell no lies. Now just think how potent the healing effect of this object must be. From the pool it went straight into this box. Nobody has ever hung it round their neck. And do you know why? So that it wouldn’t lose its potency. This crucifix can’t be recharged like a mobile phone. Once it comes into contact with the sufferer’s skin it begins to emanate its …’ For the first time Ricky couldn’t find the words. But he immediately recovered: ‘… healingness … Ability to heal, I mean. But the important thing is never to take it off. Never to exchange it with anyone. And not to talk about it.’ He stared at Quattro Formaggi and then fired a question at him: ‘Why are you here? For your own sake, Corrado? Or for someone else’s?’
Quattro Formaggi, who had slowly sunk down onto a bench, bowed his head and said: ‘No, not for my sake. Rino’s in a coma.’ He had to break off to clear his throat and then he went on: ‘I need to speak to him. I need to know …’
‘He’s in a coma.’ Ricky stroked his cheeks pensively. ‘Well, with this crucifix he might even wake up in one day. He might easily. Do you know what it means to have such an immense amount of divine energy discharged into you? He might even get straight out of bed, pick up his things and go home, as right as rain.’
‘Really?’
‘I can’t guarantee it. It might take a bit longer. But it’s worth trying. This is a wonderful opportunity for you – don’t let it slip. There’s just one problem …’
‘What’s that?’
‘You have to make a offering.’
‘What kind of offering?’
‘Some money for the Sisters of Lourdes. It’s …’
‘How much?’ Quattro Formaggi interrupted him.
‘How much have you got?’
‘I don’t know …’ He put his hand in the back pocket of his trousers and took out his wallet, which was full to bursting with all kinds of paper except money. He rummaged through it and eventually extracted one twenty-euro and one five-euro note.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Ricky’s voice couldn’t conceal all his disappointment.
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Wait a minute, though. Perhaps …’ Quattro Formaggi took out of his wallet an envelope, folded in half. The money from the last job he’d done with Rino and Danilo. Four hundred euros. He hadn’t even touched it … ‘I’ve got this. Take it.’ He held out the banknotes, and the little man, with a deadpan expression, snatched them as quick as a ferret and handed him the velvet case.
‘Remember, in contact with the skin. And don’t talk about it to anyone. Otherwise, bang goes the miracle.’
A second later Quattro Formaggi was alone again.
205
I can’t call you or see you again.
Forgive me.
So Beppe Trecca, in tears, had written on his mobile phone.
Now he only had to press the key and Ida would get over it. She would think he was a coward.
“Beppe, do you really want me?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Even with the children?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then let’s go through with it. Let’s talk to Mario and tell him everything.”
“All right. I’ll speak to him.”
He would far rather be thought a chicken-shit than a bastard who disappeared without a word.
But he couldn’t do it. He would be breaking the agreement.
Perhaps he ought to speak to someone who was expert in pledges and vows to the Lord. Someone who had taken a vow like him.
Father Marcello.
He must make confession and tell him everything. Though he doubted if the priest would give him the answer he wanted.
He threw his head back on the sofa, gulping down air with every sob. He stared through his tears at his mobile. And then, in agonies of colitis, he deleted the message.
206
Quattro Formaggi opened the blue box, but didn’t touch the crucifix.
The messenger had said it would lose its power if he did.
He must put it on Rino, so he would come out of his coma and tell him where Ramona was hidden.
But Rino was very angry. He had gone berserk when he had seen the corpse.
He almost beat me to death.
What if Rino reported him to the police?
The most dangerous people are always your friends. People you trust.
At one time Quattro Formaggi had worked for a while in a fish shop. He gutted the fish and made home deliveries. Every day polystyrene boxes full of large clams were unloaded. The clams were still alive; you only had to drop them in the tank, and ten minutes later they would put out a long white tube through which they would suck in water and oxygen. But the lightest touch on the shell with the point of a knife was enough to make them snap shut and stay closed for at least an hour. But then, when they reopened, if you touched them again they would only stay closed for half an hour. And if you kept on prodding them like this they would eventually get used to it and stop closing altogether.
At that point they were done for. You stuck the point of the knife inside the shell and the stupid little buggers snapped shut with the whole blade inside. Then you twisted the blade, the shell broke and a brown cloud of flesh and excrement gushed out into the water.
What use is a shell if you can be trained not to use it?
It’s better not to have one – to be naked – if all it does is help the knife to kill you. Rino was like that knife blade. Quattro Formaggi had got used to him, and that made him a serious threat.
And Cristiano was just like his father – he was hiding the truth from him to thwart him.
Those two are playing me for a sucker.
Rino will open his eyes, pull the needle out of his arm, point at me and start shouting: “It was him, he killed the girl! Put him in prison!”
He would do it. He knew him well. He would never understand that he had killed her because …
He saw the white hand and the thin fingers wrapped round his marble-hard penis.
An icy shiver sank its claws into the back of his head. He closed his eyes and felt as if he was falling from a skyscraper.
He found himself on the floor, lying among the hassocks, breathing hard and clutching the crucifix.
He unbuttoned his shirt and put the chain round his neck. The pendant fell among the dark hairs on his chest. He could feel the beneficent power of the crucifix spreading like a warm current through his aching body, into his cracked ribs, into the wound, the torn and bruised flesh.
He brushed the crucifix with his fingertips and felt as if he was touching Ramona’s smooth skin. And he saw little Baby Jesus hidden inside the woman’s wet body.
“God’s will is as obscure to us poor sinners as the darkest of winter nights. We need an aerial to communicate with the Almighty,” Ricky had told him.
Now he had the aerial to communicate with.
He got to his feet and limped out of the chapel.
He knew what he had to do. He had to kill Rino.
If Rino woke up he would accuse him.
It was Rino who was opposing the will of God.
God had nearly kille
d him, and he would finish him off.
In fact he and God were one and the same thing.
He crossed the entrance hall, panting, with his violin-shaped clock under his arm, and pushed his way into the lift, which was full of doctors and visitors.
Quattro Formaggi got out on the second floor.
He remembered that this was where the most seriously ill patients were. He himself had been kept there after the accident with the fishing rod, before being moved to the floor above.
Trying not to attract attention, he went by the maternity ward. The big window with the newborn babies in their cots. A glass door. A long corridor and rows of closed doors. He reached the intensive care department. On the door there was a notice which detailed the visiting hours.
It was out of hours.
He tried turning the handle. The door opened. Scratching his cheek, he peered into the corridor.
The lighting in this department was softer, and the ceiling lower. There was a row of orange plastic chairs along one wall. Through the window he could see a violet strip which divided the dark sky from the plain.
While he waited for a nurse to arrive he thumped his left thigh.
The place seemed deserted.
He plucked up courage and entered. He shut the door behind him as quietly as possible and set off, hardly daring to breathe. To his right there was a big dark room. At the far end of it a sepulchral light shone down on a bed where a man lay quite still.
There were winking lights all around, and a greenish monitor. He walked towards the bed with bated breath.
Rino was lying there with his eyes closed. He seemed to be asleep.
Quattro Formaggi stared at him, twisting his neck. Finally he grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him, as you might a child that doesn’t want to get up. ‘Rino …’ He knelt down beside the bed and, still holding him by the wrist, whispered in his ear: ‘It’s me. Quattro Formaggi. I mean … It’s Corrado. Corrado Rumitz. That’s my name.’ He started stroking his cheek. ‘Rino, will you tell me where Ramona is, please? It’s important. I have to do something with her. Something very important. Will you tell me, please? I need the body. If you tell me, God will help you. Do you know why you’re in a coma? It was God. He punished you for what you did to me. I’m not angry with you, though. I’ve forgiven you. You hurt me, but it doesn’t matter … I’m easy-going. Now, please, will you tell me where Ramona is? You’d better tell me.’ He looked at him for a moment, sniffing and scratching his cheek, then snorted impatiently: ‘I understand, I’m not stupid … You don’t want to tell me. Never mind. I’ve brought you a present.’ He showed him the clock and then lifted it up, ready to bring it down on his head. ‘It’s all yours …’
‘What are you doing here?’
Quattro Formaggi jumped in the air like a champagne cork. He lowered the clock and spun round.
There was someone standing in the doorway, hidden in the shadows. ‘This is not visiting hours. How did you get in?’
The man, tall and thin, in a white coat, came closer.
He didn’t see me. He didn’t see me. It was dark.
His heart pounded in his chest. ‘The door was open …’
‘Didn’t you see the notice with the visiting hours?’
‘No. I found the door open and I thought …’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. Come back tomorrow.’
‘I came to see my friend. I’ll go now, don’t worry.’
The doctor came even closer. He was balding, and his head was small. He looked like a vulture. Or rather, a newly hatched pigeon.
‘What were you doing with that clock?’
‘Me? Nothing. I was …’
Answer him. Go on …
‘… looking for somewhere to hang it. Cristiano told me Rino was in a coma and I thought I’d bring him his clock. It might help him to wake up. Mightn’t it?’
The doctor glanced at the monitor and adjusted the wheel of a machine. ‘I don’t think so. All your friend needs is rest.’
‘All right. Thank you, doctor. Thank you.’ Quattro Formaggi held out his hand, but the doctor ignored it and accompanied him to the door.
‘This is an intensive care unit. So it is absolutely imperative to observe the visiting hours.’
‘I’m sorry …’
The doctor closed the door in his face.
Tuesday
207
At four o’clock precisely the alarm clock started ringing.
Cristiano Zena silenced it with a slap. He had slept a long, dreamless sleep without interruption. He hadn’t even got up for a pee. His bladder was bursting. But he felt better.
He turned on the torch and stretched.
Outside, the sky was black and dotted with stars.
Cristiano had a pee, washed his face with cold water and put on some warm clothes. He went down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. It was warmer on the ground floor.
Beppe Trecca was sleeping on the sofa, with his face against the back. He was curled up in a blanket that was too short for him and one of his legs was sticking out.
Cristiano tiptoed into the kitchen, closed the door quietly, took out a packet of rusks and ate them, one by one, in silence. Then he drank two glasses of water to wash them down.
Now that he had slept and eaten, he was ready.
From now on every move he made would have to be weighed up at least three times in advance.
On the kitchen table there was a packet of Dianas belonging to Rino.
Let’s have a nice cigarette.
His father always said that when he was about to start a job.
Cristiano wondered whether now that Rino was in a coma he still felt the need to smoke. Maybe when he woke up he wouldn’t have the habit any more.
He picked up the box of matches and took one out. He held it against the brown strip.
Right, if it lights first go, everything will go smoothly.
He struck the match and it lingered for a second, as if unsure whether to light, but then, as if by magic, a little blue flame rose up.
Everything will go smoothly …
He lit the cigarette and took two long drags, but his head started spinning.
He extinguished it immediately under the tap.
‘I’m ready’, he whispered.
208
While Cristiano was smoking his cigarette, Quattro Formaggi, in his underpants and dressing gown, was staring at the TV and drinking Fanta from a family-sized bottle.
There was a cook with a moustache who was preparing some speck and couscous roulades and saying that they made tasty and original little bites for a picnic in the country. Then there was a commercial break, after which the etiquette expert, a short man with dyed hair, began to explain how cutlery should be arranged on the table and how one should kiss a lady’s hand.
Quattro Formaggi pressed PLAY on the videorecorder with his foot and Ramona appeared, in handcuffs, in the sheriff’s office.
‘So what do I have to do to avoid going to jail?’
Henry, a muscular black police officer, twirled his truncheon in his hands and eyed Ramona. ‘You have to pay bail. And a high one too. And I don’t think you have any money.’
Ramona pushed out her big breasts and said in a knowing tone: ‘No, I don’t. But there’s another way. An easier one.’
Henry released her from the handcuffs. ‘Well, the only thing for it is to find the little blonde’s corpse as soon as possible. You’ve got to find her and put her in the crib.’
‘Okay, boss. I’ll go out and find her.’
Quattro Formaggi took another sip of Fanta and, with glazed eyes, murmured: ‘Good man, Henry.’ He turned towards the kitchen. There was a strange buzzing noise. Maybe it was the fridge. But it might be the gigantic wasp that had got trapped. A wasp with a two-metre wingspan and a sting as long as your arm.
The insect must have stung him on the chest while he was asleep, because he could feel his guts rotting, and his skin f
elt as if there were a million white-hot needles sticking into it. And his headache never let up. A fire rose up through his neck and boiled his brain. When he touched his temples he could feel his forehead, his eyebrow arches and his eyes tingling.
The crucifix wasn’t working.
He had never taken it off, just as Ricky had told him, but the pain, instead of decreasing, was growing.
God is angry with me. I’ve lost Ramona. I don’t deserve anything. That’s the truth.
209
It was cold, but the heavy jacket, flannel shirt and fleece cardigan covered Cristiano well. The ice-cold air went down his throat, which was still irritated by the cigarette, as he rolled up the door of the garage. He turned on the long neon lights, which crackled, shedding a yellowish glow over the large basement room. By the workbench he found a pair of orange plastic gloves, the kind people use for washing the dishes. He put them on.
He went over to the van, took the keys out of his trouser pocket and opened the back doors, hoping that, for some obscure reason, Fabiana’s body would not be there any more.
He switched on the torch and shone it inside.
The corpse was there. Dumped to one side. Like a pile of old clothes.
Like a dead thing.
Inside the van there was a faint but sickly odour.
After twenty-four hours a corpse already begins to smell.
One of the few certainties Cristiano Zena had was that, if he did things properly, he would dispose of that body in such a way that nobody would be able to trace it to his father.
This certainty was based on the fact that he had watched all three seasons of CSI.
CSI is an American TV series in which a team of highly intelligent forensic scientists studies and examines corpses with technological instruments, while brilliant detectives elicit information even from the smallest and apparently most insignificant clues.
E.g.: they find a shoe. They analyse the sole. There’s some dog shit on it. By a study of the DNA they establish the breed. Dalmatian. Where do dalmatians go to crap? They send troops of officers out into all the public parks to study the concentrations of dalmatians and eventually pinpoint with mathematical precision the place where the murderer lives. That kind of thing.