about? The police didn’t want to act; why would the papers screaming about it change anything? He reached out, upset, ready to push the paper aside. His name caught his eye halfway down the article. They claimed he was a student at the University of Bologna. How strange. Didn’t they do even a little bit of research?
The phone rang, startling him, even though it had been ringing all morning. He glanced at Aunt Claudia answering, her long brown hair dragging his eyes from side to side as she said “no” politely yet firmly into the receiver.
“They’ve been calling all day,” she said, worried eyes looking across the kitchen at Dorian. “Ever since the story came out. They want to speak to you.”
“I can’t.” He shrunk. The air felt heavy. The sun hurt his eyes.
“I know, darling. I know.” She walked to him, her slim figure gliding to the table to squeeze Dorian’s shoulders. “Let me answer the phone. I can take care of it.”
“They couldn’t even figure out where I go to college,” he said. Did he care?
“That’s reporters.”
The phone rang. Aunt Claudia stroked his head and crossed to the phone. “Let me get that.” She picked up the phone, then cupped the receiver. “Another reporter who wants to interview you.” She yanked a thick brown lock of hair away from her eyes. He looked at her, his eyes refusing to focus. He shook his head quietly.
“I know, I know,” she said, “no one will be talking to you.”
Too much! Dorian thought. They want too much. Why didn’t they realize he needed time alone. All those jerk-off reporters wanted was the story. What did they care about him? Nothing. They’d slice him open like a pack of jackals if it would get them a headline. He wanted go out there right now and punch their faces into pulp. Bloody spongy mush. That would serve them right. He would smack their bulby little heads one by one against a brick wall and ask them if they wanted to speak to him then. He could point out their bloody teeth strewn in the gutter. That would help them get the fucking picture right. It wasn’t like they knew what they were doing, and like Italy was free of corruption now because some stupid reporters managed to get up in all those crime victims’ faces.
All those scum suckers did was write sensational headlines to get everyone worked up and freaking out and then, job done, they’d move on to the next thing, whatever that was. In a day, maybe two, they wouldn’t give a shit. Next story. So what about his family gunned down in cold blood. Next question: what was Fiat doing to ruin the economy?
“It’s driving me crazy. I can’t stand it.” Dorian shouted at Aunt Claudia. “Tell them to va fa’n culo. That’s the right thing for them.” He stood up, grabbed his coffee, and walking to the sink, throwing the remainder into the drain. “There. Serves them right.” He burst out laughing. Throwing coffee down a drain really would show them.
“Calma, calma.” Aunt Claudia looked over, concerned. “This is a time for reflection. You cannot let the reporters get to you. You are letting it make you crazy. They don’t have that power.”
She was right. And who was he kidding? Had he ever hurt anyone in his life? No. How would he actually punch these wily blowhards?
With a start, Dorian realized Aunt Claudia’s eyes burned red and swollen. She’d been crying. He reminded himself that Aunt Claudia and Mamma had been tight. They’d relentlessly retell the story at every opportunity, that strangers could never tell who was younger or older, even though they were two years apart in age. She must be feeling this as bad as he was. How could she keep standing, doing her thing?
“I don’t even want to be alive right now, Auntie.”
Dorian barely noticed the massive Duomo cathedral soaring in front of him as he walked alone across the wide square that dominated the center of Milan. Seeing the cathedral’s huge floating form awakened a tiny shade of hope he would have sworn he’d never feel again. Decorated with myriad delicate spires, statues and arches, the Duomo seemed to fly. He could feel its connection to what was good in the universe, to comfort, to god. The cathedral seemed to touch down for a mere moment, allowing him to climb the stone steps to the intricately carved wooden doors. As he approached, priests blocked his way. “We’re keeping tourists out,” they explained somberly. “The cathedral is only open for the Casso family funeral today. I know, it’s unusual. It’s almost never been done before. The Archbishop insisted.” They took his name and checked him off a list. He saw the look in their eyes change. “We’re so sorry for your loss.” He was gently ushered through the massive door.
His tired eyes adjusted to the gloom. Huge fluted columns soared towards vaulted arches high above. Wooden pews ranged across the flagstone floor, facing the massive altar like ripples in a pond, up the main hall and in from the transept, seats filled with ant-like black-clad people carpeted against the vast interior. How could there be so many?
So many people he’d never met and didn’t know. Yes, a blessing, but then what did they really care? They didn’t know his parents. Was it just the news? What else would drive so many here? Shouldn’t this be family only? Who’d organized it all? He had no idea. He’d come, that was all.
He gripped the inside of lip in his teeth, suppressing sobs into his chest. He had to hold it together, now more than ever.
He walked the long aisle to the front, just before the altar, sitting down near his aunt and uncle.
As the ceremony started, Dorian felt the comfort he’d felt when he’d first seen the curch, slip away. His heart felt black; nothing wanted to stir within it. He would endure, nothing more was possible.
After a time the Archbishop spoke, climbing to his fluted pulpit, voice echoing through the cavernous chamber. He soothed as he explained the justness of Jesus and the mercy of god. His soft voice turned Dorian’s mind to the past. Dorian found himself remembering a summer evening near the beach in Liguria. His mother was teaching him how to ride a bicycle. How many times had he fallen off just that day? It had felt like hundreds. Federica had wandered off and only Mamma stuck around in the gathering gloom of the early evening. He’d screamed in frustration. He wasn’t smart enough to ride a bike; wasn’t it obvious? But Mamma wouldn’t give up. Over and over she’d boost him to perch on the bike seat, Mamma holding onto the back, balancing him. Two, three meters she would run with him, as he’d sped away, almost instantly falling over in a heap a few meters on.
The streetlights had switched on one by one, flickering their yellow pools of light. He could remember it exactly. Mothers called their children in for dinner from the houses on either side of the street.
“I can’t,” he’d said. Humiliation seared through him.
“One last try,” Mamma had said smiling. “Then we eat.”
He got on, done with caring, resigned to never being able to ride ever in his life. Resigned that he would watch everyone else in the world ride past him on their shiny bikes. He would just have to cope.
“Let’s go,” Mamma had said. They pushed forward, down the center of the road, faster and faster. Mamma ran faster than ever before. Soon they had raced half way to the end of the road. “Mamma, you can let go now,” he shouted excited, wind rushing through his hair. He pedaled furiously, curving around the corner. He wanted Mamma to let go. Why didn’t she? He turned his head to tell her; she wasn’t there. It was just him, and he was farther down the road then he had ever ridden before.
Surprised, he jerked the handlebars. The front wheel wobbled violently. Dorian held on as tight as his little hands could. The front wheel of the bike slipped out from under the bike, slamming the frame to the ground. Dorian and the bike roughly sledded, grinding along the pavement. He could feel gravel digging into his knee as the tangle of bike and Dorian stopped. He vaguely felt the big red gash throbbing on his knee.
He didn’t care. All he knew was that he’d ridden a bike by himself. No need for Mamma to hold him. He wasn’t too stupid.
He picked the bike up, full of joy. Excited, he limped back to Mamma, who he found standing far up the street, hands on h
ips, smiling. “Mamma, Mamma, I did it,” he shouted. “I did it.”
A high note in the chorus reminded Dorian he was still in the Duomo at the funeral. He glanced around the assemblage, spotting Ispettore Davide far away in one of the perpendicular blocks of pews. The blackness in his heart grew deeper. Dorian was being forced to count on Davide, the very same Davide who couldn’t believe that the killers were in fact looking for Dorian’s black box. How would that work out, then? How would they ever find the criminals?
He bowed his head until Aunt Claudia rose to the podium, her voice coming out strong and clear. “Cassandra was my sister,” she started, her eyes scanning the assembled crowd. She is stronger than I am, Dorian realized, suprised.
She continued, “Cassandra’s husband, Hugo was my brother. By marriage, but still my brother. Federica was more than a niece, she was my very own daughter. I feel this loss as much as any person could. Each lived with courage and conviction. They enjoyed life, they loved every minute. They were the most gentle people I’ve known in my time on our planet, and I will miss them so much more than I can imagine.” Her voice cracked, its strength disappearing suddenly. “Whenever the burden of my many patients would be too strong, Cassandra was always there with a word to put me back on