At the End of a Dull Day (5 page)

“So how did you happen to be passing through my neck of the woods?” he asked as he continued to exchange happy smiles with Isabel and Dulce.

“Like I said on the phone, I just happened to be around here with my two young friends and I thought I'd invite you to have a drink and chat about a certain investment opportunity I have in mind. I never thought you'd still be at work at this hour.”

“Carissimo, we never stop working here. By day we print and by night we fold and collate.”

“By hand? Wouldn't it make more sense to buy machinery?”

“You're crazy!” he blurted out. “It costs me less to have these guys do the job. I've always thought of myself as a benefactor.”

He caught my smile and turned serious. “I'm not joking. They really love me, believe it.”

“I don't doubt it. But do you really have to stay here?”

“Yeah, all night. It's just me and the security guard, but we can chat if you like,” he said, linking arms with me. “Man, your friends are mighty hot, I have to say.”

“Oh, they're friendly and warmhearted, too.”

“I'd love to show them around my office if I didn't have to stay here to keep an eye on things. You turn your back for five minutes and they start fucking off and the next thing you know you're losing customers, you know how it is . . . ”

“I could keep an eye on them, if you like . . . ”

“For real?”

“Of course. We can talk about the deal some other time. I've heard good things about certain investments in Dubai . . . ”

“Leave that alone, it's old news.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a scam that was blown wide open in early June,” he explained. “I almost fell for it myself, with a group of investors. Luckily we found out in time and rerouted our money into other opportunities.”

“Really?”

Domenico was in a hurry to end the conversation so he could dedicate himself body and soul to the two girls. He said more than he should have. “Ask Brianese about it,” he said brusquely. “He knows all the details.”

A wave of fury passed from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair, and immediately subsided, giving way to a wash of bitterness. I couldn't seem to take in the fact that the Counselor had chosen to screw me this way.

I smiled at Beccaro and turned to my girls. “My friend wants to show you his office.”

Domenico took the two girls by the hand and walked off, making it clear to his gang of blue-collar workers that he was about to have sex with a pair of spectacular hookers. Isabel turned to look back at me for instructions and I fanned out both hands, showing her all ten fingers. That was how many minutes of sex they were supposed to give him.

I ignored the promise I'd made to keep an eye on those losers. I got the car and drove around to the front door of the offices. Motionless, both hands on the steering wheel, I did my best to calm down, even though I knew the only way I'd find inner peace was in the intoxicating thrill of inflicting pain on others. Martina. She'd understand me and her love would give me a sense of relief. Only after that would I be capable of restoring some semblance of order to my mind.

Domenico accompanied the girls to the car. A freshly lit cigarette dangled from his lip. He leaned down to the driver's side window. “Thanks for coming to see me,” he said.

“Drop by La Nena to say hello. I have a couple of new wines you ought to try.”

“He reeked of sweat,” Dulce complained from the passenger seat.

“I need a shower,” Isabel piled on.

“You can get cleaned up at the spa. Two clients are waiting for you there.”

“But we're only supposed to work once a day,” Dulce objected.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter to keep from giving her the back of my hand. “You can make an exception this once,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “After all, these are two clean, nice smelling gentlemen with good manners, and you'll be entertaining them in big comfortable beds in a luxury hotel. But if you open your mouths one more time to complain I'll take you straight back to that printing plant and toss you to that band of miserable laborers.”

Both girls fell silent and, when I pulled up in front of Nicoletta's small villa, they shot out of the car in a hurry.

 

It wasn't late and La Nena was still humming at that time of night, but the restaurant was the last thing on my mind that night. When I got home Martina was stretched out on the sofa in the living room. She had a book in her hands and the voice of a singer-songwriter was pouring out of the speakers. The music had drowned out any other noises and she hadn't noticed when I got home. I stood there watching her. When she read she got a thoughtful look on her face, as if every word demanded her full attention. She was wearing a light woolen dress that left her thighs uncovered.

I went into my office to do a little Internet research about the Dubai scam. Beccaro was right: it was old news. Brianese really did think I was a pathetic imbecile.

I went to take off my clothes, then I walked back to the living room and sat down at the edge of the sofa. She smiled and put a hand on my chest. “I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I'll hurry into the bathroom and get the creams ready.”

“No,” I whispered. “Spinning, baby, spinning.”

She turned pale. “What happened?”

I led her by the hand to a room that contained only a spinner bike and, next to it, a large, cushy, comfortable oxblood red leather armchair. I took off her dress with a single movement. She was trembling. I unhooked her bra.

“At least tell me what happened, I beg you . . . ”

“Get up on that fucking bicycle,” I shouted.

She obeyed and started pedaling. I sank back into the armchair, enjoying the contact of my naked flesh with the leather.

I snapped my fingers to indicate the pace she should pedal at and I sat there listening to the sound of the spinning roller as it gobbled up imaginary miles. After a while I started to relex. Martina was already glistening with sweat, her hair matted to her temples. She kept her eyes shut tight in order to maintain her focus. After a while, I closed mine too to find answers to the thousand questions that were crowding into my mind. I never dreamed that I'd find myself on a collision course with Sante Brianese, my lawyer, the best man at my wedding, and until that evening, something like a father to me. I felt betrayed, embittered, and defeated. As well as confused. I didn't have the slightest idea of how to behave.

Suddenly I noticed that my wife was slowing down the pace of her pedaling. I leapt to my feet and started insulting her with meticulous cruelty. I spared her nothing until she choked back her tears and returned to her starting speed.

I sat down again and it dawned on me that I had no desire to break off ties with Brianese. I had to find a way to make him repent the error of his ways, realize that he had wronged me and make things right. There was a time when I would have handled things differently and the Counselor would have been dead by now. In my mind there was a jumble of faces, the faces of people I'd run into on my way to leading a normal life, people who were no longer around. But I wasn't a criminal living on the margins of society now, and Brianese was a member of parliament. We were all respectable citizens and only constructive dialogue could smooth out our disagreements.

Martina suddenly stopped and collapsed, without strength, sliding off the spinner bike like a rag doll and falling to the floor with a faint thud. I looked down at her as she lay panting, her chest jerking fitfully, and it dawned on me what the best approach might be in my bid to get the Counselor's attention.

“Fuck me,” she murmured. “Please, come fuck me.”

I pulled down her panties and slid into her. She wrapped her arms around my neck with what strength remained to her. “I'm here, my love. I'm here for you.”

 

Sante Brianese lived in an elegant two-story townhouse adjoining one of the gates of the medieval city walls. Over the years I had stockpiled sufficient information to be confident that in the mornings, his wife was the first to leave the house. She went to work at the small fashion design company she owned, which she had refused to give up even though she no longer needed to work for a living. When the Counselor wasn't in Rome, he left the house a short while later, heading either for the hall of justice or to his law office. The couple's two daughters were grown up now and had left home years ago. The older daughter was married to an ambitious young diplomat and the younger one was in London where she was working on her MBA.

When I rang the doorbell I was certain that nobody would be home but the housekeeper. The sunny day justified the sunglasses I was wearing. To complete my disguise I was wearing a cap with a visor and a jacket that might be taken at a distance for the uniform of a shipping company. Under my arm I was carrying a large padded envelope.

In that house, couriers came and went all day long, so the woman opened the door to me without thinking twice. I slugged her hard with a right cross to the chin. I was wearing my brass knuckles so she was out like a light and flat on the floor before she could get a look at my face. I dragged her into the good living room and stretched her out on a damask sofa. Only then did I realize that she was wearing a maid's uniform, complete with white cloth tiara. I slipped on a pair of white latex gloves and began going through the home methodically in search of the master bedroom. I found it on the second floor and, as I expected, it was a triumph of antique furniture and paintings of the late-eighteenth-century Venetian school. I started pulling open dresser drawers and rummaging through the clothing, making it obvious that someone had touched everything. In the bathroom I went through the medicine cabinets and opened the perfume bottles and jars of creams and ointments, systematically violating the privacy of the owners of the house.

I found one of the Counselor's light raincoats in the armoire, ready to be worn when next fall rolled around. I pulled off the nylon dry cleaner bag and put the raincoat on, buttoning it up to my chin. It smelled as if it had been recently cleaned. I walked back downstairs. The housekeeper was still out cold. She was powerfully built, about forty-five. I slipped the brass knuckles back on and punched her in the face ten times or so, reducing it to a mask of blood. I ripped off her apron and dabbed at the wounds to evaluate the damage. Her left cheekbone was still intact. I pulled her lips open with two fingers. Most of her teeth were still in place. A diet that was short on sugar but high in vitamins and grains had made her teeth especially strong. She must have grown up in the countryside.

“Healthy peasant stock, my ass,” I snarled in exasperation as I took aim, determined to finish the job properly. To keep her from drowning in her own blood I laid her out face down, bleeding onto an antique Sarouk Persian rug. I took off the raincoat, put it back into its clear plastic holder, and put it where it had been in the closet. As I was leaving I stopped to take one last look at the woman. I took the white maid's cap as a souvenir and left for work.

 

At the aperitif hour it was the only topic of conversation in the city. As more and more alcohol was consumed, the gory details of the attack became more gruesome.

“There were four of them, and they took turns raping her,” the wife of a wholesaler in meats informed me. She was wearing an elegant silver fox fur coat.

“Bastards,” I hissed indignantly. Brianese was too busy giving interviews to come in. This was a golden opportunity for him to hit all the standard themes that were so important to his party, such as the crisis in public safety and the problem of the gypsy camps, which were hotbeds of potential thieves and housebreakers. Knowing him, he'd make sure he got pictures to the reporters showing the devastating damage to the Ukrainian housekeepers's face, but he'd make sure nobody found out that someone had rummaged through his underwear and his wife's makeup and bras. He'd also have to lie about the motives for the attack, dreaming up some nonexistent motive for a burglary. The Counselor, as always, would rise to the occasion as he desperately tried to figure out who, out of the vast armies of his enemies, would have dared to impart such an unmistakable and alarming warning shot.

This was the beginning of a thought process that, with a little help from me, would lead him to understand that he had done wrong when he decided to rob me of two million euros.

Martina showed up solo. “What about Gemma?” I asked.

“She's not feeling well. She decided to stay home tonight.”

Her eyes searched mine for any remaining traces of concern. She still couldn't understand what had happened the night before but she knew that whatever it was she couldn't ask for an explanation.

I signaled the bartender to make her an aperitif. I leaned over and placed my lips close to her ear. “Just give me time to get dinner started and then we'll go somewhere no one can find us and we'll have a pizza together.”

A radiant smile lit up her face and I went back to taking care of my customers. Two reporters for the local daily that was polit­ically aligned with Brianese brought fresh news. The housekeeper was still in no condition to talk to the police but the owners of the house had reported the theft of jewelry, cash, and a collection of ancient coins. The detectives were already hot on the trail of a band of Moldavian criminals. Apparently the woman had been involved with an ex-convict at some point in the past. The usual lead, prepackaged for public consumption, to toss a little red meat to the press and to reassure public opinion.

One of the two reporters emphasized the Honorable Brianese's generosity in making sure that the woman was seen by one of the foremost experts in facial trauma.

“Which means she must have been an illegal immigrant,” a bank director who had already defected to the Padanos joked in dialect.