Involuntary Witness (10 page)

Thus, during a pause in a trial in which we were fellow counsels for the defence, spake Avvocato Cesare Patrono. A Prince of the Forum. Mason and Millionaire.

I had heard him express that idea about a hundred times since the new code of criminal procedure had come into force in 1989.

It was to be understood that
others
couldn’t do it. Other lawyers – certainly not him – and especially the public prosecutors.

Patrono liked to speak ill of everything and everyone. In conversations in the corridors – but even in court – he loved to humiliate his colleagues and, most of all, he loved to intimidate and embarrass magistrates.

For some unknown reason he had a liking for me. He was always cordial towards me and occasionally had me assist him in the defence, which was big business, from a financial standpoint.

He had just finished expressing his views on the current criminal procedure when there emerged from
the courtroom, still wearing her robe, Alessandra Mantovani, Assistant Public Prosecutor.

She hailed from Verona, and had asked to be transferred to Bari to join her lover. Behind her in Verona she had left a rich husband and a very comfortable life.

As soon as she had moved to Bari her lover had left her. He explained that he needed his freedom, that things between them had gone well up to that point thanks to the distance, which prevented boredom and routine. That he needed time to think things over. In short, the whole classic load of shit.

Alessandra Mantovani had found herself in Bari, alone, with her bridges burnt behind her. She had stayed on without a murmur.

I liked her a lot. She was everything a good public prosecutor ought to be, or a good policeman, which comes to more or less the same thing.

In the first place she was intelligent and honest. Then she didn’t like crooks – of any sort – but she didn’t spend her time eating her heart out at the thought that most of them would get off scot-free. Above all, when she was wrong she was up to admitting it, without argument.

We had become friends, or something like it. Enough to lunch together sometimes, and occasionally tell each other something of our personal histories. Not enough for anything more to happen between us, even if our presumed affair was one of the many bits of gossip that did the rounds of the courthouse.

Patrono detested La Mantovani. Because she was a woman, because she was an investigating magistrate, because she was more intelligent and tougher than he was. Even though, naturally, he would never have admitted it.

“Here, Signora,” – he called all women magistrates
Signora, not Dottoressa or Judge, to make them nervous and unsettle them – “come and listen to this story. It’s the latest, really a peach.”

La Mantovani stepped nearer and looked him in the eye, tilted her head to one side and said not a word. A slight nod – yes, go on and try to tell your story – and the ghost of a smile. It was not a warm smile. The mouth had moved but the eyes were utterly still. And cold.

Patrono told his story. It wasn’t the latest, or even very recent.

It was the story of a young man of good family talking to a friend and telling him how he is about to marry an ex-prostitute. The youngster explains to his friend that his fiancée’s ex-profession is no problem as far as he is concerned. No problem either are his fiancée’s parents, who are drug pushers, thieves and pimps. Everything therefore seems hunky-dory, but the lad confides to his friend that he has one really big worry.

“What’s that?” asks the friend.

How’s he going to tell the bride’s parents that his father is a magistrate?

Patrono had his snigger all to himself. Personally, I was embarrassed.

“I’ve got a rather good one too. About animals,” said La Mantovani. “Snake and Fox are wandering in the woods. At a certain point it starts to rain and they both take shelter in an underground tunnel, going in at opposite ends. They begin making their way along the tunnel, where it’s pitch dark, getting nearer and nearer each other until they meet. They actually bump into each other.

“The tunnel is very narrow and there’s very little room for them to pass. In fact, for one to pass the other has to flatten himself against the wall, in other words give way.

“But neither of them is willing to give way and so they start to quarrel.

“ ‘Move over and let me pass.’

“ ‘Move over yourself.’

“ ‘Who d’you think you are?’

“‘Who
are
you anyway?’

“ ‘You tell me first.’

“ ‘No, my dear, you tell me first who
you
are.’ And so on and so forth.

“In short, the situation seems to have reached an impasse and the two of them don’t know how to get out of it, partly because neither wants to take the initiative of attacking the other, not knowing who he is up against.

“Fox then has an idea. ‘Listen, it’s no use going on quarrelling, because that way we’ll be in here all day. Let’s have a game to solve the problem. I’ll stay still and you touch me and try to guess who I am. Then you stay still, and I’ll touch you and try to guess who you are. Whoever finds out the identity of the other wins and can pass first. What d’you think of that?’

“ ‘It’s an idea,’ says Snake. ‘I agree, but I have first guess.’

“So Snake, moving sinuously, starts touching Fox.

“ ‘Now then, what long, pointed ears you have, what a sharp muzzle, what soft fur, what a bushy tail ... You must be Fox!’

“Fox is rather miffed, but has to admit that the other has got him.

“ ‘However, now it’s my turn, because if I guess right we’ll be even and we’ll have to find another way of deciding who goes first.’

“And he starts to touch Snake, who in the meanwhile has stretched out on the floor of the tunnel.

“ ‘What a small head you have, you don’t have
any ears, you’re long and slimy ... And you have no balls!

“ ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be a lawyer?’ ”

I lowered my eyelids and laughed to myself. Patrono tried to laugh too, but failed. He came out with a sarcastic cackle and tried to say something, but nothing equal to the occasion occurred to him. He didn’t know how to lose.

La Mantovani took off her robe, said she was going to her office, that we’d all be meeting when the hearing resumed and went her way.

Every so often, a real man, I thought.

Some days passed and then I got a telephone call from Abajaje.

She wanted to see me. Soon.

I told her she could come that very day, at eight in the evening, when the office closed. That way we’d be able to talk more calmly.

She arrived almost half an hour late, and this amazed me. It didn’t fit with the image I’d formed of her.

When I heard the bell ring I was already beginning to think of leaving.

I crossed the empty offices, opened the door and saw her. In the middle of the unlit landing.

She came in, dragging a big box. It contained the books and a few other belongings of Abdou, including an envelope with several dozen photographs.

I told her we could go through and talk in my room, but she shook her head. She was in a hurry. She remained where she was, one step inside the door, opened her bag and took out a roll of banknotes similar to the one she produced the first time she came to the office.

She held out the money and, without looking me in the face, began talking quickly. This time her accent was very noticeable. As strong as a smell.

She had to leave. She had to return to Aswan. She was forced, she was forced – she said – to return to Egypt.

I asked when and why, and her explanation
became confused. Broken at times by words I didn’t understand.

She had taken her final exams more than a week before. In theory she should have gone straight back, and in fact all the other scholarship holders had already left.

She had stayed on, asking for an extension of the grant, claiming that she had to do further work on some subjects. The extension had been refused and yesterday she had had a fax from her country ordering her to return. If she didn’t do so, and at once, she would lose her position at the Ministry of Agriculture.

She had no choice, she said. Even if she stayed she could do nothing to help Abdou. Without money or a job.

Without anywhere to live, since they had already told her to vacate her room at the annexe as soon as possible.

She would go back to Nubia and try to obtain temporary leave. She would do everything she could to come back to Italy.

She had collected all the money she could to pay for Abdou’s defence, meaning me. It came to nearly three million. I must do all I could,
all
I could to help him.

No, Abdou didn’t know yet. She would tell him tomorrow, at visiting time.

However – she repeated, too quickly and without looking at me – she’d do everything she could to come back to Italy. Soon.

We both knew it wasn’t true.

Curse it, I thought. Curse it, curse it, curse it.

I had an urge to insult her for leaving me alone with all the responsibility.

I didn’t want that responsibility.

I had an urge to insult her because I saw myself
in her unexpected mediocrity, in her cowardice. I recognized myself with unbearable clarity.

There passed through my mind the time when Sara had talked about the possibility of having a baby. It was one October afternoon and I said that I didn’t think the right moment had yet come. She looked at me and nodded without saying anything. She never mentioned it again.

I did not insult Abajaje. I listened to her justifications without saying a word.

When she had finished, she backed away, as if afraid of turning her back on me.

I was left standing near the door, with the cardboard box containing Abdou’s things, holding the roll of banknotes. Then I picked up the telephone on my secretary’s desk and without really thinking rang Sara’s number, which had been my number.

It rang five times, then someone answered.

The voice was nasal, fairly young-sounding.

“Yes?” The tone was that of a man who feels at home. Maybe he’s just back from work, and when the telephone rang he was loosening his tie, and now while he’s answering he’s taking off his jacket and tossing it onto a sofa.

For some unknown reason I didn’t hang up.

“Is Stefania in?”

“No, there’s no one here called Stefania. You’ve got the wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you please tell me what number I’ve rung?”

He told me and I even wrote it down. To be certain I’d heard right.

I looked for a long time at that piece of paper, my brain circling round and round a nasal voice, faceless, on the telephone in my own home.

“That was a lovely film this evening. What are the actors’ names again?”

“Harry is Billy Crystal. Sally, Meg Ryan.”

“Wait, how did it go ... the bit with the dream about the Olympics?”

“ ‘Had my dream again where I’m making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I’d nailed the compulsories, so this is it, the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me 5.6.’ ”

She bursts out laughing. How I love her laugh, I thought.

A person’s laugh is important because you can’t cheat. To know if someone is genuine or fake, the only sure way is to watch – and listen to – his laugh. People who are really worthwhile are the ones who know how to laugh.

She made me jump by touching my arm.

“Tell me your three favourite films.”

“
Chariots of Fire
,
Big Wednesday
,
Picnic at Hanging Rock.
”

“You’re the first who’s ever answered like that ... quickly. Without thinking.”

“This favourite film game is one I often play myself. So you might say I was ready for it. What are yours?”

“Number one is
Blade Runner
. No doubt about it.”

“ ‘I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I
watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. And all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time – to – die.’ ”

“Well done. It’s said just like that. ‘Time – to – die.’ With the words spaced out. And then he releases the dove.”

I nodded and she went on talking.

“I’ll tell you the other films.
American Graffiti
and
Manhattan
. Tomorrow perhaps I’ll tell you a couple of others –
Blade Runner
is a fixture – but that’s them for today. I’ve often said
Metropolis
, for example.”

“Why these for today?”

“I don’t know. Come on, shall we go on playing?”

“All right. Let’s try this game. An extraterrestrial arrives on our planet and you have to give him an example of what’s best on earth, so as to persuade him to stay. You must offer him an object, a book, a song, a quote or, well there’d also be films but we’ve already done those.”

“Good idea. I already know the quotation. It’s Malraux: ‘The homeland of a man who can choose is where the biggest clouds gather.’ ”

We remained for a moment in silence. When she was on the point of speaking, I interrupted her.

“You must do me a favour. Will you?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“If you fall madly in love with me, I’d like you to tell me at once. Don’t trust me to know instinctively. Please. Is that all right with you?”

“Fair enough. Does the same hold good for me?”

“Yes, it does. And now tell me the other things for the Martian.”

“The book is
The Catcher in the Rye
. I’m pretty doubtful about the song. ‘Because the Night’ by Patti Smith. Or else ‘Suzanne’ by Leonard Cohen. Or ‘Ain’t No Cure
for Love’, by Cohen again. I don’t know. One of those. Perhaps.”