The question is whether he will hear from me.
"Of course, I won't miss it." They always say that, don't they?
He greets me and walks to the door.
"Marco? One last curiosity: do you remember the name of the client who invited Roberto?" He pauses in the doorway in reflection.
"It seems to me that he was a notary, something like Sinistro or Mancino..."
My eye falls on the paperwork soiled by coffee: you can see that it is....
"Mancini! Yes, the notary Mancini." He concludes my thought, adding another link to the chain. I try to dissimulate my dismay. I succeed and he leaves the room. I throw myself headlong at Roberto's station looking for a clue to track down the mysterious notary. I'm more and more convinced that the party has something to do with Roberto's current state, but I don't understand how an event from a week earlier could have such delayed events: a singular drug. Very singular. At this point, I think it's appropriate to learn more about the notary. I wonder if Roberto had mentioned anything to the beautiful Angela? I look at my watch. It should be traceable by now.
"Hello?"
The little handyman secretary always answers the phone.
"...yes, I am the gentleman who came to see mom. No, I'm not her new boyfriend. No, not a serial killer either. Now, though, can I talk to Mom?"
But did the CIA train her?
"Angela, finally! I'm sorry to bother you. I have some news and I wanted to talk to you about it. Do you know anything about a certain notary Mancini?"
"Who, sorry?" The answer is not the most encouraging. I explain what I've heard, but the outcome doesn't change.
"Maybe he was embarrassed to tell me something that is strictly for boys." Sure. I, too, would have had trouble talking about it with someone who dances a lap dance every night half-naked in front of hundreds of individuals drooling like molosser.
"It's probably what you say, although I don't understand why he left me off the list."
"If he really is involved, it's critical to track him down." And what do you think I'm trying to do?
"Yeah, unfortunately I'm left with just checking the address and I'm afraid that's another dead end as well."
"One would still have to try. Keep me posted, please." Aye-aye, Mr. Lieutenant.
"Sure. See you soon."
I flip through the crumpled road map I keep in the car. Here's the street, in the middle of the countryside on Laurentina: I'll get lost for sure. Want to see if I'll have to drive blind all night? Damn, sooner or later I'll buy a satellite navigator!
I slow down my pace. I should be in the home stretch. On the left there is an almost dirt road that leads to the top of a hill. I stop at the intersection and try to scan the end of the hill: there is a building not well defined. I take the road. A huge gate delineates the entrance to a large square, with a deactivated fountain in the middle and surrounded by well-kept hedges. In the background stands a dream villa for anyone who hasn't won the lottery. I get out of my car and approach the gate: no signs of rust or decay. But a general sense of abandonment permeates the air: I can hear the sound of silence, which sometimes is more annoying than the noise of a built-up area. A prominent bell invites me to be pressed. I approach it hesitantly, afraid of introducing a sound out of place in a quiet and sleepy atmosphere. I press it gently and imagine the echo inside the house. How silly of me to think that it could be heard from this distance. Nothing changes, it almost seems to be lost in an undefined place. I wait with the good manners of a guest. The lack of any response gives me the courage to try again, but this time more vigorously. One more time. By now it is certain: the prediction of the empty trip has come true. I don't know why, but a sense of unease surrounds me, convincing me to hurry back to the car.
As I manoeuvre in reverse on the narrow lane, out of the corner of my eye I glimpse in the rear-view mirror the figure of a car stopped at the end of the slope. The nose of a sedan is pointing towards me, waiting for something. I'm convinced that it's not a driver who has taken a wrong turn, but that it's specifically there to observe me. Quickly, my hands move to find the optimal angle of the mirror, but a ray of sunlight, now dying, dazzles me. A moment, a few seconds of daze, and the vehicle is no longer visible. I turn sharply, compromisingly twisting my poor back, already pinned by the seat belt. A cloud of dust returning lightly to the asphalt is the only thing left in the air. It's not paranoia. Someone was watching me and I don't understand why.
Finally home. As I undress, I run the hot water for a shower. I lose myself in the vapours, relishing in the silence every single drop that falls on my skin.
Driin! Driin!
It's clear that the concept of peace of mind is foreign to certain moments.
Dripping, I grab my bathrobe, curse Meucci and Bell, just to do no one any harm, and head for the privacy-killing device that continues undaunted to play.
"He's missing! Roberto is missing!"
It's Sara's agitated, tear-filled voice.
"Calm down Sara! What do you mean Roberto is missing?"
"Today, when I went back to see him, he wasn't in the room. I thought he was having tests: his clothes were all still there, but instead no one knew where he was. They searched the whole hospital. My God, I'm scared, Davide. What if something terrible had happened to him, like to those two porters? I don't even want to think about it and I don't know what to do!"
Heck, I'm worried too.
"Don't jump to conclusions."
Now what am I going to make up to reassure her?
"They confirmed on TV that the porters were mixed up in a nasty drug racket and that that was the work of a settling of scores and not a crazed killer."
Put like that, it should sound good.
It takes him a while to swallow the pill, but then the placebo effect sustains its effectiveness.
"Maybe you're right, I've definitely gone too far. But then what happened to Roberto? Where did he go?"
I haven't idea. In this instant, however, I know where I would send that idiot!
"Have you asked the authorities for help yet?"
Maybe he's wandering like an automaton down some alley.
"Yes, there were still some police officers at the hospital about yesterday's incident, and they helped me with the report, but I don't know what good that will do."
Jokes are fine, but a guy in a hospital gown roaming the streets with his eyes wide open I don't think is that hard to spot.
"Then don't worry, you'll see he'll be found soon enough. He must have had a lost moment. The important thing is that when he comes back, you stay very close to him, ready to help him."
And to the assistance of good psychiatrists. I suggest a dozen.
"Yeah, in fact, my husband and I were thinking about having him stay with us for a while."
"Good idea. Family members are more helpful in these cases than cold hospital facilities."
"You know, I've thought it through and I don't care what happened to him, now I just want to get back to a peaceful life."
Does he really think that ignoring is the right way to regain normalcy? Even these searches of mine have now skewed the concept I had of it. The beauty of it is that I'm looking for answers to questions that are still unclear, including why I want to get to the bottom of this.
"He'll be back the way he always was...have faith."
And may God hear us.
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