She reciprocates, but with style, my smile.
"What about the famous meeting with the chat people at the pub instead?" Let's see if you know anything about the famous dream woman.
"Which unfortunately you'll have to ask others: I never went there. After the threats, it would never have crossed my mind to see Roberto again. However, you can ask Patrizia, aka Carmilla in chat. She was there for sure, since she had an unrequited crush on Roberto."
Dear Roberto, you should have settled for a normal woman instead of getting involved in this whole mess.
"Do you have any way to contact her?"
"I could try to arrange an outing somewhere quiet, where you could ask her all the questions you want, obviously without going into too much detail." Wake the girl up.
"Great! So, I'm just waiting for you to tell me when."
Would right away be too soon?
"Let's do it later in the week, as soon as I have a night off and can arrange a babysitter for Elisa." I'll wait.
"One last question."
I stare into her eyes searching for an honest answer.
"Why did you decide to help me now despite the threats?"
Be careful not to lie to me...
"Because I feel guilty with Roberto and I would like to help him; because I know that you will be the one to expose yourself, thus limiting the risks; because I often think back to when I needed help and no one wanted to give it to me; and because I would like to close the accounts with my past for good. Is that enough motivation for you?"
I suppose so, but let's just say I want to trust.
"Has anyone ever told you you're a piece of work?" I chant.
"Why, did you ever doubt otherwise?"
A shiny Miss Toothpaste smile lights up on her face.
Chapter 5
The Notary
I walk down the long corridor of the hospital, look around, and notice a strange commotion. I reach room twenty-three hoping to cross the threshold and finally see my lifelong friend and not the surrogate he has become. It occurs to me that twenty-three is supposed to be a lucky number, but as soon as I come face to face with the reality of Sara's face I abandon any idea of applied numerology. She is sitting in a chair looking at her brother, searching for a reason.
She doesn't notice me come in. Actually, no one notices me, not even Roberto, whose gaze seems to go right through me. His expression is different from last time: he has a hint of a smile on his face, almost an imperceptible grin that makes me uneasy.
Gently, I step back and knock softly on the door. No reaction. Perhaps I had better bring along some stadium horns. I try again more vigorously and this time add voice support.
"Hi, am I disturbing?"
"David! Hi."
Sara gets up from her chair and walks over to me. I greet her.
"Is there any news?"
I approach Roberto.
"He seems to be getting better...at least physically."
It's the brain part that concerns me.
"I notice that at least the pallor of his face is gone."
Before you could hardly tell it from the sheet.
"The doctors say the latest test results are normal, despite still not explaining either what might have happened or the psychological trauma."
"But you still haven't spoken or said anything meaningful, to get a clue as to what happened?"
"Nothing. The last time he talked...you remember that, right?"
Right, after the snort, I expected a lick too.
"How about you? Got any news?"
Yeah, your brother's probably a Satanist and fused his brain with some drug.
"Nothing particularly interesting. Right now I'm trying to get in touch with someone he was dating recently. I'll probably talk to him later this week and hopefully something useful will come out."
"Okay, thanks anyway for the time being."
Thankfully he doesn't seem to be demanding much from me
As I head for the exit I give in to the temptation of a vending machine coffee. I know it won't live up to the smell, but it's an irrepressible call.
I rummage through my jeans pocket looking for the last tenner I need. I notice from the window overlooking the street that the sirens are really there: those of several police patrol cars. A trance of excited people starts running wildly, followed by journalists with cameras and microphones.
"What the hell?"
I remain stuck in the doorway with coffee in my hand and an infinite number of questions hanging in the air. Across from me, nurses mumble conjecture. Trotting along, hands in her scrubs, another orderly approaches and agitatedly addresses the small group.
"Looks like they found him!"
"Who? The two porters? The ones who were missing?"
"Yes, it seems those poor wretches were murdered!"
"Killed dead? Oh, Jesus!"
"What a time, even at the hospital you can't be safe anymore."
Sounds like my grandmother, but she's right.
The next day the news appears in all the newspapers, I read it with curiosity while devouring a croissant with honey in the office. It's strange how, just because you were there at the time of the event, it can be exhilarating to read a story like that in the paper, no matter how tragic it is.
It would seem that the two porters had literally been torn to pieces!
With growing disgust, I put the coffee cup on Roberto's desk and slide away the crumbs of the brioche anchored to the shirt. A slight halo of coffee is added to the grime, which by now has become attached to the desk.
"Yikes!"
I realize I've soiled a file. I grab it on the fly and start waving it around, hoping to rid it of the unwanted stain. I wonder what it was. I read sideways.
"Mancini Practice." It says in red: Gold treatment.
I wonder if Roberto will have completed it before the crisis? And how come it's Gold? We usually only award it to very important personalities: politicians, high prelates... and everyone, invariably, wants the honour in front. I think it's time to do some deeper checks on the client. I'm afraid that the De Carli lawyer's patience with Roberto could be exhausted if a Gold contract were to be cancelled. From my workstation I connect to the server and search for Mancini. This damn computer takes a while, but when will the boss decide to renew them?
Here is the file. I check the status: in suspension. Who knows what Mr. Mancini wanted to insure... holy shit! Assets worth more than eight million euros! It's time to call the boss.
"Lawyer, hello, this is Dionisi, I wanted to talk to you about a Gold file that Roberto Capua left in suspension, regarding Mr. Mancini. I was wondering if Capua had mentioned anything to you before he got sick."
"A Gold, he says...wait a minute, let me get my mind right."
He looks like he's just come back from a trance. I solicit his neurons with math applied to his wallet.
"It's 8.4 million euros." He either croaks, or recovers immediately.
"I'll be damned! I remember now. He'd told me about how he was pulling off a good heist, but I thought it was just one of his usual rants!"
I can almost hear the old man's head ringing like a cash register at Uncle Scrooge's.
"Come to think of it, he also told me that he set up an appointment for an evaluation about a week ago. Dionisi: track the client down and deal with them immediately, before the deal falls through. And keep me updated!"
"I'll get right on it, Counsellor."
He hangs up the phone, without even asking me about Roberto's health. The old saying that everyone is useful and no one is indispensable is always valid.
From the card I get his address and phone number. I don't wait any longer and try to contact him.
"Telecom Italia, free message, the number you have dialled does not exist...".
How does it not exist? I try again, maybe I typed it wrong.
"Telecom Italia, free message, the number you have dialled does not exist..."
Go to hell! I throw the handset like a basketball player on the base of the phone. Three points.
How do I find this guy now? Obviously: with the address.
Ask yourself a question and give yourself the answer.
I think of Claudio Bisio and his advertisement with relative musical tune on the number find everything.
"... I'm sorry, sir, but at the address you provided, I have no record of a telephone subscriber. I have checked several times."
I'd switch to competition if I didn't think the result would be the same.
Do you want to see that the guy was playing a joke on Roberto and provided him with false data?
"Hi, Davide, am I disturbing?" I turn around, it's Simonetti from accounting.
"Hi, Marco. Don't bother, come on in."
"I heard about Roberto and wanted to know if you have any news."
So someone with a bit of humanity still exists. I explain to him in broad strokes what little has been understood about the official and it seems to be enough.
"Poor guy. And to think he was so elated the other week because of that invitation to the mega party."
"Party? What party? He didn't tell me anything."
"He told me about a very important client who had invited him to an exclusive party, the main theme of which was...sex!"
My attention goes up, I search and find a more comfortable position in the chair.
"A shy guy like Roberto attending some kind of orgy party? I can hardly believe it."
"Yet I swear he seemed convinced."
He is as amazed as I am. No, that's impossible, I'm more so.
"And how did it end? I mean, he must have told you the outcome of the evening, right?"
"Unfortunately, then I went on vacation and couldn't talk to him. But is it possible that he didn't tell you anything? You're his best friend, you should have been the first to know."
Yeah, why didn't he tell me anything? Was he afraid of my judgment? Come on! As if I was some sanctimonious moralist.
"I assure you, I didn't know." Nor did I imagine.
Roberto's dark side shows up once again.
"However it went, I hope you'll tell us in person soon. Give him my regards if you hear from him."
