“There’s a record,” she said, turning to me without warning, “that I’ve often listened to over the years. I’m not sure it does me good to listen to it. But I do it all the same.”
I turned too. “What record?”
“ Out of Time by REM. Do you know it?”
Of course I know it. Who do you think you’re talking to, sister?
I didn’t say that. I just nodded, yes, I know it.
“There’s a song…”
“ ‘Losing my religion’.”
She screwed up her eyes, then said yes. “You know what that means: losing my religion?”
“I know what it means literally. Is there another meaning?”
“It’s an idiomatic expression. It means something like: I can’t take it any more.”
I looked at her in amazement. That was the last thing I would have expected to hear from her. I was still looking at her, without knowing what to say, when her face came closer, and then closer, until I could no longer make out the features.
I just had time to think that her mouth was hard and soft at the same time, that her tongue reminded me of when I was fourteen and kissed girls my own age, I just had time to place my hand on her back, and to feel muscles as thick as metal cables.
Then she drew back abruptly, though she kept her wide-open eyes on my face for a few seconds. Then she stood up, without saying anything, and started walking back in the direction from which we’d come. I walked behind her, and fifteen minutes later we were again at her van.
“I’m not much of a talker.”
“It’s not essential.”
“But sometimes you just want to talk.”
I nodded. You often want to talk. The problem is finding someone to listen to you.
“I’d like to talk to you another time. I mean: no flirting or anything like that. I don’t know why, but I’d like to tell you a story.”
I made a gesture that meant, more or less: if you like, you can tell it to me now.
“No, not now. Not tonight.”
After a brief hesitation, she gave me a quick kiss. On the cheek, very close to the mouth. Before I could say anything else she was already in the van, and driving away into the night.
I walked slowly back home, choosing the darkest, most deserted streets. I felt absurdly light-headed.
Before I went to bed, I searched through my discs. Out of Time was there, so I put it in the player and pressed the skip button to the second track: “Losing my religion”.
I listened to it with the booklet of lyrics in my hand, because I wanted to try to understand. That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough.
I’ve said too much. I haven’t said enough.
30
Honorary assistant prosecutors aren’t magistrates by profession. They’re lawyers – mostly young lawyers – on temporary assignment, and they’re paid per hearing. Their fee is the same whether there are two or twenty cases during the hearing. Their fee is the same whether the hearing lasts twenty minutes or five hours.
As you can imagine, they generally try to get through things as quickly as possible so that they can get back to their studies.
As was to be expected, Alessandra Mantovani was replaced by an honorary assistant prosecutor. She was a recently appointed young woman I’d never seen before.
She, though, evidently knew me, because when I entered the courtroom she immediately came up to me with a very worried look on her face.
“Yesterday I had a look at the files for this hearing.”
Brilliant idea, I thought. Perhaps if you’d looked at them a few days earlier you could actually have studied them. But maybe that was asking too much.
I gave her a kind of rubbery smile, but said nothing. She took our case file out of her folder, placed it on the desk, touched the cover with her index finger, and asked me if I realized who the defendant was.
“Is this Scianatico the son of Judge Scianatico?”
“Yes.”
There was a look of alarm on her face. “How could they have sent me to cover a case like this? For God’s sake, this is only my fourth case since I was appointed. What’s it all about, anyway?”
Bloody hell, didn’t you tell me you’d looked at the files? Being an idiot isn’t compulsory if you want to be a lawyer. Not yet, anyway. However, having said that, you’re right. How could they have sent you to cover a case like this?
I didn’t say that. I was really nice to her, explained what it was all about, told her it was Prosecutor Mantovani’s case, but she’d been transferred to Palermo. Evidently, whoever had drawn up the schedule for the hearings hadn’t noticed this was no ordinary hearing.
Hadn’t she noticed?
As I was giving her these polite explanations, I was thinking I was in the shit. Up to my neck. We were about to play something like a Cassano Murge-Manchester United match. And my team wasn’t Manchester United.
“And what exactly do I have to do today?”
“What you have to do, exactly, is examine the defendant.”
“Damn it. Look, I won’t do anything. You know this case really well and you can do it all. I’d only spoil things.”
Well, you’re right about that. Damned right.
“Or maybe we could ask for a postponement. Let’s tell the judge we need a robed magistrate for this case and ask him to postpone it to another session. What do you think?”
“What’s your name?”
She looked at me, puzzled. Then she told me her name was Marinella. Marinella Something-or-other, because she spoke quickly and swallowed her words.
“All right, Marinella, listen to me. Listen carefully. You just sit there calmly in your seat. As you said before: don’t do anything. This is what’s going to happen. Counsel for the defence will examine the defendant. When it’s your turn the judge will ask you if you have any questions, and you’ll say no, thank you, you don’t have any questions. None at all. Then the judge will ask me if I have any questions and I’ll say yes, thank you, I have a few questions. In an hour, maybe more, it’ll all be over, before you’ve even realized it. But don’t even think about asking for postponements or anything like that.”
Marinella looked at me, even more scared than before. The expression on my face, the tone in which I’d spoken, hadn’t been pleasant. She nodded, looking like someone talking to a dangerous madman, someone who’d rather be somewhere else and hopes it will all be over really soon.
Caldarola took off his glasses – he was long-sighted – and looked towards Delissanti and Scianatico.
“Now then, at today’s hearing, we are due to hear the examination of the defendant. Does he confirm his intention to undergo this examination?”
“Yes, Your Honour, the defendant confirms his willingness to testify.”
Scianatico stood up resolutely, and within a second had covered the distance between the defence bench and the witness stand. Caldarola read out the ritual caution. Scianatico had the right not to answer, but proceedings would still follow their course. If he agreed to answer, his statements might be used against him, and so on, and so forth.
“So do you confirm that you wish to answer?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“In that case, counsel for the defence may proceed with the examination.”
The early stages of the examination were fairly tedious. Delissanti asked Scianatico to tell the court when he had met Martina, and in what circumstances, how their relationship had started, that kind of thing. Scianatico replied in an almost affable tone, as if trying to give the impression that he didn’t bear a grudge against Martina, in spite of all the harm she had so unjustly done him. A role they had rehearsed over and over in Delissanti’s office. For sure.