He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke. She, on the other hand, was looking at him and it seemed as if she wanted to say something. She didn’t say anything, but there was probably no need.
We walked back to her van, which was still there, squashed up against the dustbin.
“Could you drive, please?”
“Do you want to see a doctor?”
“No,” she said, but her hand went unconsciously to her chin, and she took it between her thumb and the other fingers, to check it was still in one piece, after the punch. “No. It’s just that I don’t feel up to driving.”
It was still light and the air was cool and mild, I thought, as I got into that old contraption, on the driver’s side.
It was April, I thought.
The cruellest month.
32
We drove along all the seafronts in the city, two or three times, in Claudia’s van, without saying a word. When I saw that an hour had gone by, I asked her if we could go to police headquarters. She said yes. In a toneless, colourless voice.
We drove to police headquarters, and they took her statement. Tancredi was there, along with a very pleasant young policewoman. They wrote down the story Tancredi had already told us when we were still in Martina’s apartment.
It didn’t take long, and Claudia signed the statement without reading it.
When I asked if they needed my statement too, Tancredi looked me in the eyes for a few moments.
“What statement? You didn’t go in until it was all over. So what kind of statement do you want to make?”
Pause. I instinctively glanced at the policewoman, but she was making a photocopy and wasn’t paying any attention to us.
“Just go, we’ve got work to do. It’ll take us all night to get the paperwork ready to send to the Prosecutor’s department tomorrow.”
He was right. What kind of statement did I want to make?
There was nothing to add, and so Claudia and I left.
Margherita was out, at work. I was glad she wasn’t in because I had no desire to tell her what had happened. Not that evening, at least. So I didn’t switch the mobile on again: I’d turned it off when we went into police headquarters.
We walked back to the van without saying a word. Claudia didn’t break the silence until we were sitting. She was looking straight ahead, her face expressionless.
“I don’t want to go back. I want to go for a drive.”
I didn’t want to go back either. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I started the engine without saying anything and set off. I took the autostrada after the Bari North tollgate, drove 500 yards, and stopped at the first motorway cafe. Absurdly, I felt like eating. In that casual, unstructured way you eat on long journeys, which I really like. Maybe that was why I’d taken the autostrada. We had two cappuccinos and two slices of cake. Because, absurdly, Claudia was also hungry.
When I paid, I asked the cashier for a cigarette lighter and a packet of MS. The packet was soft, and I held it in my hand for a few seconds before putting it in my pocket.
We set off again, into the still, welcoming darkness of that April night.
“Do you remember there was a story I wanted to tell you?” “Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s stop somewhere. Somewhere quiet.”
About twelve miles further on, I pulled into a parking area, surrounded by deserted, dark, silent trees and dimly lit by a few street lamps. There was something strange and reassuring in the occasional muffled sound of a car speeding by. We got out of the van and went and sat on a bench.
White Nights came into my mind. I mean the actual words written in my head in printed characters. Along with images from the film, and words from the book. A bench, two people who can’t sleep, spending the night talking. Hovering in a suspended universe.
Calmly, I unwrapped the packet. First the silver thread, then the plastic at the top, then the tinfoil. I tapped the closed part with my index and middle fingers to get the cigarette out.
I closed my eyes and felt the smoke hit my lungs and the cool air on my face.
I didn’t care about anything, I thought, as I smoked that harsh, strong cigarette with my eyes closed. I lost contact with reality, I was floating somewhere, which was both there, in that car park, and at the same time somewhere else. Somewhere in the distant past, somewhere dark and welcoming and forgotten.
“I’m not a nun.”
I opened my eyes and turned to her. She had her elbow on her knee and her head on her elbow. She was looking – or seemed to be looking – towards the dark shadow of a eucalyptus.
She told me her story. I opened the door and stopped just inside the room, my arms hanging at either side of my body. He raised his head and looked at me. There was a hint of surprise in those filmy eyes. “Where’s Anna?” As I answered, I realized I was shaking all over. And I mean all over. Legs, arms, shoulders, chin. “Leave her alone.” He craned his neck towards me and half closed his eyes, in an instinctive gesture. As if he didn’t believe what he’d just heard. As if he didn’t believe that I could challenge him like that. “Tell Anna to come up here right now.” “Leave the child alone.” He got up from the bed. “I’m going to show you, you little bitch.” I was shaking all over, but I stayed where I was, just inside the room. All I did was lift my right arm, when he was almost on top of me. That was when he saw the knife. It was a long, sharp knife with a point. The kind that’s used for cutting meat. He was so close, I could see the hairs in his nose and ears. I could smell his body and his breath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that knife, you whore?” Those were his last words. I put my left hand over my right, and pushed with all the strength I had. From bottom to top, all the way. He jerked slightly and then, slowly, put his hands on mine, in a gesture of self-defence that was pointless now. We stayed like that, united for an endless moment, hands and eyes locked. His eyes were full of astonishment. Mine were empty. Then I freed my hands, took a few steps back, without turning. And closed the door.
Anna hadn’t heard a thing – he hadn’t even groaned – and didn’t notice anything. I took her by the hand and told her we had to go down to the yard. She took her dolls and followed me. As we were going downstairs, she stopped and pointed. “You’ve hurt yourself, Angela. There’s blood coming out of your hand.” “It’s nothing. I’ll wash it at the tap in the yard.” “But you have to put disinfectant on it.” “There’s no need. Water will be fine.”
After that, my memories are confused. A series of fragments, some clear, others so dark you can’t see anything. At a certain point, my mother came back, passed us and went upstairs. I don’t remember if she greeted us, or just saw us. A few minutes later we heard her terrible screams. Then people leaning over the balconies, or coming down to the yard, or climbing the stairs in our block. Then noises of sirens, and flashing blue lights. Dark uniforms, a crowd pressing around our door, the hours passing, night starting to fall, people talking under their breaths while two men in white shirts carried out a stretcher with a body on it, covered in a sheet. I stayed behind, holding my sister by the hand, until a nice lady came up to us and said we had to go with her. We were taken to an office. There was a man there, and the lady asked us if we wanted something to eat. My sister said yes, I said no thanks, I wasn’t hungry. They brought her a ham roll and a Coke, and when she’d finished eating they asked us questions. They wanted to know if anyone had come to see our daddy, if we had seen any strangers entering our block, anything like that. I asked if they could take my sister out, because I had some things to tell them. They looked at each other and then the lady took my sister by the hand and took her out of the room. By the time she came back, I was already telling my story. I told it all, calmly, starting with that summer morning and finishing the Thursday before Good Friday. Calmly, without feeling anything.