“He’s the lawyer, mother. You remember we came about the lawsuit?”
“Is he Raffaele’s cousin?”
“No, mother, Raffaele’s cousin died ten years ago.”
“Oh…” She seemed to calm down. A few moments of silence followed and I started to get worried.
“So…” I prompted them, smiling as stupidly as before.
“Avvocato Guerrini, we have to bring a lawsuit. Something serious is going on.”
I was going to point out that my name was Guerrieri, not Guerrini, but decided there was no point.
“There’s a conspiracy against us in our apartment building.”
Oh, great, I’m crazy about conspiracies. These two mad-women were all I needed right now.
“Who is this young man?” the old woman said, looking into empty space now.
“Avvocato Guerrini, mother. For the lawsuit, don’t you remember?”
“Is he married?”
“I don’t know, mother. That’s his business. Do you want a sweet?”
The old lady said yes and the younger one took a bag from a pastry-shop out of her handbag. She took out a red sweet, unwrapped it and put it in her mother’s mouth. Then she asked me if I wanted one. I smiled again, through pursed lips, and said no, thanks.
“Some very serious things are happening, Avvocato Guerrini. The people in our building have got together to destroy us. It’s like a kind of… what do you lawyers call it?”
Yes, what did we lawyers call it?
“… a Mafia-style organization.”
A Mafia-style organization. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
“They attack us every day and now we’ve decided to bring a lawsuit against them.”
“But is this young man Marietta’s son?”
“No, mother, Marietta’s son lives in Busto Arsizio. This is the lawyer.”
“Whose son is he?”
“I don’t know, mother. He’s the lawyer, we’ve come about the lawsuit.”
At this point, the old lady suddenly decided to address me directly. “Young man, are you Signora Marzulli’s nephew?”
“No, signora,” I replied politely.
“This is the lawyer. Signora Marzulli’s nephew is a male nurse.”
“A lawyer. And so young. But he must be Raffaele’s…” Cousin? No, signora, I’m not Marietta’s son, who seems to be living in Busto Arsizio, I’m not Signora Marzulli’s nephew, a male nurse apparently, and I’m not even Raffaele’s cousin, who for all I know may have been a lawyer although he’s dead now. I’d also like to get rid of you and do a bit of work, but I realize that’s an unlikely prospect.
I didn’t say that. In fact I didn’t say anything, because I noticed that the old lady had started to sway slowly to her left, leaning on the arm of the chair. For a moment, I had the impression she was falling. Maybe she was having a heart attack or something. I imagined all the logistical problems that would arise, getting the body removed. This wasn’t my lucky afternoon, I told myself.
But the woman wasn’t dying. After swaying for about thirty seconds, almost hypnotically, she straightened her skirt and became still again.
In the meantime, her daughter had continued telling me about the Mafia-style organization that had taken over their apartment building in the Via Pasubio.
This criminal gang had been intimidating them through such things as hanging out their washing contrary to housing regulations and illegal possession of stereo units, not to mention what Signor Fumarulo the surveyor got up to. Fumarulo lived alone and was always bringing women home with him, even in the evening. Once, meeting him in the lift, she had told him that he ought to stop doing it. He had told her not to be such a pain in the arse – as if it was all her fault. She had retorted that he should be careful about what he said, and that she would sue him along with all the others.
“And so Mother and I thought of suing everyone in the building. And then” – she leaned slightly towards me across the desk, conspiratorially – “the money we’re awarded in damages we’ll share with you, Avvocato, fifty-fifty.”
My brain was working frantically to find a way out. Without finding it.
In the meantime the old lady had woken up. “Are you the dentist?”
“No, signora, I’m not the dentist.”
“… Because I have an abscess, just here…” and she opened her mouth and stuck a finger inside, so that I could get a good look at the abscess, and everything else.
“He isn’t the dentist, mother. He’s the lawyer. Do you want another sweet?”
This lasted for at least half an hour, during which the old woman asked me another four or five times if I was Marietta’s son or Signora Marzulli’s nephew. And especially if I was married.
Whenever she asked me this last question, she would wink cunningly at her daughter.
Finally I had a stroke of genius.
I would be happy to take on their case, I said. And of course, what was happening in their building was a scandal. Something would have to be done as soon as possible, and I would do it. There was just one small formality to be got through first. To bring a lawsuit, you had to pay an advance of-I tried to think of a really off-putting figure – let’s say five thousand euros. Unfortunately that was the law, I lied. So I asked the younger Signora Pappalepore to pay me five thousand before I could proceed. Cash was best, though a cheque would be fine too. But I had to have it at once.
She became evasive. Obviously she didn’t have that much cash on her, and unfortunately she’d left her chequebook at home. I told her she had to bring it in as soon as possible, tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest. As I said this, I tried as best I could to look like the worst kind of money-grubbing crook. The kind of person you’d want to get away from as quickly as possible, and never approach again.
“Shall we make an appointment for tomorrow?” I said, with a greedy expression on my face.
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.” She was worried now. She’d ended up in the hands of an unscrupulous opportunist and wanted to get out of here as quickly as she could.
“All right, but please, no later than the day after tomorrow.”
Of course, she assured me, no later than the day after tomorrow. And now I really must excuse her, but she had to go, because it was time to change her mother’s incontinence pad.
In that case, I wouldn’t keep her any longer. Good evening. Good evening to you too, signora.
And no, I’m not Marietta’s son, not even Signora Marzulli’s nephew.
And thank God, I’m not the dentist.
20
It was very cold in Foggia that morning, so it felt good to enter the restaurant, which was not only warm but full of wonderful smells. Colaianni was already there, sitting at a table with two disreputable-looking individuals: his police escort.
We hugged, and exchanged the kind of small talk you’d expect from men of a certain age who’d been students together. The two policemen stood up without a word and went and sat down at another table, close to the entrance.
“How many years have you been in Rome now?”
“Too many. And I’m getting really pissed off. Especially with working in the anti-Mafia field. We keep arresting traffickers and dealers, we spend hundreds of thousands of euros on phone taps, we constantly interview people who’ve turned State’s evidence, or are pretending to, and absolutely nothing changes. I ought to find myself an honest job.”
Right, I thought. Exactly the same thing I had said to myself a few days earlier, leaving the prison. Here we were, the finest examples of a generation at the height of its professional success.
I didn’t say any of this and he continued. His tone wasn’t jokey any more, it had turned bitter, in a way I would never have expected from Andrea Colaianni.
Unlike me, he had always been passionate about his work, had really believed in it. He had thought that working out of a Prosecutor’s Department, you could change the world. But life is a little more complicated than that.
“I’m increasingly uncomfortable with this job. Do you remember how I was just after the examination?”