In Curreli’s dish the tentacles of the squid seemed like arabesques, the little coils of crab meat were pitiful, only the green of the sliced celery looked good and the orange fruit of the ripe mussel. Commissioner Curreli thought it was hopeless: The seafood salad was an aberration so far from the sea, in a trattoria for truckers in the center of Rome. Then he thought maybe this particular seafood salad was a painting by Miró, or maybe not, maybe Kandinski. Certainly Kandinski with Miró’s curves...
— ... to commit such acts... Aren’t you hungry? Marchini’s voice came from far away.
Curreli raised his head from his plate. I can’t stand the fact that the girl isn’t talking, I’ve never been able to put up with people who insult you with silence.
— Maybe she’s simply realized that she has nothing to say.
— Sure, and by not talking she ends up exterminating her family... They always do that. You know, don’t you, that I have a daughter who is seventeen?
Marchini nodded. Muzak was coming from the TV on the restaurant wall, meant to emphasize the day’s news:
... The party responsible for the slaughter of the Amadesi family — the mother Laura, her twin children Luca and Denis, the paternal grandmother Erminia — has a face and a horrifying name: Deborah Amadesi. The seventeen-year-old was detained by the assistant district attorney in charge, Elena Vanni, after the young woman was summoned as someone having information about the matter. The interrogation, which has gone on for twelve hours now, does not appear to have produced results. According to investigators, the girl has withdrawn into absolute silence, overwhelmed by the circumstantial evidence. The area is being combed in search of an accomplice, who according to well-informed sources may have helped the girl commit this horrendous crime.
— You don’t know what a child’s silence means, you have no way of knowing how terrible it is. It’s better not to have them at all, kids, Curreli blurted out for no apparent reason.
— You’re talking like that because you’re tired, Marchini responded.
III
Let me die.
That’s how I implored, at night: I hate you, let me die.
Deborah Amadesi narrowed her eyes a little. Up till now she had not shifted position, she had endured the questions without losing her composure. Curreli had confronted her, looking her straight in the eye.
— You know, don’t you, that what’s happening here is just a farce?
It was then that Deborah Amadesi narrowed her eyes for the first time. So that she almost seemed to be forcing herself not to cry.
— Everything is a farce with you kids, the commissioner burst out.
Dr. Vanni looked at him with growing concern.
— Nothing is ever enough, right? the commissioner continued. There’s always someone who has something that you don’t have and as luck would have it that thing is vital!
The girl went back to her catatonia, but her expression had totally changed: She seemed watchful now, and riveted, like a gazelle ready to sidestep an attack or a lioness ready to launch one.
But everything moved forward relentlessly. Time went about its business in the tedious recurrence of days. I had one persistent thought: I wanted it to end. I was afraid of that void disguised as everything. And I was afraid of becoming like my mother. Who was a terrible model, who was both suffering and joy, who was pain and sacrifice, who was sweetness, who was a rising moon, luminous, full of expectation. She would have understood and would have been willing to die for me. Like the time when I suddenly felt that cramp in my stomach. Then blood. And everything I had ever known came to an end. I ran to my mother’s room and wept. And Mamma smiled a broad smile. I remember very well what she said to me. It’s like dying a little, she said, because women safeguard the mystery of death: It’s the price they have to pay to give life.
My breasts grew, then it was a matter of dissembling. Though maybe it was only a way of existing. In school, at the gym, in church. Eating in the evening, smoking in the afternoon, drinking in the morning. Testing the limits. Screaming at night. Ready to sacrifice myself. I had already been dying a little for some time. And she, my mother, was already dead, only she didn’t know it. My father, no, he was a scorching hot sun, a constant, merciless high noon. Pure power, truth and justice. Far away, who knows where. Why aren’t I him? Why aren’t I his? Why don’t I have that satisfied, contented gaze? Why did he go away? He could have loved me, but like all men, he was afraid. Because men’s power lies in not having any power: That’s how they win all the time. They make us think that their weakness depends on us, but they are weak to begin with and that’s all there is to it. It’s simple. Killing him would not have been necessary. A waste of time. Again.
Silence. Dead silence. Curreli leaned forward until his nose was almost touching that of the girl.
— A farce, he repeated. Because we know all there is to know. Do you hear me?
The last question was an octave higher. Marchini jumped in his chair. Deborah Amadesi did not budge, not even to avoid the commissioner’s heavy breath.
— We know you have an accomplice and we’ll find him within a few hours...
Then, unexpectedly, you arrived. You who were there at the beginning of it all and breathed my breath.
— Then, unexpectedly, you arrived. You who were there at the beginning of it all and breathed my breath, Curreli read, showing the girl a twisted strip of paper. You had it in your pocket. What is it, a rock song? If you would be kind enough to tell us which “you” you were referring to, maybe we’d lose less time and maybe the DA would also keep this in mind.
The girl didn’t bat an eye. Absolutely nothing.
I remember that night well, it wasn’t even romantic without a moon like that, it was filthy and shabby. We made love in my room and you said how great it would be if it could always be this way. Without knowing it, you said something dangerous. I repeated: If it could always be this way? You looked at your watch: What time does your mother get back? you asked. She won’t be back, I replied, she won’t ever be back.
As she smoked a cigarette in the corridor, Dr. Vanni shook her head. Time is running out, she said. As soon as the attorney arrives, we’re done.
— What could happen? Marchini said ironically. The witness stops talking?
Both the commissioner and the assistant district attorney found the line rather funny, but by some unspoken agreement decided not to show the inspector, who laughed on his own without missing his associates in the least.
— What does Ginetti say about the prints? Vanni asked.
Curreli shook his head before responding.
— Partial and too deteriorated to tell us anything. If the girl doesn’t talk, all we can do is speculate about the accomplice...
— Maybe it is only conjecture, Marchini remarked. This time Curreli and Vanni laughed heartily...
IV
What did you do?
Then, suddenly, it was all over... and she’ll never be back. My mother didn’t even have time to suffer. We embraced each other, I embraced you. In the night that was vanishing, I saw too many things that were vanishing with it. It was at that point that I thought about it, and it was as if I understood everything: that it wasn’t her, that it wasn’t freedom, that it wasn’t continuing to strike her, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t scream, that it wasn’t even my mother, that body on the floor drenched in its own blood. I embraced you; you, as usual, looked at me, your eyes half-closed.