“It would have been an injustice if you had been convicted. You never harmed anyone.”
I was about to say too much. Something along the lines of, if anything, you did good. Which, when you’re talking to a former prostitute, a madam who recruited and employed other prostitutes, is not exactly the right thing to say. Those words left the neurons of my brain, hurtled at top speed through my nervous system, and were teetering on my lips, about to spring into the air, when I managed to snatch them back.
“You’re a good lawyer.”
It was hard to tell from her intonation whether it was a question or a statement. It seemed to hover halfway between the two.
“Is that a question?”
“It is and it isn’t. That is, I know you’re a good lawyer. I remember when the judge emerged from his chambers into the courtroom and read out the verdict. Never in my life, would I have believed that with the things they had on those wiretaps I could have been acquitted.”
“The wiretaps were inadmissible as evidence. There had been a procedural flaw that-”
“Yes, I know, I know, I remember word for word what you said in your summation. But at the time, I just assumed you were posturing to prove you were earning your fee. I was positive they would find me guilty, and I was completely astonished when I was acquitted instead. It was an unexpected gift.”
“Well, yeah, that went well, it’s true.”
“And you want to know something?”
“What?”
“I was ready to throw my arms around you, at that moment. I was about to do it, and then I decided it would be crazy and I would have embarrassed you. So I did nothing.”
Then, after a pause: “Anyway, it was a statement, but it was also a question.”
“What?”
“Do you consider yourself a good lawyer?”
I didn’t answer right away. I took a deep breath.
“Sometimes. Sometimes it seems to me that the words and the concepts and my own actions all fit together perfectly. Compared to most other lawyers, I think I’m pretty good. But if I measure myself against some abstract standard of good practice of law, then I see things very differently. I’m disorganized. I’m inefficient. Often I don’t feel like working, and I rely upon improvisation far more frequently and extensively than wisdom or caution would recommend.
“I imagine a good lawyer is one who is capable of great self-discipline. When a good lawyer needs to write something-an appeal, for example, or a brief-he sits down at his desk and doesn’t get up again until he is done. What I do is I sit down and I write a few sentences. Then I decide that I’ve completely taken the wrong tack, and I start getting upset. So then I do something else, obviously less important and less urgent. Sometimes I even leave the office, go to a bookstore, and buy a book. Then I come back and sit at my desk and write, but without much interest or determination. And then finally, when the pressure is on, I focus on the task at hand and I write and I do it. Every time I do it though, I have the impression I’ve just dashed it off at the last minute, that I’ve cheated my client. In general, I feel I’m pulling the wool over the eyes of the world.”
Nadia scratched the side of her head. She looked at me as if I were a deeply strange individual. Then she shrugged.
“You’re crazy. I can’t think of any other way to put it.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement that shut down discussion of the topic. I was crazy, and there was no other way to put it.
“And what are you good at?”
I don’t know why I kept putting my foot in my mouth. Even I know better than to ask a woman who has been a porn star and a prostitute what special talents she possesses.
“I really would like to be good at something. Let’s just say I’m still looking. I know how to sketch and I know how to paint, too, but I wouldn’t say I’m really good at either. I know how to sing. I have a good voice and a good ear, though I can’t really belt it out. But when I hear a song, I can reproduce it immediately, either by singing it or playing it on a keyboard. I have a great ear, and I’ve let it go to waste.” She experienced a visible twinge of self-pity but suppressed it immediately.
“And I’m good at listening to people. Everyone says so.”
“Yeah, you told me you had clients who came mostly to talk with you. They wanted to be able to tell you about themselves without feeling judged.”
“Exactly. If you pay someone for her time, you don’t have to worry about your performance. When you talk or when you fuck. I had one client who was a stunningly handsome man, about fifty-wealthy, successful, and powerful. He could have had all the women he wanted, for free, and instead he came to see me, to pay me money.”
“Because when he was with you, he was free of anxiety.”
“He was free of anxiety, that’s right. Since he was paying me, he didn’t have to worry about whether his performance was up to expectations, in terms of both conversation and sex. He wasn’t afraid to be himself.”
She paused, smiling, then continued.
“We might say he could take the paper bag off his head.”
Those words hung in the air, dissolving slowly into a fine, drifting dust.
Our glasses were empty and it was very late.
“Shall we drink one last glass and then go home and get some sleep?”
I nodded slowly, my vision slightly blurred. She filled two glasses but didn’t hand me mine. She kept both on the table in front of her, as if there were a ritual to be completed, before we could drink.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“I notice that when I talk to you I try to choose my words carefully.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s as if I want to sound intelligent. As if I’m trying to choose the right words, so I say something smart.”
I didn’t reply. All the answers that came to my mind were-in fact-unintelligent. So I said nothing.
“I noticed that because I was sitting here and trying to think of a clever, original toast, but I couldn’t.”
I took my glass and touched it against hers, which still sat on the table.
“Let’s forget about words,” I said.
After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up her glass and raised it while looking at me with a shy smile. Then, at last, we both drank.
From the darkness outside came the muffled, muddled sounds of a moment out of time.
26.
The next morning, I slept a little later than usual. Yet when I woke up, I could still feel the whiskey from the night before coursing through me. To exorcise the remaining fumes, I decided to have an extra healthy breakfast of yogurt and cereal with my usual big cup of coffee. I broke the metal band of pain around my forehead with an aspirin, took a shower, shaved, brushed my teeth a little too vigorously, threw some clothes into an overnight bag, said good-bye to Mister Bag, doing my best to ignore the quizzical look he gave me, and went to get my car.
I showed up at our agreed-upon location a few minutes late. Caterina was there, waiting. We were dressed identically. Jeans, dark-blue blazers, white shirts. Even our luggage was similar. We seemed to be wearing a uniform. I wondered if that would make us more or less conspicuous at the airport.
“Cool car,” she said, after fastening her seat belt. We began heading north toward the airport.
“I hardly ever drive it. It’s always in the garage. I walk everywhere, or ride my bike.”
“That’s a shame. When we get back from Rome, you’ll have to take me somewhere fun and let me drive.”
“What time is our appointment with Nicoletta?”