A week later he called me again and reported what he had found out.
“So: these Renals you know are the ones that run the Renal Foundation, right?”
“Right.”
“So why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
“Because you didn’t ask.”
“So Alfredo Renal is the famous Alfredo Renal—”
“I didn’t know who he was.”
“You don’t know anyone. But tell me now: did you ever see him?”
“No, he’s dead.”
“Exactly. Couldn’t you have told me that?”
“It didn’t occur to me. Why is he famous?”
“Because he was a professional philanthropist.” He sighed. “Have you seen his picture?”
“Yes.”
I wait for a comment that doesn’t come.
“And the money?” I ask.
“The money?”
“Why was he so rich?”
“Patents, chemical stuff. Flavorings and scents.”
He stops. Then, after a moment, he starts again. “Did you know that philanthropy isn’t the only thing they do?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you do an Internet search for ‘Renal Foundation,’ you get dozens of associations, conferences, and periodicals that thank the foundation for its sponsorships and donations …”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Wrong? There’s nothing wrong with it. But if you look more closely, you can see what their politics are.”
Silence.
“Did you expect them to be bankrolling the global revolution?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m not the one working with these people. These people make me sick.”
“Don’t get angry.”
“For you it’s a job, but to me it’s pure shit.”
“Well, at least it’s ‘pure.’”
“Because now the pope himself is getting involved …”
“Pardon me?”
“The pope has given his blessing to Andreotti.”
“What does that have to do with the Renals?”
“Completely coincidentally, he blessed Andreotti two days after a magistrate requested life in prison for the guy.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Let’s say an investigative journalist was bothering Andreotti—”
“No, wait, we were talking about the Renals—”
“If you don’t understand this story, you can’t understand the rest of it.”
“The rest of it?”
“You ought to read the papers every now and then. Do you know there’s a war going on?”
“Yeah, I know, but what does Andreotti have to do with the Renals?”
“Everything! Everything is connected to everything else; people like that, who don’t do anything, people who let themselves be manipulated—”
I interrupt him: “No, wait. Renal’s ideas were weirder than you think. He wrote books.”
“He never published any books.”
“But he did write stuff. Now Rossi has made a book out of Renal’s stuff, and he’s throwing a book party two weeks from now.”
“And you’re invited?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll see them with your own eyes.”
“Who?”
“The people who hang around the foundation.”
“Okay. Then I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Yeah, right; you tell me things only once I’ve already discovered them. You ask questions without telling me anything, and then it turns out that you already knew everything … And you could have found this stuff for yourself: all you have to do is search online.”
“I thought you had other sources—”
“What kinds of sources do you expect me to have? Are you fucking with me?”
“No way.”
But now the silence is heavier. I wait and let him be the one to break it.
“Who is Rossi?”
“He’s the husband of Elisabetta Renal.”
“Are you hiding anyone else from me?”
“I haven’t hid anything from you; we talked about Rossi—”
“I thought he was a Renal too.”
“If his name is Rossi, then he can’t be a Renal.”
“Do you know about the massacre?”
“Yes, I know about it. In the War of Independence, in the 1840s.”
“Well, then there was another one too.”
“When?”
“In 1945, right after the war ended. People assassinated the owners of the estate, and their peasants. Fourteen people in all — ten adults and four children. Taken into the stables one by one to have their throats slit. The kids too. The killers were never caught.”
“It seems odd to me that there were two massacres … Do me a favor, look for—”
He interrupts me: “Okay, I’ll look, but then you have to tell me why you’re so interested—”
“I’m interested because they’re my clients.”
“So why is it that you’ve never asked me to do searches like this before?”
Finally he’s using a different tone. I laugh. “This time I’m more interested.”
“Does it have something to do with a black Ka?”
Pause. “Maybe.”
Pause. “And what if I discover that the Renals were complete fascists? What will you do — drop the job?”
I don’t answer.
Carlo sighs and says, “Okay, I’ll let you know.”
I put down the phone, thinking that I’d like to hug my brother. But if he were here, I wouldn’t hug him. There are some things brothers don’t do anymore, at our age.
I think about it again, a few days before the Renals’ party, when I’m in the city trying on a dark gray suit in a men’s shop downtown; the salesman marks it with pins beneath the collar, on the sleeves, at the waist, and the hem of the pants: it needs tailoring all over because I’m not a standard size. Every inch of the shop is lined with fake walnut paneling. I haven’t been in a store like this since Carlo’s wedding, when the bride’s parents insisted that at least the family members all wear jacket and tie, and I ended up buying a beige suit, which later went to the basement and was devoured by mice.
“Before offering you a selection of shirts, I’ll need to know something more about the occasion. Is it a wedding?”
“No, a party.”
“Then I’d opt for a stripe. A wide stripe or a narrow one — you could go either way. Would you like people to notice you?”
I look at him in the mirror to see whether he’s joking. No, he’s quite serious.
“Certainly,” I answer.
Statuesque and immobile in the mirror, I admire the profile of my belly in the three-button suit while the salesman flutters around me. When I walked into the shop and told him that I needed to be completely re-outfitted, top to toe, his face lit up; he’s a young guy, completely bald, with a knot in his tie more than four inches across. I’d suggested a double-breasted jacket at first, but he argued against it fervently, and he turned out to be right: the three-button model does me quite nicely.
The black shoes: the toe looks too square to me. I point it out, but he mishears me and gets it backward.
“I have a shoe that is even squarer. Shall I bring it out?”
Obviously not. I try this pair on and find that it’s very comfortable. I say so: “These are also very comfortable.” He doesn’t comment.
The tie: he explains how to make a knot like his. Is it necessary? Not only necessary, apparently, but crucial. It’s the most important thing.