The Silence Of The Wave Part 5

7.

That Thursday, Roberto arrived early again and went for another exploratory walk around the neighborhood. He discovered that the Museum of Contemporary Art was located a stone's throw from the doctor's office, in an old building that had once been a brewery.

How many times had he walked right past it? It was a bit bigger than a drinking fountain, and yet he still hadn't noticed it.

He told himself he must go in one of these days. Then he walked on a bit farther and discovered a little shop that sold secondhand records and sheet music. The hand-painted sign read Lizard King. Behind the counter, sitting at a computer, was a man with gray, shoulder-length hair, a leather jacket, and a flowered s.h.i.+rt with an oversize collar that rested on his lapels. He looked about sixty and gave the impression that his stylistic development had stopped at the beginning of the seventies. He looked up just long enough to see who had come in and then looked back at the screen.

Roberto browsed through the old CDs and vinyl with a slight sense of euphoria, as if he were looking for something specific and was about to find it.

When he had finished his inspection, he told himself he couldn't leave without buying something. He picked Nevermind by Nirvana. As he went out, it struck him that the neighborhood was becoming familiar, which was a comforting thought.

"I see you've been shopping at Lizard King."

"Oh, yes, I looked in and found this CD. It's music I remember hearing at the time of the story I'm telling you, that's why I thought of getting it. Strange guy, the owner."

"Yes, he is a bit weird. Apart from selling secondhand records, he writes reviews in specialist magazines. He's not exactly outgoing, but he's friendly enough when you get to know him."

"Even the name of the shop is strange. Lizard King. What does it mean?"

"It was Jim Morrison's nickname."

"The singer from the Doors?"

"Yes. Do you like the Doors?"

"I don't know much about music. Is 'Light My Fire' by them?"

"Yes. Maybe you know this one too." He gave a pitch-perfect whistle that seemed to be produced by an electronic instrument.

"I know the tune but I can't remember the t.i.tle."

" 'People Are Strange.'"

"You whistle very well."

The doctor shrugged and gave a little smile.

"What kind of music do you like, Roberto?"

"I don't really know much about it. I used to listen to whatever was around, but now that you've asked me the question, I don't think I could say what kind of music I like. And I haven't listened to any for a long time. I can't even explain why I bought this CD. I know I told you I bought it because it was music I heard at the time of the story I'm telling you, but if we hadn't talked about it I'd probably have taken it home, put it down somewhere, and forgotten all about it."

"But now you'll listen to it?"

"Yes, I will."

The doctor nodded his approval, as if with that reply an important subject had been dealt with in the best possible way and now they could go on to something else.

"The story about the man who wanted you to help him s.h.i.+p cocaine from Colombia," he said. "How did it end?"

"We met in the same club three days later, as we'd agreed. I'd informed my superiors, and in agreement with the Prosecutor's Department they'd decided to mount an undercover operation. It was still fairly rare in those days. We dug up everything from our files that we could find about Signor Mario Binetti, known as Jaguar, and by the time I saw him again, I knew more about him than he knew about himself."

Roberto broke off, following an idea that had crossed his mind.

"I'd done my research and enjoyed discovering every detail on the person I was going to be dealing with. Studying people and situations was maybe the thing that interested me most. Arriving perfectly prepared, knowing everything about the people I was talking to."

"I imagine the work of a good detective revolves very much around identifying people's weak points."

"That's right. Everyone has a weak point; you just have to discover what it is. I remember this guy from Apulia who was on the run. We knew he was in Milan, and we'd been looking for him for quite a while. We were under pressure, the Prosecutor's Department wanted us to find him because they were convinced that once they had him he'd turn State's evidence. Which, incidentally, turned out to be correct. We were sure he was in the area but we couldn't locate him. Nothing from the phone wiretaps, nothing from tailing his family. But talking to one of my informants, it came out that this guy was obsessed with raw mussels."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean he really liked them. Someone from his home village near Bari owned a fishmonger's shop in Milan, and our man had been in the habit of going there to eat mussels before he went on the run. My informant told me about it by chance, but when I heard that, a light went on in my head. So, without saying anything to anybody, apart from the colleagues on my team, I organized a stakeout of the fishmonger's. Two days later we picked him up."

"I should pay you for telling me these stories," the doctor said with a smile.

Roberto shrugged, as if to downplay it. But he liked the doctor's admiration. It was something new, and he liked it a lot.

He and Jaguar became friends. Or rather, Jaguar persuaded himself that they had become friends. They met the Colombians, and discussed prices and s.h.i.+pments. Roberto said he could guarantee safe pa.s.sage in a couple of ports, thanks to his export company and his friends.h.i.+p with some customs officials who were happy to supplement their income. The export company was created for the purpose, and the roles of the corrupt customs officials were taken by two other carabinieri who had been a.s.signed to the operation and provided with covering doc.u.ments.

During one of their briefings, someone observed that Roberto couldn't be accepted in criminal circles without having even a single tattoo. There are a few professional criminals who don't have tattoos, but they are an exception to the rule. The absence of tattoos was the kind of thing that might attract someone's attention. Roberto didn't much like the idea of getting a tattoo, but he managed to convince himself, and when the moment came to choose what to have carved on him he opted for the head of a Red Indian chief on his left forearm and a spider's web on his right shoulder blade.

"Are you sure you want the spider's web?" asked the owner of the tattoo and piercing parlor where a colleague had taken him: the man was a former fence who'd done time. "You do know what it means, don't you?"

"No, what does it mean?"

"The spider is a predator. In some circles, having a spider or a spider's web on your shoulder-on your elbow it's different-means that you're someone ... who's spilled blood and is ready to do it again."

Roberto thought it over and then said that the spider's web would be fine. The tattooist shrugged.

"All right. I have to do you another one anyway."

"Why?"

"Tattoos must always be odd numbers, otherwise they bring bad luck. If you like I can do you a nice ACAB on the knuckles."

ACAB is an acronym for All Cops Are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

He didn't know if the other man had meant to be witty-he knew that Roberto was a carabiniere-or if he was being serious.

Roberto laughed, although he felt he was becoming unpleasantly enmeshed in something that was already getting out of his control.

"All right, do me an ACAB. But not on the knuckles-find another place that's less visible. And I don't want any colors; do everything in black and white."

It was more painful than he'd antic.i.p.ated. By the time they left the laboratory-that was what it was called on the little sign outside-a few hours later, Roberto had a strong burning sensation in his shoulder, forearm, and calf, which was where the acronym about cops being b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had ended up. Now he was ready to enter his second life, which would soon become his first life.

The Colombians liked him: he was down-to-earth, professional, friendly, and spoke excellent Spanish with a vaguely Mexican accent.

Jaguar invested all his savings in the operation, dreaming about the tropical island he'd buy with the proceeds of this new activity.

But there were to be no tropical islands or even any proceeds for Jaguar, or for his men, or for the Colombian envoys who had come to Italy to follow the final phase of the operation and collect the agreed payment. After six months of negotiations, inspections, and journeys back and forth, they were all arrested, and a s.h.i.+p, its hold stuffed with several billion lire worth of cocaine, was confiscated in the port of Gioia Tauro.

Roberto's first operation as an undercover agent. The beginning, as they say, of a brilliant career. A few months later they offered him the chance to join ROS at their headquarters in Rome.

ROS is the Carabinieri's special operations group, dealing mainly with organized crime and terrorism. The aristocracy of detectives, the highest a young officer who likes investigative work can aspire to. Roberto naturally accepted, was transferred, and soon afterward was sent to the United States to take an FBI course for undercover agents.

After he came back, he would rarely wear his uniform again, and then only to receive commendations.

"I'd noticed the tattoo on your forearm, but I would never have imagined the reason you had it done."

"It was a bit difficult to imagine."

"Haven't you ever thought of having them removed?"

"At first, yes. I thought that as soon as I finished working undercover-I took it for granted it would only be temporary-I'd have them removed. Then time pa.s.sed, I kept doing undercover work, and I actually grew fond of the tattoos. Even the ACAB, which after all is true in a way."

The doctor made no comment and looked at his watch.

"Have we finished?" Roberto asked.

"We still have a few minutes."

"I have the impression that everything is moving around me."

"And before?"

"Before, everything seemed still."

"I'd say that's good news."

Roberto would have liked to ask why it was good news. But he didn't do so. Instead, his gaze wandered around the room and came to rest on the poster of Louis Armstrong.

He realized why it was best not to ask: if you need to have something important explained to you, you will probably never understand it.

Giacomo

For a week, I was in bed with flu. I don't mind being ill, because then I don't go to school and I can read as much as I like, without worrying about homework.

Reading is probably the thing I like the most, and if I'm really forced to answer the question about what I'd like to be when I grow up, I'd say I want to be a writer. Or rather, to tell the truth, I'd like to be a writer even before I grow up. My model is Christopher Paolini, who started writing his first novel-Eragon, which I've read twice-at the age of fifteen.

Anyway, I was saying I'd been at home ill. I don't remember what I dreamed during that week, but I definitely didn't go to the park and that worried me a bit.

When I got back to school, however, a surprise was waiting for me: Ginevra had noticed my absence. When we met in cla.s.s, before the first lesson, she said, "Oh, you're back at last." I searched for a witty reply, but couldn't think of anything better than: "I had the flu, but I'm completely over it."

That made me a bit nervous, but I was very pleased, because she'd noticed my absence and had spoken to me before I could speak to her. Immediately after that, though, Cantoni welcomed me back in his own way, with a slap on my neck from behind.

Cantoni's a moron. He's five foot seven and a brown belt in judo. I'd like to react to his bullying, but I'm barely five feet tall, and the only thing I could beat him at is ping-pong, which I'm quite good at.

That night I went back to the park. I found myself there in different circ.u.mstances from the other times. I was having a nap lying on the gra.s.s, in the shade of a tree, when Scott came and woke me up.

I know it seems really strange to talk about having a nap during a dream, but that's how it was, and there's not much you can add.

Let's go, chief, they're waiting for us.

He set off quite quickly and I was forced to run after him to catch up.

"Wait for me, Scott, slow down. Where are we going?"

He didn't reply, just kept trotting along.

"Who exactly is waiting for us?"

Still no reply. I was starting to get irritated and I walked faster to catch up with him, stop him, and force him to answer me-was I or wasn't I the chief?-when I saw a bench in the middle of the lawn and Ginevra sitting on it. Scott stopped about fifty feet away and lay down on the gra.s.s.

Go on, chief, she's waiting for you.

I approached the bench and Ginevra gestured to me to sit down next to her.

"That Cantoni's a real idiot," she said.

"I don't mind," I said, as if to imply that, if I wanted, I could react and destroy Cantoni and the only reason I didn't was because I don't believe in violence.

"You know I have a boyfriend, don't you?"

I nodded.