“Shall we drive to the sea?”
I said yes. We went along streets that were unusually free of traffic. She drove smoothly, sitting comfortably, deep in her seat, both hands on the wheel, her eyes on the road. For a moment it occurred to me that this was the car in which the drugs had been carried. Then I remembered that the police reports had mentioned a different make and model.
“You’re surprised.”
It was a statement, not a question. So I didn’t reply, just shrugged my shoulders. I let her talk.
“I had a job on for tonight. Then something went wrong and it was called off. But there was no time to warn the babysitter. So when she arrived I decided to go out anyway, and I thought maybe you’d like to go for a drive and a chat.”
That evening I wasn’t exactly talkative. For the first time she took her eyes off the road – we were outside the city now – to see if I was dead or just asleep.
“Shouldn’t I have?”
“You did the right thing. I’m pleased.”
She put on a bit of speed. The engine droned, and the car darted forward. She asked me if there was any news for her husband.
I felt a twinge of unease at the question. It was an abrupt reminder of the fact that I was a lawyer and she was the wife of a client of mine who was in prison.
Leaving out a few details – how I’d got hold of the information, and from-I told her what I’d discovered about their former lawyer.
She listened to me in silence until I’d finished. In the meantime we had stopped on a low cliff over towards Torre del Mare. The surface of the water was as black and calm as ink. In the distance the intermittent beam from a lighthouse could be seen.
When Natsu was sure I had nothing else to add, she said, “And now what will you do?”
“I have no idea. In itself the fact that the bastard was arrested – and then acquitted – doesn’t get us anywhere. I mean, I don’t know how to use this information in court.”
“But he put himself forward without either of us contacting him. That must surely mean something.”
“Theoretically, yes. In practice, the only thing that’s clear from the papers on this case is that you appointed him and your husband confirmed the appointment.”
“But they told me-”
“I know, I know. But what do we do? Do I call you to testify at the appeal hearing that a man stopped you in the street and advised you to appoint this lawyer you didn’t even know called Macri, and you followed his advice? Apart from the fact that even if it was true-I mean, even if the judges believed it was true – it wouldn’t get us anywhere, the prosecution could simply say that your husband’s accomplices told you which lawyer to appoint. And we’d be in the same position as before, maybe even a bit worse off.”
I avoided saying that this could be the prosecution’s version, or it could be the plain truth. I was sure she’d thought of that herself.
At that precise moment I had an idea. It was a crazy idea, but with Natsu still silent, I started thinking about it. Yes, I told myself, it might be worth a try, in fact it might be the only thing we could try. Then she interrupted the course of my thoughts. “You know what the worst thing is for me?”
“Not knowing the truth?”
She looked at me in surprise for a few seconds, until she remembered the game of wishes. She searched in her bag, took out a packet of cigarettes, lowered the window and lit one.
She smoked it in silence. Savouring every mouthful and letting the smoke waft away into the surrounding darkness. When she’d finished, she closed the window and shivered, as if only just becoming aware of the cold.
“I’m hungry, but I don’t want to be cooped up in a restaurant.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Of course, like all men who live alone, your larder is full of tins and crap like that.”
I told her she shouldn’t believe the stereotypes. No, I didn’t have a larder full of tins. I had fresh, healthy food in the fridge and if I wanted I could even whip up a quick dinner.
So she said all right, let’s go to your place. Ruthlessly suppressing the qualms of my conscience, it struck me that, when you got down to it, there was nothing wrong with the idea. Nothing had to happen. And anyway, it wasn’t my fault. I mean, she’d made all the moves. She’d waited for me outside my office, taken me for a drive, suggested coming to my place. It really wasn’t my fault. If it had been up to me, nothing would have happened.
A heap of bullshit that stayed with me all the way to my apartment.
“What’s that?” It was the first thing she said as soon as she stepped inside the door. She was referring to the punchball hanging in the middle of the room which served as both the hall and the living room. A somewhat bizarre thing to have as part of the furnishings, I admit.
“One of my neuroses. Every evening I come home and punch it for half an hour. Look at it this way. It’s better than getting drunk, taking drugs or beating the wife and kids. Which I don’t have anyway.”
“It’s nice here. Do you like books or are you just a messy person?”
She was referring to the books piled around the sofa and strewn all over the room. I’d never thought about it, but I told her I liked to have them on the floor because they kept me company.
She spotted the kitchen and headed straight for it.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m looking to see what’s in the fridge. I’ll make something.”
With a certain self-importance, I said I’d already sampled her cooking and now, whether she liked it or not, it was her turn to sample mine. She had accepted the risk when she came to my apartment. If she liked, she could stay with me in the kitchen while I was cooking but it was strictly forbidden for her to touch anything.
There wasn’t very much there. I’d exaggerated a bit when I mentioned having lots of fresh food. But I had what I needed to make my speciality. I called it spaghetti al fumo negli occhi. Meaning the cook – in this case, me – throws smoke in people’s eyes, tries to appear more skilful than he really is.
“I’ll make pasta. That’s the most I can rustle up without advance warning.”
Even with advance warning, to tell the truth. But I didn’t say that.
“Pasta and wine are fine. What are you making?”
“You’ll see,” I said, and immediately felt ridiculous. Who the hell do you think you are, Guerrieri? This woman is a professional chef, you idiot. Just get on with it and cook the food.
I fried garlic, oil and chillies in a pan. While the spaghetti was boiling I grated some pecorino, chopped some basil, and stoned and sliced a few black olives. I put the pasta, very al dente, into the frying pan and added the pecorino and the rest.
Natsu said she liked watching me cooking, which made me tingle all over. A nice but dangerous sensation. I didn’t reply, quickly laid the table, told her to sit down, and carried over the brimming plates.
We ate, drank and chatted about nothing, with the punchball standing guard over us.
When we had finished eating, I put on Shangri-la by Mark Knopfler. Then I took my glass and went and sat down on the sofa. She stayed on her chair. When she realized what the disc was, she said she liked ‘Postcards from Paraguay’ a lot. I put the glass down on the floor, reached for the controls and fast-forwarded to track 10.
She came and sat down next to me, on the sofa, just as the song was starting.
One thing was leading to the next, the voice sang.
Spot on, I thought.
It was the last rational thought I had that night.