Gianrico Carofiglio - Temporary Perfections

I didn’t say that. Actually, I didn’t say a word. I stood there, stock-still, with an expression on my face that I would have found amusing to look at, if it had been on someone else’s face.

“I call people I like by their initials. G.G. for Guido Guerrieri. Ciao, Gi-Gi, buona notte, and thanks for a wonderful evening.”

And before I could say a word, she had vanished into her room.

I quickly got ready for bed. An emotional storm cloud was massing around me, consisting of equal parts embarrassment, annoyance, relief, and other feelings that were more difficult to decipher. I was reluctant, however, to delve too deeply into that combination of factors and their individual measures, so I decided to read my book-a collection of short stories by Grace Paley-until sleep came. That would be a while, I feared.

For ten minutes or so I read a story that didn’t bowl me over. Then I heard a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. Are you going to open the door?”

“Just a second,” I called. I was in such a hurry to pull on my pants that I tripped on them.

“Aren’t you going to step aside and let me in?”

I did as she asked, and she walked into the room. As she passed by me, I caught a whiff of leather-scented perfume that she hadn’t been wearing when we were out together earlier. It was a strangely familiar scent, reassuring and unsettling at the same time. I tried to figure out what it reminded me of, without success.

“Nice t-shirt you have there,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. I was wearing a silly t-shirt featuring Lupo Alberto from the comics. The wolf was drawn in a ridiculous kung-fu pose.

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t expecting visitors…”

“You’re terrible, do you know that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re terrible.”

“Why am I terrible?”

“At first I thought you’d ask to come into my room. Then I waited for you to knock on my door. Finally, I figured maybe you’d call me. But you didn’t. You’re a hardass, aren’t you, Gigi? I knew from the beginning that you weren’t like other guys.”

I didn’t have the slightest idea what to say, and my face must have shown it. At least I was confirming her theory that I was different from other guys.

“Why are you standing there? Come sit down. Make yourself at home.”

I did as I was told. To keep from coming across as a hardass, of course.

As I sat down on the bed, I caught another whiff of her perfume.

And then, her lips, which were warm and fresh and soft and tasted of cherry and invincible youth and summer and lots of wonderful things from years gone by. Things that were there, present and alive.

Before I let myself go, I heard a line of verse echo through my head. Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?

When I opened my eyes and looked at the clock, it was past nine.

Caterina was sleeping deeply, face down, embracing a pillow. Her bare back was exposed, and it rose and fell gently, rhythmically.

I got out of bed without making a sound, got washed, got dressed, and wrote her a note saying I was out for a walk and I’d be back soon. A few minutes later I was on the Via del Corso.

It was a warm, lovely day. Everyone was wearing spring attire and, as I looked around to decide where I should go for an espresso, I saw a corpulent, almost completely bald man wearing a rumpled suit and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He was walking toward me with a big smile. Who the hell was that?

“Guido Guerrieri! What a nice surprise. Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Enrico. Enrico De Bellis.”

When I heard his name, I had a singular experience. The folds and wrinkles that had deformed his face melted away, and the features of the stunningly beautiful but vapid face of a young man I’d known twenty-five years earlier emerged from the sands of time.

The man I now recognized as De Bellis threw his arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He reeked of cheap aftershave, cigarettes, a suit that hadn’t been cleaned in far too long, and alcohol. At the corner of his mouth was a trace of the espresso he’d recently thrown back. What little hair that remained on his head dangled, in need of a trim, over his ears and the back of his neck.

“Enrico, ciao,” I said, once he released me from his embrace. I tried to remember the last time we’d seen one another and to reconstruct his life based on the information in my possession. He’d gone to college-law of course, the refuge of the crooked-but he’d dropped out after taking two or three exams. For years he’d indulged in a variety of pastimes, some more dangerous than others, and some less lawful than others. Businesses and companies were created and then conveniently made to disappear. Check kiting. Questionable operations with his credit cards. A marriage to a homely but wealthy young woman that went sour-very sour-in the wake of a series of legal accusations, police reports, and trials. A guilty verdict for bankruptcy fraud, and additional criminal prosecutions for further fraud and for receiving stolen goods.

He’d disappeared from Bari, with a host of creditors eager to track him down on his back, some of them exceedingly unsavory. Individuals with nicknames like Pierino the Criminal, Mbacola the Shark, and Tyson. That last name succinctly described the methods this character employed to recover debts that were not exactly out in the open.

De Bellis had vanished into thin air, the way only people in that world can. And now he had reappeared out of the void, materializing right in front of me, with his rumpled clothes and the stench of tobacco smoke, his air of slovenliness, and a grim, poorly disguised desperation.

“It’s been forever since I’ve seen you! What are you doing in Rome?”

I decided that it might be best not to tell him exactly what I was doing-what I had just finished doing-in Rome.

“The usual. An appeals case, a hearing at the Court of Cassation.”

“Oh, of course-an appeals case, a hearing at the Court of Cassation. You’re a big-time lawyer now. I read about your cases. I’ve kept up with you through our friends.”

I preferred not to think too carefully about what mutual friends Enrico De Bellis and I might have. He slapped me on the shoulder.

“Shit, you look great. You haven’t changed a bit. I’ve had some tough times, but things are starting to look up for me. In fact, things already are looking up. Things are going great. If I can get this one project I have in mind off the ground, I’ll be all set.”

He spoke hurriedly, his words tumbling out with such forced cheerfulness that it verged on the grotesque.

“Come with me. Let me buy you a coffee,” he said, taking me by the arm and steering me into a nearby cafe.

“Two espressos,” he said to the barista.

And then, turning to me with a conspiratorial air, he said, “Should we ask for a drop of sambuca in our coffee, Guido?”

No thanks. Sambuca at ten in the morning isn’t part of a healthy diet.

I gave him a tight smile and shook my head. So he decided to go ahead and add my dose of sambuca to his coffee. He nodded to the barista, who clearly knew him well. He poured sambuca into Enrico’s cup and stopped just before it spilled over the brim.

Technically, that was a glass of sambuca with a little espresso to top it off. De Bellis drank it quickly and immediately afterward-I’m sure of it-decided he’d like another. He got a grip on himself, though, and refrained from ordering the second sambuca with a drop of coffee.

Then he pretended to check his pockets and discover, with mock chagrin, that he’d forgotten his wallet.