Gianrico Carofiglio - Temporary Perfections

“Oh, damn, Guido. I’m sorry. I offered to buy you a cup of coffee and here I am without any money. So sorry.”

I paid. We left the bar, and De Bellis extracted an MS cigarette from a packet that was as rumpled as his suit. Healthy living, no question about it. He took my arm as we started walking toward the Piazza del Popolo. Along the way, he decided to brief me on all the options that modern medicine offered in terms of therapy for erectile dysfunction. He was-to his credit-impressively well-informed on the topic.

After explaining to me the various options available-from pills of all sorts and injections worthy of a horror film, up to and including a hydraulic apparatus that would have intrigued Doctor Frankenstein-he added that when it came right down to it, the best thing for us was whores or, even better, DIY. A nice free porn video on the Internet, five minutes of effort, and it’s taken care of. No problem, no worries about performance. Because that medicine isn’t so good for you. I mean, Guido, you’re in good shape, but I’m a few pounds overweight. I’ll start a diet one of these days. Anyway, afterward there’s no need to make nice and have a smoke together and make plans to see each other again. It’s all hydraulics. Prostate maintenance.

I felt like throwing up. I bent down to tie a shoelace that didn’t need tying, just to get free of his grasp.

“Can I ask you a favor, Guido? We’ve always been good friends, and that means a lot to me.”

Actually, we hadn’t ever been good friends. I knew he was going to ask for money.

“I need to make a payment today. As I told you, I’ve been through some tough times, but I’m getting back on my feet. I have an incredible project I’d love to tell you about one day when you have time. Maybe we can go out for a drink next time you’re in Rome and I’ll tell you all about it. Here, take my card.”

His business card was the type you print on cheap paper at a vending machine. It read ENRICO DE BELLIS, FINANCIAL AND CORPORATE CONSULTING. No address, just a cell

phone number. Financial and corporate consulting? What did that mean? I guess he had to put something on the business card, and he couldn’t write ENRICO DE BELLIS, CON ARTIST, GRIFTER, AND EXTORTIONIST.

“If you could make me a small loan, I’d pay it back within a week. It’s money that I owe to some people who… well, let’s just say, it’s not a good idea to make them angry. I don’t have to tell you, you’re a big criminal lawyer. By the way, I haven’t congratulated you on your brilliant career. But it was obvious when we were boys that you’d do whatever you set your mind to. I remember that you always said you wanted to be a criminal lawyer, that you were going to grow up to be someone. You’re a big success, and you’ve earned it.”

I’d never said I wanted to be a criminal lawyer when I grew up. Certainly not when De Bellis and I knew each other, back when we were kids.

“I need a thousand Euros. Like I said, I’d pay you back in a few days. I can mail you a check, or if you give me your account number, I’ll wire the money to you.”

Why of course. I’ll just give you my account number, and I’m sure I’ll receive full payment, with a little extra for interest, in just a day or two.

“I’m sorry, Enrico, but as you can imagine, I don’t walk around with that much cash in my pocket.”

“Maybe you could write me a check.”

“I hardly ever use checks anymore. I put everything on a credit card.”

“Of course. You probably have one of those platinum cards with unlimited credit. I’m sure you have no use for cash or checks. Then maybe we could swing by an ATM-there’s one on every corner-and you could withdraw a thousand Euros. You can rest assured that in a week, ten days at the most, I’ll pay it all back. What do you say?”

What I said was nothing. I pulled out my wallet, opened it, extracted three fifty-Euro banknotes, and handed them to him.

“I’m sorry, Enrico, I’m really in a hurry. As I told you, I’m here in Rome on business.”

He took the money without a word and slipped it quickly into the pocket of his rumpled jacket. We stood there face to face in silence for a few seconds. He was weighing the odds of getting anything more out of me. At last, when he had resigned himself to the fact that I wasn’t going to give him another cent, the light went out of his eyes and his face went blank. I no longer had anything to offer him, so he could turn and go now.

“All right then, if you really have to go I won’t keep you.”

He barely bothered to say good-bye as he turned and left, without thanking me and without promising to pay me back. He walked off with a lumbering gait, lighting another cigarette as he went. I imagined him searching for someone else to give him money. It was part of his daily struggle for survival, as well as his never-ending attempt to fend off the desperation that nipped at his heels, ready to catch him by the ankles and swallow him whole.

A few hours later, Caterina and I were on a plane back to Bari.

Just as she had been the night before, during the flight she was perfectly at ease-comfortable, spontaneous, and relaxed. She acted as if nothing had happened or, rather, as if we were a long-standing couple. I, on the other hand, felt increasingly confused and awkward. I kept having the feeling-simultaneously vague and sharp-that there was something obvious that I was overlooking.

When I left her outside her apartment building on Rione Madonnella, near the Cinema Esedra, she gave me a kiss and told me to call her soon, because she was eager to see me again.

My disorientation didn’t get any better that afternoon in the office. I turned off my cell phone, asked Pasquale not to put through any calls. Then I sat at my desk and put my nose to the grindstone. I worked my way through all the problems and annoyances that had sprung up in the two days I’d been away. Still, I couldn’t really focus on what I was doing. The same thing happened that sometimes keeps me from sleeping at night: I thought I could hear a faint noise-a rustling or a dripping-but I couldn’t pin down the source.

When I finally took a break, I decided to identify what I knew for sure, since I was apparently incapable of identifying the metaphorical noises inside me.

I took a notepad and began writing. 1) Manuela likely arrived in Bari but never left for Rome. But we can’t say that with any certainty. There is a slim chance that she continued on to Rome, though there is no evidence to support that idea. How to check this out further? 2) Manuela used cocaine. In all likelihood, Michele got her started, but after they broke up, she continued using. She knew how to get it. She was in contact with circles that she described, in response to a question from her friend Nicoletta, as “dangerous.”

I paused for a good long while before I wrote the next sentence. Is it possible that Manuela was a drug dealer? How to check this out further? 3) Michele is violent, an idiot, and in all probability a drug dealer. As soon as possible, get a photograph of him and show it to Quintavalle’s friend. Michele would be the obvious suspect (both Nicoletta and Caterina thought of him immediately when they heard Manuela had disappeared), but he was out of the country on the day that Manuela vanished. Was he really out of the country? He probably was, but what can we do to establish that fact beyond a shadow of a doubt? Can we identify the friends with whom he left the country? What to do next?

It would almost have been better if I hadn’t found out anything at all, I told myself. If I hadn’t discovered anything, I wouldn’t be upset. Everything would be the way it was supposed to be. I wasn’t cut out to be an investigator. I would return the Ferraros’ money. I’d tell them that I was very sorry but there was nothing to be done-at least, nothing that I could do-and I would be free of that whole situation.