Nicola Rocca - Death Brings Gold

“I had to, Umberto,” he replied, in the most comforting voice he could offer.

The two men stood staring at each other.

“I’m really sorry, Umby,” he said, regretting almost immediately the banality of those words.

The other man stared at him, and Walker had never seen such a sad look on his friend’s face. He was nodding his head and looked like he was suffering from one of those awful tics that come with old age.

“She was a good woman,” he said. “I’m not saying it because she was my mother. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

David nodded repeatedly, and for a moment it looked like the other man had passed that annoying nervous tic onto him...

“I’m sure,” he replied. Not that he had ever met Umberto’s mother – he had seen her only once – but he was convinced it was true. He had been working with Umberto Visconti for some time and over the years he had found in him a good person. Polite, refined, and professional. The kind of person that must have been brought up in a respectable, principled family.

“She suffered so much …” Umberto said, muffling the phrase with an expression of anguish.

“I’m sorry,” the other repeated, almost under his breath.

“She didn’t deserve all that suffering, David.”

This time the Inspector didn’t reply. He thought that no one deserved such a terrible ordeal of pain. No one. He kept the thought to himself.

“She was torn apart by that terrible disease, David. It was as if… as if someone had decided to measure out her pain little by little. To eradicate her from this life with brief painful jabs.”

The man paused, then he continued with a voice-which although calm, also carried an edge of anger.

“I hope I won’t go like she did. I hope that one day I won’t end up like my mother. A slow agony. I hope that when my time comes, it will be something quick, fast, and painless. I couldn’t bear to be trapped inside the prison of a long illness. Because being ill is like being in jail.. The fact that you are bedridden, that you are not self sufficient anymore, that you have to depend on others … That is, all of this is the same as serving a life sentence for a crime committed. Actually, it’s worse, far worse …”

He stopped. He took a breath and stared in the direction of the ground under which his mother had just been buried. A tear ran down his cheek.

“… Because the only crime attributable to my mother is that she was victim of that damned cancer. That’s why I hope that when my time comes …”

“Don’t think about it now, Umberto,” the Inspector said, bringing the other’s words to an end. “You’ve got an entire life ahead of you. You must think about overcoming this test. The love for your job will save you, you’ll see. It was the same for me, too.”

David thought he had been convincing, but his friend replied with bitter resignation.

“Do you think so?”

The question hung between them, illuminated by the headstones candles. David didn’t bother replying. And what could he have said to his friend to console him? More pointless words?

“I think not,” continued Visconti. “Now I am alone. My life will never be the same again.”

David understood that the recent loss of a loved one takes away one’s will to go on, to pick yourself up again, to move forward. To live. He had known it too. But he also knew that time would set things right again. In these circumstances, the passing of time is the only remedy to heal the wounds that everyone carries in their hearts.

“Be strong, Umberto,” he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll see, it’ll get better. I, too, have gone through this.”

Visconti gave a hint of a smile; in an attempt to reassure his friend-who was trying to comfort him-that his words were appreciated.

But inside he knew now that his mother was dead, depriving him of the last love he had left, his life was going to change radically.

David did get one thing right, though, when he said: the love for his job was going to save him.

That was true. Even if Walker and Visconti didn’t see it the same way.

CHAPTER 2

He was pleased with himself for deciding not to drive his car to the church. First of all because, due to the traffic, he never would have made it on time to the service; and then because he also would have had to do some walking. He kept seeing Umberto’s dismayed face and it reminded him of his own similar pain. He, too, had lost both his parents. And although his mother had been gone now for five years, her memory was more vivid than ever.

This thought veiled his eyes with melancholy, while the stinging cold continued to vehemently stab his face. He slowed his pace to a halt and the echoing of his footsteps seemed to continue for another second before stopping. He slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, searching for the package.

When he found it, he opened it and extracted a Marlboro. He brought it to his lips and rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. He returned the package to his pocket and resumed walking, taking deep draws from the still unlit cigarette. He had always liked smoking. His only vice, and he clung to it dearly.

Then, his mother’s face instantly appeared.

It was the face of a woman with only a few days left to live. Ashen, framed by dishevelled hair that time and illness had turned grey. Her eyes were lifeless, sad, and were struggling to see.

Alzheimer’s and a metastatic carcinoma were taking her away. That poor woman had been unable to utter a word for days and, according to the doctors, her brain couldn’t understand what was going on around her anymore.

The day before she was gone forever, she made a sort of recovery; a moment of clarity. She had her eyes wide open and was trying to keep her head – which until then had been a weight dangling from side to side - still.

“Mum?” he called in disbelief.

Then he turned to check if Carolina, the nurse that was looking after his mother, was still there. She wasn’t.

His mother had lifted one arm, trying to extend it towards him and that gesture was draining her of all the energy she had left. He had welcomed her hand between his and stood there staring at her, confident that something extraordinary was going to happen.

The woman blinked her eyes several times, trying to focus on the images in front of her. Her mouth opened in a grin and her hand started to tremble, while her breathless voice was coming through with difficulty.

“David, m-mhy d-d-hear…”

Distorted words were coming from her twisted lips.

“… ss-h-k-keep on sshmoukeeng, if hhhyou c-can’t do… uithout …em…”

At that point she had had a small breakdown and a snarl of pain deformed her face.

He had squeezed her hand, to make her feel his presence and at the same time to encourage her to continue.

The woman’s head had fallen forward.

“Mum?!” he called out loud.

His mother had raised her head again and she had started blinking her eyes again.

Then, certain that sight had abandoned her, she had closed her eyes. Defeated.

He stood there staring at her for what seemed an eternity. Then, the woman’s distorted voice had come back.

“… But plheashe … it’s for u hoo… art a mmly…I whuont hhee you sttleouwn …”

“What?” he asked her.

The woman had stuttered some more, but they seemed more like moans caused by her pain than contorted phrases.