Diego Marani: God's Dog

‘Oh, I quite understand, inspector! That’s what I’m here for! And you’re quite right — confession is not something that can be enforced. It has to come from the heart. So we encourage it with persuasion. While he is still conscious, and not as yet too weakened by illness, we see to it that the patient has regular sessions with our psychologists, apparently “free-ranging” conversations which provide an outlet for him to express his fear, whereas for us they offer some window on to his state of mind. If these are not sufficient, we organise catechism sessions and obligatory prayer vigils for the patient and his family. It is often these which make him see the error of his ways, if not out of faith, then at least for form’s sake. As you may know, the law is more lenient with the relatives of a confessed criminal.’

‘Most interesting. What you have told me has given me a better idea of how to proceed,’ said Salazar, as though thinking aloud. The doctor was now gazing at him absently, as though his mind were elsewhere.

‘Inspector, do you believe in guardian angels?’ he asked a little hesitantly.

Salazar paused before answering. ‘Of course I do! As number 328 of Joseph Ratzinger’s catechism puts it, angels are individual beings endowed with intelligence and will,’ was his prudent reply, when it finally came.

‘Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not trying to pry, nor do I doubt your faith. I know that practical men like you have no time to linger over such subtleties. But today we papal scientists, who are used to peering into the mysteries of creation, are giving new importance to these beings which Ratzinger’s catechism describes as purely spiritual beings, incorporeal, invisible and immortal. We are beginning to believe that this invisibility and incorporeality may not preclude a certain contact with the human world. Recent research in our department of parapsychology has discovered methods of making contact with guardian angels — with techniques derived from hypnotism, comparable to a mystic’s ecstasy. Simply put, by means of an induced trance, the human mind can discern the wavelength on which guardian angels communicate, a bit like tuning into a radio station whose frequency is normally imperceptible to the human ear. Here, though, it is the soul which does the tuning. Such practices must be conducted with caution, however, since this same frequency is also that used by demons. But, despite the risk, it is still worth a try. Our researchers have made contact with certain wingless angels, who are the easiest to reach because they are present on earth in considerable numbers. It is in this area that we may be of some assistance to you — by seeking to make contact with the guardian angels of the terminally ill. They are certainly in a position to tell us what is going on in their proteges’ hearts and minds. Obviously, we need time, and you would have to undergo specific training.’ The doctor had now assumed the air of someone who is giving a diagnosis and prescribing a cure. He bit his lip, and his goatee shot forwards as he did so.

‘Thanks for the suggestion, doctor. I’ll mention it to my superiors, though I doubt that my task will leave me time for training of this kind. But it may be a path to consider in the future,’ said Salazar, getting himself off the hook, he felt, with some adroitness.

‘As you prefer, inspector. We are at your service!’ replied the doctor, making an expansive gesture. Salazar nodded courteously. He could hardly wait to get out of that room.

‘I have no more questions for the moment, but if it’s not too much trouble I shall be back when I know more about the patients. One last thing. Do I have your permission to look at your doctors’ personal files?’ That was the only thing he really wanted to ask. The doctor raised a hand to his chin, and a large watch emerged from his shirt cuff as he did so.

‘Unfortunately we have no access to such files except in the case of explicit charges. For preliminary enquiries we need authorisation from the Papal Medical Council, as required by professional ethics. Suspicion of our doctors would amount to lack of faith in the system. You will have to ask your superior about such matters. But I am sure that a secret agent in the papal force will have no difficulty in procuring a piece of paper with a couple of official stamps, inspector! Ah, bureaucratic procedure, what a thing it is! How could we live without it!’ exclaimed the doctor, rising elegantly from his chair to offer Salazar his hand. The inspector freed himself from the man’s sweaty grasp as quickly as he decently could, and left the room, after yet more thanks, received by their grim recipient with a series of goatee-waggles, in lieu of more orthodox leave-taking.

Throughout the day, a leaden sky had seemed to promise snow; the nearby Monti Prenestini were already sprinkled with white. But in the evening the rain returned and the radio announced that the Tiber might flood during the night. Salazar had spent his first days studying the patients’ files. In subsequent meetings, the Vicar had given him the abstracts from the Land Registry concerning all relevant properties, and the police files on all the patients’ close relatives. The inspector now knew the personal histories of each of the men who were dying in the palliative care unit. He had started cross-referencing the data, seeking points of connection. Documentation on the doctors would have provided him with other pointers; but the inspector did not like too much paperwork. This was not a game to be played in the archives. He was going to have to get out on the street, find a trail and follow it. He had immediately discarded the atheists among the twenty-seven patients: they would be easy quarry. Those who declare themselves have nothing to hide. Instead, he concentrated on those who had survived the longest. It was they who were the most tempted to put an end to it all. Whichever of them was Davide Zago, he must have accomplices who were pretending to be his relatives and coming to pay him visits. There couldn’t be many people providing this cover. He therefore discarded those who had a lot of registered visitors. He was now left with five potential suspects. That Thursday, he waited until it was time for the evening visit, then took the corridor to the palliative care unit.

The whole of the first floor of that wing of the hospital was occupied by patients who were terminally ill. The windows overlooked the inner courtyards of the building, and the entrances to the various storerooms and depots. Above, on the flat roof, the back of a large lit-up sign saying ‘San Filippo Neri’ was visible, supported by rusty posts stuck in the concrete. The windowless prayer room was situated between the unit’s two corridors. By day it received a little feeble light from the two frosted glass doors which gave on to the outer wing of the building, which itself could not be reached from that same floor. It was there that the first corridor ended. The second one opened off to the left of the prayer room and continued around the edge of the courtyard.

In the first room there were two beds, the faces of their occupants, who showed no sign of movement, carved out by the dim white glow of the nightlight. Their breathing seemed to divide the narrow space into two parts: it sounded like whispered voices, trying to persuade anyone who would listen of some enormous truth. On the side of the room where the door was, it was the first — soft and phlegm-laden — which was the stronger. On the window side the breathing was dry and rasping, often breaking up into bursts of intermittent coughing. In the middle of the room both were equally audible. Despite their different rhythms, they sometimes coincided, could briefly be heard as one, then once again diverged. Like two nightbirds, they vanished and reappeared, flew suddenly downwards and soared up again. A woman was seated by the bed on the window side, her head bent, one hand on the sick man’s arm, the other telling her beads. Salazar went up to her. He glanced at the hand that was lying on the sheet, at the big black veins pierced by the needles from the drip, at the catheter tube dripping into the bag hanging from the edge of the bed. The man’s eyes were half-closed, but he was looking upwards, his open mouth almost lipless. When the woman turned in his direction, Salazar nodded his head and pointed to the crucifix on his jacket. The woman nodded and went back to her prayers. In the meantime the other patient’s visitor had also arrived. He was a big man, probably around forty. Without taking off his coat, he stood at the foot of the bed and shuffled his feet on the floor. He was holding his hat in one hand, and occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead with the other; his expression, as he looked at the man he was visiting, was somewhere between surprise and dismay. He had a parcel of fresh linen with him, and handed it to the sister, eager to be rid of it. He cannot have been a regular visitor, because when he saw Salazar he made as though to offer him his chair. Salazar communicated his refusal by gestures, raising his hand and half-closing his eyes. Then he slipped out of the room; it had no more to tell him. He went into the next one, where the light was on, and a soundless television was sending out blue flashes over the steel of the bed frames. A man was sitting at a table near the window, holding a newspaper in place with his crooked elbows. For a moment Salazar wondered if he were crying, but the man looked up at him for a moment, dry-eyed, then carried on reading. The man in the next bed had tubes in his nose; the silence was broken by a slight gurgling sound, not unlike that of deep-sea diving equipment. The other bed, the one next to the door, was empty. Salazar carried on down the corridor to complete his pious rounds. He wanted to get this mission over and done with as soon as possible so that he could get back to Amsterdam. But at the same time he felt a morbid curiosity about this world of pain. On his way back to the sister’s office, he found himself in the prayer room. He sat down on a bench to take stock of things. The room was in semi-darkness; the only light came from the glass partition giving on to the corridor of the adjacent ward, spreading over the bubbles in the linoleum and turning them into dim puddles of whiteness. The little cupboard which served as an altar had been pushed up against the wall, the benches stacked up at the end of the room. The crucifix and the embroidery on the chaplain’s vestments, folded on top of a large missal, glistened faintly in the half-light. A radiator was ticking, the flow of hot water through its pipes making a soft murmuring sound which filled the silence. Suddenly the door to the other ward was opened; two white-coated doctors appeared and immediately locked the door behind them. They came forward cautiously, the soles of their shoes flattening the bubbles on the linoleum, their shadows splintered by the dazzling lamplight. They were engaged in lively argument, although they kept their voices down. One was shaking his head, while the other kept on saying: ‘I can’t do it, I just can’t! Not now!’ They had not noticed Salazar, who was standing in a recess, the upper part of his body sunk in shadow, his legs hidden by a pile of chairs. It was only when they were well into the room that the two doctors saw him, and instantly fell silent, greeted him coldly and went off. Salazar waited until their silhouettes had vanished down the corridor, then, mingling with the relatives who were coming out of the wards, laden with piles of dirty linen and redoubled anguish, he went slowly back to the sister’s office.