The Sleeping Nymph, page 14
He ran faster now, his heart beating madly in his chest.
The enemy was not the child but something that lay dormant in Massimo’s very nature, ensconced inside the nucleus of every cell in his body: the DNA of a madman.
He dashed sideways, then sprinted as fast as he could. By the time he reached the gym, he could hardly breathe.
He’d been going there since he had first moved here and recently, his visits had become imbued with a greater urgency. It wasn’t one of those fashionable gyms that doubled as social hubs, places where people got together to plan their next night out. There was only one commandment that mattered in there: those who entered must not be afraid of getting their hands dirty.
Massimo secretly suspected that the gym was one health inspection away from being shut down, but he liked the coarse and refreshingly honest feel of the place, its unwillingness to clean up just for the sake of someone’s approval. More importantly, Massimo needed it, needed a place where he could satisfy an increasingly frequent urge to throw a few punches, to release all the anger he carried in his body.
The gym always opened early, well before anyone was out on the streets, and usually its lights were the last to be switched off. Massimo knew that some nights the room in the back filled with the electric thrum of secretive conversation and a crowd of mysterious, skulking figures: they came for the cage fighting, bouts of mixed martial arts where very little was regulated. Massimo had refrained from asking too many questions, though he was sure they didn’t have a license.
As he walked down the corridor that led from the main entrance to the training room, he saw Lucius, the owner. Lucius was a former ballet dancer from the corps de ballet of the opera house in Tirana, and he was as passionate about Greco-Roman wrestling as he was about dance. At the age of thirty, he’d concluded that a rond de jambe en l’air wouldn’t save his life, but a clandestine crossing just might. So in 1991, he arrived in Bari aboard the Vlora, along with twenty thousand others who had, like him, run out of hope.
From that day on, Italy had become his home. That was what he said whenever anybody asked him about his life back in Albania, and that was what the Italian flags draped all over his gym declared. Lucius didn’t like to talk about the crossing. In fact, he didn’t much like talking at all. The one thing he did remember about those days was the thirst: so intense as to drive a man insane.
He was wiping the windows now, as he did every morning.
“He’s waiting for you,” he said solemnly, chewing on an unlit cigar.
Massimo stood still.
“Who?”
“Challenge.”
“Challenge is waiting for me?”
It was still dark inside the training room, but someone was already in there; Massimo could tell from the creak of a cabinet door being shut. He had a hunch about who his opponent might be. Their rivalry extended beyond the realm of the physical and encompassed a whole host of different categories, not all of them obvious. The man waiting for him was Christian Neri. He was a gendarme.
Massimo had never agreed to fight him before, lest the fiery competition between them should overpower his self-control and trigger an eruption of violence he had no wish to acquaint himself with. After all, he was there to release tension, not accumulate it.
The lights came on. Christian was sitting on a bench, lacing his sneakers up. He was the same age as Massimo and had a son who wasn’t his, but his ex-girlfriend had left him when she returned to Romania. He was in the division of the gendarmerie that dealt with cultural artifacts.
“I hear Deputy Public Prosecutor Gardini has given you lot the Andrian case,” said Neri as he stood up and approached the boxing ring. “We’ve already got bets going on how long it’ll take you to fuck it up.”
“You just can’t stand it, can you?” said Marini, laughing. “Anyway, given your track record with solving cases, I’d say we can take it pretty easy.”
That wiped the smirk off Neri’s face.
“Why don’t you get over here and say that again?” Neri barked, gesturing at Marini to come closer.
Massimo turned away.
“Maybe next time,” he said, declining the invitation.
“What is it, are you scared Daddy will tell you off?”
Massimo went still. He wondered for a moment if Neri somehow knew something about his father, if he was trying to provoke him with the only thing that could rile him up. But he quickly set the thought aside: there was no way Neri could know. Yet, the damage was done: the tension that had been building inside Massimo was like a pressurized gas and now it was on the verge of exploding.
Massimo went to the ring, threw his gym bag down and climbed over the ropes.
“No gloves, no padding,” he said. “I’ll try to go easy on you.”
But his opponent moved so fast that Massimo didn’t even see the hits coming. They rained down on his face like bolts of lightning: three to the right and an even stronger hit to the left. He could almost feel his bones changing shape and the walls of the gym began to whirl around his head. His nostrils filled with the smell of the rubber mat.
Massimo was swaying so badly that he had to hold on to the ropes for support.
“Don’t make me come over there and get you,” Christian snarled, motioning with his hand for Massimo to return to the center of the ring.
Massimo charged at him headfirst and grabbed his waist, but lifting him up proved harder than expected. It was like grappling with a snake. Christian used Massimo’s torso for leverage, and before he knew what was happening, Massimo found his opponent attached to his back and with his legs wrapped around Massimo’s neck. But somehow, he managed to break free and now it was his turn to hit. It was a scarily liberating feeling, and he found it hard to stop. He had to push his opponent away before he lost control completely.
Just then, Massimo’s mobile, which he’d left by the mat, began to ring.
“Pick that up and I’ll break you in half,” said Christian in a menacing growl, his breathing heavy and one half of his jaw beginning to bruise.
But once he’d issued his threat, he took advantage of Massimo’s distraction to lunge at him again. A flurry of kicks—one to the shins and two to the stomach—and Massimo let slip a howl. As he fell to the floor, he hit his forehead against a corner pad.
“Fuck!”
Massimo lay on the floor, dazed by the unexpected blow to the head. He rolled over onto his back and measured the damage: there was a suspicious throbbing in one of his knees.
“Get up!” yelled Lucius, watching ringside. “Too easy!”
“Why don’t you come here and say that?” Massimo snapped.
Meanwhile, the ringing hadn’t stopped. Massimo caught a glimpse of the caller’s name on his screen. He managed to grab his phone and took the call.
“What is it? Quick!” he said, stepping away from the corner.
“Good morning to you,” de Carli replied. “Is this a bad time?”
Massimo ducked to evade another kick. Christian had been aiming for his face.
“It’s always a bad time lately,” he replied.
“Ouch. I smell self-pity. You know, I think these bad times of yours might just be about to get a whole lot worse.”
Massimo parried a hit, but another landed on his ribs.
“Shit!” he yelped.
“You can say that again. Battaglia wants to see you. She’s already here.”
“Just what I need.”
Massimo tried to squat, but one of his joints had gone stiff and his knee had begun to swell.
“It’s going to take me at least an hour,” he said.
“Are you joking? You haven’t got an hour.”
Massimo touched his cheek and when he pulled his hand away, he saw that his fingers were stained with blood.
“Did she say what’s lit a fire under her ass?” he asked.
The sudden silence from de Carli was alarming. He heard the sound of a scuffle at the end of the line.
Then: “I’ll light a fire under your ass if you don’t get a move on,” Battaglia roared.
A flying kick hit Massimo right in the face and knocked him out.
29
For the second time now, the local paper was running a story on the Sleeping Nymph. That morning’s brazen headline revealed the identity of the purported killer: Alessio Andrian.
That reporter must be cleverer than I am, Teresa thought, if he’s already so sure of who the culprit is. The copy was illustrated by two images: a reproduction of one of Andrian’s alpine landscapes and a recent photograph of Gortan posing outside his gallery.
There’s our deep throat: he just couldn’t wait to talk.
Teresa skimmed the piece in a state of barely contained fury. The article was unsurprisingly generous on gruesome detail, replete with inaccuracies and exaggerations, giving the impression that the recovered portrait was covered in the biological remains of an entire corpse.
Gortan had relayed the story of how the painting had been found and played up his own role in its discovery. Evidently, the journalist had been more than happy to indulge him. The piece showered Gortan with praise while making thinly veiled remarks that suggested the killer simply had to be the mad, misanthropic painter who’d immersed himself in silence and solitude for more than half a century.
Teresa flung the paper onto her desk in disgust. This brand of aggressive, voyeuristic journalism had always irritated her, particularly when it collided with the painstaking investigations and elusive subtleties of her job—a job founded on reason and certainly not on idle talk.
“Where the hell is Marini?” she thundered.
De Carli poked his head in through the door.
“Shall I get Parisi?”
“Marini.”
“We haven’t seen him come in yet, Superintendent. Though you’ll be pleased to hear Lona’s car has just pulled up.”
“Fuck.”
De Carli looked over his shoulder into the hallway.
“Um, I think Marini’s just arrived,” he said.
“You think?”
“Well, what I’m actually seeing is a chap with a limp and a swollen lip.”
Teresa got up to see for herself.
Marini was indeed walking with an obvious limp and one of his lips had expanded to several times its usual size. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.
“What happened?” she asked, walking up to him.
He grimaced.
“Well?” she insisted.
“I guess someone had a score to settle,” he replied.
Teresa stared at him. His hair was a mess, his face was flushed and his skin was wet with perspiration. His choice of outfit was perplexing to say the least, and in other circumstances, she might have assumed it was some kind of practical joke. The shorts he was wearing were far too tight, and his sports shirt was torn across the shoulder.
“Did you get yourself beaten up?” she asked in disbelief.
Inspector Marini raised a hand in a gesture that seemed to cost him significant effort.
“Not on purpose. It’s a long story,” he sighed.
She grabbed his arm and ushered him into her office.
“Don’t think you’ve gotten away with it,” she hissed. “You think it’s appropriate to show up at work like this?”
“I thought it was important—”
“What, being on time for work? Yes, I would say so.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said de Carli, still standing by the door, “but Lona’s on his way here.”
“Get in here,” Teresa commanded. “And give me your jacket.”
When Albert Lona walked in, Teresa was by the window and Marini was sitting at his desk, wearing a jacket that was too small for him.
Albert graced them with what Teresa deemed a perilous smile. In her experience, it tended to be followed by a snarl befitting the jackal that he was.
“Good morning,” he greeted them. “I suppose you will have seen the front pages today.”
“Yes, we have,” Teresa replied.
The new district attorney began pacing around the room, examining the paperwork on their desks, the expressions on their faces and even the contents of a penholder. After some deliberation, he selected a biro and used the tip to lift up the cover of a file.
“It is the last thing we needed,” he murmured as he read the contents of the file. “Judge Crespi will not let this go until we give him a name.”
He let the cover of the file fall shut once more.
“If you are hoping people might forget about Alessio Andrian and his painting in a few weeks’ time, you are mistaken; this Gortan will make sure that doesn’t happen,” he remarked. “This is all excellent free publicity for his gallery: I wouldn’t be surprised if he already had some events planned around this.”
Teresa couldn’t help but agree. Albert might not be anyone’s idea of a helpful boss, but he certainly knew how these things worked.
“The eyes of the public are upon us,” Albert continued. “The media has their stopwatches out, timing how long it takes us to make our next move. They’re waiting for us to slip up so that they can crucify us, but if we can find a scrap to throw them, we will soon have them eating out of our hands.” He looked at them each in turn. “Now, my question for you is: Do we have that scrap?”
He had addressed this remark to Teresa, who was conscious of the trap that lay behind his words. He wasn’t just a direct superior requesting updates on an investigation: Albert Lona was looking for a way to tear her down and take the rest of her team with her. She had to give him something, but she also had to make sure it wasn’t enough to let him get too close—close in every sense of the word: Teresa didn’t even want to think of how he would react if he happened to glance under the table and see Marini’s comically undersized shorts.
“I have a lead,” she admitted. “Nothing’s certain yet, but I think I know where to look now.”
Albert’s eyes lit up as if he’d caught a whiff of fresh prey to dig his teeth into.
“Interesting. Let’s hear it,” he pressed.
“We found something in the blood that might prove to be the key to revealing where the victim was from,” Teresa explained reluctantly.
He frowned, looking suspicious.
“Can blood really do that?”
“This blood can. But Doctor Parri will need a few more days before he can give us a definitive response. For now, it’s just a theory that needs confirming.”
Just then, the district attorney’s phone started ringing, interrupting their exchange. Albert took the call, speaking in monosyllables; it seemed there was yet another mishap he was expected to sort out. De Carli was doing a good job from the office next door . . .
Albert hung up and made for the door, and even that small distance was enough for Teresa to breathe a little easier.
“I need to go now,” he told her, “but I’ll be back soon. Tell Doctor Parri that I want facts, not theories.”
Only then did he seem to notice the bruise on Marini’s face. He stepped toward him.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“An accident in training. Nothing serious.”
Teresa wondered in the ensuing silence whether or not Albert had noticed the tremor in the young officer’s voice, the absolute stillness with which she and Marini were holding their breath, how her eyes had darted instinctively toward the garish running shoes sticking out from under the desk before promptly looking away.
“As you know, Superintendent Battaglia, your team is now under disciplinary review. Believe me when I say I am taking the task very seriously.”
And after this last barb in her direction, Albert Lona finally turned and left.
30
Tempus valet, volat, velat. The words keep going around and around in my head; they’ve earned their place among the memories I’ve entrusted to this journal. It’s remarkable to think how pertinent they are to this investigation.
Time is valuable—it flees and it conceals.
Time is always hiding something: a secret, a memory, a broken promise, a surge of grief. It spills over thoughts and emotions, covers them in the sweet fog of oblivion—and in its measured advance, consumes them undetected.
Time conceals, too; even crimes. Buried for years, for decades, under the quivering warmth of life, death seems not so abominable, not so fearsome, after all. Its color fades, it is stripped of feeling, until ultimately it is forgotten—and with it, its victims, too.
Tempus valet, volat, velat. The Latin maxim was emblazoned on the church tower that stood at the entrance to the Resia Valley. The church was a modern construction, a hunk of concrete and chrome that stuck out like a sore thumb in that landscape. Teresa wondered what vision had guided the architect’s hand; perhaps some kind of faith in a future that had subsequently failed to materialize.
Marini was just about managing to drive, stifling groans of pain each time he had to switch gears and brushing a hand over his lap every few minutes, exasperated by the dog hair that kept attaching itself to the fabric.
“Did we have to bring them along?” he complained, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Smoky growled at him from the back seat. They hadn’t quite set their differences aside yet.
