The Silence Of The Wave Part 21

Actually, even though he didn't say so, Roberto didn't really think it was crazy at all. In fact, without even realizing it, he started to react like a carabiniere and to think about what he might be able to do. Maybe because-dream or no dream-rumors like that needed to be checked out anyway. When there are stories circulating that won't go away, the likeliest explanation is that they contain at least some truth. All the best investigations come out of rumors that won't go away.

It struck him he might be able to stand outside the school, have Giacomo point out the girl to him, take a look at her, see where she went and then, on the basis of what emerged-if anything did emerge-play it by ear. Improvise. As he had always done. With all the free time he had, what did it cost him? Worst case scenario, it would all amount to nothing.

"All right, Giacomo. I'm going to look into this, but I need your help."

"What do I have to do?"

"What time do you leave school tomorrow?"

"One o'clock."

"At one o'clock tomorrow I'll be standing outside your school. When you come out, try to stand close to this girl so that I know which one she is. When you see me, make sure I've understood who the girl is-I'll give you a sign-and then just go home. I'll see to the rest. Oh, and, of course, don't tell anyone about this conversation of ours. Agreed?"

Giacomo said all right and then sat there looking at him, as if something were still hanging in the air.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Yes."

"Go ahead."

"Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?"

"For listening to me and not treating me like a child."

Roberto made a sign with his head that was like a bow, a gesture of respect.

"I think we should call your mother now. See you tomorrow outside school at one o'clock. All right?"

"All right."

They called Emma. When she came back in she said nothing, but her face was full of questions.

27.

An hour later Roberto was with the doctor. It seemed as if months had pa.s.sed since the last time.

"I don't know what to talk about today."

"Then don't talk about anything."

"I feel ... I can't really say how I feel."

"Maybe a bit uncomfortable?"

"Yes, maybe."

"It's a new situation-it's normal you should feel like this."

"Is it because of what I told you last time?"

"It's because of several things, including what we told each other last time. Overall, it was rather an atypical session."

Roberto rubbed his face with his hands.

"You said it's a new situation, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you know something?"

"What?"

"I have the impression that all at once words-I mean normal words that I knew perfectly, like situation-have a clearer, more precise meaning."

"That's because the world is starting to make sense again. And in case it wasn't clear: that's good news."

"Does that mean I'm getting better?"

"Yes, I'd say it does mean you're getting better. In the next few days we'll start reducing the dosage of the medication."

"I'm sorry about what you told me last time ... about your son."

The doctor gave a little smile.

"I shouldn't say this because it's completely against the rules, but talking to you about him did me a lot of good."

At the door, the doctor shook his hand and said he was pleased with the way things were going.

"I've met a patient of yours," Roberto said. "A woman."

"I know."

"I a.s.sumed you did."

"I think it's a good thing."

Roberto stood there looking at him.

"A good thing," the doctor repeated, then smiled, said good-bye, and went back inside.

The next morning, he woke up in a changeable mood: a mixture of joy and slight anxiety. He did some exercise, took a shower, and then dressed, paying attention to what he was putting on, trying to concentrate on every single movement. Starting with the trousers, first one leg then the other, keeping his balance without looking for something to hold on to; taking a s.h.i.+rt he had ironed over the weekend, feeling smug for a few seconds because the ironing had been done well, putting first one arm and then the other in; sitting down on the edge of the bed and going on to the socks, after making sure they matched and didn't have any holes; trying on the new shoes he had bought a few days earlier; doing up the belt and realizing he could push it to a hole he had never used; putting on the jacket, with a final glance in the mirror.

It was absurd, he thought, but he had liked getting dressed. Maybe because he had done it with due care and attention? He opened his wallet, took out his ID, and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. Obviously the question was the photograph. It wasn't actually all that old, but it looked like someone else. Who was this guy in uniform, without a beard, without deep lines on his forehead, and with the cool gaze of someone who's afraid of nothing? At what moment had he disappeared to give way to someone else? Where was he now? Because he must be somewhere, maybe in a parallel world to which you just had to find the door, Roberto thought, taking an unreasonable and beneficial comfort from this absurd thought.

He left home with joy and anxiety whirling around together, and went and had breakfast in the bar where he had twice met Emma. He had a cappuccino and a croissant, smoked a single cigarette, and watched the people pa.s.sing, enjoying the idleness for the first time in longer than he could remember.

It was a bright morning, but not hot. A perfect spring day, Roberto thought as he walked, calm and alert, looking around him, seeing what was around. Getting his eyes back in working order.

A few minutes before one he was outside the school.

The angry growl of the bell could even be heard on the street. About thirty seconds pa.s.sed, thirty seconds of suspense during which it seemed as if the sound had had no effect, and then the children started pouring out of the building. Giacomo appeared almost immediately, walking next to a blonde girl, staying close to her until his eyes met Roberto's. Then he stopped, with the slightly dismayed expression of someone who has performed his task and has no possibility of influencing what will happen next. Even if he wanted to. One moment you're indispensable, the next you're irrelevant. Roberto looked at him and guessed what he must be feeling. Then he turned and set off.

Ginevra was walking fast, glancing behind her every now and again. She came to a bus stop and joined the small crowd that was waiting. Roberto approached. Several buses stopped and left again. Then one arrived and the girl got on, and Roberto got on behind her. He didn't have a ticket. If they stop me I'll show my ID, he told himself. On the bus Roberto studied the girl. Pretty, but nothing amazing.

Ginevra got off after three stops, walked for a few more minutes, reached a posh-looking apartment block, opened the front door with a key, and disappeared inside.

Roberto checked the names by the bells, to make sure this was where the girl lived. The surname Giacomo had given him was there. Just to respect the rules of surveillance, he waited on the opposite pavement for half an hour. In that half-hour only one elderly lady entered the building and n.o.body came out. It was about two when Roberto decided it was time to go.

28.

"Emma?"

"Roberto."

"Er ... how are you?"

"Fine, and you?"

"Fine. I went to Giacomo's school."

"Yes, he told me. Did you ... did you find out anything?"

"I followed the girl home, but nothing happened."

"Roberto?" She had lowered her voice.

"Yes?"

"What do you think of this story?"

Pause. Roberto did not know what to think. Not yet, at least.

"Roberto, are you there?"

"I don't know. I'll go back to the school tomorrow and see what happens. If anything happens."

Emma was silent for a while, then: "Will you call me afterward?"

"Of course I will."

Another silence. Was she asking him to call her only because she wanted to be informed about what had happened? Or was there another reason?

"Say h.e.l.lo to Giacomo for me. Tell him I'm dealing with it."

"He'll be pleased. He liked you. That doesn't happen often."

The following morning pa.s.sed in the same way, at the same contradictory rhythm, both lazy and active. For no very clear reason, Roberto had brought a small pair of binoculars and a camera with him. They were unlikely to be needed, but taking them didn't cost anything, he had told himself as he left home with an old khaki bag over his shoulder, feeling slightly ridiculous.

Giacomo came out of school almost running, and slowed down when he saw Roberto. They exchanged a rapid glance. Then the boy turned and went away.

Immediately afterward, Ginevra came out and the sequence was identical to that of the day before. Bus ride, getting off, a short stretch on foot, going into the building.

Roberto waited outside for a while, starting to feel stupid. What the h.e.l.l was he doing? Why this ridiculous private investigation, like an amateur sleuth with his bag over his shoulder? He left, suddenly worried that someone might see him and ask him what he was doing there.

By the time he got home, he had decided he would make one last attempt, and then that would be it. If nothing happened, maybe he would refer the thing to his colleagues and let them deal with it. a.s.suming there was anything to deal with.

The next day he arrived slightly late, just in time to see the girl come out of school and hurry off in the direction of the bus stop. As he already knew the destination, Roberto kept himself at a greater distance, in such a way as to have a broader vision and-he thought-also to avoid anyone noticing him, a middle-aged man of somewhat dubious appearance following a schoolgirl.

The stream of kids and adults was the same as the two previous days. Roberto, though, thought he noted, in the regular movement of the people, a discontinuity, an element that didn't fit the rhythm.

A detective's instinct goes in search of the jarring note and sees what escapes others: small objects that are missing or in the wrong place, slightly odd postures, forced gestures, slight breathlessness, blus.h.i.+ng, elusive glances or others that linger too long. Someone who's somewhere he shouldn't be; someone going slowly who should be going fast or going fast when he should be going slowly; someone who looks around and seems to be looking at nothing; excessive talkativeness or silence. An alteration in a routine. You concentrate on unusual details instead of letting yourself be distracted by the apparent normality of the overall picture.

In some ways a good detective is like a good doctor. In both cases it is a matter of having an eye for details that other people don't spot.

In that flow of people-adults, but above all kids-there was an element of irregularity that Roberto perceived as a phenomenon, as an alteration of the whole, even before he identified the cause.

The cause was a boy of about fifteen, unusually muscular for his age, who was walking fast and looking straight ahead.

He was walking as if he were following someone, Roberto told himself, all at once feeling his heart starting to beat more quickly and the instinct of the chase reawakening, intact and primeval.