Black Run. Antonio ManziniЧитать онлайн книгу.
down her notebook.
The mattress is comfortable. It’s called memory foam. A material developed by NASA for astronauts in the sixties. It envelops you like a glove because it remembers the shape of your body. That’s what it says in the pamphlet that came with it.
“Could you say that I’m stitching in Aosta?” I ask Marina.
“No. You’re not a tailor. I’m the one who knows how to sew.”
The mattress is comfortable. But the bed is cold as ice. I wrap myself around Marina. Looking for a little heat. But her side is as cold as mine.
I close my eyes.
And I finally put an end to this shitty day.
The telephone drilled through the silence that double-pane windows and the absence of traffic gave to Deputy Police Chief Schiavone’s apartment on Rue Piave. Rocco leaped like a hooked bass and opened his eyes wide. Despite the scream of the cell phone on his nightstand, he was still able to gather his thoughts: it was morning, he was at home, in his own bed after spending the night out in the snow. He wasn’t actually lying underneath Eva Mendes, and she wasn’t actually wearing nothing but a pair of dizzyingly high stiletto heels and dancing like a sinuous serpent, tossing her hair to and fro. That image was nothing but a cobweb that the telephone had scorched with its deranged shrieks.
“Who’s busting my balls at seven in the morning?”
“Me.”
“Me who?”
“Sebastiano!”
Rocco smiled as he ran one hand over his face. “Sebastiano! How you doing?”
“Fine, fine.” And now his friend’s croupy voice had become recognizable. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“I haven’t heard from you in months!”
“Four months and ten days, but who’s counting?”
“How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m coming up north.”
Rocco shifted comfortably on the memory foam mattress. “You’re coming up? When?”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll be on the seven o’clock train from Turin. Are you going to be around?”
“Of course I will. I’ll meet you at the station.”
“Excellent. Will it be cold up there?”
“What can I tell you, Seba? Bone-chilling cold.”
“All right, then I’ll wear a down jacket.”
“And insulated shoes—take my word for it,” Rocco added.
“I don’t have those. What kind of shoes do you wear up there?”
“A pair of Clarks desert boots.”
“Are they insulated?”
“No. Which is why I’m telling you to wear a pair of insulated shoes. My feet are like a couple of ice cubes.”
“Then why don’t you get yourself a pair?”
“I can’t stand the things.”
“Well, you do what you like. I’m going to swing by Decathlon and get a pair. So—see you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
And Sebastiano hung up the phone.
Rocco dropped his cell phone on his down jacket. If Sebastiano Cecchetti, known to his friends as Seba, was coming to Aosta, then matters were becoming distinctly interesting.
When Rocco walked into police headquarters at 8:15 a.m., Special Agent Michele Deruta walked up to him immediately. He was moving his tiny feet as fast as his two-hundred-plus pounds allowed him, and he was panting like an old steam locomotive. His chin was sweaty and his thinning white hair, combed specially to conceal his bald spot, was glittering, oiled by who-knows-what pomade.
“Dottore?”
Rocco stopped suddenly in the middle of the hallway. “Your face and hair are damp. Why damp, Deruta? Did you stick your face into a barrel of oil?”
Deruta pulled out his handkerchief and tried to dry himself off. “I wouldn’t know, Dottore.”
“But still, you’re damp. Do you take a shower in the morning?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you don’t dry off.”
“No, it’s just that before coming to work, I help my wife at her bakery.”
Officer Deruta, getting close to retirement age, started talking about his wife’s bakery just outside of town, the work in the predawn hours, the yeast and the flour. Rocco Schiavone paid no attention to a word he said. He just watched his damp, loose lips, his hair streaked with white, and his bovine, bulging eyes.
“What’s surprising,” said the deputy police chief, interrupting his special agent’s monologue, “is not that you work at your wife’s bakery, Deruta. It’s that you have a wife at all—that’s what’s truly extraordinary.”
Deruta fell silent. It wasn’t as if he expected special praise for his daily sacrifice of working a double job, but a kind word, something like “You’re wearing yourself out, Deruta. What a good man you are,” or, “If only there were more people like you.” Instead he got nothing. A scornful lack of consideration was all his superior officer could offer him.
“Aside from your double shift, is there anything important you need to tell me?” asked the deputy police chief.
“The chief of police has already called three times this morning. He needs to speak to the press.”
“So?”
“First he wants to hear from you.”
Rocco nodded and turned away, leaving Deruta there; still, the officer chased after him on his dainty feet. To watch the heft of his 225 pounds bounce along on his size 7½ men’s shoes, you’d expect him to roll headlong across the floor at any moment. “The chief of police isn’t in town, Dottore. There’s no point in you going up to see him. You’ll have to call him.”
Rocco stopped and turned to look at Officer Deruta. “I see. Well, now, listen to me and listen good. Two things. First of all, start getting some exercise and put yourself on a diet. Second: later on, I’ve got an important job for you.” He furrowed his brow and looked Deruta in the eye. “Very important. Can I rely on you? Do you feel up to it?”
Deruta’s eyes opened wide and became even bigger than usual. “Certainly, Dottore!” he said, and flashed him a bright, thirty-two-tooth smile. Actually, a twenty-four-tooth smile, because there were several gaps. “Certainly, Dottor Schiavone. You can trust me blindly!”
“Why don’t you find yourself a dentist!”
“You think?” asked Deruta, covering his mouth with one hand. “Do you know how much they cost? On my salary?”
“Tell your wife to give you the money.”
“That money goes to my daughter, who’s studying in Perugia to be a veterinarian.”
“Ah. I get it. You’re training your own family doctor. Good thinking!” and he finally walked into his office, slamming the door behind him and blocking out the baffled face of the officer, who stood there, still chewing over what