Involuntary Witness - Страница 16

She was tickled to death. I wasn’t. I had gone to have a cup of tea with an ex-girlfriend and found I had to rewrite history.

I discovered that his name was Beppe, that he was a jewellery salesman, that he was married and rich. The place on the Walls, to be precise, was not his home but his bachelor pad. At the time of these events he was thirty-six and had a sterling wife.

At the time of these events I was twenty-two, my parents gave me 40,000 lire a week, I shared a bedroom with my brother and – I was now discovering rather late in the day – I had a whore for a girlfriend.

I reached the coast, turned left towards the Teatro Margherita, and headed for San Nicola, passing below the Walls. Just where this Signor Beppe had his bachelor pad. Where he used to take my girlfriend.

By now it was daylight, the air was fresh and clean, and it was an ideal day for a walk. I continued as far as the Castello Svevo and then further still towards the Fiera del Levante, to arrive perhaps two hours and several miles after leaving home at the pine wood of San Francesco.

It was practically deserted. Only a few men running and a few others seated, preferring to let their dogs do the running.

I chose a good bench, one of those green wooden ones with a back, in the sun. I sat down and read my book.

When I finished it, about two hours later, I was feeling pretty fit and thought I’d take another ten minutes’ rest before setting off for home. Or perhaps for the office, where they certainly must have begun to wonder what on earth had happened to me.

It was starting to get hot, so I took off my jacket, folded it up into a kind of pillow and stretched out with my face in the sun.

When I woke it was past midday. The joggers had multiplied, there were pairs of young boys, women with babies, and old men playing cards at the stone tables. There were also two Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to convert anyone who didn’t show them a sufficiently hostile front.

Time to be gone. Very much so.

19

As soon as I got home my eye fell on my mobile and I ignored it. When I went to the office in the afternoon it was in my pocket, but still turned off.

Maria Teresa engulfed me the very moment I opened the door. They’d been hunting for me all morning, at home and on my mobile. At home there was no answer and the other was always off.

Naturally – I thought – because I was in the pine wood, taking the sun, in defiance of the lot of you and without the damn phone.

That morning all hell had broken loose.

Surely I hadn’t forgotten some hearing? Ah, just as well, I thought not. Lots of people looking for me? No matter, they’ll call again. No, certainly I hadn’t forgotten that the time limit for Colaianni’s appeal expired tomorrow.

Liar! I had completely forgotten. Just as well I had a secretary who knew her job.

They’d called three times from the prison since midday? Why was that?

Maria Teresa didn’t know. It was something urgent, they said, but they hadn’t explained what. The last to call had been a certain Inspector Surano. He had asked me to call him back as soon as I was traced.

I called the switchboard of the administration building, asked for Inspector Surano and, after a wait of at least three minutes, I heard a low, hoarse voice with the accent of the province of Lecce.

Yes, I was Avvocato Guerrieri. Yes, I was acting for the prisoner Abdou Thiam. Yes, I could come to the prison, if he would first be good enough to tell me the reason.

He told me the reason. That morning, following visiting hours, the prisoner Abdou Thiam had put into effect an attempted suicide by means of hanging.

He had been rescued when he was already swinging from a rope made of torn-up sheets plaited together. He was now in the prison infirmary with a round-the-clock watch on him.

I said I’d be there as soon as possible.

As soon as possible is a very ambiguous concept if it is a matter of getting to the prison from the centre of Bari on a working afternoon.

However, in scarcely over half an hour I was outside the admin building and ringing the bell. Having parked the car illegally of course.

The warder in the guardroom had been alerted to my arrival. He asked me to wait and called Inspector Surano, who arrived surprisingly soon. He said the governor wanted to talk to me and we could go to him at once. I asked how my client was and he said he was fairly well, physically. He personally would accompany me to the infirmary immediately after our meeting with the governor.

We plunged into the yellowed, ill-lit corridors, in which hung the unmistakable odour of food typical of prisons, barracks and hospitals. Every so often we passed a prisoner wielding a broom or pushing a trolley. We finally entered a freshly painted corridor with potted plants in it, and at the end of this was the door of the governor’s office.

Inspector Surano knocked, looked in, said something I didn’t hear and then opened the door wide, ushering me in and following.

The governor was a man of about fifty-five, with an anonymous air, papery, lustreless skin and an evasive look.

He was sorry, he said, about what had happened, but thanks to the presence of mind of one of his men tragedy had been averted.

Yes, another tragedy, I thought, remembering the suicide of one of my clients – a twenty-year-old drug addict – and the rumours, never confirmed, of violence committed on the prisoners to impose discipline.

The governor wished to assure me that he had already given strict instructions for the prisoner – what’s his name now? – ah yes, the prisoner Abdou Thiam to be under constant surveillance with a view to preventing further attempts at suicide or any kind of self-inflicted harm.

He felt sure that this unpleasant incident would have no consequences, let alone publicity, for the peace and quiet of the penal institute and of the prisoner himself. For his own part, he was at my disposal in case I needed anything.

In plain language, if you don’t give me any trouble, it’ll be better for all concerned. Including your client, who’s in here and here to stay.

I would have liked to tell him to go fuck himself, but I was in a hurry to see Abdou and in addition I suddenly felt exhausted. So I thanked him for his readiness to help and asked him to have me accompanied to the infirmary.

We did not shake hands and Inspector Surano led me back the way we had come, and then along other even more dreary corridors, through barred doors and that stench of food that seemed to penetrate into every cranny.

The infirmary was a large room with about a dozen beds, nearly all occupied. I failed to spot Abdou and looked questioningly at Surano. He jerked his head to indicate the far end of the room and went ahead of me.

Abdou was in a bed with his arms strapped down and his eyes half closed. He was breathing through his mouth.

Close by him was sitting a fat, moustachioed warder. He was smoking, on his face an expression of boredom.

Surano chose to assume an air of authority.

“What the hell are you doing smoking in the infirmary, Abbaticchio? Put it out, put it out, and give your chair to the Avvocato.”

Such courtesy was new to me. Plainly the governor had given orders for me to be treated with kid gloves.

This Abbaticchio gave the inspector a sullen look. He seemed on the point of saying something, then thought better of it. He put out his cigarette and moved off, ignoring me completely. Surano told me I could take my time. When I had finished, he would himself escort me to the exit. Then he too retired as far as the infirmary door.

Now I was alone at Abdou’s bedside, but he didn’t seem to have noticed my presence.

I bent over him a little and tried calling his name but there was no reaction. Just as I was about to touch him on the arm he spoke, almost without moving his lips.

“What do you want, Avvocato?”

I withdrew my arm with a slight start.

“What happened, Abdou?”

“You know what happened. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

His eyes were wide open now, staring at the ceiling. I sat down, and realized only then that I had absolutely no idea what to say.

Once down level with him, I noticed the marks on his neck.

“Did Abajaje come this morning?”

He made no answer, nor did he look at me. He closed his mouth and set his jaw. After two attempts he managed to swallow. Then, like a scene in slow motion, in the inner corner of his left eye I saw a tear – one only – forming, growing, detaching itself and coursing slowly all the way down his cheek, until it vanished at the edge of his jaw. I too had trouble swallowing.

For a time incalculable neither of us spoke. Then it came to me that there was only one thing I could say that made sense.

“You’ve been abandoned and you think that now it’s really all up with you. I know. And you’re probably even right.”

Abdou’s eyes, which had stayed riveted on the ceiling, now turned slowly towards me. Even his head moved, though very little. I had his attention. I started to speak again and my voice was surprisingly calm.

“In fact, as I see it, you have only one chance, and even that is a slim one. The decision is up to you alone.”

He was looking at me now, and I knew I was in control of the situation.

“If you want to fight for that chance, tell me so.”

“What chance?”

“We won’t opt for the shortened procedure. We’ll have a trial before the Court of Assizes and try to win it. That is, to get you acquitted. The chances are slight and I confirm what I said last time. My advice is still to choose the shortened procedure. But the decision is up to you. If you don’t want to go for the shortened procedure, I will defend you in the Court of Assizes.”