Involuntary Witness - Страница 32

“Very well,” said Cervellati, trying to control himself and turning to the court. “I must not argue with the accused. Listen, Thiam, you said you went to Naples that day. Describe the events of the day in detail.”

“The day I went to Naples?”

“Yes.”

“I set off early in the morning, at about six. I got to Naples around nine. I went to a depot in the neighbourhood of the prison at Poggioreale, where I get my goods, and I loaded up the car. Then I went to a place really close to the station, where my friends were who had the hashish, and I bought it. I had the money we had put together in Bari-”

“Why did you have to go to Naples to buy the hashish? Can’t it be got in Bari?”

“You can find stuff in Bari, but it’s mostly grass, that is marijuana, which comes from Albania. But I had to go to Naples anyway for my goods. These friends in Naples have very good stuff and let me have it cheap, at cost price.”

“What price do your pusher friends ask you?”

“A million lire for half a kilo.”

“Which you then peddled in Bari.”

“No. I didn’t peddle it. We bought it cooperatively and then divided it up to smoke it ourselves.”

“What time did you get back to Bari?”

“In the afternoon. I don’t know exactly what time. When I unloaded the car at my friend’s place it was still daylight.”

“And of course – you’ve already told us – you don’t want to tell us the name of this friend.”

“I can’t.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm the story you have told us in this courtroom today?”

“A witness?”

“Yes, a witness.”

“No, I cannot call anyone. What’s more, I have been in prison for nearly a year, and I don’t know if the people in Naples, or even my friend in Bari, are still in Italy.”

“Very well. We therefore have only your word for it. In any case you can exclude the possibility of having gone to Monopoli, to Capitolo, that evening.”

“No.”

“You can’t exclude it?”

“I mean I didn’t go. When I finished unloading, I stayed in Bari. It was late and I wouldn’t have found anyone on the beaches.”

“You say you didn’t go to Monopoli that evening. In that case, how do you explain the fact that Signor Renna – the proprietor of the Bar Maracaibo – declares that he saw you passing in front of his bar that very evening at about six o’clock? Are you of the opinion that Signor Renna has not told the truth? Do you think that Signor Renna has some reason for hostility towards you?”

“I don’t understand. What is the meaning of ‘hostility’?”

“Is it your opinion that Renna is accusing you falsely because he wishes you harm? Has he something against you?”

I was on the point of objecting, but Abdou answered first, and answered well.

“That is not what I said. I did not say that he is accusing me falsely. I know he is mistaken, but that is a different thing. To accuse falsely is when someone says something he knows is not true. He is saying something untrue but I think he believes it to be true.”

“In the days following 5 August did you take your car to be washed?”

“Yes, after my trip to Naples. I took it to be washed at that time.”

“Why?”

“Because it was dirty.”

I seemed to perceive the trace of a smile on the lips of some of the bench. Those who remained deadly serious were the judge, the associate judge, the buxom woman who appeared to be embalmed, and the elderly man who looked like a retired officer. I remained very serious indeed. So did Cervellati, who continued his examination for a few more minutes, asking Abdou about the photograph of the child and a handful of other things.

Counsel for the civil party put a few questions, just to show he was there, then the judge gave me permission to proceed.

“Signor Thiam, could you tell us what work you did in Senegal?”

“I am a primary-school teacher.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“I speak Wolof – my native language – Italian, French and English.”

“Why did you come to this country?”

“Because I couldn’t see a future in my own country.”

“Are you an illegal immigrant?”

“No, I have a residence permit and also a licence to sell goods. However, I also sold counterfeit goods. That’s the illegal thing I did.”

“How long did you know little Francesco?”

“I met him last summer… no, I mean the summer before… in 1998.”

“Why did you have that photograph of the boy?”

“He gave it to me himself… the boy and I were friends. We often used to talk…”

“When was it given to you?”

“Last year, in July. The boy said that if I went back to Africa I could take it with me as a memento. I told him that I wouldn’t be going back to Africa, but he gave it to me all the same.”

“When was the photo taken?”

“The very day he gave it to me. His grandfather had a Polaroid camera and was taking photographs. The boy chose one of them and gave it to me.”

“I would now like to turn to another matter. I see you speak very good Italian. I would therefore like to ask you something. Can you tell us the meaning of the sentence: ‘I expressly renounce any time for defence’?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“That’s odd, Signor Thiam, because it’s a phrase you appear to have pronounced during your interrogation by the public prosecutor. Would you care to read it?”

I went up to Abdou and showed him my copy of the record. I was expecting Cervellati to raise an objection, but he stayed seated and said nothing.

Abdou peered at the document, as I had told him to last week in prison. Then he shook his head.

“No, I don’t know what it means.”

“Excuse me, Signor Thiam, but did you not say that you renounced any time for you to prepare for your appearance and interrogation?”

“I don’t know what this means.”

That was the place for me to stop. The message, I thought, had got across. The record of Abdou’s interrogation had been drafted pretty casually, and now the court knew it. I could change the subject and get on to the decisive point.

“You have said that on 5 August you went to Naples but that there are no witnesses who can confirm this fact. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got a mobile telephone?”

“I had one. When they arrested me they confiscated that too.”

“Of course, it is on file in the report. When you went to Naples did you have that mobile with you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember whether you made or received any calls that day?”

“I think so. I don’t remember exactly, but I think so.”

“Can you tell us the number of that mobile telephone?”

“Yes. The number was 0339-7134964.”

“I have finished, Your Honour. Thank you.”

The public prosecutor had no more questions and requested the attachment of the document used for his assertions. I made no objections. The judge said that after half an hour’s break would be the time to put forward any applications for additional evidence. The court would decide whether to accept or reject them and we would agree on the dates for further hearings.

My feeling was that I was seriously in need of coffee and a cigarette.

33

The bar in the law courts had little tables like the ones in the snack bars of the 1970s. I got my cup of coffee at the counter, then went and sat at one, alone and with the intention of spending half an hour without thinking of anything or talking to a soul.

I lit a cigarette and sat there watching the people coming in and out of the bar. Peaceful.

There I was when in came a suntanned, stylish, bejewelled woman with the air of one who spends a lot of her time between the gym and the beauty parlour. She was making for the counter when she spotted me and stopped. She was looking in my direction with the beginnings of a smile on her face, as if she expected some sign of recognition. I glanced to right and left, to see if it was really me she was looking at. Behind me was impossible, because I was right against the wall. However, I was the only one at the tables, so it really was me she was looking at.

Noticing the way I acted, she came nearer. Her expression had changed a little. I imagine she thought I must be extremely short-sighted or extremely dim-witted.

“Don’t you recognize me?” she said at last.

I craned towards her, and a doltish smile spread over my face while I hunted for something to say. Then I did recognize her.

From fifteen years before, or perhaps more. I had only just graduated. I couldn’t remember what she was doing at that time, but certainly something quite different. Maybe studying medicine, or maybe I was confusing her with someone else.

We had gone out together for a couple of months, or perhaps less. She was older than me, by five years or so. So now she must be about forty-five. What was her name? I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name.

“Magda. I’m Magda. How come you don’t recognize me?”

Magda. We’d gone out together for two months fifteen years before.

What did we do? What did we talk about?

“Magda. Forgive me. I don’t wear specs because I’m too vain and then I make this sort of a fool of myself. I’m a little short-sighted. How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

There followed an absurd conversation. I remembered almost nothing about her, so I was cautious, trying to avoid any more gaffes. She told me she was in the law courts for work reasons. The way she said it implied that I knew what her job was. But I hadn’t the foggiest and while she went on talking – about separations, the single life, holidays, how we absolutely must meet again one evening with a series of persons whose names meant nothing to me – I felt sucked into a surreal maelstrom.