The Past is a Foreign Country (22 page)

CHITI WAS SITTING in the usual armchair. The armchair in which he sat out his sleepless nights and his headaches. The armchair in which he awoke from dreams, or nightmares, to confront the
flaccid
weight of another day about to begin. The armchair in which madness lay in wait for him, snarling and red-eyed like the Hound of the Baskervilles, which he had seen many years ago in a film, when he was a child.

This morning was different.

There was a strange, unfamiliar feeling of lightness as the notes of the sixth Polonaise – the
Eroica
– flowed like liquid through the silent, deserted apartment. Not at low volume, this time. The rooms, as austere as those terrifying empty rooms of his childhood, were flooded with the music and seemed to come to life. As if benign ghosts had woken and had got up to discover what was going on.

The night was coming to an end. It was like a series of scattered photos passing in front of his eyes, like something that had
happened
to other people. Something remote, alien.

From his pocket he took the dirty, crumpled drawing he had kept all these months. The phantom he had been hunting all these months.

He looked at it without recognising it. And the strange thing was that it had no effect on him. None at all. He couldn’t see anything in it any more. Just lines that came together, moved apart, grew
thicker, crossed, and disappeared. The drawing was lifeless now, the face blank, unfamiliar.

He tore the paper, once, twice, three times, four times, until the wad of torn pieces was so small and thick that he couldn’t tear it any more.

Then he went and threw the pieces in the litter bin.

As he sat back down in the armchair, he thought for a moment about that young man. He felt sorry for him. He had really taken a beating, even though he had nothing to do with the crimes. Far from it. Then even this thought faded, as remote and alien as the rest of it.

He was not tired, and did not have a headache. He felt better, he thought, than he had ever felt in his life, apart perhaps from his earliest childhood, whose images, sounds, textures and smells are formed in equal parts from the material of memory and the material of fantasies and dreams.

Then he had a new thought, a painful, nagging, beautiful thought that made him feel dizzy.

He was free. Free to do many things. Free to leave. If he wanted.

Or stay. If he wanted.

Free.

Outside, opposite the barracks, day was breaking over the sea.

FRANCESCO DIDN’T ACCUSE me. He didn’t say anything about me. He didn’t say anything at all. He availed himself, as they say, of the right not to answer any questions.

Four months after that night, he stood trial for all eight assaults.

None of the victims, though, were able to identify him. One said that it
could
have been him and another that she
seemed
to recognise his voice.

The presiding judge asked her if she could be certain and she said no, she couldn’t. ‘It seems like his voice,’ she repeated, wringing her hands, trying to drive away the ghosts.

The others couldn’t really say anything at all about their assailant: his voice, his face, his general appearance.

Whoever the man was, he had always made very sure none of them saw his face.

In other words, the charges, except in the case of the last assault, were based almost entirely on the similarities in the MOs.

In an attempt to compensate for the lack of concrete evidence, the prosecutor had asked a criminologist and a psychiatrist for an expert report. Both had been asked to consider two things. The first was whether the defendant was capable of understanding and free will. The second was whether the defendant’s psychological type was compatible with committing serial sexual assaults.

The two professors concluded their long report like this:
The
defendant
has a markedly above-average IQ (135-140) with very high scores in the field of spatial intelligence. He demonstrates manic-depressive tendencies, antisocial personality disorder with features of narcissistic disorder, a propensity towards the systematic use of lies and deceit, and a strong tendency towards manipulation in relationships. According to
DSM III (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders)
individuals
with antisocial personality disorder find it hard to conform to the rules of society as laid down in law. They may repeatedly commit acts for which they could be arrested and systematically disregard the desires, rights and feelings of other people. They are frequently
manipulative
for the purpose of profit or personal pleasure. They may repeatedly lie, use false identities, simulate, swindle, or cheat at cards. Antisocal disorder, also known as sociopathy or psychopathy, does not usually
imply
the abolition of, or even any reduction in, the capacity to understand and exercise free will. In this particular case, the defendant, despite
suffering
from personality disorder, is certainly capable of understanding and exercising free will.

The psychological portrait thus far outlined is characteristic of the perpetrators of serial crimes involving the use of violence and deception in the spheres of property and sexuality. In extreme cases, this may lead to the committing of serial homicides
.

In passing sentence, the judges rejected this conclusion as
insufficient
. They were right, of course. It’s one thing to say that someone corresponds to the psychological type of the serial sex attacker, and quite another to say that he has committed a specific series of
assaults
, if there is no evidence and the accusation is based entirely on conjecture. Reasonable conjecture, plausible conjecture, but still conjecture, and you don’t get far in court with conjecture even if it’s very reasonable.

So Francesco was found guilty only of the attempted assault on A.C.

I had to testify, of course. The night before my appearance in court I couldn’t sleep, and when the usher called me I felt a wave of nausea.

I entered the courtroom and walked from the door to the witness stand with my eyes down. I answered everyone’s questions – the prosecutor’s, the defence counsel’s, the judges’ – staring constantly at a point in front of me on the grey wall. I spoke mechanically, with my back to the dock where Francesco was confined. I managed not to look his way, not even for a moment.

Leaving the courthouse, I vomited in a flower bed, in front of the statue of justice. Then I staggered quickly away. A few people looked at me for a moment, without much interest.

Francesco was sentenced to four years in prison, and the sentence was confirmed on appeal. I don’t know how long he was inside. I don’t know when he got out, or where he went. I don’t think he stayed in Bari, but I only say that because I never saw him again.

I never heard anything about him again.

For months on end, I drifted. I remember hardly anything of that time. Apart from the nausea and the waking in panic early in the morning while it was still dark.

Then, for no particular reason, I started studying again. Like an automaton. Exactly two years after that night, I graduated. Only my parents, my sister and an aunt attended my graduation. There was no party. I didn’t have any friends left to invite.

Later I continued to study, like an automaton. I took the exam to become a magistrate and passed.

I’m a prosecutor now. I play my part in sending criminals to
prison
. For crimes like extortion, gambling, fraud, drug smuggling.

Sometimes I feel ashamed about that.

Sometimes I feel sure that something – or someone – is going to emerge from the past and suck me back in. To make me pay what I owe.

Sometimes I have a dream. It’s always the same.

I’m on that beach, in Spain. It’s dawn, just as it was then, and like then there’s this acute feeling of a perfect moment, of
overwhelming
, invincible youth. I’m alone, looking at the sea, waiting. Then my friend Francesco arrives, though I can’t see his face. We go into the water together. By the time we’ve swum out to sea I realise he’s disappeared. Then suddenly I remember it’s my graduation day
today
. I won’t be able to attend, because I’m in Spain. The sky is full of dark clouds. The sun may be rising, but I can’t see it. So I stay in the water as the waves start to rise, feeling that everything is ending and I can’t do anything about it. Feeling an infinite nostalgia.

ANTONIA TELLS ME she’s a psychiatrist. She works in a centre that specialises in helping victims of violence.

Every person chases away his own ghosts the best way they can, I think. Some succeed better than others.

She tells me she’s thought of trying to find me from time to time. She never thanked me, she explains.

Not only for saving her from being assaulted that night.

But for giving her back her dignity.

I keep my head down. It isn’t true, I think. I want to tell her I was a coward. I am a coward. I’ve always been afraid. I’ll always be afraid.

Then I look her in the eyes and realise, with a shudder, that in some strange way she’s right.

So I say nothing. And she also falls silent. But she doesn’t go. I’d like to thank her, too, but I can’t.

So we just sit there in the bar. The silence hanging between us.

Outside, it’s cold.