not supposed to be depressing, unlike a large cemetery in a big city which can be quite chilling. But he hadn’t yet seen his father’s grave, he hadn’t even attended the funeral, and now he had in his pocket the sheet of paper Lorenza had given him, on which the numbers of the section and the grave were written, and together with Davide he entered that sad, oceanic expanse which was even more lugubrious in the sun. Of course, the grave was at the far end, and they had to do quite a bit of walking, Duca holding the carnations he had bought at the front gate.
Here was the section, more walking, and here was the grave, much the same as all the others in the row, the extinguished candle in the dark glass, the bed of little flowers scorched by the heat, the spartan inscription, Pietro Lamberti, date of birth and death, and that was it. He laid the carnations, loose, on the flower bed, without any attempt at arranging them artistically. From his photograph, his father looked out stiffly at the world in front of him, and Duca stood stiffly looking at the photograph.
‘This is my father,’ he said, as if introducing him, ‘a police officer, from Emilia Romagna, just like me, but he wasn’t typical of the region, he didn’t like revolution or revolutionaries, he liked the law, he liked rules. He was absolutely determined to sort out all those who transgressed the law or broke the rules. He was a kind of Javert. He managed to get himself sent to Sicily because he thought he could do something radical to combat the Mafia. For a while the Mafia took no interest in him, they had no time to waste on an ordinarycop, but my father went too far: he managed to get something out of three or four of those peasants who’ve seen everything and know everything, but always say they know nothing. I don’t know what methods he used, maybe he had to bend the rules a little, but in his small way he managed to break through the wall of silence. His superiors promoted him, and the Mafia sent a young man to deal with him: it was a suicide mission, because my father was a very good shot and the attempt didn’t succeed, my father shot him dead but not before being stabbed in his left shoulder, his left arm was almost paralysed and he was transferred here to Milan, to a desk job.’ He wasn’t looking at Davide, he didn’t care very much if he was listening or not, he was talking like this as if praying—isn’t summing up a man’s life a kind of prayer?—but he sensed that Davide was listening, more than that, he had never listened the way he was listening right now.
‘Maybe it was because he didn’t want the same thing to happen to me that he was against the idea of my becoming a policeman like him, he wanted me to graduate as a doctor, and I did. Nobody will ever know how he managed on a police clerk’s salary, and a widower to boot, because my mother died when I was a boy, but the day I graduated he was in bed, suffering with his heart, and when I had my exams, he had his heart attack. Then I did my military service, and by the time I got back, he’d somehow, stuck there in his office in the Via Fatebenefratelli, already found me a place in a clinic, Professor Arquate’s clinic. Maybe I’d have worked my way up, and he’d have lived happily to the age of ninety, but I met Signora Maldrigati. She’s the old ladyI killed with an injection of ircodine. My father didn’t even know the word euthanasia, for him it was worse than if I’d gone mad, or rather, he must have thought I
had
gone mad, and maybe he forgave me because of that, but he realised the consequences of what I had done: I wouldn’t be a doctor any more, I’d always have a stain on my record, and that killed him.’ His father continued to look at him stiffly from the photograph even when he fell silent, and even if he had heard his words, he still didn’t understand why his son had killed, he would never understand it, for all eternity, his look in the photograph
Here was the section, more walking, and here was the grave, much the same as all the others in the row, the extinguished candle in the dark glass, the bed of little flowers scorched by the heat, the spartan inscription, Pietro Lamberti, date of birth and death, and that was it. He laid the carnations, loose, on the flower bed, without any attempt at arranging them artistically. From his photograph, his father looked out stiffly at the world in front of him, and Duca stood stiffly looking at the photograph.
‘This is my father,’ he said, as if introducing him, ‘a police officer, from Emilia Romagna, just like me, but he wasn’t typical of the region, he didn’t like revolution or revolutionaries, he liked the law, he liked rules. He was absolutely determined to sort out all those who transgressed the law or broke the rules. He was a kind of Javert. He managed to get himself sent to Sicily because he thought he could do something radical to combat the Mafia. For a while the Mafia took no interest in him, they had no time to waste on an ordinarycop, but my father went too far: he managed to get something out of three or four of those peasants who’ve seen everything and know everything, but always say they know nothing. I don’t know what methods he used, maybe he had to bend the rules a little, but in his small way he managed to break through the wall of silence. His superiors promoted him, and the Mafia sent a young man to deal with him: it was a suicide mission, because my father was a very good shot and the attempt didn’t succeed, my father shot him dead but not before being stabbed in his left shoulder, his left arm was almost paralysed and he was transferred here to Milan, to a desk job.’ He wasn’t looking at Davide, he didn’t care very much if he was listening or not, he was talking like this as if praying—isn’t summing up a man’s life a kind of prayer?—but he sensed that Davide was listening, more than that, he had never listened the way he was listening right now.
‘Maybe it was because he didn’t want the same thing to happen to me that he was against the idea of my becoming a policeman like him, he wanted me to graduate as a doctor, and I did. Nobody will ever know how he managed on a police clerk’s salary, and a widower to boot, because my mother died when I was a boy, but the day I graduated he was in bed, suffering with his heart, and when I had my exams, he had his heart attack. Then I did my military service, and by the time I got back, he’d somehow, stuck there in his office in the Via Fatebenefratelli, already found me a place in a clinic, Professor Arquate’s clinic. Maybe I’d have worked my way up, and he’d have lived happily to the age of ninety, but I met Signora Maldrigati. She’s the old ladyI killed with an injection of ircodine. My father didn’t even know the word euthanasia, for him it was worse than if I’d gone mad, or rather, he must have thought I
had
gone mad, and maybe he forgave me because of that, but he realised the consequences of what I had done: I wouldn’t be a doctor any more, I’d always have a stain on my record, and that killed him.’ His father continued to look at him stiffly from the photograph even when he fell silent, and even if he had heard his words, he still didn’t understand why his son had killed, he would never understand it, for all eternity, his look in the photograph
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