Peroni muttered, “shouting doesn’t really help. Here’s an idea. Let’s stop waving our guns around, shall we? It’s making me nervous. All the kid has is a knife.”
“He’s used it, boss,” the young officer objected.
“So it would appear,” Peroni observed, and let his own weapon fall to his side, loose in his grip, then gave them the look. Rosa scowled and did the same. Oliva was the last.
The blue-painted youth shook his long golden hair, watching them. The knife descended slowly and came to rest next to his hip.
Peroni was a father himself, used to dealing with the young, to judging their moods, recognizing their fears and uncertainties. There was something very simple and childlike about this troubled individual. As if he’d spent his entire life in fear and servitude, cowering, waiting to be told what to do, what act to perform, always seeking approval, guidance. The bright, darting eyes, constantly looking for someone, some form of comfort, spoke of dependence. Captivity, even.
Peroni relaxed his fingers and let the service revolver slip from his grip and clatter noisily onto the floor.
He smiled, then extended his big, fleshy fist into the stab of sunlight falling through the windows and the cloud of black-winged insects swirling angrily there.
“Mi chiamo Gianni,”
he said slowly, with confidence. Then again, in English, “My name is Gianni.
Come ti chiami?
What’s your name?”
A look of bafflement, a little less fear. The painted figure with the bloodied chest stared at Peroni’s huge hand, open toward him in a gesture that was more universal than words. He placed the knife carefully on the table across from Giovanni Batisti’s body, wiped his dirty, leathery fingers on his naked thighs, then stretched them tentatively into the dazzling shaft of yellow sunlight in the center of the room.
He was saying something too, not mumbling this time. It was clear and utterly incomprehensible.
Rosa was making a noise. Peroni took his attention away from the figure in front of him for a moment and asked, “What?”
“My dad’s got a friend who talks like that.”
The day got stranger. In the light, it was now clear the youth’s hair was an almost artificial shade of blond. Beneath the grime and the wrinkles of a harsh life he was European, surely.
“You’re telling me he’s talking Indian?”
“There’s no such language as Indian,” she replied drily. “He’s not talking Hindi, anyway.”
The young policewoman said something else and it struck a chord in the strange figure opposite them. A light went on in his eyes. The golden boy began babbling.
“It’s Pashto,” Rosa said. “From Pakistan. Afghanistan. And so is he.”
The three cops looked at one another.
“Add an interpreter to the list,” Peroni ordered. “Can you ask him anything?”
“I can ask his name.”
“Do it.”
She took one step forward until she was almost in the beam of golden light streaming through the window and pronounced, very slowly, very clearly,
“Sta noom tse dai?”
The incense sticks fell from his hands. He smiled: white teeth, marked with decay, but there was something handsome, something strangely attractive, about him anyway.
“Sta noom tse dai?”
Rosa repeated, holding out her hand this time, smiling too.
The others would be here soon, Peroni thought. An interpreter among them. They could clean up this mess, bring in Teresa and forensic, start on the long, detailed process demanded for homicide cases—one that would, he understood, result in this strange, damaged individual being charged with Giovanni Batisti’s murder, probably before the night was out.
Something still troubled him.
The painted figure finally stepped closer to the sun. This close, the blue dye was vivid, on his face and upper chest, and the blood was everywhere, on his hands, his torso.…
What made it worse was the smile. He was grinning, happy, ecstatic.
A word escaped his lips. Peroni shook his head and
“He’s used it, boss,” the young officer objected.
“So it would appear,” Peroni observed, and let his own weapon fall to his side, loose in his grip, then gave them the look. Rosa scowled and did the same. Oliva was the last.
The blue-painted youth shook his long golden hair, watching them. The knife descended slowly and came to rest next to his hip.
Peroni was a father himself, used to dealing with the young, to judging their moods, recognizing their fears and uncertainties. There was something very simple and childlike about this troubled individual. As if he’d spent his entire life in fear and servitude, cowering, waiting to be told what to do, what act to perform, always seeking approval, guidance. The bright, darting eyes, constantly looking for someone, some form of comfort, spoke of dependence. Captivity, even.
Peroni relaxed his fingers and let the service revolver slip from his grip and clatter noisily onto the floor.
He smiled, then extended his big, fleshy fist into the stab of sunlight falling through the windows and the cloud of black-winged insects swirling angrily there.
“Mi chiamo Gianni,”
he said slowly, with confidence. Then again, in English, “My name is Gianni.
Come ti chiami?
What’s your name?”
A look of bafflement, a little less fear. The painted figure with the bloodied chest stared at Peroni’s huge hand, open toward him in a gesture that was more universal than words. He placed the knife carefully on the table across from Giovanni Batisti’s body, wiped his dirty, leathery fingers on his naked thighs, then stretched them tentatively into the dazzling shaft of yellow sunlight in the center of the room.
He was saying something too, not mumbling this time. It was clear and utterly incomprehensible.
Rosa was making a noise. Peroni took his attention away from the figure in front of him for a moment and asked, “What?”
“My dad’s got a friend who talks like that.”
The day got stranger. In the light, it was now clear the youth’s hair was an almost artificial shade of blond. Beneath the grime and the wrinkles of a harsh life he was European, surely.
“You’re telling me he’s talking Indian?”
“There’s no such language as Indian,” she replied drily. “He’s not talking Hindi, anyway.”
The young policewoman said something else and it struck a chord in the strange figure opposite them. A light went on in his eyes. The golden boy began babbling.
“It’s Pashto,” Rosa said. “From Pakistan. Afghanistan. And so is he.”
The three cops looked at one another.
“Add an interpreter to the list,” Peroni ordered. “Can you ask him anything?”
“I can ask his name.”
“Do it.”
She took one step forward until she was almost in the beam of golden light streaming through the window and pronounced, very slowly, very clearly,
“Sta noom tse dai?”
The incense sticks fell from his hands. He smiled: white teeth, marked with decay, but there was something handsome, something strangely attractive, about him anyway.
“Sta noom tse dai?”
Rosa repeated, holding out her hand this time, smiling too.
The others would be here soon, Peroni thought. An interpreter among them. They could clean up this mess, bring in Teresa and forensic, start on the long, detailed process demanded for homicide cases—one that would, he understood, result in this strange, damaged individual being charged with Giovanni Batisti’s murder, probably before the night was out.
Something still troubled him.
The painted figure finally stepped closer to the sun. This close, the blue dye was vivid, on his face and upper chest, and the blood was everywhere, on his hands, his torso.…
What made it worse was the smile. He was grinning, happy, ecstatic.
A word escaped his lips. Peroni shook his head and
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