was searching frantically for an excuse to escape. After all, it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, I had to work the following day, we had had a pleasant evening, we would certainly be seeing each other again, don’t worry I’ll call you, and anyway I’ve got a slight headache. No, there’s nothing the matter except the fact that you’re an alcoholic, a drug addict, probably a nymphomaniac and I want to cry. I’ll call you, really I will.
While I was struggling to think up something less
pathetic, Melissa – who in another single gulp had finished her beer – slipped off her panties (black) from under her skirt.
She didn’t want to waste too much time on preliminaries and other boring formalities. So much was obvious.
And in fact there were no formalities.
I stayed in that place, what with this and that, until nearly daylight.
While she smoked and finished the bottle of whisky she recited the difficulties of living away from home with next to nothing coming from her parents. Of paying the month’s rent, of eating – and of drinking , I thought – of buying cigarettes, clothes, paying for the mobile, having the odd evening out. And books, of course. The occasional job – hostess, public relations – hardly ever brought in enough.
That month, for example, she was already late with the rent, had an exam to prepare for, and the landlady waiting for nothing better than an excuse to chuck her out.
If she wouldn’t be offended, I could lend her a little. No, she wouldn’t be offended, but I had to promise that I’d make her pay it back. Of course, don’t worry. No, I haven’t got half a million in cash, but look, here’s 220,000 in my wallet, I’ll keep the twenty just in case. Don’t worry about it, you’ll let me have it back when you can, there’s no hurry. I really must go now, because tomorrow, that is today, I have to work.
She gave me her mobile number. Of course I’ll call you, I said, screwing up the slip of paper in my pocket, wrenching open the door and fleeing like a scalded cat.
Outside was a leaden dawn, a mouse-coloured sky. The puddles were so black they reflected nothing.
My eyes reflected nothing either.
There came to mind a film I had seen a couple of years before, The Ghost and the Darkness , a splendid yarn about big-game hunters and lions.
Val Kilmer asks Michael Douglas, “Have you ever failed?”
The reply: “Only in life.”
The next day I changed my sim-card and mobile phone number.
11
The days that followed that night were not memorable.
About a week passed, then we were notified that the inquiries were concluded.
At eight-thirty next morning I was in Cervellati’s secretariat to request copies of the file. I made the application, they told me that I could have copies within three days and I left the offices prey to pessimism.
On the Friday my secretary called at the public prosecutor’s office, paid the fees, collected the copies and brought them to the office.
I spent Saturday and Sunday reading and re-reading those papers.
I read, smoked, and drank big cups of weak decaffeinated coffee.
I read, smoked, and what I read I didn’t like a bit. Abdou Thiam was in a pretty pickle.
It was even worse than I’d thought when I read the detention order.
It looked like one of those cases without any prospects, in which going to the Assizes could lead only to a pointless massacre.
It looked as if Cervellati was right and that the only way of reducing the damage was to opt for the shortened procedure.
The thing that nailed my client most of all was the testimony of the barman. He had made a statement to the carabinieri the day before Abdou was
arrested. He had been heard again, a few days later, by the public prosecutor in person.
A perfect witness – for the prosecution.
I read and re-read the two reports, on the look-out for any weak points, but I found almost nothing.
That of the carabinieri was a summary report written in the most classic
While I was struggling to think up something less
pathetic, Melissa – who in another single gulp had finished her beer – slipped off her panties (black) from under her skirt.
She didn’t want to waste too much time on preliminaries and other boring formalities. So much was obvious.
And in fact there were no formalities.
I stayed in that place, what with this and that, until nearly daylight.
While she smoked and finished the bottle of whisky she recited the difficulties of living away from home with next to nothing coming from her parents. Of paying the month’s rent, of eating – and of drinking , I thought – of buying cigarettes, clothes, paying for the mobile, having the odd evening out. And books, of course. The occasional job – hostess, public relations – hardly ever brought in enough.
That month, for example, she was already late with the rent, had an exam to prepare for, and the landlady waiting for nothing better than an excuse to chuck her out.
If she wouldn’t be offended, I could lend her a little. No, she wouldn’t be offended, but I had to promise that I’d make her pay it back. Of course, don’t worry. No, I haven’t got half a million in cash, but look, here’s 220,000 in my wallet, I’ll keep the twenty just in case. Don’t worry about it, you’ll let me have it back when you can, there’s no hurry. I really must go now, because tomorrow, that is today, I have to work.
She gave me her mobile number. Of course I’ll call you, I said, screwing up the slip of paper in my pocket, wrenching open the door and fleeing like a scalded cat.
Outside was a leaden dawn, a mouse-coloured sky. The puddles were so black they reflected nothing.
My eyes reflected nothing either.
There came to mind a film I had seen a couple of years before, The Ghost and the Darkness , a splendid yarn about big-game hunters and lions.
Val Kilmer asks Michael Douglas, “Have you ever failed?”
The reply: “Only in life.”
The next day I changed my sim-card and mobile phone number.
11
The days that followed that night were not memorable.
About a week passed, then we were notified that the inquiries were concluded.
At eight-thirty next morning I was in Cervellati’s secretariat to request copies of the file. I made the application, they told me that I could have copies within three days and I left the offices prey to pessimism.
On the Friday my secretary called at the public prosecutor’s office, paid the fees, collected the copies and brought them to the office.
I spent Saturday and Sunday reading and re-reading those papers.
I read, smoked, and drank big cups of weak decaffeinated coffee.
I read, smoked, and what I read I didn’t like a bit. Abdou Thiam was in a pretty pickle.
It was even worse than I’d thought when I read the detention order.
It looked like one of those cases without any prospects, in which going to the Assizes could lead only to a pointless massacre.
It looked as if Cervellati was right and that the only way of reducing the damage was to opt for the shortened procedure.
The thing that nailed my client most of all was the testimony of the barman. He had made a statement to the carabinieri the day before Abdou was
arrested. He had been heard again, a few days later, by the public prosecutor in person.
A perfect witness – for the prosecution.
I read and re-read the two reports, on the look-out for any weak points, but I found almost nothing.
That of the carabinieri was a summary report written in the most classic
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