âI know. Sorry.â
She leans on the doorjamb, arms folded across her chest. Sheâs ready to listen. She wants to know more. âWe found a corpse in the middle of a ski run, buried in the snow. In Champoluc. A tremendous pain in the ass, my love.â
âDoes that mean youâre going to be staying up there for a while?â
âNot on your life. Itâs an hourâs drive. Letâs just hope it turns out to be a case of accidental death.â
Marina looks at me. I keep my feet submerged in the bidet, which smokes like a pot of spaghetti. âSure, but tomorrow morning youâre buying yourself a pair of decent shoes. Otherwise, in a couple of days theyâll have to amputate your feet for gangrene.â
âThe investigating magistrate said the same thing. Anyway, if thereâs one thing I hate, itâs sensible shoes.â
âHave you eaten?â
âA piece of stale pizza on the way.â
Marina has vanished behind the door. Sheâs gone to bed. I dry my feet and go into the kitchen. I hate this furnished apartment. The kitchen is the only decent room in the apartment. I wish I could understand the way other people live. Most of their apartments and homes are furnished in a way that evokes pity, nothing else. Only in the kitchen do they spend vast sums, furnishing the place with electric appliances of all kinds: ovens, microwaves, and dishwashers like something out of the Starship Enterprise. Instead, in the living room, arte povera and paintings of clowns hanging on the walls.
Itâs a mystery.
Every once in a while, I compare it with my home, in Rome. On the Janiculum Hill. I look out over the city, and on a windy day, when the air is clear, I can see St. Peterâs, Piazza Venezia, and the mountains in the distance. Furio suggested I should rent it out. Instead of leaving it empty. But I just canât bring myself to do it. I canât stand the idea of strangers walking over the parquet floors that Marina chose, or opening the drawers of the Indian credenzas that we bought years ago in Viterbo. To say nothing of the bathrooms. Strangersâ asses planted on my toilet, in my bath, strange faces admiring their reflections in my Mexican mirrors. Itâs out of the question. I get myself a bottle of cool water. Otherwise Iâll wake up in the middle of the night with a throat and tongue that resemble two pieces of sandpaper.
Marina is under the blankets. As always, sheâs reading the dictionary.
âIsnât it a little late for reading?â
âItâs the only way I can get to sleep.â
âWhatâs the new word for today?â
Marina has a little black notebook that she keeps in her lap with a pencil. She opens to her bookmark and reads. âStitchâtransitive verb: To sew or embroider something. It can also be used of one who sews with no particular enthusiasm.â She sets down her notebook.
The mattress is comfortable. Itâs called memory foam. A material developed by NASA for astronauts in the sixties. It envelops you like a glove because it remembers the shape of your body. Thatâs what it says in the pamphlet that came with it.
âCould you say that Iâm stitching in Aosta?â I ask Marina.
âNo. Youâre not a tailor. Iâm the one who knows how to sew.â
The mattress is comfortable. But the bed is cold as ice. I wrap myself around Marina. Looking for a little heat. But her side is as cold as mine.
I close my eyes.
And I finally put an end to this shitty day.
FRIDAY
The telephone drilled through the silence that double-pane windows and the absence of traffic gave to Deputy Police Chief Schiavoneâs apartment on Rue Piave. Rocco leaped like a hooked bass and opened his eyes wide. Despite the scream of the cell phone on his nightstand, he was still able to gather his thoughts: it was morning, he was at home, in his own bed after spending the night out in the