Black Run by Antonio Manzini Read Free Book Online

“I know. Sorry.”
    She leans on the doorjamb, arms folded across her chest. She’s ready to listen. She wants to know more. “We 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€œDoes that mean you’re going to be staying up there for a while?”
    â€œNot on your life. It’s an hour’s drive. Let’s just hope it turns out to be a case of accidental death.”
    Marina looks at me. I keep my feet submerged in the bidet, which smokes like a pot of spaghetti. “Sure, but tomorrow morning you’re buying yourself a pair of decent shoes. Otherwise, in a couple of days they’ll have to amputate your feet for gangrene.”
    â€œThe investigating magistrate said the same thing. Anyway, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s sensible shoes.”
    â€œHave you eaten?”

    â€œA piece of stale pizza on the way.”
    Marina has vanished behind the door. She’s 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.
    It’s 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. Peter’s, Piazza Venezia, and the mountains in the distance. Furio suggested I should rent it out. Instead of leaving it empty. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t 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. Strangers’ asses planted on my toilet, in my bath, strange faces admiring their reflections in my Mexican mirrors. It’s out of the question. I get myself a bottle of cool water. Otherwise I’ll 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, she’s reading the dictionary.
    â€œIsn’t it a little late for reading?”
    â€œIt’s the only way I can get to sleep.”
    â€œWhat’s the new word for today?”

    Marina has a little black notebook that she keeps in her lap with a pencil. She opens to her bookmark and reads. “Stitch—transitive verb: To sew or embroider something. It can also be used of one who sews with no particular enthusiasm.” She sets down her notebook.
    The mattress is comfortable. It’s 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. That’s what it says in the pamphlet that came with it.
    â€œCould you say that I’m stitching in Aosta?” I ask Marina.
    â€œNo. You’re not a tailor. I’m the one who knows how to sew.”
    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 Schiavone’s 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