The Silence of the Wave by Gianrico Carofiglio Read Free Book Online

melted away, and his head became delightfully free. What the doctor had said would happen actually happened, and his thoughts, those solid entities made up of memories, recriminations, and decaying dreams, slipped away, even if only for a short while—long enough, though, for him to realize that it was possible.
    When he got home, it occurred to him that in two months he would have to have a medical checkup. It was the first time he had thought about possibly going back to work.
    The first time since a colleague had found him in the office, at night, with a gun in his mouth, wondering if you really didn’t feel any pain when you shot yourself in the head at such close range. Wondering if they would find him with shit in his trousers, like the murder victims he had seen, or if the instinctive, split-second fear of dying would kick in before the nine-millimeterParabellum bullet went right through his brain and smashed his skull.
    He was very calm, very clearheaded, as he felt the taste of the burnished steel on his tongue and wondered what the scene of his suicide would look like.
    He distinctly remembered the expression on the face of that young officer, the terrified expression of someone who would like to run out to find help but realizes that this might well be the wrong move. Definitely the wrong move.
    “Please take that thing out and move it away.” He actually said
please
, which Roberto thought was interesting. Please don’t shoot yourself in the head. Apart from getting the office dirty, it would all be a complete mess: lawyers, journalists, inquiries.
    Please take that thing out of your mouth. Please, I became a carabiniere because I wanted things to be straightforward, with the bad guys on one side and the good guys—us—on the other. Clear, straightforward, predictable.
    There was no provision for finding a colleague in the office at two o’clock in the morning, ready to blow his brains out.
    Roberto looked at him with genuine curiosity, feeling an unreal sense of calm and control. The young officer had a smooth, boyish face: he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
    “Please take it out and put it on the table.” His voice was shaking.
    Roberto wondered what to do. Press the trigger or put down the gun? For a few moments he felt a sense of complete omnipotence, of infinite possibilities. He was the master of life and death. He could choose.
    Choose.
    He took the barrel out of his mouth and put the gun on the table. It was cocked, and it would only have taken a very slight pressure to produce an irreversible result.
    “Can I come closer?” the young officer asked.
    “Of course,” Roberto replied, somewhat surprised. Why on earth shouldn’t he come closer? he thought, once again in a complete, coherent sentence.
    “Can I take it?” the young man asked when he was at the table.
    “Wait,” replied Roberto. He picked up the gun and gently pressed the hammer, rendering it harmless. He detached the magazine, pulled back the slide, and tipped out the bullet that had been waiting in the barrel, ready to go through his brain.
    “Now you can take it,” he said at last. “You have to be careful with these things. It doesn’t take much to go off and cause a tragedy.” His voice was neutral, with no hint of irony or sarcasm. It didn’t sound like—it wasn’t—the voice of someone who, just a minute earlier, had been hovering between life and death.
    The young carabiniere took the gun, the magazine, and the bullet that had been expelled when the slide had been pulled back. Then at last he went out and called for help. Roberto sat there waiting.
    * * *
    The mind had to be kept occupied, that was the thing. That way it was easier to avoid becoming prey to your thoughts.
    Cooking is almost always a good solution. Roberto made himself an omelet, concentrating hard on every step of the recipe.
    Letting the omelet cool down, he opened a bottle of