Involuntary Witness

which enabled them to find the boy’s body. He said that the anonymous voice was strange. The prosecutor wanted to know more. He would probably have liked the witness to say that the accent was Senegalese. The carabiniere, however, did not help him out. The accent, for him, was simply strange, which meant everything and nothing.

Then there were the dog handlers, who added nothing to what the lieutenant had said. Then the fireman who had gone down the well to fasten the sling around the boy’s body and haul it up. A distressing, useless account.

Then we heard some of the habitues of the Duna Beach establishment. They knew Abdou, some had bought things from him, all of them remembered that from time to time the Senegalese stopped to chat with them on the beach. They said that they had also sometimes seen him talking to the little boy. I asked them how Abdou behaved, and they all said he was always friendly, that he had never behaved oddly. As for him and the boy, they had almost seemed to be friends.

We were to have heard the police doctor who performed the autopsy, but he wasn’t there. He had sent a justification and asked to be heard during a later hearing. The judge was not sorry to get away a little earlier than expected. The trial was adjourned until the following Monday.

My fear was that by then, alas, the heat would have started. We couldn’t always be so lucky with the weather, not in June.

25

A couple of weeks had passed since that evening with Margherita. In the interim we had neither seen nor spoken to one another. A strange thing had happened to me the following morning: I had felt guilty. Towards Sara, I think.

It was a strange thing because it was Sara who had left me and had been living a life of her own for over a year and a half. And yet, absurdly, for the first time I felt I had betrayed her. For the sole reason that I had enjoyed myself that evening in Margherita’s company.

When we were married and living together I had done a lot of rotten things. They had made me feel uncomfortable, sometimes they had caused me to despise myself. But they had never really made me feel guilty, as I did after that evening.

I have often thought back on this phenomenon. At that time I didn’t understand it. Now perhaps I do.

One grows fond even of grief, even of desperation. When we have suffered a great deal on account of a person, we are shocked by the fact that the grief is growing less. Because we think that means, yet again, that everything, really everything, comes to an end.

It isn’t true, but I was not yet ready to understand this.

And I had not called Margherita. I had not called her because I was afraid of losing my grief. What strange creatures we are.

However, it was she who called me. I was in a bookshop at about half-past two in the afternoon, my favourite time. There’s never anyone around, one can listen to the music and, with no people there, even catch the odour of fresh paper.

When I answered the mobile I was giving a quick reading to an essay. An old technique I acquired when I didn’t have the money to buy all the books I wanted.

What was I doing? Well, I was in a bookshop. Would I care to have a cup of coffee with her? Yes, I would. In just the time it would take me to get home from Laterza’s. About ten minutes. No, I didn’t want the decaffeinated, a proper coffee would be fine. See you soon. Yes, I’m glad to hear from you too. Really glad.

While I was – without realizing it – hurrying home, it occurred to me that I didn’t remember giving her my mobile number, that I didn’t recall having talked about my sleeping problems and the decaffeinated coffee. And that I was glad she’d called me.

She greeted me by taking my hand, pulling me gently towards her and kissing me on both cheeks. A friendly, almost comradely greeting. Yet it gave me that certain feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I blushed a little.

She had me sit on the terrace, which was north-facing and therefore cool and shady. We drank our coffee and lit up cigarettes. She was wearing faded jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt bearing the legend: What the caterpillar thinks is the end of the world, the rest of the world calls a butterfly. Lao-tzu.

Her face was tanned, and so were her arms, which were shapely and muscular. She had read about Abdou’s trial in the paper, where it was, as they say, prominently featured. She had read that I was counsel for the defence and had called me because she wanted to know all about it. I had a slight pang of disappointment. She had called me only to learn about the trial, because she was curious. For a moment I had the temptation to stand on my dignity. It passed swiftly, I’m glad to say.

I told her. What was in the prosecutor’s documents; the fact that it was a trial based on circumstantial evidence, but lots of evidence; of how I had been appointed, of Abajaje and all the rest of it.

I was expecting the question, and sure enough it came.

“Do you believe this young Senegalese is innocent?”

“I don’t know. In a certain sense it isn’t my problem. We have to defend them as best we can, whether innocent or guilty. The truth, if it exists, has to be found by the judges and jury. Our job is to defend the defendant.”

She burst out laughing.

“Bully for you! What was that, the introductory lecture to a course on ‘The Noble Profession of the Law’? Are you thinking of going into politics?”

I sought an adequate answer and failed to find one. She was right, and I asked myself why I had talked in that high-falutin’ fashion.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’ve taken offence? I was joking.”

She peered into my face, craning forward and invading my space, and I realized that I must have kept silent more than was fitting.

“You’re right, I was ridiculous. I do believe that Abdou is innocent, but I’m afraid to say so.”

“Why?”

“Because I think so on the grounds of an intuition of mine, a mere fancy. I like him and therefore I think he’s innocent. Because I want him to be innocent. And then, I’m afraid that he’ll be found guilty. If I’m too convinced of his innocence and he’s found guilty – and he probably will be – it’ll be a bad blow for me. Well, an even worse one for him, of course.”

“Why do you like him?”

I surprised myself by answering without thinking. Discovering the answer at the very instant of uttering it.

“Because I recognize something of myself, I think.”

The answer seemed to strike her, because she remained silent, looking at some spot below her on the left. She was rummaging in her thoughts, I imagined. I sat there watching her until she had finished, until she spoke again.

“I’d like to come and watch the trial. May I?”

“Of course you may. The next hearing is on Monday.”

“May I read the papers first?”

I couldn’t help smiling, I don’t know why. I don’t know why, I thought she didn’t miss a trick. Always bang on. I remembered those manuals on martial arts she had on her bookshelves. I hadn’t asked her why she had them, whether she practised one of those disciplines, and if so which. I did so now.

“You can read them whenever you like. I can bring them here, but perhaps it would be better if you came to the office. There’s quite a pile of them. Why have you got all those books on martial arts?”

“I do a bit of aikido. Ever since I stopped drinking.”

“What do you mean by a bit?”

“I’m a black belt, second dan.”

“I’d like to see you at it.”