I took one, and after smoking half I told him I had no answer to his question.
I told him that I thought it was for a good motive, but I didn’t know exactly what that motive was.
Abdou gave a nod, as if satisfied with my answer.
Then he said, “I’m frightened.”
“So am I.”
And so it was we began to talk. We talked of many things and went on smoking his cigarettes. At a certain point we both felt thirsty and I called up the bar on my mobile to place an order. Ten minutes later in came the boy with the tray, and passed two glasses of iced tea through the bars. Abdou paid.
We drank beneath the bewildered gaze of the warders.
At about eight o’clock I told him I was going for a walk to stretch my legs.
I had no wish to go home or to the office. Or into the centre of town among the shops and the crowds. So I ventured into the district round the law courts, towards the cemetery. Among working-class tenements which emitted the smell of rather unsavoury food, rundown shops, streets I’d never been along in all my thirty-nine years of living in Bari.
I walked for a long time, without an aim or a thought in my head. It seemed to me I was somewhere else entirely, and the whole place was so ugly that it had a strange, seedy allure to it.
Darkness had fallen and my mind was completely distracted when I became aware of the vibration in my back trouser pocket.
I pulled out the mobile and on the other end heard the voice of the clerk of the court. He was pretty agitated.
Had he already called once and got no answer? So sorry, I hadn’t registered. They’d been ready for ten minutes? I’d be there at once. At once. Just a minute or two.
I glanced around and it took me a while to realize where I was. Not at all close. I would have to run, and I did.
I entered the courtroom about ten minutes later, forcing myself to breathe through my nose and not my mouth, feeling my shirt stuck to my back with sweat, and trying to look dignified.
They were all there, ready in their places. Counsel for the civil party, public prosecutor, clerk of the court, journalists and, despite the late hour, even some members of the public. I noticed that there were a number of Africans, never seen at the other hearings.
As soon as he saw me, the clerk of the court went through to inform the court that I had arrived at last.
I threw on my robe and glanced at my watch. Nine fifty-five.
The clerk returned to his seat and then, in rapid succession, the bell rang and the court entered.
The judge hurried to his place, with the air of a man who wants to get some disagreeable duty quickly over and done with. He looked first right, then left. He assured himself that the members of the court were all in position. He put on his glasses to read the verdict.
Eyes lowered, half closed, I listened to my thudding heart.
“In the name of the Italian people, the Court of Assizes at Bari, in accordance with Article 530, Paragraph One, of the code of criminal procedure…”
I felt a charge throughout my body and my legs turned to jelly.
Acquitted.
Article 530 of the code of criminal procedure is entitled “Verdict of acquittal”.
“… finds Abdou Thiam not guilty on the grounds that the accused has not committed the offences with which he is charged. In accordance with Article 300 of the code of criminal procedure it decrees the cessation of the precautionary measure of detention in prison at present in force against the defendant and orders the immediate discharge of the aforesaid unless detained on other counts. The court is dismissed.”
It is hard to explain what one feels at such a moment. Because it’s really hard to understand it.
I stayed where I was, gazing towards the empty bench where the court had sat. All around were excited voices, while people patted me on the back and others grasped my hand and wrung it. I wondered what so many people were doing in a courtroom of the Bari Assizes on 3 July at ten o’clock at night.
I don’t know how long it was until I moved.
Until among the babble of voices I distinguished that of Abdou. I took off my robe and went to the cage. In theory, he should have been released at once. In practice, though, they had to take him back to the prison to go through the formalities. In any case, he was still inside there.
We found ourselves face to face, very close, the bars between us. His eyes were moist, his jaw set, the corners of his mouth trembling.
My own face was not very different, I think.
It was a long handshake, through the bars. Not in the usual way, like businessmen or when you are introduced, but gripping thumbs with elbows crooked.
He said only a few words, in his own language. I didn’t need an interpreter to tell me what they meant.
38
I left Margherita a message on her mobile the very evening of the verdict, but we didn’t manage to meet until the next afternoon.
She called by my office, and we went and sat in a bar. We talked very little about the trial. I had no wish to, and she realized that and soon stopped asking questions. We were both of us in a strange state of mild embarrassment.
When we got back to the street door of my office I made an effort to say what I had in mind.
“I really rather wanted to ask you out to dinner. Please don’t say no, even if it’s not much of an invitation. I’m out of practice.”
She looked at me as if she wanted to laugh, but she didn’t say a thing.
“What about it?” I asked after a moment.
“As a matter of fact it was a pretty rottenly put invitation, but I’d like to reward your good intentions.”
“You mean you accept?”
“I mean I accept. This evening?”
“Not this evening. Tomorrow if you don’t mind.”
She narrowed her eyes and gave me a rather puzzled look, so I felt bound to say more.
“There’s something I have to do this evening. Something important. I can’t put it off. I can’t go out with you unless I’ve done it first.”
Still the same puzzled look for a moment. Then she nodded and said that was fine.
Till tomorrow then.
Till tomorrow.
I got home from the office, had a shower, put on some shorts and made a smoothie. I wandered for a while from room to room. Every so often I stopped to look at the telephone. I scrutinized it from a distance.
After a little of this I sat down in an armchair. The telephone was in front of me and I had only to reach out and pick up the receiver. Instead I simply sat staring at the instrument.
No need to rush, I thought.
In any case, before you phone you have to run through the number in your head. The number is 080… 5219… that is 080… 52198… No, it’s 52196… No it isn’t.
I couldn’t remember it! Ridiculous. It wasn’t even two years and I couldn’t remember the number. Yet a few months before I’d known it by heart. So really it was only a few months, and I’d forgotten it.
All right, no use fretting. Such things happen.
I looked up Sara’s name in the phone book but it wasn’t there.
For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Then inspiration struck and I looked up
I went on staring at the phone for a bit longer, but I knew that time was running out.
