had calmly opened it. I took a deep breath and had a hankering for a cigarette. I drew a soft packet from my coat pocket and offered it to Abdou. He said nothing, but took one and waited for me to light it for him. Then I lit my own.
“All right, Abdou. I’ll have to read the prosecution’s documents, but first I must have a clear picture of everything you remember about those days. Can we begin to talk about them?”
He was silent a while before nodding.
“When did you learn about the boy’s disappearance?”
He took a long drag at the cigarette before replying.
“I learned that the boy had disappeared when they arrested me.”
“Do you remember what you did on the day the boy disappeared?”
“I went to Naples to pick up my supplies. I said this when they questioned me. I mean, I said I’d been to Naples, but I didn’t say I had been to buy handbags, so as not to make trouble for the people who sold me them.”
“You went there alone?”
“Yes.”
“When did you get back from Naples?”
“In the afternoon, the evening. I don’t remember exactly.”
“And the next day?”
“I don’t remember. I went to some beach but I don’t remember which.”
“Do you remember anyone you met? I mean both on 5 August and on the following morning. Someone who might remember having seen you and whom we can call as a witness.”
“Where were you that morning, Avvocato?”
I was in the shit, was the answer I would have liked to give. I was in the shit also the morning before and the morning after. I’m pretty much still in it. Just a little bit less.
This was of no interest to Abdou, however, and I said nothing. I rubbed my forehead, then passed a hand across my face and finally lit another cigarette.
“OK. You’re right. It isn’t easy to remember an afternoon, a morning or a day that’s just the same as so many others. However, we have to make an effort to reconstruct those days. Now would you like to tell me something about the boy? You knew him?”
“Certainly I knew him. Since last year. That is, ever since I worked that beach.”
“Do you remember when it was you last saw him?”
“No. Not exactly. But I saw him every time I went to that beach. He was always with either his grandparents or his mother. Occasionally with an aunt and uncle.”
“Have you ever seen him near his grandparents’ house, or anywhere other than the beach? Have you ever visited his grandparents’ house?”
“I don’t even know where his grandparents’ house is, and I’ve only seen the boy on that beach.”
“The owner of the Bar Maracaibo says that he saw you on the afternoon the boy disappeared, that you didn’t have your bag of goods, and that you were heading towards the grandparents’ house.”
“I don’t know which house that is,” he repeated irritably, “and that afternoon I didn’t go to Monopoli. When I got back from Naples, I stayed in Bari. I don’t remember what I did but I didn’t go to Monopoli.”
With an angry movement he seized the packet of cigarettes and matches, still on the table, and lit up again.
I let him take a few puffs in peace, then went on.
“How did you come to have a photograph of the boy at home?”
“It was Ciccio who wanted to give me that photo. An uncle of his, I think, had a Polaroid and took several photos at the beach. The boy gave me one of them. We were friends. Every time I passed I stopped to talk to him. He wanted to know about Africa, about the animals, if I’d ever seen any lions. That sort of thing. I was happy when he gave me the photo because we were friends. What’s more, at home I had masses of photos, lots of them of people on the beach, because I am friends with lots of clients. The carabinieri took only that one. It’s plain that this way it looks like evidence against me. Why didn’t they take all the photos? Why did they take only a few books? I didn’t have only children’s books. I have manuals, history books, books on psychology, but they took only the children’s books. Obviously this makes me out to be a maniac. What’s the word? A paedophile.”
“Did you tell these things to the magistrate?”
“Avvocato, do you know the state I was in when they took me before the magistrate? I couldn’t breathe from the beating I’d taken, I was deaf in one ear. First I was beaten up by the carabinieri, then I was beaten up by the warders as soon as I got to prison. In fact, it was the warders who told me it was much better for me to say nothing to the magistrate. Then the lawyer told me I mustn’t answer questions, as there was a risk it would only complicate matters, and I’d already made a mistake by answering the public prosecutor. He needed to study the documents carefully first. So I went before the magistrate and told him I didn’t want to reply. But even when I did answer, it made no difference, because the magistrate took no notice of what I said. In any case, I stayed in prison.”
I waited a second or two before speaking again.
“Where are all your things, the ones you mentioned, the books, the photos, everything?”
“I don’t know. They cleared out my room and the landlord has let it to someone else. You’ll have to ask Abajaje.”
We were silent for a few minutes, with me trying to sort out the information I had received, him I don’t know where.
Then I spoke again.
“All right, that’s enough for today. Tomorrow, or rather on Monday, I’ll go to the prosecutor’s office and see when we can make a copy of the documents. Then I’ll study them, and as soon as I’ve got my ideas a bit clearer I’ll come back and see you and we’ll try to organize a defence strategy that makes sense…”
I left the sentence in the air, as if there were something to be added to it.
Abdou noticed, and gave me a faintly questioning look. Then he nodded. He hesitated a moment, but he was the first to hold out his hand and shake mine. His grasp differed slightly, only slightly, from the one of an hour before.
Then I opened the door and called the warder who was to take him back to his cell, in the special section reserved for rapists, child abusers and those who had turned state’s evidence. All of them subjects who wouldn’t have lasted long in the company of the other prisoners.
I picked up the cigarette packet and realized it was empty.
9
On Monday I woke up at about half-past five. As usual.
In the early days I’d tried to stay in bed, hoping to get back to sleep. But I did not get back to sleep, and ended up wrapped in sad and obsessive thoughts.
I therefore realized that it was better not to stay in bed, and to content myself with four or five hours of sleep. When things went well.
So I acquired the habit of getting up as soon as I woke. I would do some exercises, have a shower, shave, make breakfast, tidy the apartment. In short, I spent a good hour and a half managing to think about practically nothing.
Then I would go out and there would be the daylight, and I’d take a long walk. This too helped me not to think.
And so I did that morning. I got to the office at about eight, glanced at my memo pad and put it into my briefcase along with a few pens, some official forms, my mobile. I scribbled a note to my secretary and left it on her desk.
Then I set out for the law courts. Getting up so early and arriving so early at the law courts had certain advantages. The offices were practically deserted, so it was possible to get through chancellery matters more
