Bollocks to marriage and the senator who wanted to close down the brothels.
The school caretaker opened the gate. Carmine threw his cigarette a long way off, straightened his tie, and repeated the deadly words through half-closed lips.
Her parents gave their blessing.
Nosé was astonished by the invitation.
She happily accepted.
After dinner at Carmine’s to watch Just Say It, Please. A few friends, the right music, Nosé to pick up Marisa, Nosé to take her home.
Carmine’s plan provided champagne and tobacco for the existentialist. Three or four glasses. Smaller doses for Marisa: he wanted her to be responsive. The guests, all friends, ready to slope off at the right moment or watch discreetly. That useless wanker out of action within an hour. He tries to get the television working. A brilliant phrase to test the lie of the land: ‘Marisa, don’t pull that face, didn’t I invite you to watch television? There it is, watch it for as long as you like, you can’t say I don’t keep my word, heh, heh.’ A suggestive phrase in preparation for the attack: ‘What rotten luck, I thought things were going so well this afternoon. Ok, then, Marisa, let’s not get depressed about it; we don’t want this horrible contraption to ruin our evening.’
All calculated. Couldn’t fail.
And, before bringing the set back to Frosinone, he would give it to his sister to humiliate that starving husband of hers. And if the tosser started causing problems, he really would put him to shame. Have you got an aerial? Have you paid your subscription? Did you switch it on after half-past five? Have you checked that there’s a signal? And you claim it’s working? Only a Zulu would think you just had to plug the thing in.
The jerk would be offended and give back the present. Then he would take it back to Frosinone and get the money back. His sister would realise for the umpteenth time what kind of a shithead she had married.
And all without spending a lira.
Chapter 12
Bologna, Villa Azzurra, 16 May
‘Your friend Teresa didn’t come today, either,’ Ferruccio said reproachfully.
He was sitting on the bed, his back leaning against two cushions, and wearing the blue pyjamas she had given him for Christmas
Angela smoothed his ruffled hair. ‘She may not be coming for a while.’
He frowned, and a barely perceptible tic ran across his neck.
‘Have you had a row?’
‘No, Fefe, don’t worry, she’s just been busy.’
‘And what about you, what are you doing? You’re on your own.’
‘I came to see you.’
He shook his head hard. ‘No, no, you’re on your own.’
Angela smiled at him, stroking him again. Ferruccio had worked out that something had happened between her and Pierre, and he couldn’t get used to the idea.’
‘No, Fefe, I’m not on my own. I’ve got you and Odoacre. And you love me.’
Ferruccio sighed, looked around, then turned to stare at her.
‘No, no.’
‘No what? Don’t you love me?’
‘I do,’ said her brother curtly.
‘So does Odoacre. And he loves you too. When you were ill he came rushing back from Rome, because he was worried. He got a real scare, did you know that? He’ll always be near us.’
Ferruccio clamped his jaw and clenched his fists around his sheet.
‘Why didn’t Teresa come?’
Odoacre said not to let Ferruccio brood on things too much, it made him ill, he became obsessive.
‘Listen, how are things going with the new medication? You seem better to me.’
‘It gives me bad breath.’
‘And you’ve got to brush your teeth, how many times do I have to tell you you’ve got to brush your teeth, because dentists cost an arm and a leg.’
Ferruccio nodded, looking elsewhere.
‘It scares me. The monsters come out of my mouth.’
Angela hugged him. ‘What’s that? You’re always going on about monsters!’
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Marco, the nurse, came in with an affable smile on his round face.
‘Here I am, hello, madam.’
‘Hello, Marco.’
‘It’s time for his medicine.’
Ferruccio’s mouth was fixed in a pout. Then he turned to the nurse and exploded, ‘Why did you go away?’
Marco prepared the pills and poured water into the glass.
‘I was on honeymoon, Fefe, I got married.’
‘Really? And how’s your wife?’ asked Angela.
‘We’re both fine, thanks. We’ve set up home in Corticella. And your husband was kind enough to extend my leave by a week. Thank him again from me. Unfortunately it was only when I got back that I found out that Ferruccio had been ill. Come on, Fefe, swallow it down, all in one go.’
Ferruccio obeyed, then wiped his mouth with the sheet.
‘It was better when you weren’t there.’
Angela rebuked him: ‘Fefe, what are you saying?’
Marco shook his head. ‘It wasn’t better. You went mad, do you remember?’
‘I didn’t have to brush my teeth. No medication, no plughole.’
‘Stop talking nonsense,’ said Angela, helping him into his jacket,
‘and now that you’re dressed, I’ll take you for a walk. *
Angela glanced nervously at the telephone.
Couldn’t make up her mind. Just chewing her nails and two words. No medication.
A strange thing, the brain. First of all absolute zero, then obsession. Treacle smeared over every gesture. Hang up your hat, no medication. Put down your keys, no medication. Step into the corridor, no medication.
There are certain questions that Odoacre doesn’t like. He’s always saying: you’re not a doctor. He says: certain things seem strange to lay people, but the doctor knows what he’s doing. You have to let him get on with his work.
Suspicion of your doctor impedes the healing process. The gospel according to Odoacre Montroni.
There are certain questions he doesn’t like: he forestalls them. He tells you everything. Never a gap, never a misunderstanding.
Trust. Odoacre in Rome. Marco on holiday. An oversight and Fefe goes out of his mind.
So now you pick up the phone and you call Marco.
You remember what Fefe said that morning, that when you weren’t there he didn’t take his new medication? Well look, I’ve talked to my husband. No way. Terrible idea. You’ve talked to the head of department: what else do you want?
A mistake? Impossible, he said. You would have been informed. If not straight away, then on my return.
There you are. Exactly. By the time you returned the damage was done and your locum didn’t get round to telling you everything. Quite normal.
Jesus Christ, Montroni spoke in parables. When you spill salt on the tablecloth, just throw it over your shoulder and you avoid disaster. No damage, no harm done. Not in the clinic, though. If you hide the damage the harm gets worse. Contrary to professional ethics. My locum is an excellent doctor. He has my every confidence.