Luca sat down and remained motionless for the next phase of the hearing, almost as if he weren’t there. He may even have closed his eyes — only the back of his head, upper back, and shoulders could be seen as he sat in the front row facing the judge now — and he was so still that, for a while at least, he seemed to be asleep.
There was silence, and then another murmur, and Cueto stood up, always smiling, with an expression of superiority and indifference on his face. He was tall, his skin looked splotchy, and he had a strange air about him, perhaps because his posture was at once arrogant and obsequious. Immediately he focused the attention of the matter on Durán’s murder. In order for the money to be reclaimed, the other case, the criminal proceedings, had to be settled. It was known that the murderer was Yoshio Dazai, it had been a classic crime of passion. Yoshio hadn’t confessed because when the crime is this obvious the murderer never confesses. They hadn’t found the murder weapon because the knife used to kill Durán was run-of-the-mill and could be found in almost any kitchen in the area. All the witnesses confirmed that they’d seen Yoshio enter the room at the time of the crime. Of course Yoshio knew about the existence of the money and had taken the bag to the storage room in the basement hoping to go back for it when everything calmed down. Cueto stopped and looked around. He had managed to change the topic of the session and refocus everyone’s attention by reminding them of the sordid story of the crime. The version of the events, as presented by Croce, was delirious and could be seen as evidence of the ex-Inspector’s dementia. That a jockey would dress up as a Japanese night porter and kill an unknown man to buy a horse was ridiculous. Everyone understood that Croce’s version was impossible. Even more ridiculous was the idea that a man would kill another man that he didn’t know, and that he would take only the money he supposedly needed to buy a horse, and that he would take the trouble to leave the rest of the money in the hotel storage room in the basement, instead of just leaving it in the same room where he’d committed the crime.
“The letter and the suicide might be true,” the prosecutor concluded. “But we’ve gotten used to reading letters of that kind thanks to the letters that Croce has been writing us in his nighttime deliriums.”
Cueto shifted the question at hand and articulated the actual dilemma with extreme judicial clarity. If Luca, in his role as plaintiff, would accept that Yoshio Dazai had killed Durán, the criminal proceedings could move forward, the murder case could be closed, and the money could be returned to its legitimate owner, Mister Belladona. If Luca didn’t sign on to this agreement and continued instead with his own suit, then the criminal case would remain open and the money would remain confiscated for years, since they would be unable to close the criminal case and the evidence couldn’t be removed from the court’s power while it remained open. It was perfect. Luca’s claim sealed the murder case because it presupposed that Durán had come to Argentina to bring him the money.
It took Luca a minute to understand. When he did, he looked stunned. He lowered his head and sat like that for a moment while the silence spread through the courtroom like a shadow. He’d thought that everything was going to be simple, but he realized that he’d fallen into a trap. He seemed crushed. Whatever decision he made, he was crushed. If he wanted to get the money, he’d have to help send an innocent man to jail, but if he told the truth, he’d lose the factory. He turned around and looked at his sisters, as if they were the only ones who could help him. Then, as if lost, he looked at Renzi — but Renzi looked away, because he thought that he wouldn’t have wanted to be in his place and that if he were in his place he wouldn’t have accepted the deal, he wouldn’t have agreed to lie and send an innocent man to jail for the rest of his life. But Renzi wasn’t him. Never had he seen anyone look as pale, never had he seen anyone take as long to speak, to say just one word: Okay. Once again a murmur ran through the room, but this one was different, as of confirmation or revenge. Luca’s left eye was twitching slightly and he fidgeted with his necktie as if it were the rope from which he was about to hang. But Yoshio was the one about to be condemned for a crime he hadn’t committed.
There was a big commotion when the session ended, an explosion of happiness. Cueto’s friends all got up to speak to each other. Ada joined the group, too, and Cueto took her by the arm and whispered something in her ear. The only one who approached Luca was Sofía, she stood in front of him and tried to cheer him up. The factory was saved. They hugged, she held him in her arms and spoke softly to him, as if she were trying to calm him down, and she went with him to the other room, where the judge was waiting for him to sign the papers.
Renzi stayed in his seat while everyone got up. Outside the courtroom, he saw Luca shuffling down the hallway, like a boxer who’s accepted winning the title in a fixed match. Not the boxer who’s forced to take a dive because he needs the money. Not — as usual — the humiliated, offended party who knows that he didn’t really lose even though someone has beaten him. No. Luca was like a boxer who’s retained his title as champion thanks to a racket — which only he and his rival know is a racket — and all he has now is the illusion that his dreams have finally come true, but at an unbearable cost. Luca moved as if he were extremely tired and could barely move. Sofía was the only one with him, walking next to him, without touching him. When they crossed the main hallway she said goodbye and left out a side door. Luca continued by himself to the door of the other room.
He’d been subjected to a trial like a tragic character without a choice. Anything he chose would have been his downfall, not for him but for his idea of justice. In the end, it was justice that had put him to the test, an abstract entity — with its rhetorical apparatuses and its imaginary constructions — which he’d had to confront that afternoon in April, until he capitulated. That is, until he accepted one of the two options he was offered. Luca Belladona, who’d always boasted of making clear decisions, unhindered by any doubts, supported by his self-assuredness and his fixed idea. He chose his work, we might say, over his life, and he paid a very high price, but his illusion remained intact to the end. He remained true to his precept, he’d been sunk, but he hadn’t defected. He was so proud and stubborn that it took him a while to realize that he’d fallen into a trap with no way out. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.
The townspeople watched him walk down the hallway in silence. They’d known him forever and were now at peace, they seemed magnanimous, because by doing what he’d done — after years and years of his impossible battle, held up by his demoniacal pride — the town had succeeded in getting him to capitulate. Now it could be said that Luca was like everyone else, or that everyone else was like him: now that Luca had revealed a weakness that he’d never revealed before. Renzi hurried to try to talk to him, but was unable to catch up and could only follow behind as they walked down the stairs leading outside. Then an incredible thing happened. When he came out onto the sidewalk, Croce’s mutt appeared, walking crookedly as always, but this time when he saw Luca walk out into the daylight, the dog rushed and started barking at him, baring his teeth as if to bite, with hatred, his yellow fur on end, his body tense. That barking was the only thing that Luca got that day.