“No, inspector. The beginning, of course. And some parts at random, here and there. It was enough for me to understand… to suppose… it was some sort of diary.”
“And so you thought it could belong to your predecessor.”
“Yes, but it was only an hypothesis. And I’m sorry if…”
Corsini waved a hand, shutting him up. “I told you I wouldn’t waste your time, Corte, and I don’t want to belie myself. I’ll of straight to the point. The manuscript has been thoroughly examined, and…” A short pause, long enough that Giovanni could feel the sweat on his arms. He could feel the imperative need for a shower. “…despite the reported dates, it was written just a few months ago. Between December and January, to be precise. Not earlier nor later.”
Giovanni felt pins and needles on his feet. His heart contracted and his tongue got stuck to his palate. Corsini was staring at his and so was his silent partner, ever immobile.
HE opened his mouth, trying to find the right thing in answer to that shocking information.
“How… how is that possible?”
“I hope you don’t doubt the exactness of our appraisal.”
“Doubt? No, of course not, inspector…” He looked at Adelfi, or Adelchi, hoping to see some understanding or benevolence emerge from his face. But inscrutability had found its champion. “I’m just… baffled by what you just told me” he added, feeling like an insect under a magnifying glass.
Corsini was unmoved. He waited a few seconds, then shot the bullet. “Mister Corte, the question I came to ask you is this: did you write that diary?”
The shadow of the Tank seemed to clot over Giovanni, freezing the layer of sweat covering every inch of his skin. He tried to breath, to feed his suddenly arid lungs, but all the air in the world and gotten away, leaving him in a sphere of void.
The three men remained there, still, while a delicate breeze made their clothes swish. Giovanni looked at one of them, then the other. The inspector and his partner, on the other hand – making him the only object of their undivided attention – didn’t move a muscle. The scene crystallized for about twenty seconds, an unbearable amount of time; then, finally, Giovanni realized he could still breathe, and talk.
“No.”
A direct answer. It was all that could get out of his mouth without his voice cracking in a ridiculous bleating. Swallowing his own heart back to its place was a priority.
Corsini stared at him for a few seconds, then he turned towards his partner; the latter, for the first time since they had arrived, took his eyes off Giovanni.
“He’s telling the truth, inspector.”
Corsini’s facial muscles immediately relaxed and his expression, which had imperceptibly stiffened during the interview, went back to a mask of formal serenity.
So, that Adelfi, or whatever the hell his name were, was a… what was the right term? Giovanni couldn’t remember, but immediately understood that his function was to study his every movement, tremor, variation in the tone of voice, any small signal that give him away as a liar. So… had he passed the trial?
“Good, mister Corte,” Corsini told him. “I have done what I had to and got what I expected. I hope you won’t begrudge us, but I’m sure you understand that every suspect, even the smallest one, has to be dissipated.”
He moved his hand forward and Giovanni shook it.
“You… you just did your job, inspector.” He felt devoid, confused. Despite wanting to do so, the information he had received was way too much to be processed immediately. He felt a horde of question rising from his stomach, even if he knew he wouldn’t receive an answer.
The man who had analyzed him shook his hand too, but he was smiling this time. The exam was over, so he could be more human.
“I’m sorry if I have caused you discomfort,” he added, “but that’s how it works.”
“Of course”, Giovanni answered. “It is, indeed.” And he hoped that man wasn’t still vivisecting him; only in that moment he realized what danger he had faced and hoped that the signs of panic from the narrow escape didn’t betray him.
Inside the elevator cabin, heading back to his realm of nightmares and hopes, Giovanni leant his back against a wall. The vibrations of the whole mechanism and the overall tremor shaking his body fused in a tumult of concentrical waves.
While the inspector put him on trial, his partner had scanned him, without him knowing, ready to denounce him would he make a mistake. But he had been sincere. He had told the truth. The emotions he had felt were completely justified by the context and the difficult topic of the interview. Then, why was he feeling such… terror?
Once back to the safety of his apartment he drank half a can of ice-cold orange juice, regretting not being able to drink something stronger. It would have helped him. Maybe.
When he went to lie on the bed, he was still trembling.
What would have happened – a part of his mind kept asking, a fraction particularly keen on self- had Corsini asked you another question? Not any question, but that one? Do you think his friend would have noticed? And in that case, would there have been consequences?
Giovanni sat up, unable to breathe comfortably while supine. He knew he would calm down before long. But he had to wait. Wait for the heart and brain to find their balance and let him live hi say in a straight line. It would have been a problem had they asked Giovanni how long had he really know about the diary. He could almost hear it: “Mister Corte, have you found the diary only after the messages, or did you already find it and did not tell anyone?”
Had they asked him that question, lying or telling the truth would lead to the same, disastrous result. And maybe he wouldn’t even be there in that moment.
17 – Inside the Shutter
On the night between the 6th and the 7th of July Hell itself paid him a visit.
One week had already passed since his dangerous interview with Corsini and he still hadn’t received any news about the possible developments. He had thought over and over about what he had been told that date on the real age of the manuscript. He really didn’t know what to think.
His first hypothesis was that his predecessor had written those pages during his last month in the Tank, taking from memories, notes, dreams and so on, simulating a pretty concise yearly diary. The reason? He had no idea. That poor guy, for what he had understood, had reached the end of the year with a big nervous breakdown; every kind of weirdness was possible.
To be truly honest with himself, the first idea he had had was different. But he wanted to discard it immediately for two reasons. First, it was highly unlikely, if not impossible; second, only taking it into consideration would endanger the stability of his mind’s structure. It wasn’t possible that he, in who-knows-what altered state, would write those pages, hide them under the bed and then forget everything. The writing wasn’t his, of course, but any schizo could alter it without effort. No, no, no. That wasn’t the right way.
And yet, if the writing were his predecessor’s (and the diary had no doubt been examined graphologically), they would have already traced him. Did they? Of course. He was sure to be their first suspect. But… if they were still looking for a culprit, it meant that the former Keeper had nothing to do with it. It was a complex matter. So complex that in a couple of days he decided not to think about it anymore. The NMO’s investigation could go on in a superior dimension unreachable to him. If they decided to let him know something about it, then good; otherwise, he would be much better off just forgetting about it.