Puppies. Maurizio De giovanni

into darkness. He’d seen himself as small and fragile, he’d felt a moment’s pity for himself, he’d imagined that she, too, saw things in that light, that Giorgia was looking at him with pity, and then he’d been unable to restrain himself.

      What kind of love could there be in a woman willing to erase it all in such a hurry? What kind of transport could she feel toward her husband?

      Nothing. Nothing at all, a big fat zero. Francesco Romano—who was simply called Fra by the woman he had always thought loved him, and had been dubbed Hulk by that idiot colleague of his, Aragona—was actually nothing. Zip.

      Still, he was convinced he could turn over a new leaf. In some sense, at least, that’s what he was trying to do.

      Recently, he’d restrained himself, forbidden himself to call her on the phone. It hadn’t been easy: there were times when he’d sit for an hour at a time staring at his cell phone on the tabletop, his hands trembling. But he was a guy who knew how to impose self-discipline, if he could only manage to think clearly. Yes, he could turn over a new leaf, he felt sure of it.

      The real point was to overcome the fear that there were simply no words written on the next page, the new leaf of the book of his life. That was what tormented his mind when, after starting awake in the middle of the night on the sofa, he’d get up, turn off the TV, and then go get into bed, where he’d struggle to get back to sleep.

      As far back as he could remember, he’d always been with Giorgia. He’d never stepped out on her, never cheated on her, never lusted after other women. He’d had his opportunities, he was an attractive man, in his way, powerful and athletic, and he knew how to be kind and even amusing, when he wasn’t feeling upset, but deep down inside, he’d always been married to Giorgia, and he still was.

      He knew that he really ought to reply to the demand for legal separation that her lawyer had sent him. Who knows who this lawyer even was: Law Office of Ettore Grassi, it said on the letterhead. Maybe he was his wife’s new boyfriend. Maybe she’d been able to turn over a new leaf, to turn the page and move on.

      He just had no idea what to do. He wished he could ask someone for advice, some male friend, but everyone he knew had been a friend of Giorgia’s, and certainly they would all be on her side, because she was the extroverted one, the likable one. Come to think of it, they were all people that she’d introduced him to in the first place.

      Talking about it at work was out of the question. At his old police precinct, there was no one left that he could call anything more than a chilly acquaintance, and the strange, absurd place where they’d parked him now seemed more like a menagerie of exotic animals than a proper police precinct.

      Maybe the only one with whom he’d consider unbuttoning himself a little was that Sicilian, Lojacono. The lieutenant struck him as a serious guy, not the kind who’d go around gossiping. A hard worker, not a blowhard. But there was the fact that Romano had heard something about him: that back home, Lojacono had had problems—for alleged Mafia collusion, no less, which is why they’d shipped him off to the ghetto with the rest of them.

      Romano held out almost until dawn, tossing and turning in his bed like an overcooked omelette, then he lurched out of bed, got washed, and threw his clothes on. He’d get to the office far too early, that was true, but anything would be better than lying there considering his own empty existence.

      He took the long way, driving slowly down the half-empty streets and resisting the temptation to drive past the apartment building where his in-laws lived, even though the temptation to breathe the same air as Giorgia, if even only for a second, was overwhelming. Self-discipline, Warrant Officer Romano, self-discipline. He parked a short distance from the police station: getting in so early had its advantages. He strode the fifty yards that separated his car from the front door, inhaling the sparkling air of that budding April.

      He shot a lazy glance at the refuse that spilled out over the edges of the garbage cans, wondering as he walked why on earth they collected the trash first thing in the morning, in the midst of rush hour traffic, instead of at night, the way they did in every other civilized country. Cartons, sheets of plastic wrap, half-open plastic shopping bags, wooden crates, a broken doll, and even the hulk of a motor scooter. Disgusting.

      He’d just walked past the garbage cans when the broken doll started to cry.

      IV

      Don Vito Zarrelli hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep all night long.

      That, unfortunately, was nothing new. His spiritual father, an elderly Jesuit he went to see at least once a month, always told him that if he intended to do an adequate job as a priest, it was at the very least necessary that he survive physically. That meant he needed to eat, sleep, laugh, and even drink a beer now and then, perhaps, because the older man had seen so many other young priests, driven by the sacred flame of a calling too beautiful to be true, collapse like a card castle in the face of the first temptation.

      It wasn’t so much a matter of spiritual weakness, Father Guarini had explained to him. Rather it was because young people couldn’t withstand the terrible awareness that they were human beings. And therefore, they failed to understand the grim fact that they lacked the power to single-handedly solve all of the world’s problems.

      Don Vito was young, that’s true, but if there was one thing he didn’t think, it was that he was anything like a superman. He said so, with a laugh, to the elderly priest: listen, if I were to start listing my shortcomings, we wouldn’t be done for at least a hundred years. And frankly, Father, you don’t have that kind of time.

      The fact was that he just couldn’t manage to remain indifferent in the presence of certain situations. That young woman at confession, for instance.

      Confession was the most burdensome of all the sacraments. It demanded that you enter into contact with the dark parts of the human soul, becoming an intermediary between sins and God. You needed to offer support, take on the loads of others, and leave it all behind you with the greatest nonchalance, in the shadows redolent with incense and candles. As if you hadn’t just gazed out onto the domains of hell, hatred, depravity, suffering, and the animal instincts that triumph over love and clear thinking.

      Since he had no fixed position with any parish church, the young priest was simply sent from parish to parish to give what aid he could offer. The parish priest at Santa Maria degli Angeli was well along in years, now, and when the church curia sent Don Vito out to help him, the older priest made no secret of his contentment. In general, since he knew most of the quarter’s congregation, Don Salvatore tended to keep the confessions for himself. He would say: No offense, Vito, it’s just that it’s less awkward for them to talk to someone they know personally. Don Vito actually felt a sense of relief, and instead dedicated himself to catechism or the parochial support of the elderly, pastoral works for which he felt better suited.

      The week before, however, Don Salvatore had been suffering from terrible backaches and he had asked him to stand in for him in that duty as well. And so, after listening to the routine sins and secret desires of five or six regular patrons of the church, Don Vito had heard from the other side of the wooden grate and the red curtain a warm woman’s voice he hadn’t recognized.

      Don Vito was thirty years old and came from Calabria. He’d always wanted to be a priest. He felt a sincere, profound compassion for the human race, and an immense love toward God; two simple principles around which he constructed his own life and his mission. He knew that those who are far from the land where they were raised, from family and loved ones, need even more spiritual comfort, and that woman’s voice had the unmistakable accent of Eastern Europe: she might be Romanian, Bulgarian, or Ukrainian. She was certainly young. And she was carrying a burden of pain in her heart. An immense burden of pain.

      The conversation hadn’t been a long one, just a few quick exchanges. Then the woman had asked a question. She hadn’t described a sin, or a perversion, or a rape, or a fear she was entertaining. She hadn’t implored him to help her find a way out, and she hadn’t put on the prideful indifference of those who find themselves living a life they never asked for. She hadn’t asked for money, the way