The Killer in My Eyes (46 page)

Only one piece of mail drew her attention.

It was a large brown padded envelope. The postmark indicated that it had been mailed in Baltimore. Inside was a CD and a sheet of paper, folded in two. She opened it and read the letter.

Dear Maureen
,

We’ve never met in person although I’ve heard so much about you, I feel I know you very well. My name is Brendan Slave and I’m Connor’s brother. We are united by our regret for what he took away with him forever, but also by the joy of being able to enjoy the words and music he left as a witness to his genius. Since that tragic event, I’ve come into possession of all his things and, going through them, I found the enclosed CD. It contains an unpublished song, and from Connor’s notes I discovered that he wrote it for you, as you will see from your name on the disc. It seemed only right for you to have it. It’s yours, it belongs to you, and you can do with it whatever you like. You can reveal it to the world or keep it as a little secret inheritance of your own.

From what my brother told me, I know the two of you were very much in love, so please allow me to give you a piece of advice. Never forget him, but don’t build your life around his memory. I’m sure that’s what he would say to you if he could. You’re young, beautiful and sensitive. Don’t dismiss the possibility that you can live and love again. If you find it difficult, there will always be this last song of Connor’s to remind you how it’s done.

Kindest regards

Brendan Slave

By the time she had finished reading, the elevator had stopped at her landing, but she stood there, surrounded by her baggage, unable to move, her eyes streaked with tears. Like a child, she wiped them on the sleeves of her blouse, heedless of the marks her make-up left on the material. At last she picked up her bags and stepped out of the elevator. As she was looking for her keys, she felt the box she had been given by the Chinese man at the airport.

As soon as she entered, she went straight to the shutters and opened them, letting the air and the sun and the view of Rome into this apartment she had thought she would never see again.

Standing there, watching the sunset, she loosened the knot on the ribbon and opened the box.

Inside, on a layer of cotton wool, rested a severed human ear. There was an earring still in the lobe – a strange earring in the form of a cross, with a little diamond winking in the middle.

Maureen recognized it immediately.

From someone in America, the Chinaman had said.

Maureen thought again of the words Cesar Wong had uttered, the evening they had taken a short car-ride together, and he had informed her of his son’s innocence and asked her to help him prove it.

I assure you that in some way I’ll be able to repay you. I don’t yet know how, but I assure you I will
. . .

Maureen stood looking at that macabre specimen without any emotion. William Roscoe, the evening on which he had died, had claimed that the only thing that could make us superior to God was justice. Maureen did not know if Jordan, just before attacking him, had heard his last words about Julius Wong.

A very professional gentleman will take care of him
. . .

If Jordan
had
understood the meaning of this statement, he had shown no sign of it – nor had Maureen. There was also a justice of men, and in this way she and Jordan had become the jury. That would be the third secret they shared. If one day there were accounts to settle with their consciences, they would confront them.

Still holding the box in her hand, Maureen went and threw its contents in the toilet bowl and pressed the flush button. She stood there watching, making sure that the memory of the foul creature who had been Arben Gallani was going to the place most suitable for him – the sewers of Rome.

Then she went to get the brown envelope she had placed on a cabinet and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. She opened the sliding window that showed roofs as far as the eye could see and then went to the stereo and took the CD from the envelope. On the shiny surface were two words, written in indelible ink.

‘Underwater’

Maureen

She switched on the CD-player, inserted the disc and pressed
Play
.

There were a few bars of sampled strings, a soft guitar arpeggio and then, against that light background, Connor’s violin started moving with the elegance and energy of a skater on ice, drawing spirals in the air with the melody.

And at last she heard his voice, a knife sharpened by pain and joy. Within a moment, Maureen was engrossed in the meaning of the song, a secret song, hidden from the rest of the world, her exclusive property – not because she owned the only copy, but because it had been written specially for her.

You were born underwater

underwater was your realm

dancing dreamlike in the waves

dancing round and back again

And now you walk the world

hiding within your pain

thinking you left your heart

back there beneath the waves.

Perhaps you do not know

That light is on your side

Can change the dark of day

into a watery glow

Even underwater

deep down where it is night

A light still shines for you

giving life to your love . . .

. . . your love that hides below
,

that would not give up the fight

So stop your grieving, darling
,

for when you stop believing

even underwater

there will always be a light.

Once she had grasped the meaning of these words, instead of crying, Maureen smiled.

She sat down on the wicker armchair by the window, arranged the cushions, and let herself be enveloped by the music, the voice, the memory – sure that, whatever happened to her from now on, nobody could ever take away the enormous richness of what she had had. She watched as a triumphant sunset set the sky of Rome aflame, waiting for what was in store, helped only by what she had learned, however unwillingly, and what she was now able to confront.

Maureen Martini closed her eyes.
The darkness and the waiting
, she thought,
are the same colour
.

I must begin by thanking two remarkable people: Pietro Bartocci and his wife, Dr Mary Elacqua of Samaritan Hospital in Troy. Without them this novel would have had a much more difficult labour, I would have had a much more thankless stay in America, I wouldn’t have learned how much a New England parrot can catch in its beak, and above all I wouldn’t have been able to give a new meaning to the word ‘friendship’.

To them I would like to add:

Andrea Borio, an outstanding cook, affectionately nicknamed ‘Cow Borio’ for having managed to produce a Piedmontese meat stew in the middle of Manhattan;

Dr Victoria Smith, an exceptional chiropractor and a delightful person, who straightened my shattered back during my stay in New York;

the staff of Via della Pace and the other adorable people I met in the United States: I may not remember all their names, but their faces are indelibly engraved in my memory.

In regard to the scientific aspects of the book, I would like to acknowledge my old friend Dr Gianni Miroglio, and Dr Bartolomeo Marino, Consultant Surgeon at the Civil Hospital in Asti, as well as the multi-talented Dr Rossella Franco, the intensive care anaesthetist of the San Andrea Civil Hospital in La Spezia.

A special thank you to Dr Carlo Vanetti, ocular microsurgeon in Milan, member of the ASCRS (American Society of Cataract and Refractive Surgery), and Professor Giulio Cossu, Director of the Institute for Stem Cell Research of the San Raffaele Scientific Institute in Milan, for both their presence and their patience.

Thanks also to Laura Arghittu, Media Director for the Fondazione San Raffaele del Monte Tabor, who skilfully mediated the onslaught of a writer with dubious credentials.

An affectionate and unstinting salute to Annamaria di Paolo, Head of the State Police, who was indispensable for her ideas and opinions, and invaluable for her friendship and support.

As far as the experienced team that sustains my literary activities is concerned, I must first acknowledge Alessandro Dalai, a man of multi-faceted intelligence and understanding, to whom it is only correct to add:

the invulnerable Cristina Dalai,

the incontrovertible Piero Gelli,

the inescapable Rosaria Guacci,

the indomitable Antonella Fassi,

the dependable Paola Finzi,

the multi-coloured Mara Scanavino,

plus the irreproachable Gianluigi Zecchin to cover everyone’s backs.

An honourable mention, finally, to the discerning Piergiorgio Nicolazzini, my valiant agent and capable adviser.

In addition:

Angelo Branduardi and Luisa Zappa for the ritual and propitiatory spoilers in the usual tavern;

Angela Pincelli, who for geographical reasons I see rarely but who for emotional reasons I think of a lot; Armando Attanasi, who’s there for me much more than I’m there for him;

Francesco Rapisarda, Media Director for the Ducati Racing Team, who will sooner or later get me to a Grand Prix;

Annarita Nulchis, as unforgettable as her emails and as precious as her smile;

Marco Luci for his kindness and contacts;

Malabar Viaggi for their assistance and distinction.

In conclusion, a hug to all the friends who have earned a lasting place in my life and my unchanging affection with their support and respect and the incorruptible sweetness of things that are real.

And finally on a strictly personal level, a hearfelt THANK YOU in capital letters to Renata Quadro and Jole Gamba for their care, their reassuring presence and the help given to a very dear person at a very difficult time for her and for me.

The characters in this story are purely imaginary.

Fortunately for me, the people I’ve thanked are not.