The Deliverance of Evil Read Free Page A

bakery was closed, but the lights were on and it was emanating a yeasty smell. I took a cigarette from my second pack. I offered him one, seeing as he’d finished all his.
    “No thanks, Michele. A pack of Gitanes every two days and no more.”
    “You’re too strict with yourself, Angelo. You should let yourself go once in a while.”
    He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair, then pointed to the water.
    “How about a dip?”
    “Are you crazy? It’s January and dawn.”
    “You won’t feel cold once you’re in. And it’ll give you a perfect appetite.”
    That’s exactly what he said—a perfect appetite. He switched on the Fiat’s headlights and directed them toward the few yards of sand that separated us from the water. A minute later he was stripped down to his briefs.
    “Come on, let yourself go, Michele,” he said.
    Then he ran to the water and dove in. I saw him swimming furiously in the beam of the headlights. I don’t know what came over me—something I hadn’t felt for many years. A minute later I was in the water, too. The cold took my breath away, but the more I swam to warm myself up, the more I felt a joy I’d forgotten, brazen, irresistible, that took over my whole body.
    As promised, the pastries, still warm from the oven, were perfect.
    . . . .
    So I began to get to know Angelo better. Underneath that affectionate, sunny, and angelic face lay a heart left on its own too soon and seeking a safe and permanent harbor. Love and work were a refuge for him. No strange ambitions, no adventures: a more or less regular life. No more than ten Gitanes a day, no more than a couple of glasses of whiskey. That way he stayed clear-headed when he played poker. Every time we went into one of Rome’s piano bars—something we did often in the following months—the same thing happened. The singer knew Angelo and called him on stage. The female singers always tried to take him home, but he was incorruptible. In this he was truly my opposite, or perhaps he was what I could have been. Angelo was unassailable.
    He laid down strict rules for us when it came to poker. Spots were limited to a certain number, and at the end of the evening the jackpot was divided according to the number of chips we had. He almost always won, and the few times he lost I was sure he’d lost on purpose, just as he’d done during our first game. In the beginning we played with my brother, Alberto, and another engineer, a colleague of his. They tried to persuade Angelo to use their high salaries and stocks and shares to bankrupt a casino but, ever in line with his Catholic morality, Angelo wouldn’t do it.
    We saw each other almost every evening. The standard routine was pizza for four: myself, Angelo, Paola, and my girlfriend of the moment. Then came a short stroll through Trastevere. We’d stop for a smoke, and drink one last beer in the splendid piazza by the church of Santa Maria. At that point, there was a choice: either I went off with my girlfriend or, with Paola’s blessing, Angelo and I would say good-bye to the two of them and ride around Rome in my Duetto or his Fiat 500. (This usually happened when I was no longer interested in sex with that night’s companion.) We would stay in the car and talk. Unending icy winter nights with the windows down to let out the smoke. Warm spring nights when we squashed the first mosquitoes. Our conversations ranged from chat about sports and politics to deeper existential problems. Despite not having finished school, Angelo was a great debater and could defend his Christian vision of the world divided between good and evil.
    We were inseparable on those magical metaphysical nights that filled our lives for no apparent reason whatsoever.

May 1982
    A NGELO’S OFFICE WAS LOCATED in the residential complex where Cardinal Alessandrini lived. There were low-rise buildings, each three stories high, surrounded by a park, on Via della Camilluccia in one of Rome’s greenest residential areas.