Read Online The Deliverance of Evil by Roberto Costantini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roberto Costantini
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some bar, far away from the luxe life, illustrious people, and Elisa Sordi.
Friday, July 16, 1982
F OR SEVERAL DAYS THERE was neither sight nor sound of her. Teodori, whom I spoke to every day on the telephone, maintained that the girl’s disappearance could be an “elopement,” possibly even abroad. She had done it secretly, perhaps, because she was lacking the courage to be open about it.
I tried not to think about it, squashing the thought like an annoying insect. I hadn’t seen or heard from Angelo and had shut myself away between the office and the studio apartment in Garbatella, rotating the casual female company picked up in Trastevere’s bars and dives. I was smoking more than usual, drinking more than usual, and screwing more than usual. More than anything else, I didn’t want to be alone. As if those things could keep away the gnawing pangs I felt over Elisa Sordi.
Teodori called me on the Friday. A homeless man sleeping on the banks of the Tiber just past Ponte Milvio had found a woman’s body. I raced over there with Capuzzo, as if by going fast we could make up for the time I’d wasted back when it counted.
On the dry riverbank, exposed by the summer drought, a group of policemen stood around a dead body. The corpse, which was naked, had been attacked by insects and was in an advanced state of decomposition. It was covered with injuries from rats and shrubs along the river, along with obvious knife wounds and cigarette burns. Although heavy blows had devastated the face, I could see it was that of Elisa Sordi. There was no mistaking that incredibly beautiful hair, the figure, the color of her skin. I had seen other corpses, but this death was new to me; it went way beyond the usual violence.
Teodori was standing in front of the body, white as a sheet. His hands were trembling, and he was sweating feverishly in his absurd suit and loosened tie. Capuzzo was holding on to his stomach and trying to breathe deeply, his mouth gaping wide. I had to take control of the situation. I sent Capuzzo away before he threw up. A forensic pathologist was bent over the girl’s corpse.
I approached Teodori. “We should clear everyone away so that Forensics can—”
“Of course, of course!” he said. He gave orders, and then we were alone with the pathologist.
“Is it Elisa Sordi?” Teodori asked me. It was as if she were a relative and I was there to identify her.
I nodded yes, then walked away to have a cigarette. At the top of the hill, a line of the usual curiosity seekers had formed along the road. They were lazily licking away at ice cream cones, craning their necks in order to better enjoy the spectacle. I called Capuzzo and two officers and told them to break up the crowd. When I had finished my cigarette, I went back to Teodori, who was talking to the medical examiner.
“She’s been dead for days. There are signs of violence. It was a slow and painful death. Unless she was dead before she was beaten and burned—we’ll know after we do an autopsy.”
Teodori looked lost in thought.
“What was the cause of death?” he asked.
The medical examiner shook his head. “I don’t think she drowned. She must have been dead already when she was dumped in the river. Cardiac arrest or suffocation. She’s been dead for several days, maybe even since Sunday.”
I saw that young, devastated body with different eyes. I thought of that summer twelve years ago, in 1970, when I was escaping over the sea from what I had left in the sea, and from the mistakes I never wanted to call sins, as Christians do. That cycle of feelings that leads to a kind of paralysis: guilt, remorse, repentance. The lifeblood of the soul. Wounds that never heal.
. . . .
Elisa’s parents were sitting on a bench in the police station. A friend had told them after hearing news of the discovery on the radio. It was the wonderful new world of news in real time with a plethora of private radio stations hunting for the sensation
Friday, July 16, 1982
F OR SEVERAL DAYS THERE was neither sight nor sound of her. Teodori, whom I spoke to every day on the telephone, maintained that the girl’s disappearance could be an “elopement,” possibly even abroad. She had done it secretly, perhaps, because she was lacking the courage to be open about it.
I tried not to think about it, squashing the thought like an annoying insect. I hadn’t seen or heard from Angelo and had shut myself away between the office and the studio apartment in Garbatella, rotating the casual female company picked up in Trastevere’s bars and dives. I was smoking more than usual, drinking more than usual, and screwing more than usual. More than anything else, I didn’t want to be alone. As if those things could keep away the gnawing pangs I felt over Elisa Sordi.
Teodori called me on the Friday. A homeless man sleeping on the banks of the Tiber just past Ponte Milvio had found a woman’s body. I raced over there with Capuzzo, as if by going fast we could make up for the time I’d wasted back when it counted.
On the dry riverbank, exposed by the summer drought, a group of policemen stood around a dead body. The corpse, which was naked, had been attacked by insects and was in an advanced state of decomposition. It was covered with injuries from rats and shrubs along the river, along with obvious knife wounds and cigarette burns. Although heavy blows had devastated the face, I could see it was that of Elisa Sordi. There was no mistaking that incredibly beautiful hair, the figure, the color of her skin. I had seen other corpses, but this death was new to me; it went way beyond the usual violence.
Teodori was standing in front of the body, white as a sheet. His hands were trembling, and he was sweating feverishly in his absurd suit and loosened tie. Capuzzo was holding on to his stomach and trying to breathe deeply, his mouth gaping wide. I had to take control of the situation. I sent Capuzzo away before he threw up. A forensic pathologist was bent over the girl’s corpse.
I approached Teodori. “We should clear everyone away so that Forensics can—”
“Of course, of course!” he said. He gave orders, and then we were alone with the pathologist.
“Is it Elisa Sordi?” Teodori asked me. It was as if she were a relative and I was there to identify her.
I nodded yes, then walked away to have a cigarette. At the top of the hill, a line of the usual curiosity seekers had formed along the road. They were lazily licking away at ice cream cones, craning their necks in order to better enjoy the spectacle. I called Capuzzo and two officers and told them to break up the crowd. When I had finished my cigarette, I went back to Teodori, who was talking to the medical examiner.
“She’s been dead for days. There are signs of violence. It was a slow and painful death. Unless she was dead before she was beaten and burned—we’ll know after we do an autopsy.”
Teodori looked lost in thought.
“What was the cause of death?” he asked.
The medical examiner shook his head. “I don’t think she drowned. She must have been dead already when she was dumped in the river. Cardiac arrest or suffocation. She’s been dead for several days, maybe even since Sunday.”
I saw that young, devastated body with different eyes. I thought of that summer twelve years ago, in 1970, when I was escaping over the sea from what I had left in the sea, and from the mistakes I never wanted to call sins, as Christians do. That cycle of feelings that leads to a kind of paralysis: guilt, remorse, repentance. The lifeblood of the soul. Wounds that never heal.
. . . .
Elisa’s parents were sitting on a bench in the police station. A friend had told them after hearing news of the discovery on the radio. It was the wonderful new world of news in real time with a plethora of private radio stations hunting for the sensation
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