Temporary Perfections by Gianrico Carofiglio Page B

Fornelli called. He said that he had spoken with Manuela’s mother, and that she in turn had called the two girlfriends and the ex-boyfriend. Through other friends of her daughter, she had also contacted Anita Salvemini, the young woman who had given Manuela a ride to the Ostuni train station. She’d explained to all of them that we were making an effort to find out what had happened to her daughter, and she asked them if they’d agree to talk to me. They’d all said yes, except for Abbrescia.
    “Why not Abbrescia?”
    I heard a brief hesitation at the other end of the line.
    “She told Manuela’s mother that she was in Rome. She said for the next few weeks she’s very busy with classes and exams and she’s not sure when she’ll be back in Bari.”
    There was another hesitation, and then Fornelli went on.
    “To tell you the truth, Signora Ferraro thought the girl seemed uncomfortable. That she wasn’t particularly happy about the phone call, and even less interested in the idea of talking to you. Talking to a lawyer, in other words.”
    “Can you get her phone number?”
    “Sure. Anyway, all the others said they would be willing to come talk to you in your office. Even today, if you have time.”
    I told him to hold on for a second, took a quick look at the appointment book I carried in my briefcase, and saw that I had only a couple of meetings scheduled in the early part of the afternoon.
    “Okay. There are three of them, so let’s ask them to come in one after the other, an hour apart. Let’s say at six, seven, and eight o’clock. That way I’ll have all the time I need to talk with each of them. Could you call them and schedule the meetings?”
    “Of course, I’ll take care of it. Unless you hear back from me within an hour or so, assume it’s all confirmed.”
    The first one to show up, a few minutes past six, was Anita Salvemini.
    She was a short, stocky young woman, dressed in cargo pants and a brown leather jacket. She had a face that was chubby but determined; when we shook hands, she had the grip of a man. All told, she struck me as trustworthy.
    “Let me start by thanking you for agreeing to come in. I believe that Signora Ferraro already explained why I wanted to talk with you.”
    “Yes, she told me that you’re doing some kind of investigation into Manuela’s disappearance.”
    Before I could catch myself, a sensation of intensely pure and completely idiotic vanity swept through me. If I was doing “some kind of investigation,” then you might say I was some kind of investigator.
    Or perhaps—I thought, as I regained control—it might be more accurate to say I was some kind of asshole.
    “Let’s just say that we’re going over the documents from the investigation that the Carabinieri did to see whether, perhaps, they might have missed some minor detail that might suggest a new theory about what happened to Manuela.”
    “You’re a lawyer, though, right?”
    “Yes, I’m a lawyer.”
    “I didn’t think that lawyers did … well, that lawyers did that kind of thing. Like a private investigator, right?”
    “Yes and no. It depends on the circumstances. What are you studying, Anita?”
    “I’m about to graduate with a degree in communications.”
    “Ah. Are you planning to be a journalist?”
    “No, I’d like to open a bookstore, though it’s a tough business. I think I’ll get a master’s degree, and then I’ll work in a bookstore chain for a few years. Maybe somewhere outside of Italy. Someplace like Barnes & Noble, or Borders.”
    There’s no faster way to win me over than to say you want to be a bookseller. When I was a boy, I sometimes thought I’d like to run a bookstore. It was mainly because I had a romantic and completely unrealistic idea of what that job entailed; in my vision, it would consist mostly of spending my days reading any book I wanted for free. Oh, from time to time, I’d have to stop reading to wait on someone, but customers wouldn’t hang