he had to say; she gave him an annoyed look, as if she could barely tolerate his presence.
Guido turned the computer towards Daisy. She looked angrily for the two lines attached to the video, where she was seen sticking her hands between her thighs to wipe her tongue with foam.
Daisy read the commentary and discoloured her face.
Adriano must stop looking for me. Or he'll come to a bad end.
Again, someone was threatening her brother.
Secret file n.3
The editorial staff has received the recorded documentation.
To interview the witness is (omissis)
THE REGISTRATION IS COMPLETE
Noise is caused by the nurse coming in, the sensors on the medical equipment, and the comings and goings of staff outside the room.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Better. The good Lord watches over my martyrdom. Could you please press that button at the foot of the bed? It's for lifting the pillow."
"I don't know if I can do that. Wait, I'll call the nurse."
"Ah, there's Beatrice. Thank you. That's better. Only now I'm a bit sleepy. I don't know if I can tell you everything."
"If you want to rest, I can come back later."
"No. You're keeping me company after all. So, what about that day? It certainly wasn't me. I never thought I'd behave like this. My life is prayer. I pray a lot, you know? I pray all day and think about the church. I spend my life for it, and only for it: Holy Mother Church. And… wait. Before we go
any further, I'd like to know one thing. What do the doctors say? Will I get well soon?"
"Of course you will, don't worry. In fact, I'm sure you'll be home in a few days."
"But they still have me tied up on the cot. The straps pull a bit at my wrists. But it's better that way. "If I get excited, my wounds will open up again."
(The interviewer does not actually have any wounds.)
"There was a lot of death, and we need to figure out what happened that night."
"I… I don't know. If I speak, I will condemn my apostolate forever. The truth will drive me from the cathedral."
"Rest assured. No one will send you away."
"Sure, and… morphine, you say? Do I really get morphine? But you're not hallucinating?"
"I don't know. I think she is."
(He's not on morphine, even though he thinks he is).
"Can you confirm what you said at the church?"
"When the rescuers found me, you say? Those angels were good, you know? I was in a pool of blood. But I was conscious, and I told them everything."
"Could you tell me again? Do you feel up to it?"
"I don't feel like it, but I feel like I have to testify, even if no one will believe me. I think God saw what is hatching under the ashes of our poor country. There is a dark plan, and he knows it. But he can't let men make it right. We need you to intervene. There is an urgent need for his mercy."
"Please tell us a few facts, possibly without trying to interpret them."
"But these are the facts. Then there are the details. And then, don’t be so polite with me."
"Okay. We'll be on a first-name basis. Go on…"
"As you know, I live in the sacristy of the cathedral, which gives me a chance to, you know, live the church. Because I live and feel the church. I have an intense, I would say
physical, relationship with the cathedral. The vaults, the naves, the gilded coffered ceiling, Lotto's painting, because the Madonna and Child is by Lorenzo Lotto, the stuccoes and the frescoes, all things that make faith something material, to touch and venerate. Sometimes, when the church is closed, I pray in front of the altar. I have been suffering from insomnia for years, and that night, I believe around 3:00 a.m., I was on my knees, my hands reaching out to recite a Pater Noster, when I heard a crash coming from the street. Right in front of the church."
"Yes, I remember that terrible accident."
"A person died that night. But I didn't know until later. When I heard the crash, I ran to see what had happened, but I couldn't get out. I tried but… but… but… well, now it's getting hard to go on…"
"Make an effort and try to explain what happened."
"It isn’t easy, boy. The horror of living it is a wound that never heals. However, the door that led from the church to the sacristy had suddenly closed. A squeak, and then a squeak, as if someone had slammed it. I thought it was a joke. Then the other doors closed. Then I was frightened. I was no longer thinking of a joke, but of thieves. If some crook comes into the church, there's stuff to steal, and it's all valuable stuff, you know? I thought it was Alberto, a drug addict who lives in the neighbourhood. He often comes in to steal alms. Anyway, all the doors were locked. The one under the aisles leading to the exit, the one to the crypt, where the saint's remains are. And right there, underground, something happened."
(pause, due to the nurse's entrance. I hide the recorder again. None of the staff in the psychiatry department know I'm here for an interview. The nurse leaves. (I'll resume with questions)
"What happened underground?"
"Something that made me think no more of a joke or Alberto the Larvone. I heard thudding. Deaf and gloomy thumps that froze me, while outside the church I heard the screams, the crackling of the fire, the stench of burning car smoke.
Outside, I could feel the terror of the people in the neighbourhood. But inside… inside the church I could hear those thumps coming from underneath. The pews were moving and jumping and crawling on the marble floor. I thought it was the earthquake again, but it wasn't until later that I heard that there was no tremor.
I had the feeling that what was happening was, like, a license from earthly things. The manifestation of an invisible will. I don't know why, but I realized it must have been something evil. Something far from God. Is the recorder working? Are you always recording everything?"
"It's working, and I'm recording. So the doors were closed. And you could hear these shots."
"That's right. I got scared to death and started praying. As an old Christian I did it in Latin. Agnus Dei, qui toleris peccata mundi, miserere nobis. But recommending me to God seemed to do no good. It was then that an unusual anger arose in me. You see, boy, I presume to call myself a quiet man, a mild-mannered, shy man, that's why I'm ashamed to remember what I did afterwards…"
(There is a pause, it is clearly confusing. He resumes his speech as soon as he regains some clarity.)
"I mean, the point is, why wasn't I in my right mind? Why did I feel crazy? The merciful Lord knows that madness is the thing I pray for day and night. Insanity is a wound of God's will, a wound of thought, and far from the soul, that soul so dear to our God. Madness is not an expression of the evil one. Therefore, if I have to choose, I would like to be insane and nothing else. Do you know what I mean?"
(I nod without comment)
"All right. Let's pretend I'm not crazy. Then, I, the undersigned Simone Pietrangeli, sacristan, man who lives in the fear of God, that night felt obliged to do horrible things. I don't know how to explain it to you…"
"I know you hurt yourself."
"Yes. But the pain, however unbearable, was nothing. It was the humiliating actions I had done before I was scourged, the actions that offended God, that tore me apart."
"Can you go into details?"
"I… I… I can't."
"I'll