The basement smelled of dampness, cheap tobacco, and old paper.
Water dripped from the walls and ceiling almost everywhere in the corridors, the whole basement being rhythmically filled with the sound of drops constantly hitting the ground, the echoes carrying through the stone vaults beneath the prefecture building. Someone had assured him that masons had been hired and would soon come to properly apply cement everywhere and finally rebuild the walls.
The room itself had probably once been some sort of storage cellar, stocked with wine and other things like that, before the building was deemed useful by someone and then "bought" to serve the state. A place that could deal more efficiently with... problems underground than above, in plain sight.
Matteo lingered close to the open iron doorway, trying not to look toward the ropes hanging from the ceiling, attached to a pipe. The lamp hanging from them swayed slowly, pushed by the weak currents of air entering from the corridors.
In the almost empty room, there was only a chair and a table, on which were laid a few instruments: a knife, a wooden bat, and a sort of strange medical tool that Matteo could swear looked oddly similar to a women's cosmetic instrument he had once seen advertised in a journal. The only other thing in the room was a lamp hanging from the cellar ceiling, a small bulb connected with thin wires that always seemed ready to break.
The young men on the ground were both in bad shape. One had his nose almost hidden beneath dried blood and stared at the floor where he sat. The other lay motionless beside him on his back, both of their wrists bound with cheap electrical cables.
Neither looked particularly dangerous, before or after the beatings, but Matteo guessed that was common with criminals. It would not have been so hard for the state to deal with them if they all looked like the scum they were.
Sergeant Bellandi had explained earlier that usually the ones brought here who looked the most harmless were actually the most dangerous, although Matteo still was not sure whether his boss had been joking or not.
It was never particularly easy to tell with him whether he was making the most obvious joke with a straight face or speaking carelessly about some of the most important matters imaginable.
So, whatever the older man said, take it with a grain of salt, but be prepared not to question it. That was the first lesson Matteo had learned during his first few days.
"Crackkkk"
Ah, here He is
He thought as the metallic opened in a loud noise that reverberated in the room, the iron screeching on the concrete floor.
Loudly, and slowly, cause of course the noise that annoys everyone here has to be continued the longest time as possible.
Hurry up please
"Hum hum hum"
Matteo stepped aside as Bellandi entered the room, whistling as usual, his clothing far more relaxed than on the day Matteo had first been introduced to him. His messy collar, his shirt opened down until the third button, barely tucked into the dark pants, a small fold of fabric sticking out above his belt. The white top made a striking contrast with the dark navy pants, the same as worn by all the men in the office.
The man threw the black coat in his hand carelessly onto the table without a second gaze, before closing the heavy doors behind him, the metal grating against the ground as the heavy door scraped against the floor while it closed. The screaming coming from outside disappeared as though it had never existed. Better for everyone here.
"How is the day, Matteo ? I see you finally received your proper uniform; way better than these dark MVSN rags that you wore before... isn't it ?"
- "Yes Sir..."
Matteo responded while gazing briefly at his new uniform, the dark blue well ironed uniform of the police a stark contrast with the usually messily worn attire of the black shirts. The uniform alone would be a good reason enough to justify his choice to be transferred here.
"The office gave it to me this morning. Happy to finally fit into the fold..."
Bellandi nodded at this without even watching him, then moved to stand near the table, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his suspenders hanging loose at his sides as he began to circle around the table while reading through a thin stack of reports, continuing the same whistling that Matteo could hear throughout the building all day long.
He only stopped after a moment, visibly disappointed.
"God be praised, these jokers at the administration really are insufferably incompetent."
He said before throwing the papers on the table, the folder of reports opening itself while landing, sending a bunch of papers everywhere on the ground around the table.
"When I ask for left they give me right, when right they give me left. If I say white, they give black... Non ci azzeccano mai."
Matteo lowered himself before sensing the hand of his superior slapping the back of his head, the sound resonating in the room, more humiliating than painful, but still enough to probably leave a red mark on his neck.
"No need to embarrass yourself with that ; the cleaners will take care of it, along the... more gross parts of our job here."
"Which will not be you, unless you really do something stupid..."
The sergeant let the words settle before adding "... Besides, papers about these individuals don't really matter that much, not anymore..."
He then added, with his typical little smirk "That is your problem, your still trapped in a world of administration and laws."
Matteo hesitated. "Sir?"
Bellandi gave a faint hum of amusement t this, not quite a laugh, but enough to express his disdain, as usual with him.
If this guy could talk only by small laugh and smirks, Matteo is pretty sure that he would do it.
Bellandi let the silence install itself, his hand tapping on the table as he inspect all of the instrument displayed here, landing his eyes upon the little instrument similar to what women use on their eyes to do god knows what, or so they said in the newspaper, eyelash curler... or something like that.
The sergeant then took the small instrument making it clap a few times, opening and closing it with a gaze that Matteo would rather not see in anybody.
He turned it once between his fingers.
Click.
The hinged arms of the diabolical woman thing gave a faint metallic click each time he squeezed them together, the rubber pad compressing and releasing in a slow, deliberate rhythm that resonated in the room.
He then brought it closer to his face, studying its curved shape with an eye that only calls for trouble and pain, he mimicked the motion, positioning the metallic instrument it in the air as if he was putting it toward an invisible eye, lining it up carefully, before closing it again with a controlled press, while he began to talk again.
"You keep expecting things to be exactly as they're written in files, as if everything in life should follow what's on paper..." He said in an amused voice.
Click.
He opened and closed it again, as he was talking.
Click. Click. Click.
"And, furthermore, you remain bound by archaic morals about what should and should not suffer our wrath. That is why you cannot refrain from subjecting your vision to mere words on a page...."
Click.
Another slow squeeze.
Click.
"And that is..."
Click. Click.
"Because..."
Click. Click. Click.
"You are a little boy, mentally speaking. The head still full of dreams about justice. heart full of righteousness. Ready to strike down the enemy of the people. But not realising that an enemy has as much faces as can be counted. And that sometimes, it is precisely those who bear the least mark of the criminal who should be watched, and, if necessary, taken care of..."
Click.
Click.
Click.
"Then you enlist yourself into the police, to protect the people from their enemies, and you come down here, in the deep south, joining Mori in his little crusade. Still thinking all of this is simple,"
He continued. "Mafiosi and Corruption on one side. Law and Justice on the other. Clean lines. Clean categories."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The number of times he opened and closed the damn thing was lost to Matteo. Then, as bored as he was, Bellandi set the instrument down without looking at it anymore. Finally ending this cacophony of clicks and clacks.
"You keep thinking in categories," Bellandi said at least, still facing the table. "Needing document to tell you what to think and to keep you in the idea that what you are doing is the moral thing to do."
"It is normal, everyone needs clean differences, straight lines between good and wrong, so they can think themselves as a part of the good ones."
He glanced briefly at Matteo, then away again, as he adjusted one of his rolled sleeves,.
"But sadly, that's not how anything here works. Not in our job..."
"Guilty, Innocent, Mafiosi, Civilian, enemy of the state or simple person that said too much " He waved a hand in the general direction of the tied men. "They don't arrange themselves that neatly. Not even down here in Calabria."
He reached for the edge of the table, straightening one of the scattered sheets before throwing it recklessly on the ground, no care at all for all of that.
"The south, the cartels, the families. The shadow state that feed on the innocent, like a succubus. Depriving the south and Italy from their glorious destiny. All that."
The sergeant finally glanced at Matteo, just long enough for it to register.
"That's what we are fighting. In the story, yes..."
His hand drifted back to the table, tapping again, as if he would die if he didn't make noise for more than a few seconds
"Sadly, stories are for recruitment and newspapers. They don't resist reality, not the one that occurs in rooms like the one we are working in."
"Khoff, Khoff Khoff,"
One of the men on the floor coughed weakly. Bellandi laid his eyes on him, watching him in silence for some seconds before reacting.
"urk !"
The man made a terrible noise, between a scream and a wheeze as the boot landed on his stomach, striking precisely at the space where it would be the most painful.
And then again.
And again
And again
And again
Matteo could not say how many times this lasted, until the man would stop reacting to the strikes, now not even able to make a slight sound as Bellandi boot step on his hand, pressing it on the cold ground, with strength, making slight moves, as to see if the man would react again, before stopping as he realised he would not.
"Thank you..."
Bellando said flatly, Matteo wasn't sure if it was a sarcasm toward the probably dead man or if this was said to him. Then he gazed again on Matteo, any semblance of sympathy now gone
"In case you didn't understand what I am telling you, this is a test. Your final one actually."
"This whole thing is not just about mafiosi," He said, a slight pause before continuing.
"This is about order."
He tapped the table once.
"Our work is to deal with whom the state finds to be a nuisance... regardless of our personal feelings about it.
Orders come down. People need to be 'moved', to preserve the standing order. The reasons, if ever written, are done later. And we don't need them."
Another pause. His gaze held on Matteo, scrutinizing, the eyes of a man that doesn't need reasons, just mission.
"This is your test," he said again, simply. "Not whether you believe the story that the papers told you."
A slight tilt of the head, his hand coming to his hair to put it back behind the ear.
"But it is whether you still hesitate when the story you tell yourself stops working, and that the cold reality settles around you."
He then touched the beaten man again, his boot on his chin, tapping slightly, before applying a slight force it, the head falling face against the ground under the small push of the foot. Confirming that the man is definitely dead, or close to it, Bellandi making a little sound, annoyed, before moving to another one. A man in his forties, the man's gaze full of terror as the sergeant was grabbing him before throwing him.
The man land on the chair, him and the piece of furniture almost falling before the sergeant stopped it. Putting his hand on the wooden chair and stabilising it, then giving a slap on the man's head, as if it was his fault for that.
Before taking one of the dispersed papers ont he table. this exact one, as if he could teel exactly which one from which among the tens of papers dispersed all around.
"Giovanni Vitchelli. Socialist agitator. Agricultural Workers' League of Catanzaro. Former secretary of a cooperative association. Contributor to the... ah..."
Bellandi made a small laugh, as if remembering something he found very pleasant.
"La Parola Socialista... A small newspaper that no longer exists, at least legally speaking...
And, for a brief moment, Matteo could see the smile becoming something else, almost... genuine.
"I was rather fond of it, actually. The games in the back were quite entertaining after dinner.""
The prisoner's eyes widened slightly, but that didn't change anything. Bellandi either didn't notice or didn't care.
"Crosswords, Number puzzles. Funny little things like that."
The sergeant shrugged.
"Better than most newspapers... anyway, let's continue..."
"... Attended three meetings of the Socialist Party before its dissolution. Organised a strike with his fellow dock workers six or seven years ago... Distributed radical leftist pamphlets... and... maintained "political correspondence" with some individuals, particularly in Puglia and Napoli."
He tossed the paper back onto the table. Turning back toward Matteo
"And no mafia connections, even quite the opposite actually..."
A brief pause.
Matteo could feel a sweat all around his body, his heart racing, his gaze less clear, his back humidified, as he realise what all of this is actually about.
Not that he can ignore and pretend anymore...
The sergeant's tone remained completely neutral, as he continued. Not needing paperwork anymore.
"A docker for more than 35 years. Loved by all of his community. Goes to church every week. Married. Two daughters and one son. The son is the younger one. A little boy, a cute one even, not more than eight..."
Matteo's heart stopped for a quick instant at this, his eyes immediately dropped toward the floor.
No.
He could do that to criminals, lawless thugs that strangled the people. The same than the ones who he saw giving hell to his family during his youth. Extorting, menacing, killing on a few instances.
yes, he could deal with these scums... but this...
This is not what he signed for. Not what he joined the police for.
He did that to have his revenge on these criminals. To enact justice. Not to punish the innocent, not a father...
Bellandi noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"See?" he said, while glancing toward Matteo, a new smirk on his face, his eyes empty, of all emotion, beside a disdain. "This is exactly what I mean..."
"Weakness, weakness that needs to be ended."
He tapped the side of the table.
"Twenty years ago, under a different time. This man could walk free. Under a different government, this man could be what he is. He could freely do what he did. He could fight for his little cause, as long as it would pleases him..."
Another tap.
"And in twenty years from now, maybe under another different government, he coud maybe do it again. But not now..."
The sergeant shrugged.
"What matters is now. What is matter that today, at this very instant, he needs to go... Right now, he isn't what we want him to be. Right now, he is a nuisance. And our job is to deal with it."
He looked back at Vitchelli.
"Isn't that right, Giovanni?"
Vitchelli could only make some muffled sounds, the gag still in his mouth, as he was struggling, desperately, to break free. maintained on the chair by the firm hand of Bellandi.
"So now, there is your choice." Bellandi continued after giving a quick slap on the other man's neck. Moving around the table before landing his hand on it, close to the plethora of instruments.
"You either take these, and works wonders, on the enemy. Not the one that you've dreamed of, but the one we have."
He then added, after a brief silence, his voice taking a tone Matteo would do everything to not hear again in his life
"Or you don't..."
That's it.
For the first time since a while, maybe ever, Matteo could see Bellandi quiet. His gaze no longer the one of smirks or pleasantry. But cold. Dissecting him. Like a man studying an unknown species of insect he never saw. No sound anymore, n noise. No smile, no whistling, no jokes, no little noises of the mouth, nothing... Nothing but the gaze.
And then, under this ceiling ? He could not bear it. Under the cold gaze of death. Matteo lowered his eyes, adverting the ones of his superior. Unable to cope with the idea of seeing it again.
And as he lowered his gaze, it landed on one of the tens of instruments on the table. A sort of little metal clamp, in no way bigger than a walnut. A strange instrument with two tightening screws on either side and a cold, clinical shine, something that looked more like it would rather have its place in a carpenter or a puppet store rather than here.
And then, after a while, long minutes where he could only hear his heart racing, he moved toward the table.
And he took it.
"Thumbscrews huh ?"
He could hear in the background, like a distant voice, faraway, like if his head was under water.
"Quite original, but it will do... Welcome into the Section XII, desk n°23 of Internal Security. Glad to make your acquaintances."
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Sorry for the lack of publishing, my studies take quite a lot of my free time.
And do not hesitate to write what you think of this chapter, I am not sure about it.