1

It was around the tenth of April. The air was cool and clean. A fragrant breeze, rare for this city, was blowing, and the sun spattered liquid light over us and the grey façade of the courthouse. Carmelo Tancredi and I were standing near the entrance, chatting.

“Sometimes I think about quitting,” I said, leaning against the wall. The plaster was flaking, and a spider’s web of small cracks spread worryingly upwards.

“Quitting what?” Tancredi asked, taking his cigar from his mouth.

“The law.”

“Are you kidding?”

I shrugged. At that moment, two judges passed. They didn’t notice me, and I was pleased I didn’t have to greet them.

“Do you know them?” I said, nodding towards the glass door behind which the judges had just disappeared.

“Ciccolella and Longo? I know who they are, but I wouldn’t say I know them. I once had to testify in court before Ciccolella, but it was all over pretty quickly.”

“A few days ago, I was in a lift with Ciccolella. There were also two trainees and that female lawyer who always dresses as if she’s on her way to a Chinese New Year party.”

Tancredi laughed. He knew immediately who I was talking about. “Nardulli.”