I am a normal person, one of those you meet every day. Good principles, shared habits, common sense, middle class. And, I would add, ordinary physical features, the kind that don't attract attention.
At this point, however, I have the doubt that perhaps I was a person like all the others. Because if you encounter, almost suddenly, something out of the ordinary, you immediately cease to be one of those.
And this is the chronicle of those events.
Which begins at the moment when, like every morning, I opened my email.
I couldn't believe my eyes. But there were no ambiguities of any kind: the message was explicit. It was indeed I who was designated as the judicial authority's investigator charged with conducting inquiries into a case initially of very little importance, but which would subsequently raise such an uproar with public opinion. Personally, I had created no expectations and the news was therefore completely unexpected, for several reasons. First of all, my inexperience and my young age, but also because of the likely news that had leaked about the probable and much more qualified aspirants to the position.
From that moment, I had only two days to gather the information and documentation necessary to fulfill my task. But I felt ready.
The first step, as provided by the investigation protocol, was an interview with the suspected person, and it was set for such and such a day of that fateful week.
I had arrived with the help of the digital navigator to the predetermined location, with the company of a certain dose of legitimate and understandable apprehension and a few minutes late, even though no precise time had been set for the appointment. But a diligent attendant made this clear to me who, upon my arrival, opened the door of the building where the meeting would take place with unexpected promptness.
I was accompanied to a comfortable environment, a sort of small living room illuminated by the warm light of a table lamp placed beside the sofa at whose ends were placed two armchairs. Hanging on the walls, the photographic portraits of the authorities of the time observed me with benevolent detachment. Next to the door was a bare table on which I placed my bag, as if it were a briefcase of work tools. In reality, it contained only a notepad and a memo that perhaps would be of no use. But it gave me an air of respectability and authority.
At a distance of a certain number of years, when I think back to that day, I must admit that I had no valid reason to accept favorably or to reject the assignment I was about to undertake and which, as I should have imagined from the first moment, had been assigned to me precisely because it was suitable for a trainee, no matter whether of outstanding or modest qualities.
It was simply a matter of gathering all the elements that, once put in order, would have helped me form an idea about the person I was going to meet, and of whom I had constructed no mental or moral prejudice. This initial neutrality of mine, but I was certain of this only much later, had actually been one of the cardinal elements for which the choice of the ideal profile of who would conduct the investigation had fallen precisely on me. A more than shareable criterion.
But naturally, as the moment of that fateful rendezvous approached, I had begun to ask myself questions about the difficulties and unexpected events that the meeting would bring with it. Not to mention that there had crept in, almost insidiously, that indecipherable area of the human mind where vague sensations or restless premonitions are placed that I wouldn't have known how to face. And I couldn't even have afforded to, for two reasons: the first, for the obvious consequences of my report on the fate of my interlocutor, and the second, certainly less relevant, for my self-esteem.
It wasn't a state of mind that I could have somehow already experienced on past occasions. All the more reason not to feel completely at ease.
I don't know why, but at first impact I didn't look for his gaze, but his hands. He kept them intertwined on the right armrest of his chair, as if he were waiting for someone, and they were long and tapered, while his legs were crossed. They seemed like a pianist's hands. Certainly not the stocky and callused ones of those who use them for wearing work.
And then his enigmatic eyes met mine, and they were full of a story yet to be discovered, but also of questions that he probably wouldn't even know how to formulate, but which demanded equally clear and unequivocal answers from me. This was the impression and suggestion they aroused in me. What struck me was an inexplicable serenity of spirit that they emanated and that I wouldn't have expected.
For my part, I didn't know quite how to approach him, except by appealing to an emotional neutrality that, I knew well, would soon crumble as his story would affect my sensitivity. And my task was nothing other than to penetrate his defense, in case he had intended to erect one, in the face of the invasion of territory that my presence could signify. Perhaps, in his place, I wouldn't have had a different mental reserve.
But I soon realized that this wasn't the case. It could be exactly the opposite. That is, perhaps the one who had to protect himself was me.
We were face to face, no one around who could interfere. And the somewhat motionless atmosphere, as well as the neutral environment, didn't seem to be able to offer an advantage or conditioning for anyone. I had the feeling that we would help and understand each other. But I was the one who had to investigate. And I needed my lucidity and his trust.
Unexpectedly, he was the one to break the ice, with the reassuring voice of one who is accustomed to entertaining guests.
"I was expecting you, you know? And I didn't imagine finding myself face to face with such a young person. Young people have no mental reservations. And this will facilitate understanding."
"Do you know why I'm here? Were you expecting me?" I began, immediately realizing that my words betrayed a timid surprise and a certain awkwardness that wasn't the height of empathy. One could catch a sort of naivety in them that would, however, help him trust me.
And indeed, after a brief pause, a slight smile brightened his face. Only then did I perceive a very light fragrance of aftershave that lingered in the room. I felt comforted by it.
"I believe you're doing your job, and everyone does it according to their own training and personal inclinations." The voice was calm and pitched in the tone of one who knows his business, even if in an unusual and perhaps even somewhat ambiguous circumstance.
I returned his slight smile.
"That's exactly right. And so let's start from here. I'd like you to tell me about your personal inclinations. You can elaborate as much as you please. We have as much time as you want." It was my way of recovering the role that belonged to me.
Another pause. This time a bit longer. And the expression on his face became just a bit more serious.
"I am rational. The only thing that no one, not even the most critical of my acquaintances, will ever be able to contest, is that I am endowed with a marked rationality."
Perhaps it was a way, I reflected, to affirm that no one would be able to walk all over him. But I stayed with his game.
"This facilitates my work, I'm certain of it. But in the scale of your personal values, where do you place this rationality of yours? Is it an attitude that facilitates or complicates your personal relationships?"
"It depends on my neighbor. My rationality isn't a switch that I push based on the occasion in which I find myself. However, I admit, sometimes this characteristic of mine can be confused with a certain aridity of spirit, but I believe there's nothing more erroneous, at least regarding my nature. On the contrary, if there's an observation I share, it's precisely that of surrendering all too easily to others' reasons, especially if they barely encroach on the territory of my interests, so that most of the time I end up taking a step back."
"Forgive me, but I think this happens to everyone a bit, especially when you understand there's nothing to lose. It's a generosity that costs little and serves to increase the esteem you need."
"It's only partly true. It's the case of my rash forays into hastily judging a person by their attitudes or their improvised verbal expressions, or in the rare occasions when I venture into perhaps somewhat presumptuous statements when talking about modern art (by the way, I'll never forget those compassionate expressions that converged on me when I let slip that Picasso's Guernica appeared to me like a big comic strip!), or again when I'm solicited against my will to express a position on matters of public domain and on which everyone takes sides for white or black, without the possibility of backing down."
"Once again I don't follow you completely. In these attitudes of yours, which seem well rooted in your character, where do you plant the flag of rationality, the one you just waved? So far, forgive the frankness, I haven't seen a trace of it. Indeed, perhaps a certain recklessness emerges."
This time his smile was that of one who feels stung to the quick. And his hands, which he had kept crossed, he placed on his stomach, as if to protect each other.
"My rationality, we were saying. I've always seen it as the attitude to obtain the maximum results with minimum effort. Or, that which serves to adapt one's behavior to a fair relationship between cause and effect. And there are so many others, definitions of rationality. Indeed, I'm sure many are correct, from a logical point of view. But then, when it comes down to it, everyone knows who the rational type is: the one who ends up having reason on his side, even if it's not always recognized. If you then want to make a sort of caricature of him, you paint him as a perhaps somewhat predictable type, the one from whom you don't expect an outburst outside the lines. Well!, in short, that person is exactly me.
But then, if you allow me, I'd like to return to the first question you asked me. I don't intend to evade it, because I believe it has its specific weight and in the end could facilitate our exchange of ideas. Where do I place rationality in my personal scale of values? It's a concept quite different from others certainly better considered, such as sympathy, intelligence, arrogance, egoism, altruism or even hatred or love. That's how I see it. Because those I just named, like so many others that are easy to enumerate, are all innate values, perhaps they can evolve and take root in human nature to be more recognizable, but they're part of it. Rationality, no. It's something that's cultivated, day by day, that's born from thought and deforms it, models it to achieve purposes that are foreign to it. And it's the highest expression of human nature, precisely because it surpasses it, or strives to do so. But I don't want to bore you with theses that aren't even mine, it would be enough to refer to those who made a school of it, like Descartes. But don't misunderstand me, I don't place rationality in first place among human values, I would be presumptuous to decree it, but I consider it my main road."
"And then I think it's time to give content to the cover of your story. Don't force me to trivialize it with a specific question."
As if he had been waiting for nothing else, he closed his eyelids with a long sigh and crossed his hands behind his head, as if waiting for the echo of the question to disperse. It was no longer the time to play with words.
"Some time ago I found myself in an unusual situation, which is perhaps worth remembering to stay on topic. A situation that imposed a decisive choice for my future on me, and could never have disregarded a logical approach." His speech was slow, almost measured, as if to make sure I didn't miss a single syllable of what he was explaining. And then he leaned slightly forward, in a posture of less detachment between us, as if to establish mutual confidence.
"I was a mature frequenter of the circle that socially counts, and I enjoyed a visibility that perhaps already aroused a certain envy in that environment with revolving doors where it's just as easy to find yourself in the middle of the scene as it is to disappear without hardly even leaving a trace of yourself. It wasn't infrequent to slip into conversations of the type 'Do you remember when So-and-so said that...' that ended up being dissipated by an imperceptible and bored arching of the eyebrows and a 'And who is So-and-so? I don't seem to know him!' that settled the nascent question in the blink of an eye. Poor So-and-so was a non-existent, therefore even less than an intruder.
But perhaps I'm digressing. I didn't consider that circle my point of arrival, but simply my natural habitat, so much so that I don't even remember any particular attitude of mine to frequent it and the idea of feeling like an outsider didn't even cross my mind.
And yet..., but it's better to start from the beginning.
I had all the requirements to be there by full right and I hadn't made any effort to possess them, good name and respectable family reputation, political and cultural convictions that found wide consensus, and expressed without boasting or presumption.
The fact is that I wouldn't have given up the position I occupied for any reason in the world, and I wouldn't have been able to imagine myself excluded from that context. There wasn't a fixed place of attendance, but simply meetings and occasions which it wouldn't have been appropriate to miss, and which had as their non-explicit purpose, but far more decisive, that of affirming the visibility of one's own role. One of the unwritten rules. Indeed, to be precise, those were precisely the rules that sanctioned the good right to be part of that circle.
The first time that a certain nervousness manifested itself more in the viscera than in the head and that put my ability to be part of that community, I don't know how else to define it, to the test, was on the occasion of a public transport strike that would have prevented an adequate number of members of our club from attending a vernissage of an art exhibition. The occasion, personally, I considered it very little, since it wasn't about an established artist nor one deserving of establishment, but only a vain entrée of a nephew of one of our peers, whose talent was inversely proportional to his ambition. Therefore, not many suffered from it. And I even less so."
"And then?" I interrupted him, not managing to understand where my interlocutor was heading. Perhaps I was urging him to get straight to the point, but I stopped there.
"Yes. I'm digressing a bit. One of my faults. My wife used to tell me that too. I'll get straight to the point."
"Your wife? I didn't know you were married."
"You didn't ask me. But it's the detail that brings us to the crux of the matter. So, the strike got in the way of the event's success. But its poor attendance weighed heavily on the events that concerned me."
"I imagine you too would have gladly done without it, both for the scarce interest and for the inconvenience of the strike. Am I wrong?"
Aymo, Aymo di Calcaterra, looked at me sideways, as if he hadn't appreciated the observation. His mimetic expression highlighted an irritation that suddenly infected the understanding between us that had formed almost spontaneously. Even his tone of voice appeared to me to rest on a slightly strident note.
"On the contrary! It was an event I absolutely couldn't miss! Don't make me lose the thread of the discourse. We were talking about rationality. And that was a rational choice. Only, it wasn't good that my wife didn't accompany me."
Perhaps intimidated by the unfortunate exit from before, I let myself be tempted by the instinct to let Aymo explain what he meant. But I couldn't allow myself to suffer the sudden mood swing. And so I recovered, taking advantage of his prolonged pause.
"Be more explicit. It's not time that we lack, I told you that before too. But I must also understand what appears superfluous to you. What does your wife have to do with the vernissage and why couldn't you miss it." This time it was my tone that admitted no replies and I pronounced the words with an impatience not even too dissimulated. I realized with a blink of delay that my emotional neutrality was slightly creaking. And it wasn't my legitimate curiosity that was making it wobble, but something that was failing me as if an increasingly thick fog was covering it: the linearity of Aymo's psychological profile was lending itself to an analysis I hadn't considered.
But perhaps I had hit the mark. The most evident symptom was that benevolent smile that I had already seen brighten his face shortly after our first face-to-face.
But it was precisely at that moment that I realized the conversation was dangerously slipping out of my hands. Continuing had no purpose. There was more than one element that made me understand I wasn't able to conduct it where I would have wanted because in my mind a puzzle was being constructed where I couldn't place all the pieces in their place. The signs were Aymo's unstable mimetic posture, his arguments whose logical outcome couldn't be grasped, and perhaps also the indeterminateness of my questions. I needed to reflect and take time. Aymo had scattered a series of clues, partly verbal and partly behavioral, that risked getting confused in my logical sequence.
I decided to stop in time.
"It would be well for us to resume our meeting tomorrow, Mr. Aymo, we're far from the conclusion and there are still many points to clarify, but I confess it has been much more profitable than I expected so far." The bluff was evident, but innocent, so much so that Aymo didn't extinguish his confident and calm expression, perhaps in the conviction of having me in his grasp. And I let him enjoy it to the fullest.
"I'm at your disposal!" The thread of irony was almost predictable.
At the moment I took my leave, Aymo stood up to offer me a polite farewell and I noticed he was much taller than I had imagined. I turned around, opened the door and, before closing it behind me, I heard myself called by name. Aymo had never done that. To tell the truth, the occasion had never presented itself. But how did he know my name? We hadn't introduced ourselves.
"Ruben, aren't you forgetting something?" he said, and indicated the bag I had left on the table. Next to the closing buckle, a leather tag bore the clear stamping of Dr. Ruben Abner.
What absent-mindedness! Aymo handed it to me with his umpteenth satisfied smile.