- Name?
- Ruggero.
- Surname?
- Piscitelli.
- Born at?
- Guardia Sanframondi, province of Benevento
in Italy
- When?
- I was born on the 10th of
March 1936.
- Profession?
- I am a brick layer but I retired in 2001.
- So Mr. Piscitelli, you are accused of
having killed on the Friday night the 17th of December 2004 you
spouse Ms Consuelo Barque married Piscitelli, stabbing her in various part of
her body with seventeen slashes given with a kitchen knife. The murder occurred
in your house, located at 470 of the Macquarie
Road Fairfield
- It is true, your honor!
The man suddenly cast down his head and
cover his face with his hands: with an uncontrollable movement his shoulders
are shaken by sighs.
When he finally manage to get back in
control of himself, with his right hand dries up furtively two tears which
slipped down his unshaved cheeks, lift back up his head and whispers with
trembling voice:
- What I have to say, your honor, is
that…is that I…I was in love with her!
- But if you felt such a feeling, how could
you possibly act in such a reged way?
- She was cheating on me, your honor, and
as I said I was in love with her and I couldn’t cope any longer with those
humiliations. She was the last spark of feeling in my life.
- Would you like to tell us about facts,
please?
- That’s fine I will tell you facts but I
have to tell the whole story, from the beginning, to try to explain, to supply
you with a reason.
- That’s fine, Mr. Piscitelli, tell everything
from the beginning but stick with facts.
- Alright than! It was an October night of
2001. I was retired for only six months and, you know, the first times are hard
without the routine of work, one feels useless, it’s boring, one think about
old age, you know, yes I was a little depress.
- Stick with facts I asked.
- I’ll get to facts, your honor, I’ll get
there! That night I was feeling a little better: I shaved and took a shower
after at least three days. And I wore new pants and a fresh ironed shirt. I
wanted to go out, breath some fresh air, perhaps eat an oriental meal e drink a
couple of glasses of wine. Must have been the Spring season, I don’t know! I
decided to go at Club Marconi because along with the food and the drinks, being
a Friday, I could also dance a bit. In conclusion, you honor, I wanted to
distract myself, have some fun.
- Go ahead Mr. Piscitelli.
- I then dined at the club’s restaurant and
then I went at the bar for a coffee and a sambuca. As usual a group of friends
and old acquaintances of a life of migration, fellows from my same hometown,
members of the regional association, former colleagues, Communist and Christian
democrats, football supporters was quickly formed and the same old animated
conversation began.
Shortly after the orchestra has started to
play and without hesitation I cheered everybody and made my way up the stairs
to the ballroom.
The ballroom was already getting crowded
and already a few couples were dancing on the shiny timber floor.
There still were free tables but I choose
to stand and sip my sambuca. I was staring around looking for a woman I already
made acquaintance to invite for a dance when I saw her.
Petite but well shaped, straight black
hairs on her shoulder, black eyes with oriental shape, little flat nose
pointing up, she looked at me and then smiled.
I interpreted as an encouragement so I approached
and invited her for a dance. She accepted and we danced for nearly half an hour
non stop before to proceed to the bar for a drink and then to a quiet table for
a chat.
We introduced each other and began to talk
about ourselves. She said that she was 28 years old, she was from Manila,
Philippines and that she survived famine and prostitution over there escaping to Australia where
unfortunately she entered with a temporary visa which would expire soon and
where she could only work casual and in black, causing her much struggle to
survive.
I told her about my life of work, of my
financial tranquility, of my loneliness, of the frustration of feeling still
enough strong and yet being treated as an old man.
There was a feeling of reciprocal
comprehension and complicity: we could understand each other, we could express
sympathy, we were trying to make each other smile, to relieve the melancholy.
Then she put her hand in my hand and kept it there for a brief – but very long
moment.
I was a little anxious, for long time I was
going out only for my shopping and now, at the first occasion was happening to
me to meet a person, a woman who seemed to really understand me.
- Be more concise, Mr. Piscitelli, do not
tell us about specific of little importance!
- They are important, you honor: one
doesn’t kill the woman he loves just because she overcooked the spaghetti!
- At home I had a little room which I used
as storage and after having pondered for the rest of the night, before to leave
I decided to offer her hospitality as you would offer to a friend. Consuelo
thanked me with a long hug and kissed my cheeks wetting them with her tears of
gratefulness. So she moved in and after a couple of weeks of friendly
cohabitation, one night I saw her walking in the lounge room dressed with
little clothes and with a inviting grin on her face even for a man like me that
long passed his goliardic age. And it happened, your honor, it happened
what…well, we loved each other on the couch. The story went on that way for a
while and after a couple of months we decided to get married. We long talked
about before and we verbally found an agreement. Only a silly guy wouldn’t take
in account the age difference: sixty five myself, twenty eight her: thirty
seven years are not peanuts, you honor!
And so we stipulated a pact: a deal for
which in change of her tender friendship, of her company in my old age, myself,
Australian citizen, I would have married her allowing her to acquire the
citizenship. With the citizenship she would have left behind all struggles that
so far she had to face, find a decent job, start a new life. Then after my
departure and as a legitimate spouse, she would have inherited everything and
settle once and for all.
- Please Mr. Piscitelli, do not stretch
your story too much!
- I’m sorry, you honor, is the pain I carry
inside: I need to talk, I need to release it or I’ll get crazy.
- Sure, sure I understand but today I have
two more interrogations in agenda and I’m inviting you to be the more concise
possible.
- The first fifteen months of marriage were
fantastic. As I said I didn’t have any financial problem and beside she got a
job at a Philippine company based in Sydney so we were carrying out with a satisfactorily
life: movie night every Wednesday, dinner and dance Friday and Saturday night,
some parties at friends places, some other at our place, holidays alternatively
in the Philippines or in Italy, nothing to complain about.
As for our intimacy, well, my performances
could not equal those of a thirty years old man but despite I wasn’t used to
have a woman around the house I managed to fill the gap with gentleness, you
know, a little gift, a bunch of flowers, a nice sentence, a compliment.
- One night, it would have been April 2003,
she rang home to tell me that she was late because the boss asked her without
advice to stay longer to finish a few letters. I felt a little upset, a little
lonely and sad but soon after, while dining on my own, these sensations began
to fade and when I finally sat on the lounge room to watch a tv show while
waiting her I ended up feeling silly for my reaction and I felt happy for her
capacity to be appreciated at work, for her justified ambition.
- But the situation started to occur more
and more frequently and even worse I started to notice a intangible cold toward
me, a thin lack of interest for our matters, some sort of lack of care for the house and in the same
time I could see her putting more and more care on her outfit, dresses, shoes,
make up, hair dressing and spend more and more time in the morning to get ready
to go to work.
- The letters of the last minute were
alternatively replaced, every now and then at the beginning, by the nights she
would spend out with her Philippine girlfriends. And it finally arrived the
night, a cold August night, she got back home very late, with her overcoat
crumpled, the make up a little ruined, and on her face the signs of a fight
that has left her tired but deeply satisfied. I remember that to my inquisitive
look she reply with a smile which, I thought, wasn’t addressed to me.
- So, Mr. Piscitelli, what happened after?
- I paid
someone to spy her, your honor! Consuelo was seen going out from the parking of
the building where she was working on a luxurious German car with the son of
the general manager, a thirty five years old guy all muscles and hair gel. It
was seven pm time when she would have usually returned home. A hour before she
had rung me telling she had extra work to do and she would have came back at
eight thirty.
- C’mon Mr. Piscitelli, tell us what
happened that night?
- Your honor I would like to specify that
night was the final consequence of a long list of fights and attempts to make
peace again. She was uncompromising, she was available to live together to
honour the deal and to save the appearances but in change she wanted to live
her life otherwise, she said, she would have left and would ask to divorce. I
was in love and feared to loose her, I was surrender, sometime I was like a lost puppy, because
now, aged sixty seven, to remain alone again was even more frightening than
before.
- That night she came back as usual very
late. Since waiting I had a couple of shots of sambuca I felt strong, I was
sarcastic, aggressive and started to ask her ironically the reason of such a
delay. She initially tried to divert the argument: we both knew were she had
been, she said, and it was not the case to start a fight and wake up all the
neighborhood. To my insistence she lost her coolness and started to answer with
the same irony and sarcasm to my provocations and the discussion became soon a
spiral of nasty words and offences, not repeatable, your honour!
- Please, repeat them, Mr. Piscitelli.
- I yelled her she was a whore, your
honour, and a disgusting upstarter.
- And what your wife answered?
- My wife…
- Please, tell us.
- Consuelo said that she was tired of that
kind of life and the next morning she would have left. She said I have to stop
to believe she was feeling something for me, that she never loved me, she
simply took the opportunity given. Who do I think I was to tell her what to do
or not to do? Was I really convinced that a woman like her could be bought with
a house in the popular suburbs, the Holden Commodore in the garage, the
excursion at Jervis bay or the Saturday night dancing at Club Marconi? She said
she was disgusted of my rounded belly, of my baldness, of my pathetic effort to
make her feel desired.
- To those words I started to cry desperately
begging her to not to leave me, to stay to have mercy for an old man.
She seemed to calm down, went in the
bedroom and started to undress.
Than she came back in the lounge room -
where I was desperately trying to recompose myself – wearing only light
transparent cotton nightdress with no underwear and looked me with tenderness.
- I must admit, your honour, that to that
look I regained hope. I thought that after all I could not expect to have her
all for myself, considering her young age and that I had to learn to handle
that situation if I didn’t want to loose her once and for all.
Consuelo sat and casted her head down but
from time to time she looked at me with tenderness, with little smiles of
sincere sympathy. Or, I should say, so it seemed to me…so I wanted to believe
at all cost and that’s why I made the mistake to interpret those smiles, those
looks as an attempt of make peace again and that nightdress as an implied
invitation to share intimacy. I then stood up went in the kitchen and started
to poor something to drink. She always liked vermouth so I got two glasses
ready with ice, sliced the lemon with that knife, poured the Cinzano went back and offered her the drink. She took
it, took a good sip of it and smiled me back enigmatically.
At that point I was convinced about her
intention, approached her, touched lightly her breast and tried to kiss her.
Believe me, you honour, I didn’t want to kill her, I would give my life to give
her back, I didn’t want to kill, I never even killed a fly. But when to my mute
proposal her, for me unexpectedly, pushed me away and asked me if I really was
convinced I could give her pleasure, in my mind the humiliation turned into
regret and then rage and then hate and then, your honour, I don’t know. Doctors
say is like a mental switch off. I don’t remember going back in the kitchen,
picking the knife up, stubbing her, nor leaving the house and taking the car.
None of the neighbours seemed to hear something, probably because used to hear
loud voices, despite 1 pm was well gone.
I drove for hours, but don’t ask me where
where I went because I don’t know: around the city, without a direction,
hallucinated, absent. When eventually the fog left my brain, I recalled and the
remorse became unbearable, I went back home and called the police. It’s all
your honour.
The man cast his head down again and
doesn’t move no more.
The Prosecutor takes some notes, close the
folder in front of him informs Piscitelli’s
lawyer on the date of the trial and in the surreal silence of the little
interrogations room of the Botany Bay jail,
stands up and to his sign the armoured door opens. He walk trough it, looks for
a brief moment to who just confessed his crime and with a vague expression of
disbelief mixed with mock and then he walks away.
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