A Woman Much Missed

by Valerio Varesi

  “Do you have a more precise description?”

  “At that time in the morning, the only people who’ll be there are elderly women. A young woman will stand out. Oh, I nearly forgot. The church opens at five o’clock.”

  The colour drained from Juvara’s face, but he said nothing.

  “Anyway, I’ll be close by as well,” Soneri said.

  At last he was able to get up and take his duffel coat down from the peg. He felt something sharp in his right pocket and when he stuck his hand in to see what it was, he remembered it was a present he had bought for Juvara. “What are we going to do? Put it under the Christmas tree? Or do you want to open it right away?” he said, holding it out.

  The inspector could not wait, and in his smile Soneri caught a residue of childhood. The present was an anti-virus device for his computer, updated for the New Year. “A protection against your solitary vice,” he said.

  A few minutes later, he was striding across the smoky dining room of the Milord, past diners already tucking into dessert. “Are we not supposed to be fasting at the moment?” he asked Alceste.

  “Ah, the old ways! The only ones who remember are people of our age.”

  “At least you keep to the old ways in the kitchen,” Soneri said.

  “That’s getting harder and harder all the time,” Alceste snorted, showing Soneri a plate on which someone had cut off the fat from their prosciutto and pushed it to the side. “Have you ever seen the leg of a Parma pig with no fat? And then they happily guzzle a hamburger in some fast food joint.”

  “I’d like to tell them where to stuff their hamburgers,” the commissario said.

  “Would you like some chicken and chips?” Alceste said with heavy irony.

  Soneri looked at him askance. “Isn’t this the season for baccalà? Maybe with a helping of polenta.”

  “Sweetcorn pâté served with fish from the Baltic, as they used to write on the menus at the Communist Party functions in the Sixties.”

  The commissario was plunged back into the reflections that had been tormenting him since he made his first steps in this investigation. Alceste watched his expression darken and made no further comment. He went into the kitchen and sent out a waiter to serve him.

  It was after three o’clock when Soneri left the establishment. The streets in the city centre were jammed with people scurrying about on the pavements, their mackintoshes and fur coats brushing against each other in a casino-like frenzy. The illuminations reinforced this impression. A clown show, as Marta Bernazzoli had said. Soneri turned into the lanes in a district which was uncrowded and had no shops, and reached Via Saffi. A group of immigrants stood chatting in front of the shisha bar, which was still closed, while an improvised African market was displaying its highly coloured wares under the colonnade in Borgo delle Colonne.

  At precisely that moment, he heard brass instruments ring out nearby as a band struck up with a partisan song. Cornetti, carried shoulder high to the accompaniment of music he had always loved, was bidding his last farewell to what had been his home district. The scene seemed somehow grotesque. The cortège was followed by a small crowd among whom Soneri recognised his former workmen by their strong, calloused hands. Behind them came an improbable mixture of anarchist black banners and communist red flags, followed by Friar Fiorenzo in his robes and various partisan societies carrying their placards aloft, a procession of elderly men, some with fists raised and others with shoulders hunched under the weight of too many misadventures.

  With the band at its head, the crowd moved forward. It passed alongside the walls of San Francesco, down Borgo delle Colonne where the band played “Bandiera Rossa” in homage to what had once been the street with the greatest number of communists in the city, attracting the astonished looks of the immigrants, the only people giving their full attention to what must have seemed to them an event organised by a hospice. In a thickening mist descending on the streets, the funeral procession proceeded towards Borgo del Naviglio and the places associated with the 1922 barricades, before coming out on the ring road where a hearse was waiting. Cornetti had bid goodbye to his own haunts and to much else besides. What Soneri saw was a small army of the faithful in sad retreat, some exhausted and limping, and others leaning on their walking sticks. He watched the banners being folded up and put away, and witnessed the last, haphazard salutes given under the curious eyes of the first prostitutes as they prepared for another long night. Standing by the roadside, he observed people slipping away one by one until the last participant was swallowed up by the fog.

  “It brings a lump to my throat,” he heard a voice behind him say.

  Soneri turned round and saw Bettati. “We meet rather too often at funerals these days.”

  “It looks as though destiny has put them in a queue, one after the other,” Bettati said.

  “I’d like to think there’s nobody else in the queue.”

  Bettati made a face suggesting helplessness. “Anyway, it is true that Cornetti had run out of patience even with those extremist groups.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “His foreman. He’d seen him in a state of exasperation just a few days before he shot himself. He said there was no humility left, and that young people today came over as arrogant know-alls who’d never done a hard day’s work with a spade in their hands.”

  “It’s hard to disagree with him.”

  “Yes, but these people had even been threatening him. The problem was that everyone else in politics was worse, a bunch of scoundrels on the make, like Pecorari and Avanzini.”

  “Now they’ll draw a veil over Cornetti and all this,” the commissario said.

  “They may well do so,” Bettati said, taking his bicycle by the handlebars and pushing it along the pavement. The two men walked a while in silence. “However, one of these young folk must have taken a liking to him. There was one tall, thin guy paying his respects in the mortuary. I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

  Instinctively the commissario thought of Andrea Fornari. “It could have been one of the far-left gang who used to hang out in that flat.”

  Bettati stopped and stared at him, then continued on his way without saying a word.

  “When did you see him?”

  “Early this morning. I went to the mortuary as soon as it was open. I like to get as close as possible to people, even when they’re dead. There’s no-one else around at that time.”

  “When did the other guy turn up?”

  “Just as I was leaving. I got the impression he’d been waiting for me to go. I turned round for one last look and I saw him going in.”

  “Maybe he was a member of one of those groups. He might have had something on his conscience,” Soneri said, thinking of the woman who had gone twice to make her confession to Friar Fiorenzo.

  “I think they should all have a weight on their conscience, now that there’s no political consciousness and everything’s gone to the dogs, but I wouldn’t be too sure,” the barber said bitterly.

  It was getting dark and at that time of day the frenzy on the city streets was even greater. An invisible mixer was tossing the crowd about beneath an immobile blanket of mist as thick as béchamel sauce. Soneri cut through the throngs towards the questura and went in by a side door and along a vaulted corridor where a sentry stood guard. Angela had been right. Everybody goes home for Christmas, including Fornari. But where would he be now? Perhaps up at Monchio assisting in the slaughter of a pig? Who would plunge in the knife on this occasion?

  Juvara arrived just in time to ward off further gloomy thoughts. “Mayhem,” he announced, waving his arms about. “They’re rushing here and there, and don’t know where they’re heading. Christmas must have infected even the arseholes.”

  “Over at the Digos offices they’re in a meeting which has been going on for more than two hours, with admin people running up and down with bundles of paper in their hands. They’ve even called the Florentine magistrate who’s in charge of the
terrorism case back from his holidays.”

  “So that’s his escort waiting down in the courtyard.”

  “Even Maffetone’s at it, running up to Chillemi’s office and back again.”

  “So we’re the only ones at peace, as though we were in the eye of the cyclone, with absolute chaos all around,” Soneri said, with a touch of resignation.

  “I had to hand back the Dallacasa file. They wanted it in the Digos office,” Juvara said.

  Soneri looked down at the cloisters, as he often did when he was lost in thought, but on this occasion instead of the usual stillness he saw a flurry of officials, officers and drivers rushing about in the kind of hysteria seen at Grand Prix races. The blue cars of civic dignitaries were pulling up at the foot of the stairs leading to the offices of the vice-questore, while unmarked police cars were parked one beside the other under fir trees whose tops were lost in the mist. “Does anybody know what the fuck is going on?” he asked, slapping his hand down on the desk so firmly that he knocked over the lamp stand.

  Juvara looked on helplessly.

  “Go and see if you can find anything out,” Soneri told him, his tone almost imploring.

  The inspector went out without a word, leaving Soneri in a rage. Hoping for a call from the floor above, he stared at the telephone, but it stubbornly refused to ring. No-one was looking for him now, nor had they been earlier. He watched a car from the Guardia di Finanza arrive, its lights flashing. A couple of officers got out and made for the same staircase as the others. The whole landing occupied by the questore and his deputy was ablaze with light, a sign they were working flat out. If that was unusual at any time of the year, it was a hundred times more so on the day before Christmas Eve.

  Juvara came back in and his expression was enough to tell Soneri he had got nowhere. “Commissario, I haven’t got much to say. They treated me like a criminal.”

  “Do you at least know if they’re dealing with terrorism or bribery?”

  “Both. Chillemi’s leaping from one meeting to another.”

  “Are they talking about issuing arrest warrants?”

  “I think so. A friend in the central office told me that some arrests have already been made and that other warrants will be executed either today or tomorrow.”

  “I hope they at least let them enjoy their Christmas dinner,” Soneri said, with deeply felt bitterness.

  Juvara gave a nervous laugh. He too was plainly put out by the whole business. “We’ve still got the old woman’s murder,” he said, in an attempt to console him.

  “Wait and see if they don’t try and take that away from us too,” Soneri said, attempting to sound nonchalant. “Anyway, we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Because all this mucking about will be over by then. We’ve just got to wait for the big show.”

  Juvara stared at him without understanding, but he was long accustomed to cryptic replies from his superior.

  *

  “Fancy a meal together?” Soneri suggested to Angela. Fortunately, he had remembered his promise to call her as soon as he left his office.

  “Alright. As it’s Christmas why don’t you come to my place, but don’t expect some sort of family feast.” She then said, “We’ll follow tradition and have a light meal.”

  The commissario was at the corner and could hardly object. “You’re right. We must respect the old customs.”

  Angela lived quite near the questura, and once in her house Soneri jumped up every time he heard a squad car pass, or saw the reflection of a flashing light in the window. On each occasion, he got up from table and ran to the window like a child on the lookout for Father Christmas.

  “Maybe if I’d done you some anolini or one of those dishes overflowing with fat that you’re so keen to devour at Alceste’s, you’d have been able to stay sitting at the table,” Angela said.

  “This is not exactly the kind of meal that’s makes you struggle to get to your feet,” he said, toying with two pieces of mozzarella no bigger than a prune, garnished with lettuce with no dressing. His eye was drawn immediately afterwards to the bottle of natural mineral water.

  Just then the wail of a siren rang out, and he leapt to his feet yet again. “Carabinieri,” he said, returning to his seat.

  “I’ve never seen you so restless. You’re like a bird battering its wings against the bars of its cage.”

  “I think we’re at the endgame, but I’m not throwing in my hand yet.”

  “If it’s because they’re cutting you out, forget it. It’s always been the same. You’re not like the rest of them, and if you were, you wouldn’t be here.”

  The commissario looked at her gratefully, but could not help noting the signs of tension on her face.

  “Even if I do try not to bother about it,” he began, but could not find the words to finish his sentence.

  “I know, but in part it’s your own fault. You always work on your own and you never leave space for anyone else. Obviously, they’re not going to make space for you either. Add to that the fact that you’re impossible to control, and politically you’re . . . In the questura, they’re all near-Fascists. Some of them might make out they’re moderates, but others have Il Duce’s face as a screensaver on their mobiles.”

  Another flashing light sped past like a tidal wave on the street below. Soneri thought he was facing a sleepless night, or at best a night disturbed by bad dreams. Angela was sitting beside him on the couch when his mobile rang. She moved aside, but held up her hand with four curved fingers and sharp nails.

  It was Juvara, struggling to control his breathing. “Commissario, they’ve arrested Avanzini.”

  “Who have? The Guardia di Finanza?”

  “Maresciallo Maffetone in person. The whole thing was set up so as not to attract too much attention. Avanzini turned up in his car with his lawyer at his side, low-key, but the journalists had been tipped off and they descended on him. He said he was there of his own accord to clear the issue up with the magistrate.”

  “That old hypocrite could wriggle out of a locked safe.”

  “It seems he’s ready to sing, so they might let him out right away. The official reason for the arrest was to avoid any possible degradation of the evidence.”

  “Of course! After waiting three whole days! So much for degrading the evidence.”

  “That’s not all. Since the offence is bribery and corruption, they’re not going to be able to leave Pecorari at liberty.”

  “Anything’s possible.” Soneri sounded sceptical. “They’ll come up with some excuse to make as little fuss as possible. Anyway, what about the other inquiry?”

  “I’ve learned there’s some activity here, but the main action is in Tuscany.”

  “What do they want from us?”

  “If only I knew! Maybe some details. I arrange to meet my friend in the central office every so often, and he keeps me posted.”

  “You can go home. It’s late.”

  “I’d rather stay here. It’s like watching an anthill!”

  “In that case, don’t bother going to Sant’Uldarico tomorrow morning. I’ll see to it myself.”

  “But why? If I don’t get to bed, it’d do me good to go for a walk at about five in the morning. Should I or should I not become a good Christian?”

  “Some day you might be one. Meantime, you’re a good devil.”

  “Change that dreadful ringtone,” Angela ordered him as he hung up.

  “Don’t you like Verdi?”

  “That music is offensive. A lot of my colleagues have it and they always make me listen to it just to annoy me.”

  “I’ll do my best. Juvara’s always promising to change it for me, but he’s never got round to it.”

  After a final snort, she relaxed and embraced him warmly. For some time afterwards, the commissario was oblivious to sirens, flashing lights or the roar of squad cars.

  “Addicts who shoot up must feel the same way,” he said as he came back
to himself.

  “I’m more effective than any drug,” Angela informed him severely. After a few minutes, Soneri began to get agitated again. She looked at him in resignation. “You need either a blow to the head or a sleeping pill.”

  The commissario made no reply, but he looked increasingly worried when cars began to race by at top speed, pursued by others with flashing lights.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong with you?” she said.

  It was only then that he managed to identify clearly the cause of the unease he had previously attributed to the shock of being shut out of the investigation. “I’m worried about tomorrow,” he said.

  “Why? What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve and I always go and give my good wishes to Ada’s father.”

  Angela nodded and murmured, “I understand.”

  “It’s not that simple. It’s not going to be the same this year as other years.”

  “Ah, then I don’t understand.”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, partly because it’s only a suspicion.”

  “These suspicions of yours . . .” She was about to complete the sentence, but broke off. She decided that there was no point in imagining too much, as it only served to create anxieties in advance.

  The commissario made to get up and put on his duffel coat when his mobile started ringing again, much to Angela’s irritation.

  “You were right. Avanzini’s getting out,” Juvara said. “It might be house arrest. He’s telling them everything.”

  “Just as I thought. He’s got no balls. All you have to do is stop him weaving his own web. Maybe he’s got himself all tangled up in it over the last three days.”

  “Now it’s Pecorari’s turn. He came on foot from the city chambers. He brought his lawyer with him.”

  “What about the journalists?”

  “Chillemi pretended to come down hard on them. He dispatched two officers to chase them out of the cloisters, but then he leaked the information that Councillor Pecorari would be coming in through the back entrance on Borgo della Posta. As a result the journalists took up various positions, some at the door and others on Via Repubblica. When Pecorari got there, he found them all hovering around him like vultures.”