The silence on the other end of the line caused him to wonder if he’d gone too far—slathered it on with too big a paddle, if such a thing was possible. But apparently not.
“Of course,” his friend said finally. “Anything at all. What can I do for you, Alessandro?”
“Tell me about Angela Vari.”
There was a pause.
“Angela Vari?”
Pallioti rolled his eyes. They hadn’t actually spoken when he’d asked for help obtaining the file; he’d gone through one of the minions. But surely the fat man had known what, or rather who, was in the papers he’d had rushed from Rome.
“Angela Vari.” This time her name was followed by a faint humming sound.
“Yes,” Pallioti said. “That’s right, Angela Vari.”
“Hhhmm.”
Pallioti, whose patience was limited at the best of times, sipped his grappa and resisted the impulse to snap, Oh, for God’s sake, just tell me what you know, you silly fat fool! Before someone gets killed! The humming stopped.
“She was the girl,” the fat man said slowly. “In the apartment, where they held Aldo Moro.”
No, that was Brigitte Bardot’s younger sister.
“At the risk of being impertinent, may I ask, Alessandro, why you’re suddenly so interested in her?”
Because she climbed through my bedroom window last night and I’m begging her to have my children.
Pallioti was tempted to lie, then he remembered the old saying about never bullshitting a bullshitter. He took a breath, started to speak, then stopped when the humming started again.
“She was a strange girl,” the fat man said finally. “I do remember that. I wasn’t certain, you know. Even at the time.”
So his friend had been one of the doubters. Pallioti didn’t know if this surprised him or not. He put his glass down.
“You weren’t certain?” he asked. “That what she was telling you was good?”
“No.” The word was drawn out. “No. Not so much that. No,” his friend said again. “The information she gave us was good.” He laughed. This time it was a tight, sour little sound. Miles away Pallioti heard ice clink in a glass. “The proof was in the pudding, so to speak.” There was a splash of liquid, the tap of a bottle being put down. Single malt, if Pallioti remembered correctly. He’d always thought it an affectation, and vaguely unpatriotic. Something no real Italian could actually like.
“We’d never have got Tomaselli, it wouldn’t have happened,” the fat man said. “At least not for a long time, probably, without her. So, no. It wasn’t that.”
There was another pause. Pallioti could see him, sniffing his drink as if it was food that might have gone off—which, frankly, given what the stuff smelled like was about right—and weighing what he would tell. And what he wouldn’t. A slurping followed, and finally a sigh.
“It was just,” his friend said. “Well, Moro, really. Did you ever meet him?”
“Aldo Moro?”
Pallioti shook his head. He refrained from pointing out that Aldo Moro had been dead for over thirty years, and that while he, Pallioti, had always been fast-tracked, often thanks to this man’s efforts, he had hardly been enough of a star child to be called to Rome to discuss nuclear capability, or the ins and outs of NATO enlargement with the prime minister, or the foreign minister, either of which Aldo Moro might have been at any given time.
“No,” he said, “I never met him.” And left it at that.
“Well, I liked him. A lot of people didn’t. Found him a cold fish. Inscrutable and all that. He was very private. People say they respect it, but actually they resent that sort of thing. It reminds them that at heart we’re all Peeping Toms. And he was bright, of course,” his friend added. There was another slurp and clink. “Moro. Very bright. People resent that, too. They say they don’t, but they do. He was a quiet man as well, and, well, something more than that. It made people uncomfortable.”
“Something more than the fact that he was intelligent and modest about it?”
It was a feeble attempt at humor, but his friend was right. Lots of people, certain types of men especially, were more comfortable with a good old dose of braying and backslapping.
His friend had the good grace to laugh. Then he said, “Well, yes. Actually. It was more than that. There was something, well, unearthly about him.”
“Unearthly?” This was such an uncharacteristic statement that Pallioti wondered how much whiskey, exactly, had been consumed down in Rome. “Something ‘unearthly’ about Aldo Moro?”
“Yes. And not down. Up. You know what I mean? There are certain people, well—you wouldn’t be surprised if they grew wings.”
Pallioti felt himself go still. He had heard plenty of politicians described as Satan’s henchmen, or even the Big Guy himself. But the other—and coming from this source—was a first. He remembered the posters after the body was found, Moro’s soft, sad face. What else was his friend going to suggest? he wondered. That during his fifty-five days in purgatory Aldo Moro got holes in his feet and in the palms of his hands?
“She was the same,” his friend added.
“Angela Vari?”
Pallioti reached for his grappa bottle.
“Yes. She was a very strange girl.”
“Strange how?”
“Well.” Pallioti heard his friend take a sip of his drink. “A born martyr. Kept sticking her hand in the flames, for a start. Went on and on about some smashed synagogue and how silence was as deadly as bullets. That kind of stuff. You know, she said she killed him—Moro—at first.”
“Aldo Moro? Angela Vari said she killed him?” Pallioti sat up. This was news. And would kick things into a whole different league. “Was it true?”
“Well, who knows what was true. He was all but riddled with bullets, and we couldn’t exactly pinpoint the time of death. But my instinct? No. I thought it was garbage. What evidence we could find said so, too. But as I said, Angie was a strange girl.” Pallioti could almost hear the fat man shrug. “Perhaps that’s why they liked each other.”
“Liked each other?”
“Yes. Alessandro, are you having trouble hearing? Is that why you keep repeating everything I say?” His friend chuckled. “Moro and the Vari girl. Yes. They were, apparently, well, according to her anyway—we didn’t exactly have a chance to ask him—friends. They used to talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes, Alessandro. Talk. So she said. Whisper, actually, if you want to be pedantic—” He had the good grace not to add, “Which you apparently do.” “About, well, things,” he added. “Philosophy. Religion. Love. Good. Evil. You do remember? It’s called a conversation.”
Pallioti didn’t know which unnerved him more, the idea that he might appear to have forgotten what it was to indulge in abstract discourse with another human being, or the idea that the blond American doctor’s wife who had been sitting across a conference table from him less than a week ago had discussed love, religion, and evil with Italy’s most famous murdered politician. And might have grown wings to boot. Perhaps she’d flown away. Perhaps that was why they couldn’t find her.
“How very Mary Magdalene,” he murmured.
A bark of laughter issued from the phone.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But somewhere along those lines, in her version anyway. She said he reminded her of her father.”
“Her father? Aldo Moro?”
The sad-faced, elegant man who had once turned up for a photo-op on the beach in a black suit and tie? Of course, Pallioti had never actually seen a picture of Angela Vari’s father, but from what little he knew—
“I know. I know,” his friend said. “Her father was a butcher from Ferrara. The resemblance wasn’t immediately obvious to me, either. But she wasn’t making it up, Angela. She meant it. I believed her. I think Moro became a sort of surrogate papa to her. During all those days in that ghastly little cell. A sort of reverse Stockholm syndrome, or something. She cooked for him, you kn
ow. That was her job. Nourishing him. Body and soul.”
“You don’t mean?”
The grappa choked on the back of his tongue. But then again, why not? Since they were banging this particular drum. You never knew. The rumor had always been that, starved of seeing each other for months if not years, couples had managed to have sex in the cages in the courtroom during the Red Brigades trials. It was probably utter nonsense, of course. There was almost as much rubbish written about the BR as there was about Mary Magdalene. On the other hand, if he’d been locked in a tiny room for days and days and suspected he was about to be killed and a young girl had—
“No, no!” his friend, who had obviously been thinking along the same lines, barked. “No. No. No, there was none of that. This was a purely platonic affair. Angela and Aldo. A meeting of minds. I’m quite sure of it.”
Both of them were silent for a moment. Chastened as schoolboys.
“Not so surprising, I suppose,” his friend added a moment later. “The meeting of minds, I mean. They were idealists after all, the Brigate Rosse. And so was Moro, in his way. No,” he said. “That was all it was. I’m sure. Certain, in fact. She was Tomaselli’s body, if, in the final analysis, apparently not soul. Moro might have won that round.” The ice clinked again. “Some of her money was used, you know,” he added, “to buy the apartment, the one they kept him in, on Via Montalcini. Angela always claimed she didn’t know. That she handed it over to Tomaselli and believed him when he said he’d put it in the bank for her.”
Pallioti could see his friend’s head shaking, either because the girl had been so incredibly naïve, or because the lie was so preposterous.
“Blind love, literally. If you believe in it. Or her,” his friend said. “But she did care for Moro. I do believe that. Loved him even, I think.”
“So.” Pallioti stared at the clear liquid in his own glass. He could feel himself frowning, furrowing the little troughs between his eyes that he sometimes thought got deeper with every passing day. “I don’t understand,” he said. “If she, if Angela Vari, cared so much for Aldo Moro. If he reminded her so much of her beloved father—I assume he was beloved?”
“Oh yes. Yes, as far as I know. Very beloved. She was apparently devastated when he died.”
“Well.” Pallioti hesitated. “If that was the case then. If—”
“If she loved Aldo Moro, why did she wait until the day of his funeral? Why didn’t Angela Vari save his life? Why didn’t she come to us before he was killed?”
There was a silence.
“Yes,” his friend said a moment later. “That’s the problem. My question, too. That was what I never understood about the Butcher’s Daughter.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Of course. We all asked her.”
“And you never got an answer?”
There was a hesitation, and for a moment Pallioti thought he might lie. Might not be able to resist the temptation to play the know-it-all, provide the answers even if he didn’t have them, just to make himself look good. But he didn’t. When he spoke again, for the first time his friend sounded old. Old and tired. Too worn out to even think of picking up a golf club.
“No. Not really. Tomaselli promised her it wouldn’t happen and she believed him. Love. That great catch-all. She said she believed him, in part anyway, because they didn’t kill Mario Sossi. I don’t know. Of course,” he added, “some people thought they did get an answer out of her. Or, rather, some people—quite a few, if you want the truth—thought they knew.”
“Knew?”
“That she was a bald-faced liar. As guilty as the rest of them. Worse really, since she used Moro’s memory. Made up stories about how much she cared for him. How much he reminded her of her father. Blah, blah, blah. At least the others didn’t stoop to that.” He sighed. “There were plenty of people, Alessandro, who thought she might as well have pulled the trigger. Or, despite evidence to the contrary, that she did. At least once. There were ten shots fired into him, after all. Plenty to go around.”
Silence throbbed down the phone as they both remembered the photograph that had been splashed across front pages around the world. Aldo Moro wrapped in a blanket and curled like a baby in the boot of a car, one white hand cupped to his chest.
“And you?” Pallioti asked finally.
“I don’t know.”
Pallioti could see his friend running his hand over his eyes that had once been bright and hard and perhaps still were, but now had sacks under them like a bloodhound’s.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I never did. And yes, I asked. But no, my friend, I never did get the answer. Perhaps you will. I take it that’s what all this is about. That she’s come back.”
It wasn’t really a question so Pallioti didn’t answer. There was another sigh from the end of the phone.
“I confess, I’m not surprised,” his friend said. “I wondered, when they let Tomaselli out of jail, if she’d turn up. He went to her funeral, you know.”
“Tomaselli?” That did surprise Pallioti. From what he remembered of the time, no one was going out of their way to do favors for the BR. “Antonio Tomaselli?” he said again. “You let him out for Angela Vari’s funeral?”
He was answered by a chuckle.
“I’ll send you the photos. You can see for yourself. Come on, Sandro,” his friend said a few seconds later. “Don’t sound quite so surprised. We’re not completely inhuman. He went in a prison van, had armed guards with him, and stayed all of fifteen minutes. Just long enough to be convinced she was dead.”
“Even so. If the BR had gotten wind of it, they might have tried—”
“Another of their famous Brigate Rosse stunts? Like Mara Cagol busting her husband out of jail? Yes, the thought crossed our minds, too. We didn’t exactly send out invitations, but—” He let the words linger. Then added, “Sadly nothing happened. The place was as quiet as a grave. So to speak.”
Unease that had lingered like stale smoke began to solidify in Pallioti’s mind, shift into discernible shapes. All of them ugly.
“Are you saying?”
“Come, come, Sandro,” the fat man said quickly. “I’m not saying anything.”
No, Pallioti thought. But he had heard it. Loud and clear. They had staked Tomaselli like a goat. Dangled him beside Angela Vari’s empty tomb hoping the bait might draw and/or provide the opportunity for a little mopping-up operation. A little vengeance on the hoof. Pallioti could hear it now. Tut Tut, terrible tragedy, but if dangerous criminals will try to make a run for it, if their outlaw compatriots will go about shooting at the police, trying to free terrorist prisoners—well, really, what can you expect?
“Alas,” his friend murmured, “as I said. It was a nonevent. Little Angela was buried and everyone went safely home to prison. Do you have any idea,” he asked abruptly, “by the way, why she’s come back? I mean specifically?”
From the dead, or to Italy? Pallioti was tempted to ask. He thought about adding something about them being one and the same, but the joke went dry in his mouth.
“Not really,” he lied, and knew as he said it that it sounded like what it was.
“Hhmm,” his friend said. “Interesting.” And then added, “Well, lovely to hear from you, Alessandro.” His voice became almost jovial. “I’ll get you those photos. Just to prove we do have a heart.” He laughed. “But, old friend—” he added suddenly.
“I’m listening.”
There was a pause. Pallioti heard a wheeze of breath.
“There were people who never believed her,” the fat man said quietly. “Intelligent people. Remember that. And there were those who believed her and never forgave her. Didn’t really feel, as our American cousins say, like letting bygones be bygones. So it’s worth remembering that the fact is—no matter what Angela Vari’s reasons for staying quiet were—she knew where Aldo Moro was being held. She knew what was happening to him. And she did nothing.” Pallioti heard the clink of ice. “When the de
al was done with the Americans it was suggested to piccola Signorina Vari—possibly even by me—that she make her departure and not return.”
“I see,” Pallioti said slowly, wondering if he did.
“All I’m saying, Sandro, is that if by any chance little Angela has happened to grace our shores again, well—if it were me, I’d keep an eye on her. And on Tomaselli. In fact especially on Tomaselli. It might be awkward if they attracted, how shall we say, the wrong kind of attention? I don’t need to tell you about long memories in certain quarters. And, well, salt in the wound, that kind of thing. It can get nasty.”
Pallioti felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“Call it what you want,” his friend said quietly. “Some people might use the word justice.”
* * *
It was almost midnight. Anna Carson stood in one of the tunnels in the Via delle Volte, her back against a damp stone wall, and watched snow fall between the arches. Flakes drifted down, languid as feathers, and melted on the dark cobbles. There were a handful of new restaurants in the street, all of them closed now, lights still glowing over their brightly painted signs. TRATTORIA MARIA AND ENRIQUE, whoever they were. BISTRO-BAR BUZZ—LIVE MUSIC EVERY FRIDAY! THURSDAY IS MARTINI NIGHT! The effort at gentrification had gone only so far, though. The arches were still as dank and sinister and smelling of piss as they’d always been.
These days the Via delle Volte was apparently touted as a local highlight. The Middle Ages come to life! the tourist brochure she’d seen had said. Although why, exactly, anyone thought that might be a good thing was always slightly mysterious to her. Rats, plague, shit, darkness, and fleas. The flyer had been selective describing the street’s history, too. Until the war Via delle Volte had belonged to the prostitutes. When the Fascists came to power they’d turned a blind eye until they hadn’t, then it had become a tunnel of running footsteps punctuated by the occasional shot and scream. By the time she’d walked home at night with her father—by the time she’d stood hanging on his hand watching Antonio in his canvas shoes, pushing his bicycle on a night not unlike this—it had been nothing more than a dark alley. A boundary between the ghetto and the Via Mayr, the strange little bridge houses spanning it like tired hands. Probably those had been gentrified now, too. At least on the inside. From the outside their windows were still tiny and multipaned, their doors as narrow and dark as the doors children should not pass through in fairy tales.
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