The Forbidden Book: A Novel

by Joscelyn Godwin

  “What is it, then? You’re not yourself. Are you sure you’re not coming down with the flu?”

  “Boring …”

  Orsina kissed her sister and made to leave. Then Angela spoke: “Orsina: I do have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “But not now; I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  “Why not now? Why wait?”

  “I can’t think straight with this headache. I must sleep it off. I’ll tell you in the morning, really, I will. I’ll feel better then. Good night, Orsina.” She stood up, and hugged her sister. Then she left the garden, swaying her hips.

  “Headache or not,” said Orsina to herself, “that must be the way she walks.”

  ****

  That same day the Pope had spoken from the window in St. Peter’s Square, in Rome. Since the bombing of San Petronio, the congregation had been dwindling. The huge square used to completely fill up with people. Now there were more gaps in the crowd than the Vatican would care to admit. After leading the recitation of the “Hail Mary,” the Holy Father said:

  “Brothers and sisters, do pray for peace on Earth. Our erring brothers, the Muslims, are beginning to mend their ways. No longer do they take our lives in the house of God. They violate our temples, that is true. But this must be interpreted as their willingness to open up a dialogue with us. Soon, they will no longer engage in sacrilege; soon, they will meet us in the spirit of brotherly love. We must be patient and pray to the God Almighty: may He guide them in this process. The sons of Abraham will soon prosper in peace, united under the same just God. Let us pray.”

  The Pope had directed his words, and then prayers, heavenward. Had he looked down he would have seen that that many, perhaps most, of the crowd were leaving.

  FIFTEEN

  In Europe, the tension escalated daily in response to the acts of sacrilege. Mosques were desecrated in return, even set on fire. Skinheads and gangs found a new outlet for violence, and even ordinary people took to the streets in their tens of thousands to wave banners and demand action against the “invaders.” Muslim immigrants kept out of sight in fear of their lives, and the jobs they usually did were left undone. This too was blamed on them.

  “That’s curious,” the Baron said at breakfast, taking his cue from an article in the morning paper. “The French demonstrating en masse, and not for fewer working hours! They must be really incensed.”

  “Why, yes,” said Orsina. “But then, complaining in France is a national pastime.”

  “True,” the Baron replied. “I must admit in that respect I prefer the British: they are not nearly as excitable.”

  “I agree,” commented Nigel. “And that’s why we have moved to Provence.”

  “Nigel, welcome back to the conversation.” said Orsina. “You’re no longer sleepy?”

  The old housekeeper shuffled in and placed a jar on the table, announcing: “The blueberries are ready, and I’ve made the Baronessina’s favorite jam.”

  “Thank you, Marianna,” said Orsina. “We’ll let her open it when she turns up.”

  “I suppose the jar will remain unopened?” said Nigel. “Shouldn’t you wake your sister up, Orsina?”

  “The jam can wait. Angela was not well last night,” Orsina replied. “She may be getting the flu. If she isn’t up by eleven, I think we should call a doctor.”

  “Eleven o’clock?” Emanuele interposed. “Noon may be more realistic. Your sister is not very disciplined. Did you say something about the flu?”

  Orsina nodded.

  “Well then, she either has the flu, or one of her love affairs has gone awry again,” he said. “Who could keep track of them all? Perhaps Bristol’s boreal climate will cool her off. Her attending that university may not be such a bad idea after all.”

  “If Angela’s genuinely sick,” interposed Nigel, “we should be taking better care of her.” Did he have reason to say so? wondered Orsina as she looked at her husband.

  The Baron excused himself and Nigel went for a stroll in the garden. Orsina lingered in the breakfast room sipping tea and enjoying the local newspaper with its provincial flavor.

  At around noon, Orsina went upstairs. Angela’s room was empty; the bed was made. Orsina knocked on the bathroom door. No reply. She entered: also empty. As she walked back downstairs she chanced on Marianna. Had Angela’s bed been made already, she asked her? Marianna called for Samanta, who eventually bounced in. No, she had not made the bed because she had found it untouched.

  Orsina walked around the house, calling for Angela. In the library she found Emanuele, going over his notes for his evening lecture. “Have you any idea where she could have gone?” she asked him, her voice beginning to show some worry.

  “No. Have you looked for her in the garden?”

  Orsina searched the rest of the rooms, then the garden. She found Nigel sunning himself and talking finance on the phone. Seeing that she was upset, he quickly ended the call. “Is she still missing?”

  “Yes. Could you see if the Vespa is there?”

  Nigel returned shortly. “No, the Vespa’s gone. I’m sure I saw it last night, beside the cars.”

  “Could you look all around the courts, and in the coach house?”

  “Of course.”

  He returned within twenty minutes. Orsina was waiting under the tulip tree. “No, the Vespa is not there either.”

  They tried calling Angela’s cell phone.

  “Sì?”

  “Angela, where are you?”

  “I’m sorry, Baronessa, it’s me, Samanta.” She had picked up Angela’s cell phone, which was left in her bedroom.

  Orsina thought for a moment, then decided to speak to her uncle.

  “Has Angela gone missing before, Uncle? Is there something about her you have not told me?”

  “Are you quite sure she’s not around somewhere?”

  Orsina described her fruitless search and stood her ground, waiting for an explanation. The Baron folded his papers, took off his reading glasses and said: “Orsina, your sister is rash, and unpredictable. There have been a couple of instances in which she left without telling anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, boyfriend problems. We always traced her back to the chalet. She has the keys. No, there’s no use in trying to call her there: the other times she unplugged the phone.” The family owned a chalet in Ortisei, in the Dolomites, in which they used to celebrate Christmas together.

  “You never told me, Uncle. Why?”

  “What for? To make you worry? And then pass judgment on your sister? The first time, if you must know, she had gone to the chalet to be on her own after her boyfriend left her abruptly; the second time, she eloped there with another boyfriend.”

  “You may be right, Uncle,” said Orsina. She left the library, not yet ready to raise further alarm bells by mentioning Angela’s promise of the night before.

  At lunch, no more was said about Angela, but the mood was subdued. Nigel sensed his wife’s anxiety, and over coffee said: “Would you like me to go and look for Angela?”

  “Please,” replied Orsina.

  “Where did you say the chalet is? Wait, let me get my GPS.”

  The itinerary was simple. “I’ll phone you the moment I know anything,” said Nigel, who had changed his shorts for a loose white linen suit. “And you call me if she turns up here.” He roared off.

  After about an hour and a half, past Bolzano, the road became curvy, with tunnels, spectacular high bridges and different gradients in its ascent toward the Brenner Pass. The tortuous road challenged his driving skills, but it was more a sense of urgency that made him exceed the 130 kilometers per hour speed limit. Shortly before the exit at Ponte Gardena, right after a tunnel, a car from the highway patrol lay in ambush. As the Ferrari 365 GT sped by, they gave chase. Nigel saw them in the rearview mirror, and slowed down. Soon he ground to a halt in the emergency lane. The police car stopped immediately behind him.

  Three policemen got ou
t and strutted up to him. They were black-haired, swarthy, and looked self-important in their neat uniforms.

  “Your papers, please,” said one of them, as the other two were busy admiring the Ferrari. Nigel handed him his driver’s license and, after a little rummaging in the glove compartment, the registration and proof of insurance. The patrolman scrutinized the papers, then walked back to his car, and loaded the data into the computer.

  Meanwhile, the other agents began to ask Nigel questions about the Ferrari. He replied in his best Italian, which so resembled the pronunciation of Laurel and Hardy—“Stanlio & Ollio”—in their Italian-dubbed versions that his wife found it difficult not to laugh. And so did the policemen. They too tried to mask their laughter in broad smiles, or by looking the other way, toward the peaks of the Dolomites surrounding them. Finally, two of them asked Nigel to open the hood, “Just out of curiosity.”

  Nigel obliged them.

  As the two patrolmen ogled at the warm and inviting V-12 engine, the third one left the police car and approached Nigel. He was a new recruit and wanted to impress his chief. The papers were in order, he announced. But could he show him the “triangolo” and the orange vest?

  “The triangòlo?” wondered Nigel aloud. The novice patrolman thwarted a smile, and explained: “Yes, the trìangolo. You’re supposed to have one on board. It’s the law.” He was referring to a red triangular reflector which a driver is supposed to place fifteen yards behind his car, should it break down, to signal the following traffic to avoid it. Nigel had no clue that he was supposed to have it, nor did he know if the previous owner had placed one somewhere.

  The chief and his partner were enjoying the intricacies of the perfectly restored 1967 engine; so the young recruit decided to be helpful, though it was not his place to suggest to the driver where the reflector might be. “You may wish to look in the trunk,” he said. “That’s where it usually is.”

  “Is this really necessary?” asked Nigel.

  “If you don’t produce it, I’ll have to give you a ticket.”

  “Well, go ahead then, give me a ticket!” Nigel snapped. And added: “I’m in a hurry, so will you get on with it?”

  Normally, a policeman would say: “You want a ticket? Fine, suit yourself.” But these were not natives, but deep southerners, typically touchy. None of them had appreciated Nigel’s curtness; it was an affront. So now, instead of expediting things, they would slow them down.

  “What’s the problem?” asked the chief.

  The recruit explained. In the meantime, the Ferrari’s hood remained open, and the various papers in the hands of the young agent.

  “Signor MacPherson,” said the chief, “I really think you should look for the reflector. Will you please open the trunk?”

  Nigel frowned. He was not used to being ordered about, and so it seemed to the police, who enjoyed being obeyed all the more for that. Finally, he got out of the car, walked to its back, and opened the trunk.

  The agent stared for a moment, then shouted: “Boss, boss, come here quick!”

  The other policemen reached the back of the Ferrari, and saw the body of a young woman huddled in the trunk. The chief cursed, and then lowered his forefinger half an inch away from her nostrils, carefully avoiding touching her. He waited, thirty, forty, fifty seconds for a sign of life. There was no exhaling or inhaling.

  Angela was dead. Her eyes were closed; her face, composed; her flaxen hair, sheeny.

  The three patrolmen turned to Nigel with a feral look in their eyes. Before he could say anything, they had handcuffed him, forced him into the back of their car, and locked him in. They summoned by radio the police, both the criminal investigation department and the forensic unit.

  Back-up forces arrived quickly on the scene. Nigel was moved into another police car, belonging to the criminal investigation department, and taken to the police headquarters in Bolzano, the capital of the Alto Adige subregion. The other police units, with the medical examiner and crime lab among them, busied themselves with a meticulous survey of the dead young woman and the car, particularly its trunk, taking photos, looking for fingerprints, hairs, and so on. It was not until late in the evening that the magistrate on duty, who had come to the spot in person, authorized the removal of the body and of the car, which was impounded. Angela was taken directly to the morgue, in Bolzano.

  At around six p.m. Nigel, still handcuffed in the police headquarters and guarded by two agents, was informed that he was under fermo di indiziato di delitto. He was not familiar with Italian legal terms and, while some policemen in the station spoke German, nobody spoke English. He did understand that the prosecuting attorney was on his way for a preliminary meeting.

  By law, Nigel was entitled to a single phone call, and that to his lawyer. His cell phone had been confiscated, and he was asked to provide them with the phone number. Nigel had his lawyer’s card in his wallet.

  “Chief,” said the policeman with the card in his hand, “it’s a foreign telephone number, abroad. Shall I still dial?”

  Nigel’s distress turned to terror. What if they didn’t call his lawyer, what then?

  “Look at him,” said the chief policeman, and then, addressing Nigel: “You’re shitting in your pants, aren’t you? Don’t you worry,” he added, “if we can’t get in touch with your lawyer, the court will appoint one for your defense. This lawyer of his,” to the agent holding the law firm’s card, “where is he from?”

  “It says ‘London’ here.”

  “London, ha?” to Nigel, “Well, England is a member of the European Union. You’re entitled to call. Dial up,” to the agent.

  Mr. Rowes of Rowes, Bloom & McGilles, could hardly recognize his client and friend, stripped of all nonchalance. It was a desperate Nigel MacPherson who was pleading with him on the phone. To make sure that it was indeed Nigel, the lawyer quizzed him about a couple of complex litigations he had handled for him. Amazingly, the answers were correct: that frantic voice on the line must belong to Nigel.

  Within a few minutes, Mr. Rowes grasped the situation. Nigel vehemently protested his innocence and his shock at the horrible discovery. He needed a lawyer more than he needed oxygen. “A criminal lawyer, now!” Otherwise, he was going to be assigned to some hack, perhaps German-speaking.

  Mr. Rowes listened gravely, and then said: “Nigel, pay attention. I’m not a criminal lawyer, but this isn’t entirely uncharted territory for me. I don’t know the Italian penal code, but I do know that Italy is a civilized country and no one could possibly arrest you, as there too you are innocent until proven guilty. This leads me to believe that you’re probably being held provisionally. Do you follow me?”

  He did.

  “So,” Mr. Rowes continued, “an investigation will be under way very soon. You do realize, it is rather nasty circumstantial evidence to be caught speeding towards the Austrian border with the dead body of your sister-in-law in your car’s trunk. Don’t tell me she was beautiful.” She was. “Oh dear. And,” the lawyer wondered with sudden curiosity, “how old was she?”

  As Mr. Rowes heard that she was going to turn eighteen soon, he added, resolutely: “Nigel, I’ll arrange everything. Tomorrow morning a top criminal lawyer from Milan will turn up to defend you. Count on it. Now, tell me exactly where you’re being held. I need details.”

  The prosecuting attorney who would be coordinating the investigation and the police Inspector he had chosen for the case arrived at the station shortly after, together. The former, called in Italy the Pubblico Ministero, or PM, came from a rank-and-file background. Tall, slender and greying, with a pair of keen eyes, he had the well-earned reputation of being incorruptible. Both he and the Inspector hardly acknowledged Nigel’s presence and went straight to read the statement the police had typed up in verbose officialese. Then the PM addressed Nigel. He introduced himself, and said that his consent was needed for them to inform his relatives. By law they were expected to do so, if he gave consent. Did he?

  As long
as they did it tactfully, and as long as they informed only Angela’s Uncle, who was her legal guardian. “Please, do not speak to my wife, the victim’s sister. Her uncle will tell her.”

  In spite of himself, the PM was amused by Nigel’s accent. Under strain, it sounded all the more comical. “And what is the name of the victim’s uncle?” As he heard, “Barone Riviera della Motta,” the PM asked the Inspector for a cigarette. A ’67 Ferrari on the run; an Englishman as the main suspect speaking Italian like “Stanlio & Ollio”; a Baron—the investigation promised to be a circus.

  Nigel watched as the PM himself called the Baron. There were complications. A manservant with an odd accent told the PM that the Baron was engaged. He should wait a minute, and he would pass him on to the Baroness. Before the PM could make the connection, Orsina was on the line.

  She was surprised to be hearing from the prosecuting attorney of the criminal court in Bolzano. Was something the matter?

  “No,” replied the PM, collectedly. “I merely wish to speak to the Baron, if you please.”

  “The Baron is busy at the moment. Can this wait?”

  “No, it can’t. I must ask you to put him on the phone.”

  Orsina, increasingly more worried, complied.

  The Baron was greatly annoyed at being interrupted. He did not care who was on the phone. What could a petty prosecutor want from him? From where? Bolzano? What on earth did he want?

  He found out, as the PM told him what had happened. “Our condolences, Signor Riviera della Motta,” he purposefully avoided addressing him by his title of nobility, which the Italian Republic does not recognize. “Mr. MacPherson is being detained; there will be a preliminary interrogation tomorrow at Bolzano’s court. Mr. MacPherson here asks that you break the news to his wife.”

  “Tell her I’m innocent!” Nigel shouted. The PM had already hung up. “See you tomorrow,” the latter said. “You’re spending the night in custody.”