That . . that. . .
You've no idea, have you, Guarnaccia?
No, sir.
The Prosecutor could hardly go so far as to ask him, What was the last thing I said? There were some advantages to being an adult. He just went on talking and the Marshal arranged his features into an attentive expression and did his best to pick up the threads. Evidently, he was going to inform the newspapers that it was a case of murder and not suicide. Well, so be it. They'd be pleased. Better than stray dogs. He stood up when the Prosecutor stood up. The interview appeared to be at an end.
When he was half way down the corridor, he heard the Prosecutor behind him talking to his registrar in the open doorway.
'The blank incomprehension of the man . . .!'
Perhaps he had meant the Marshal to overhear.
Now, as he reached the other side of the bridge, he saw a middle-aged couple arguing with weary fractiousness over a tourist map. The Marshal couldn't understand their language but he didn't need to. He saw them walk off, the woman marching in front, tight-lipped, the husband trailing ten paces behind dejectedly trying to refold the bright-coloured map which wouldn't cooperate. The Marshal understood the one word he let out when the map ripped. When it came down to it, even working was better than trudging round Florence as a tourist in a strange city. There was an open bar on the corner of the embankment and he was about to go into it and get himself a sandwich when a brass plaque on the wall next door caught his eye. Italmoda, Export Agency. 1st Floor. Was it worth going up and ringing the bell? Hadn't he decided that the less he tried to achieve today the better? In the end he compromised: he'd have that sandwich while the going was good, after which there was no harm in just ringing the bell since he had no hope of finding anyone there and so couldn't be disappointed.
He chose a big slice of bread with fresh tomato, basil leaves and a sprinkling of olive oil, then ordered a coffee.
'It can't get any worse than this,' the barman grumbled. There was no need to say what.
'No,' agreed the Marshal, munching. He was so hungry he decided to have another.
'Tomato, the same?'
'Yes.'
'It's been like this every afternoon for a week, and every day I'm convinced there'll be a storm but it never comes. I like the hot weather, myself, but when it's humid like this . . . I've taken three aspirins already; my head's bursting.'
'I'm the same,' the Marshal said, 'and I don't suppose there's a chemist open for miles.'
'Here,' the barman said, handing the box of tablets over the counter, 'though you shouldn't if you're going to drink that coffee. What about an iced tea?'
'I expect you're right.'
'I'll pour you one—don't worry about the coffee. The way I look at it, August has to be treated like wartime conditions. We have to help each other out. Remember the flood?'
'I wasn't here then—' 'It was the same then. People helped each other. I remem- ber going round in a boat distributing all the mineral water I had in stock. Water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Three thousand lire. I'm not charging you for the coffee.'
'Thanks very much.'
'You're welcome.'
Italmoda, Export Agency. 1st Floor.
A fancy big building with a carpet running up the centre of the marble staircase and polished brass plaques on each door. He rang the bell on the first floor left and waited only a few seconds before turning, ready to start down again. When he heard the door click he stopped in his tracks.
'Well, that's a turn-up for the books,' he muttered, and pushed open the door. Someone had let him in and yet the place was silent and seemed deserted. He walked along a short, broad corridor where boxes were piled half way to the ceiling all along one side.
'Is anyone there?'
'Who's that?' called a surprised female voice. A door opened behind the Marshal to his left. He turned.
'Oh!'
'I startled you, did I?' the Marshal said. 'But you let me in.'
'I thought you were someone else. Somebody's supposed to call for this stuff.' She indicated the stacked-up boxes. She was small and pretty and had a slight foreign accent. She was also crying and took no trouble to hide the fact, although she did blow her nose before asking, 'What do you want?'
'Are you the only person here?'
'As you can see.'
'Then I'd like a word with you, if you can spare me a minute.'
'You'd better come in here.'
There were more cardboard boxes just inside the office door, one of them open on the floor with a cotton skirt half out of it. The girl sat down behind a desk and took another tissue from a box by the typewriter.
'Sit down, if you like.'
The Marshal took his time about it, looking around him. The room was large and carpeted and two tall windows looked out over the river. There were two other desks with covers over the typewriters.
'Your colleagues are all on holiday?'
'Everybody's away except me because I deal with Germany and they don't think much of the way you can't do any business here in August. I had ten days off in July and I should get some more holidays in September if I don't get sacked first.'
It was really very odd. She spoke in quite normal tones without a break in her voice and yet tears continued to roll down her cheeks. She went on talking, ignoring them.
'What was it you wanted?'
'I'm just—excuse me asking but have you got something wrong with your eyes? I only ask because I—'
'No. I'm upset.'
'I see. I beg your pardon. I'm here to make some routine inquiries. Nothing to worry about.'
'If that's true it's the first time anything's happened in this office that's nothing to worry about. What do you want to know?' At last she seemed to notice the rolling tears— and no wonder, since they were trickling under the collar of her cotton-blouse—and she dried them with the tissue.
'Have you been here long?'
'No. Nobody stays here long.'
'How long exactly?'
'Less than two months.'
'Then do you remember a cleaner who worked here up to about a month ago?'
'We haven't got a cleaner and if that bitch of a woman thinks I'm going to start vacuuming the carpet she's got another think coming. She already expects me to make coffee for her every time she shows her face here—not that I object to making anybody a cup of coffee, but in the first place it's not my job, and in the second place I can't stand vulgar women who imagine they've got class when what they've got is money and bad manners. Well, how would you feel?'
'I—Can you remember the cleaner who worked here up to a month or so ago?'
'I suppose you mean that madwoman?'
'That's right.'
'What about her?'
'Did you know her?'
'Office cleaners go offbefore the staff arrive, but I've seen her once and that was enough—to see she was crazy, I mean. You have to be, mind you, to work here, but in any case the day I saw her she was getting the sack. It was the first time I'd seen anyone get the sack because I'd only just started here, but two more people have got the sack in the last month. I'll be next.'
'Who does all this sacking? The owner, or is there a manager?'
'Both of them. And since the manager's the owner's husband it's all one. She's the real rotten apple but thank God we don't see much of her. But he's been getting worse and worse, forever having hysterics about every little thing.
'And the cleaner? Who sacked her?'
'He did, but she was behind it, I'll bet.'
'Why was she sacked?'
'Maybe she didn't do her work properly—not that it makes much difference in this place whether you do your work properly anyway, since nobody can do anything right.' She had rolled up the tissue into a ragged ball and was tearing it to shreds with the fingers of one hand.
'If you're so unhappy here,' the Marshal said, 'why do you stay?'
She changed her tune at once. 'I suppose it's no worse tha
n anywhere else, all things considered. Why do you want to know about that cleaner?'
'She's dead.'
'Oh . . .'
'It's thought she committed suicide . . .' What was the point? It would be in the paper tomorrow, in any case. 'But really she was murdered.'
She stared at him and reached for another tissue. It was all one to her, good news or bad, since she went on weeping just the same.
'Are you in some sort of trouble?' he asked her gently. He'd never seen such an abundant flow of tears.
'No! Yes ... I mean with him. First he screams at me for not taking any initiative and then when I do he says I've no right to take decisions without consulting him!'
'I see. Well, perhaps when you've had more experience you'll manage better. You're still very young.'
'I'm twenty-six. And how can I get experience if I can't keep my job? You can't imagine how difficult it is to find work here.'
'Where are you from?'
'Germany. Do I have an awful accent?'
'No, no . . . very slight. But wouldn't you find it easier to get work in Germany?'
'I can't go back—my parents . . . Oh well, I won't bore you with all that. I can't tell you much about your cleaner, except that she was crazy.'
'I know that, but what made you think so?'
'The way she screamed and swore—good for her is what I thought—give him as good as you get. You'd think she'd been an overpaid executive the way he was sounding on about how nobody else would give her a job like he'd done and how she'd be sorry. I'm not sure she didn't go for him, to judge from the banging and scuffling we heard, and then she went screaming off down the corridor shouting "I won't go! I'm not going!" But she went, of course, and that was the last we saw of her. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't sack her because he was too mean to pay her. We didn't get our July salaries until last week.'
The Marshal looked around him again before remarking, 'This is a fancy sort of outfit to employ a crazy old woman for a cleaner.'
'I don't suppose it's that easy to find cleaners. Maybe I can get a job cleaning if the worst comes to the worst.'
'If your boss thinks so little of you, how come you're left in charge here alone?'
'Because she has to be taken on holiday, no matter what, and he's not the sort to trust his wife alone at the seaside like other businessmen do. She's a lot younger than he is and flashy with it. He has to be at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day and woe betide him if he doesn't give her everything she asks for.'
'Where are they on holiday?'
'They have a house by the sea in the Maremma. He'll be ringing up any minute and if all this stuff's still here that'll be my fault, like everything else. It's already late and when orders are delivered late the client can refuse to accept them. If that happens I'll be sacked, I know I will. But is it my fault that nothing gets done round here in August? Is it?'
'No, no, it's the same for everybody.'
'But it's not! You try making anybody in Northern Europe understand what August in Italy means! They don't want to know and who can blame them? That's why I did what I did—just look at this skirt! Would you say there was anything wrong with it?' She got up and snatched at the skirt trailing out of its box on the floor.
The Marshal stared down at it as she thrust it under his nose. 'Well ... I don't know much about these things . . .'
'But just look at it!'
The Marshal sighed. Everywhere he went he seemed to get lugged into other people's 'little troubles', as the Prosecutor called them. The run-down asylum, the Rossis' eviction order and now this. The girl had an endless supply of tears. He didn't know what to say. He watched her fling the skirt back towards its box any old how.
'Do you know what I was supposed to do? Have the button on the waistband changed to a slightly darker blue. Right? I couldn't get it done before September and the order had to be filled by August 20th—and there were still our labels to be sewn on. He's told me so often to buck up and show initiative that I got the labels sewn on and sent the stuff off as it was. There was no specification on the order about the buttons being a particular shade of blue and they look perfectly all right as they are. Well, don't they?'
'I suppose . . .'
'The truth was that they were supposed to be delivered to us without buttons but, since they weren't what was the use of making the order late? He went completely berserk, screaming at me over the telephone. "You had no right to take things upon yourself! You don't know what you're doing! Get that order back before it goes through Customs and if it happens again you're fired, do you hear me? Fired!"
She sat down in her chair again and began crumpling a fresh tissue without drying her tears.
'Now they've got to be taken to have the buttons changed and the driver hasn't turned up. They'll be late arriving in Germany now, anyway, and when they refuse to take them he'll blame me.'
'I'm sorry,' the Marshal offered, wondering how he could politely take his leave from this unfortunate girl. 'I'm still inclined to think you should look for another job.' He had understood something of what was going on, though the girl clearly hadn't. She might as well get out before he reported the matter as he would have to do, though he was in no hurry about it. There were worse things happening in the world than what her boss was up to.
'Would you mind giving me one of your firm's cards?'
'I've got some in my drawer. Here, take a few.'
'One's enough if your boss's name is on it.'
'It's there. Antonella Masolini. He really runs everything, if you could call it that, but the business is hers.'
'Thank you. And you can't tell me anything further about Clementina?'
'Clementina?'
'The cleaner.'
'Oh, that crazy woman. I didn't know her name. No. I never spoke to her even the one time I saw her. All I can remember about her, now, is how much she swore.'
She might well have forgotten already that Clementina had been murdered, she was so wrapped up in her own problems.
'I'll leave you my card in case you think of anything further. When will your boss be back?'
'September 1st. Do you want me to tell him you were here?'
'If you like. I'll be back, anyway.'
When he was down in the street he looked up and saw her at the window, blowing her nose and watching, no doubt, for the driver who was to come and take away the pile of boxes.
The air was so humid that the stones of the buildings had begun to look damp and the few cars passing through Piazza Pitti seemed to make the soft, swishing noise they made when the road was wet. Perhaps the dampness had made the dust settle on the tarmac, or perhaps it was just the Marshal's imagination, but everything, the sounds, the smells, the light, were those of a rainy day. Only the rain was missing. He crossed the road and started up the sloping forecourt towards the palace. As he reached the top and went left, he took off his dark glasses and turned back to look at the sky.
The first crack of thunder split the air and went rippling and shuddering away. The hills that should have been visible beyond the roofs to the south had disappeared. The Marshal felt as relieved as if that first explosion had gone off inside his own head. A big fat raindrop splashed on to his hand but he didn't hurry. His headache, long dulled by the aspirin, lifted suddenly and as he passed beneath the great iron lantern under the stone archway it was with pleasure that he saw more big raindrops falling on the gravel ahead and bending the leaves on the laurel bushes. He climbed the stairs with a quicker tread than he had done for months.
'Just in time, Marshal,' said Di Nuccio, looking out from the duty room.
'In time for what? Has something happened?'
'It's starting to rain!'
'Ah.' The Marshal removed his khaki jacket and went into his office to hang it up. A second explosion of thunder made the windows rattle and the rain began to pour down in earnest. He sat down at his desk, looking out at it with satisfaction. As a rule he disliked wet weather as mu
ch as a cat but today he was pleased to watch it rain. The more ferociously it rained, the more pleased he felt. Nothing would have induced him to be so foolish as to go out and get wet, but he liked to think of the whole hot, grubby city being washed clean by the deluge as it soaked into the red clay roofs, gurgled along the gutters and streamed down the marble statues. He could hear it drumming on the roof of the van parked below his window and on his own little car that wouldn't start. Every so often a greenish flash lit the room.
'Good . . .' he murmured to himself. 'Right. . .' without meaning anything in particular. The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver.
'Guarnaccia.'
'Salva.'
'Oh, it's you.'
'You didn't come in to lunch so I wondered . . .'
'Sorry, I didn't get a chance to phone you. I was with the Substitute Prosecutor.'
'As long as everything's all right. You didn't get caught in this rain?'
'No.'
'Well, thank goodness for that. What a storm! I shan't stir this afternoon. I'm going to get out the children's winter clothes and go through them.'
'Already?'
'Well, this weather makes you feel like doing something.
And by the time they get back and start school I won't have a minute.'
He could tell she was feeling the way he felt himself and was just as relieved at the break in the weather, in spite of her saying how terrible it was.
'I'll see you later.'
'You're not going out again?'
'No, no.'
He didn't hang up but searched on his pad for the number of the Questura, Headquarters of the State Police. He'd just found it when Di Nuccio knocked and looked in.
'I talked to Mario . . . am I disturbing you?'
'No. Tell me all about it.'
'There's not much to tell. It's more or less as you imagined. The bar shuts by eleven, or even before, after which the regulars play cards for money. Friday and Saturday nights they play Bingo as well and the wives stay, too. A stop was put to it once years ago, but of course it soon started up again so nobody bothers them any more since it's small money and local and the bar owner doesn't profit by it.'
'How late does it go on?'
The Marshal and the Madwoman Page 13
