The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel

by Conor Fitzgerald

  ‘I am here to talk about Stefania Manfellotto, and the recent murder of a young woman.’

  ‘Ah, poor Stefania. Yes, we can talk about her. But you know I have an alibi?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blume, adding ‘unfortunately’ in his own mind.

  ‘Also, when the young girl was killed, I was in Lucca. Lucky for me, I suppose.’

  ‘You were heard to fight with Stefania minutes before she left here and was shot.’

  ‘I fought with her the week before, and she was not shot. And the week before that, and she was not shot then either. It was a dispute, not a fight.’

  ‘Students heard voices raised.’

  ‘Not so much that they could make out the words, though. You see, without words to report they may as well say they heard us moving furniture. Words are everything, as I know you know. When the Romans had destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem, Yochanan ben Zakkai fled to a place called Yavneh where he set up the first academy for the study of the Torah. Ever since then, Jews have been a people of the book, a literate and academic race. Bildung is everything. Your parents are intellectuals, am I right?’

  Seeing he was getting no answer, he continued. ‘Commissioner, you’ll soon need to choose sides. The collapse is happening now. Late-phase capitalism turned out to be a perverted socialism, with the state paying bankers instead of workers. Your pay, let’s talk about that. In a short time, you won’t be earning enough to eat, but the pigs and the technocrats, the Germans, the IMF, the bankers, and the thieving politicians who never defended the interests of this country will expect you to be there, gun in hand, to defend them against righteous rage.’

  ‘Let’s get back to talking about your meeting with Stefania Manfellotto.’

  ‘Why, what new skill do you bring to the questions that was not available to your Carabinieri peers? Read the reports they made. They contain precise accounts of my meeting with Stefania,’ said Pitagora. ‘I have deliberately crystallized my memory of the events. If I tell you, there will not be a single comma’s difference between the statement I made to the Carabinieri and the one I will make to you. Also, you have no authority in this investigation.’

  ‘So you checked my credentials before this meeting,’ said Blume.

  ‘Yes. My original plan was to throw you out of the office, but you brought in an aura with you that I simply have to understand and oppose. For your sake, too. I can make you feel better about yourself. Look at us here. Which of us is the happier man?’

  ‘Ah, but which one of us is sane?’ said Blume.

  The professor got up from his desk and went to the large bookcase behind him and stared up at the long row of books as if they might speak to him. He walked around his desk. ‘I think I may give you my book.’

  ‘Thanks, but . . .’

  Pitagora cut across him. ‘I do not keep copies of it here, of course. It is too valuable.’

  ‘All your copies are first editions?’ enquired Blume.

  ‘I understand what you are insinuating. My book was not written to sell in bulk. I have come up with an entire memory technique for policemen, did you know that?’

  Blume indicated that he hadn’t known. His manner suggested that he did not care very much either, but Pitagora was not deterred. ‘You know the University for Forensic Investigators in L’Aquila? I was organizing a three-year course for the police there. It was all ready to go, when the earthquake struck. That was a setback, which has delayed the project by several years. But they tell me we can try again next September. I teach techniques for perfect recall, and I am prepared to put my knowledge at the disposal of law enforcers. In the meantime, in addition to my courses in literature, I give an interdisciplinary course in memory techniques. Hundreds of students from all faculties attend my seminars.’

  ‘You were going to teach all your memory techniques to cops?’

  ‘Technique is only technique. Memory is just the beginning of the ultimate knowledge.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ said Blume.

  Pitagora took a sheet of paper from the neat stack beside him and pulled a black fountain pen out of his pocket. He lifted a golden pince-nez from his desk, placed it on his nose, and started writing something, then handed it to Blume. ‘Here, read this.’

  Written in a thin spidery script was the following: Zezza, Aaron Fisher, tin, string, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Otho, wire, Vespasian, Titus.

  Blume glanced at the list. ‘I would prefer not to get sidetracked, Professor. Can we get back to the matter in hand?’

  ‘Have you read all the names on that list?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pitagora took the sheet of paper back, ripped it into four pieces, and then walked over to an ebony box from which pieces of paper were already protruding, and dropped them in. Blume saw he limped slightly as he walked. He had an unexpected bald patch behind, around which his dead straight silver hair formed a sort of curtain. The effect was monkish.

  ‘Do you recognize them all?’ asked Pitagora, returning to his oversized chair.

  ‘The first is the name of the Carabinieri captain in charge of the case, which I take as a reminder that I am not, which is fine. Then some random words and a few Roman emperors up to your favourite Titus, destroyer of Jerusalem. And there was another name. I have forgotten it already.’

  ‘I am glad you have not heard of the second person in the list. He is a filthy plagiarist. A vulgar American who has stolen my ideas and is hawking them as his own. He has written a series of bestselling books using my memory techniques. I have sued him and his publishers in a Los Angeles court for plagiarism.’

  ‘I’ll ask you all about that another time,’ said Blume, ‘as soon as it becomes in the slightest bit relevant to anything at all. Meanwhile, how do you know Stefania Manfellotto?’

  ‘We met here, in this very university, back in 1977. We shared a lot of beliefs. We were also sexual partners. I believe a man should have as many sexual partners as possible. Even this became a controversial position thanks to the AIDS conspiracy of the 1980s.’

  ‘There are rumours about your relationships with students.’

  ‘Some of them are grounded in fact, what of it?’

  Blume shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t care. They are all over the age of consent in here. Did you agree with Manfellotto’s terrorist activities?’

  ‘Who would ever respond yes to a question such as that?’

  ‘You,’ said Blume. ‘You strike me as just the sort of person who might, Professor.’

  Pitagora parted the curtain of his hair to find and fondle his ear. ‘Thank you, Commissioner Alec Blume.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the evening you met her,’ said Blume.

  Pitagora was right about one thing: his version of events showed absolutely no change from what was in the Carabinieri report that Principe had shown him. Indeed, it was as if he had seen the report and learned it by heart. Manfellotto had been in his office between 5 and 5:45 in the evening. They had drunk some expensive peat-flavoured Scotch, reminisced about old times, and discussed the current political situation. The door to the office had been closed, and twice some student or other had knocked tentatively to see if he was there. He had not answered. At one point, around half past five, she had excused herself to go to the toilet down the corridor. He had opened the door for her, and waited on the threshold. Several students and staff had seen him there, and he could provide the names of some of them. Two students were outside his office, and he agreed to see them afterwards. When she came back, they talked some more, and then had that argument that everyone seemed to have heard.

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to say.’

  ‘Politics or money?’

  ‘Well, since you were so succinct, you deserve a succinct answer. Both. Then we arranged to meet at a restaurant on Via Della Scrofa.’ Pitagora wetted his finger with the tip of his tongue and consulted a black leather-bound desk diary. ‘Look.’

  He tur
ned the diary around on the desk, and Blume saw the same spidery script with ‘Ristorante Istria’ written next to the line reading 8 p.m. It was the only entry on the page.

  ‘Turn back a page, Professor, please,’ said Blume. Pitagora obliged. There were no entries on either side of the diary. ‘And another,’ said Blume, motioning with his finger. The pages again were blank. ‘You don’t seem to have many appointments. Just the one that was supposed to be on that evening.’

  ‘Stefania made me write it down. I use my memory techniques, but she likes to see things in writing.’

  ‘All right. Stefania left here at 5:45. Then what?’

  ‘I went to give a seminar in front of 50 or so students . . .’

  ‘You went directly from here to the classroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you were on time for the seminar?’

  Pitagora undid one silver cufflink and then the other, like a magician preparing for a show. He pulled up his sleeves.

  ‘I have no watch, Commissioner. I may have been early, I may have been late. The fact is, my students are enthusiastic and come early, so they were waiting for me. I have not worn a watch for years, for the same reason you have not.’

  Blume touched his wrist self-consciously.

  ‘On some people, a timepiece cannot keep time. If it is mechanical, it loses or gains, if it is digital, it malfunctions from electromagnetic interference from the wearer. I am one of those people, Commissioner, and so are you.’

  ‘Basically, you’re saying you were late,’ said Blume.

  Pitagora redid his cufflinks with care. ‘While I was there a student came in to say someone had been shot.’

  ‘Who was this student?’

  ‘I don’t know. A friend of one of my students. I had never seen him before.’

  ‘He came in and shouted it out, or . . .’

  ‘More or less. “They are shooting people” he called out, or words to that effect. Then they all ran out. I have given the names of the students to the Carabinieri, and I believe they have been questioned. This means I am somehow a suspect, which is fantastical nonsense. And now, if you don’t mind and even if you do, I have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have students waiting for me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind the door.’

  Blume went over and opened the door. Sure enough, a group of about twelve students were standing about in the corridor.

  He surveyed them, then said, ‘One minute’, and closed the door.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Some of my best students. They are here for a lesson on Tasso. You know the epic poem Jerusalem Delivered?’

  Blume ignored the question.

  ‘The story of the Catholic knights who freed the erstwhile Jewish capital from the infidel Muslims? I know you know what I am talking about. I am transferring that poem to their memory. They must learn it by heart.’

  ‘Literature students, then?’

  ‘No. There is one, but the rest of them come from other faculties. But they understand that all knowledge is connected. The more you learn about anything, the more you know about everything.’

  ‘Can I borrow one?’

  Instead of asking why, Pitagora nodded and said, ‘Take Miriam. She’s the blonde one you noticed, almost to the exclusion of the others.’

  ‘Who says . . .’

  ‘You know who I mean?’

  ‘There was a blonde girl there, yes, but . . .’

  ‘Ask her her name. Go on.’

  ‘I am not playing your games.’

  ‘Blondes stick in the mind better. That’s why women who want to be remembered should go for the blonde look no matter how poorly it suits them. It is also why so many saints and angels are fair-haired. What about that list from earlier, the one I wrote down. Do you remember it?’

  Blume ignored the question. He opened the door and called to the students, who filed in sheepishly, as if they had done something wrong.

  ‘Miriam,’ said the professor. ‘This is a police commissioner. He was looking particularly at you.’

  The girl blushed, and arched her foot.

  Blume opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

  ‘He says he wants to “borrow” you. Do let us know what he does with you, will you?’

  ‘That is, if you don’t mind,’ said Blume.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Commissioner! I know you’re going to want to talk to me again. Come to my home. I live on the Via Appia Antica, but you’ll know that. I want to show you my memory theatre. It will expand your mind.’

  Blume turned to the girl, whose scarlet blush was just fading.

  ‘Just a quick favour,’ said Blume, and ushered her out the door.

  As he left the office, he let out a long sigh and shook his head and limbs as if coming out of the sea from a long swim.

  ‘He’s intense because he’s a genius,’ said the girl.

  ‘Do you study literature?’

  ‘No. Final year medicine. Where are we going?’

  ‘I sorry, I didn’t explain.’ He had the girl give him her telephone number and they separated at the end of the corridor, him going up the stairs and her down. He climbed two more flights to the top floor, then walked down the empty corridor. The rooms he passed were stuffed full of smashed desks, and piles of books.

  At the end of the corridor, he turned left, and entered a small corner room. The roof sloped down and he had to duck under a cross-beam piled high with dust so fine it billowed like icing sugar at his passing. He grabbed a broken brush handle from the floor. He made his way over to the window, familiar from the Carabinieri photos he had examined in Principe’s office. It was small, circular, and iron-rimmed like a barrel. An iron bar ran along the middle dividing the window into two half-moon lights. The lower pane was intact and the upper one was missing, and he could imagine bats flying in and out. It was less dusty here because of the air coming in, or perhaps because the Carabinieri had swept it clean. It commanded an ample view of the concourse below. He took out his phone and called Miriam.

  ‘Ready? OK, start walking now. Keep the phone to your ear.’

  He stuck the broom handle out of the gap, and looked down it. Thirty seconds later Miriam’s blonde hair appeared below. He took aim at the top of her head. Then he ordered her to stop. The figure below stopped.

  ‘OK, I just needed to check that was you. Can you go back to the door and start walking again, this time all the way to where the paths meet in the centre of the yard?’

  Twenty seconds this time. She was walking faster, impatient with his game. No problem. He kept the broom handle pointed at her beautiful head and fired imaginary bullet after imaginary bullet into it. When she reached the centre of the courtyard, he told her to keep walking. Ten seconds later, she was hidden by the protruding wing of the admin building.

  He picked up his phone and thanked her, wishing her luck in her exams, and then he walked all the way down the stairs, and into the courtyard, counting one elephant two elephant three elephant as he did so, and ignoring the looks he was getting.

  Well, he thought, as he exited the university campus, that doesn’t really make sense.

  Chapter 11

  God, this girl Olivia was bouncy. Her breasts bounced, her auburn hair bounced, her shoulders bounced as she shrugged off his questions with careless declarations of forgetfulness and a shake of the bangles on her wrists. Even her voice bounced up and down as she explored the dramatic potential of doing public double-takes, repeating what Blume said in incredulous tones to make sure he got the point that his questions were either cretinous or hard for her to fathom. She liked to make the most of her large brown eyes by opening them wide in exaggeration of surprise, or rolling them in melodramatic disbelief at the obtuseness of his questions. But he had a strong suspicion it was all a show for him, in which case she had misread what he liked. Her mood followed the general principle of bo
unciness, leaping from petulant bad temper to sudden flashes of sorrow for her lost cousin, then back to enthusiasm as she spoke about her boyfriend Marco and her plans for that evening.

  They were standing on the road, just a few metres from where Sofia had been shot. The crime scene tape was still there, torn and fluttering. There were just four bouquets at the spot. Someone had washed down the wall to get rid of the bloodstain, and had inadvertently created the outline of a person standing against the wall, a bright shade.

  In the hope of evoking a mood of reflection or sadness, Blume moved slightly to one side, so that the spot where Sofia had died was visible to Olivia, but the girl seemed not to see it.

  ‘So the other night, you told Sofia to be here so that you could pick her up in your car?’

  ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t have come into the magistrate’s office with me this afternoon,’ Olivia complained. ‘You are asking me exactly the same questions, and I am giving exactly the same answers.’

  ‘I had things to do on the campus. Besides, it’s different here where it happened.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s colder,’ she gave a cute little shiver that ran down from her shoulders to her backside. ‘Can we maybe sit in a car or something?’

  ‘This will only take a minute. We are standing more or less where you said you would meet her.’

  ‘Yes. That is to say where I would be. She waited over there.’

  ‘And you here.’

  ‘It’s practically the same point. What’s the difference?’

  ‘Why not exactly at the same point?’

  Olivia shook her head in disbelief at having to explain it. ‘Here, where we are is beside the road, right? So if I am picking her up outside the university, this is the place where I stop. I can’t get any closer in the car. She liked to stay over there waiting.’