“Asshole! What’s so funny? You could have warned me, couldn’t you?”
“I tried to, Mike. Anyway, Elisa certainly knows what you’re about now. But if she has a sudden stroke and loses her memory, I’d say you’ve got a chance . . .”
We ended up shutting the door and settling down for a chat over a beer. There was no ashtray, because Angelo didn’t smoke in his office, so I used the wastepaper basket. Angelo explained his work to me. The Vatican sent him the scheduled arrivals, and his three regular staff allocated the available housing to the priests and nuns—in separate quarters, naturally—while his responsibility was to take care of hostels and convents for any upcoming conventions. As for emergencies, such as unexpected arrivals, he was always on call, no matter the time of day. That was why he needed extra help on Saturdays and sometimes Sundays too. This extra help came in the shape of that young goddess Elisa Sordi, the girl about to take her exams in accountancy.
“So, on Saturdays you’re here alone with her. How do you resist?”
“There’s nothing to resist. I’ve already told you, Elisa’s off limits. Go on, admit it: the truth is that my being faithful to Paola upsets you, and you’d feel better if I stepped over the line once in a while.”
That wasn’t true. I wasn’t jealous of the self-control he applied to this renunciation. I’d had to work on self-control a good deal myself and was still alive because I’d learned it the hard way before anyone had had a chance to kill me. But I really didn’t understand self-control applied to sex—it was like sucking mints to hide bad breath. And I wanted my friend to see it as I did: self-imposed faithfulness was like renouncing life itself. And that really was a deadly sin.
At half past one, Elisa knocked and put her head around the door, avoiding my gaze.
“May I go out for something to eat?” she asked.
It seemed an old-fashioned request, like asking for permission to go to the bathroom. I went to the window to watch her leave. A young man was waiting for her outside Building B’s main door.
“You said she was a little saint,” I said to Angelo.
“Shit, Mike, you’re still planning on trying to get into her pants? That’s Valerio Bona, an old friend of hers. Anyway, it’s no business of ours.”
The goddess was going off with a guy her own age who was short and skinny and wore glasses. It was absolutely ridiculous—such a waste. He looked like a loser. She’d taken off her white coat. She was dressed simply and modestly in loose-fitting pants. A sweatshirt tied around her waist camouflaged her splendid behind.
I could have some fun with a girl like that.
I intended to do everything I could to cancel out my tactless behavior. After all, it was only the first time we’d met.
. . . .
Angelo had to discuss a couple of matters with the cardinal before we could go for some lunch.
“Come with me, Michele. He’ll be happy to meet you. It’s always useful to know a policeman,” he said with a grin.
The cardinal’s penthouse was enormous: a spacious living room, several bedrooms and bathrooms, together with a large balcony overlooking the grounds, with a view all the way to the entrance on Via della Camilluccia, where the gatehouse was located. The living room was full of young African priests and nuns speaking French. It was like a deluxe Catholic youth hostel.
“These are the people we have to find places for. They should have left this morning but there’s a coup d’état going on in their country, and they’ve closed the airport,” Angelo explained.
The only white face apart from ours was that of Alessandrini, who was mingling with the young clergy in his everyday clothes. He poured lemonade into their glasses from a large carafe. A short, middle-aged man who radiated great energy, his lively, intelligent black eyes stood out against his cropped gray hair.
He came up to me with a smile and an outstretched hand. “You must be Michele Balistreri,” he said. Then, turning to Angelo, he added, “Help yourselves to lemonade. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He picked up the telephone and spoke in perfect English.
“You can tell His Holiness that, with all due humility, I do not agree. There’s no violence. It’s a bloodless coup. The fact that they’re not Catholics is another matter, but we can find a way to have a dialogue.”
He came back, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his hooked nose.
“The current Vatican hierarchy has no love for communists, exactly the same as you.”
I looked at Angelo, who shook his head. No, he definitely wasn’t the type to gossip about me with the cardinal. Either the cardinal could read in my face what I was thinking or he had looked into my background because I hung out with his niece’s future husband. I didn’t care.
“I don’t agree with the Vatican on any subject. Not even on communists.”
The Cardinal ignored my comment and led us to the only corner of the living room not taken over by noisy young Africans.
“Your Eminence, we have some problems,” Angelo said. “We can’t manage to find places for all of them in our housing and the hotels are booked with tourists. We’re looking for about twenty beds.”
This was a different Angelo Dioguardi than the one I knew. He was awkward and insecure. The cardinal was too important for him.
Alessandrini laughed. “My poor Angelo, I see you can’t multiply beds like Our Lord did with the fishes! But it’s no problem. The priests will stay with me. Naturally, you’ll have to accommodate all the sisters. You can never be sure . . .”
“Your Eminence, this is a big apartment, but there aren’t enough beds. We’re talking about twenty priests. Where will you put them all?”
The cardinal pointed to the terrace. “I slept out there last night to keep cool. It’ll be no problem for them—they’re used to it in Africa. I’ve already sent Paul to get some sleeping bags from San Valente.”
Angelo relaxed and the cardinal turned to me. “So, you’re a policeman?” I had heard the word spoken with a thousand different shades of meaning: often ironic, sometimes even offensive. But Alessandrini said it with pure curiosity. At the same time, he was telling me that he knew all about me. In that residential complex, you entered only on foot and after all your details had been checked.
“I wanted to be a policeman when I grew up, but the Lord had plans for me to serve a different kind of justice,” he said.
I had my own opinions about the conflict between earthly and divine justice, but I figured it wasn’t the right time to discuss Nietzsche and the Gospels. This powerful and friendly man may have been admirable, but I didn’t find him likable. He was a priest and, after years of religious schooling, I knew that a pleasant manner could merely be ash over hot coals. I had learned to be wary even as a young child, from the moment in the fifth year of primary school when a soft hand infiltrated my shorts while I was being told about the goodness of Our Lord.
He read my thoughts. “Yes, I know, you’re very much the layperson and opposed to the Church, or perhaps even opposed to religion. Look, I respect justice on earth, but I also recognize its tragic errors. In this world, justice is often in the wrong hands.”
I was losing patience. “If we waited for the next life, we’d be living in tears, tormenting ourselves with our sins. When remorse turns to penitence and absolution, it’s only a way of avoiding life.”
Seeing Angelo’s look of alarm, I stopped, but the Cardinal wasn’t the type to be offended by an insignificant nonbeliever like me.
“Mr. Balistreri, I realize that the only sin you recognize is what we call crime. And punishment is meted out on earth, possibly in prison. But it was the justice of the Enlightenment, not faith, that instigated the guillotine of the revolutionaries, and they didn’t only decapitate the guilty.”
“While no mistakes were made under the Inquisition, is that it?”
“The Inquisition is one of the Church’s many embarrassments. And really it was earthly justice.”
Card
inal Alessandrini had very clear ideas and was willing to promote them even if they went against Vatican dogma.
I would have preferred to wait in Angelo’s office for Elisa to come back, but I realized after opening my big mouth about easy lays and sluts it was better to allow things to settle. And so I let myself be persuaded to accompany Angelo to the church of San Valente to help Father Paul.
While we were walking back over the grounds toward the exit, I glanced up at the third-floor windows. Elisa’s office window was the only one wide open. I lit a cigarette and again saw the sun’s reflection from Building A’s penthouse balcony.
“There’s someone up there who likes playing around with binoculars.”
Angelo nodded. “Manfredi, Count Tommaso’s son. He’s a bit strange, but if I were him I’d have problems too.”
It seemed impossible to have problems in this branch of paradise. But I’d learned that family wealth doesn’t immunize people against the world, especially when they’re young.
“What kind of problems does he have, apart from a problem with spying on passersby?”
“Manfredi’s problem is his father. The count’s a very powerful politician, the leader of a party that wants to bring the monarchy back to Italy. He’s got vast economic resources, thanks to his family’s investments in Africa. Timber, minerals, livestock.”
I’d also had an important man for a father. I could guess what Manfredi’s problems might be. But there was far worse, as I soon learned from Angelo.
“The count married a very young woman named Ulla from an aristocratic family in the north of Europe. She was only seventeen at the time. She got pregnant right away. She continued to go riding and the fetus suffered. Manfredi was born with a severe birthmark and a harelip—you can barely look at him. Apart from that he’s a healthy kid and highly intelligent, but a difficult character. I feel really sorry for him; I don’t know what I’d do in his place.”
The little freak with the binoculars got no sympathy from me.
“There are worse things in life, Angelo. There are people who live quietly with much worse disabilities. Anyway, why don’t they operate on him?”
“They’ve consulted plastic surgeons all over the world. The birthmark is too big to be removed—the technology just isn’t there yet. Maybe someday.”
A blue car entered the grounds and parked next to the Aston Martin. A member of the entourage got out and quickly opened the rear door. The man who emerged immediately commanded respect. He was about forty-five, dressed in an impeccable blue pinstripe suit despite the heat. Tall and ramrod straight, he wore his black hair combed back from his wide forehead. He had a long aquiline nose, a thin mustache and a well-trimmed goatee. He didn’t so much as glance at us. He whispered in his bodyguard’s ear, then slipped through the front door of Building A.
“Real friendly,” I observed.
Angelo smiled. “The Count doesn’t much like human contact, especially with those who are not his peers.”
The bodyguard came up and, pointing to me, addressed Angelo. “Is the gentleman with you?”
“Yes, he is,” Angelo replied, cowed.
“Then please inform your guest that these grounds are private property and smoking is strictly forbidden,” he said sharply. He turned and walked away.
I’d never heard of a residential complex that banned not only parking, but smoking, too. A place where they spied on you from the balcony and knew all your details. I could see why young Manfredi’s life might have been difficult. I was careful not to stub out my cigarette on the ground for fear I’d be set upon by a pack of Dobermans or transferred to some forgotten police station up on a mountaintop.
Angelo explained that the count occupied all of Building A and owned the entire residential complex. The Vatican only rented Building B. As we were passing through the gate, he introduced me to Gina Giansanti, the concierge.
“Next time, finish smoking before you come in,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether that was a rebuke or a gesture of solidarity.
At the gate, I turned around and gave a little wave to the binoculars reflected on the balcony. Bye-bye, Manfredi.
. . . .
The church of San Valente was fifteen minutes from the complex along the Via Aurelia Antica. The Saturday traffic was calm. Many stores were closed, and Romans were having lunch at home or picnicking in one of the parks. We drove down a small lane and I parked on a patch of unkempt grass between overgrown shrubs and hedges. Everything was tumbledown, left to its own devices. The church was small, very simple. Its walls were peeling from decades of exposure to the sun. On the opposite side of the grass stood a small white house. Next to it was a single tree that had been planted recently.
A dozen children between ten and thirteen were playing football and a blond girl of about twenty was acting as referee. Another girl was clearing a long table set outside, directly under the tree.
We went around to the house. Disorder ruled everywhere; the place needed a great deal of work. The lanky Father Paul, sweating copiously in his cassock, was loading sleeping bags into an old Volkswagen Beetle.
“Angelo!” he called. “And Angelo’s friend, the soon-to-be priest.”
This time I smiled at him—his desire to reach out was almost painful. We helped him to load the car.
“Eat with noi?” said Paul finally, in his mixture of English and Italian, as we washed our hands in a simple bathroom with a chipped basin.
“Would you like to eat something?” Paul asked.
We sat outside, and the blond woman brought us plastic cutlery and some lukewarm soup. Then she said she was going to wash the dishes.
“Don’t the children help?” asked Angelo. I knew that as a child he’d cooked, cleared the table, and washed his own dishes.
“Difficile, only at start,” explained Paul. “Would you like to speak to a bambino?”
“Thanks, maybe next time,” I said. “I have to be back at the station. I’ve only got time for a cigarette, assuming we can smoke here.”
Paul burst out laughing. “I don’t smoke myself, but I’m not crazy about it like the count. You’re free to kill yourself.”
I opened my second pack of the day and went to light a cigarette. Angelo signaled to me not to.
“Long time in Rome?” I asked Paul. I was consciously omitting verbs, as if this would help him understand better.
“Almost one year. I’m taking some classes and working with Cardinal Alessandrini. When I’m finished I’m going to open an orphanage like this in Africa. If you hurry and become a priest, you can come with me.”
Then Paul grew serious.
“How old were you when you knew police work was your vocation?” That’s the word he used: vocation.
“I don’t know whether it’s my vocation, but I became a policeman two years ago.”
I saw him make a quick calculation about my age. He came to the conclusion that he still had some years to go in order to be certain of his own vocation. I imagined that, in the years to come, several of his firmest convictions would be strenuously put to the test.
Sunday, July 11, 1982
I HADN’T SHUT MY EYES for almost two weeks. The World Cup coming to an end in Spain had disrupted Italian life. After an uncertain start, Italy had beaten Argentina, Brazil, and Poland. Those were evenings of unforgettable excitement that segued into poker with Angelo, Alberto, and other friends and, for me, often ended in bed, each time with a different woman.
On the day of the final against Germany, Rome was in the grip of a creeping sense of triumph that was ready to explode into ecstasy. Shops selling national flags had sold out. Those unable to buy one in time had hung out three colored towels to simulate the national tricolor. Then even the towels sold out and desperate latecomers were forced to put out painted sheets.
No one doubted Italy would win the World Cup that evening. Rome woke more peacefully than usual under a clear blue sky: it was as if the entire population wanted to conserve its energy
to play the final against Germany. Even the usual Sunday exodus to the beaches was largely reduced for fear of getting stuck in traffic coming back and not being in front of the television set at half past eight.
I took the opportunity to stay inside the police station in peace and quiet and sign some papers. Not that there was much to do, but I wanted to be sure I’d have no problems that evening. Angelo called a little before lunch, having just come back from Mass with Paola.
“Wait until you see what I’ve got planned for tonight, Balistreri.”
“After seeing how you organize the folders in your office, I have my doubts about your planning skills. What’s up?”
“We’re all going to Paola’s for the final; your brother’s bringing his German girlfriend, so we can tease her a bit. We’ll eat and have a drink during the match. When it’s over, Paola and the others are going to raise hell out on the streets—”
“Excuse me, Angelo, but what if we lose?”
I already knew the answer. “It’s not going to happen, Michele. That’s not part of the plan.”
“Okay, so we win. What happens next?”
“Next we stay in the apartment—you, me, Alberto, and a colleague of his—and play a little poker. When the others come back from celebrating, you can go off with one of the women. They’ll all want to keep partying.”
“Okay, Angelo. But I’m not letting the Duetto out on the road today with all this traffic. Can you come and pick me up here at the station in that old wreck of yours? I knock off at five o’clock sharp.”
“I don’t know if I can. Father Paul called and there’s a bit of problem. I have to drop by the office about five thirty.”
“Shit, on a Sunday? Have you got to find a little bachelor pad for our jumped-up Yankee priest?”
“Don’t be crude, Michele. I have to drop in on Cardinal Alessandrini—there have been some unexpected arrivals. I had to call Elisa and ask her to come in, too.”
Suddenly my hostility toward the idea transformed into enthusiasm. I hadn’t seen the young goddess again, but I remembered her very well.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 3
