“Why don’t I come with you? That way I can apologize.”
Was I joking or was I serious? I didn’t really know myself.
“No, we’re not going to see Elisa. We’d only be in her way. I have to check in with the cardinal about assigning the housing, that’s all.”
“Okay, Angelo, I’ll go up and say hello to Elisa on my own. Pick me up at five.”
This promised to be an interesting evening. At Paola’s there were always good-looking young women from the upper crust of Rome, and they were my ideal targets. Euphoria in the case of victory, plus my dark attractiveness, meant one more victory guaranteed.
I went down to the bar opposite the office in the piazza. The roads were totally deserted. Inside, in the cool of the air-conditioning, a crowd with nothing better to do was mouthing off loudly about the coming game. I ordered a sandwich and a beer and listened to the cross-currents of several voices. There was no doubt we would beat the Germans. We always did.
“Even in war we showed the Nazis!” yelled a long-haired freak with a hammer and sickle tattooed on the back of his dirty hand. He and his buddies were passing around two cigarettes with an unmistakable smell.
I looked at my watch—I still had some time, and I had the inclination. I was in civilian clothes, so I took out my badge. I waited for the joint to make its way to the tattooed guy, and then I went up to him.
I showed him my badge and took the joint from his fingers. “You’re under arrest for the use of a narcotic substance,” I announced.
He looked at me in shock. “What the fuck?”
“And also for insulting a public official. Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the police station?”
I was using bureaucratic police language on purpose, knowing how much they hated it. The long-haired freak placed a grubby hand on my shoulder. As expected, the owner of the bar went out to call the men on guard outside the police station to come over and help. There wasn’t much time.
“Remove your hand immediately or I’ll add assaulting a police officer to the charges against you,” I commanded, trying not to laugh.
The tone and the terminology finally produced what I wanted: he gave me a shove and I fell to the ground like a leaf.
This was the scene my colleagues encountered when they entered. The long-haired freak wouldn’t be watching the game that evening, not even inside Regina Coeli prison. I would have him slammed in a cell where he would spend a very uncomfortable night.
. . . .
I gave instructions to the men as soon as I was back in the office. They could watch the game on the set they’d brought in. They were grateful. But I made it clear that in exchange they were not to contact me—no interruptions for any reason—after eight o’clock. I repeated myself. For any reason whatsoever.
“What if someone gets up on the opposite roof and wants to jump off?” one of the men joked.
“You tell him to jump off tomorrow,” I responded, and I made it clear I wasn’t joking in return.
By four I’d finished the pointless paperwork and started thinking about Elisa Sordi all alone in her office on a Sunday afternoon in a completely deserted city. I was tempted not to wait for Angelo and go to Via della Camilluccia by myself, but Elisa probably had a lot to do, and after that first unfortunate meeting with her advised prudence.
My twisted mind hit on an indirect solution. At ten to five I called Angelo’s office.
The shy voice I knew very well answered after two rings.
“This is Michele Balistreri. I believe we’ve met.”
She was silent. I went on.
“I’m waiting for Mr. Dioguardi, who’s about to come and pick me up at the police station. Is he there in the office with you?”
“No, he hasn’t been here all day. He’s supposed to come by later. Should I give him a message, sir?”
That “sir” reassured me that despite the fact that I’d made an ass of myself, she still had some respect for me. Either that or she was afraid of me, which would be even better.
“No thanks. Perhaps I’ll drop by with Mr. Dioguardi later.”
She said nothing, and I put the phone down without saying good-bye.
I felt a little embarrassed about the phone call. I dialed Paola’s number. She picked up the phone.
“I’ll put him on, Michele. We’ve just had a nap and he’s coming out to pick you up.”
“Okay, see you later,” I said.
“Michele, what’s wrong?” said Angelo, sounding worried.
“Nothing. I just wanted to be sure you wouldn’t forget to come and get me. I called the office thinking you were there and got Elisa.”
He was silent for a moment. “Are you sure that was accidental? Anyway, I’ll be out of here in five minutes and with you in another five.”
He arrived ten minutes later, just after five o’clock. It was stiflingly hot, so he had opened the roof of the old Fiat, which still stank of sweat, beer and Gitanes. We pulled up on Via della Camilluccia a few minutes later; there was hardly anyone on the roads. The street was calm, silent, shaded by its magnificent trees.
“I’m going to have one before going in,” said Angelo. We approached the green gate with our cigarettes lit. The concierge scowled at us, but we stopped outside to smoke.
“What are you doing here, Gina? Today’s Sunday,” Angelo asked her.
“Getting my bags ready. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Without seeing the game?”
“Couldn’t care less. I’m going to India tonight.”
“India? What are you going to do there?” I asked, surprised.
Gina looked at me with disapproval.
“I go every year to volunteer for two weeks. Cardinal Alessandrini arranges everything for me, so I can report on how things are going over there.”
“Have you seen Elisa?” Angelo asked her, to stop me from saying anything inappropriate.
“Elisa’s been up in the office slaving away since this morning, poor girl. She did go out for lunch. I saw her when she came back with Valerio. She rang on the intercom half an hour ago and I went up to get some papers to take to Cardinal Alessandrini.”
Angelo said, “We’re going to see the Cardinal, so Elisa can go home.”
I said. “I’ll wait for you here.”
He shot me a warning look.
“Remember, I can see you from the cardinal’s balcony, so no fucking around.”
Although it was some distance away, Building B’s balcony was well in sight of the gate, and vice versa. Something of a letdown.
“I won’t move, I swear,” I said with my fingers crossed.
Angelo went off and I was left on my own with Gina. I stood on one side of the gate, having a smoke; she was on the other, polishing the gatehouse windows so she could leave them gleaming. She began to warm up to me a bit.
“I’m sorry about the smoking, but the count’s nuts about it, and his son’s even worse.”
Certainly Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno didn’t enjoy the sympathy of the severe concierge. And even less, that young idiot with the binoculars.
I looked up toward Building A’s balcony. A fleeting reflection, then nothing. Manfredi was feeling shy.
Angelo came out onto Building B’s balcony with Alessandrini. They gestured to me and disappeared inside. The concierge’s intercom buzzed. “The cardinal’s asking for you to go up,” said Gina. “I’ll say good-bye now. I have to go to mass before I leave.”
Fucking cardinal—as if I was interested in his chitchat. I was thinking about trying my luck with Elisa when a blue car rolled up to the gate. The driver rushed to help out Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno, while Gina opened the gate for him. I found him right in front me, impeccably dressed and looking cool and collected despite the heat.
“You’re Dioguardi’s friend the police captain, correct? Are you here on official business?”
I took it as a given that he was joking and gave a stupid little laugh. The count l
ooked at me as if I were an idiot. Without another word he turned and walked toward the entrance of his block. I stayed there, watching him go, angry with myself for having felt uneasy—an unpleasant sensation to which I was not at all accustomed.
Then I set off toward Building B, not sure what to do. I risked getting lost again between the tennis court and the swimming pool, and again I encountered Father Paul, just as I had the first time.
“The cardinal is expecting you.”
This time he was serious—not a trace of his usual smile. He seemed tense: his blue eyes troubled in his freckled face, his red hair in disarray. He’d even enunciated carefully to make himself understood.
“Will you be watching the final tonight, Paul?”
I asked him in order to stall for time more than anything else, since I was fighting a little internal battle with myself.
“Yes, in San Valente, with the children. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.” And off he went without saying good-bye.
I stopped to look up at Elisa’s window. Again it was the only one open, and this time there was a flower on the windowsill. She must have put it out there when the sun wasn’t beating down on that spot, as it was now. I still didn’t know what to do, so I stood there for a couple of minutes, thinking about her, undecided.
Then I went to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.
I found Angelo on the cardinal’s landing. We crossed the huge deserted living room in silence and went into the private study. Cardinal Alessandrini was there, dressed in his red robes. He was sitting behind his imposing desk and leafing through some papers, probably the work from Elisa that Gina had brought him. In those vestments and in that room he looked different. He looked like an energetic and intelligent priest, but he also looked like a man who had some power and would always want more. Angelo seemed worried; there must be a problem, some work that was unsatisfactory.
“Captain Balistreri, were you going to leave without coming up for a visit?” asked the cardinal. His tone was cordial enough, but there was an edge to it. Something was not quite right.
Angelo went out onto the terrace; I saw him smoking while he leafed nervously through some files.
“I didn’t want to impose. I know that you and Angelo have urgent business. Is something wrong?”
Alessandrini pointed to the chair opposite him. “Nothing that will force you to miss the game, but your friend needs to get to the bottom of the matter. Can I offer you a lemonade?”
Obviously it was some problem with accommodation that Angelo and Elisa hadn’t resolved. That friendly man in red must also have been a very hard man when he wanted to be.
The cardinal opened a small fridge and filled a glass with cold lemonade.
“You’re young, Balistreri, but I know you’ve accomplished a lot.”
This was exactly what he said, confirmation that he had a real and proper dossier on me.
“I’ve accomplished some good things and some bad things, like everyone.”
“The important thing is to learn from one’s mistakes. Even your dear Nietzsche’s Übermensch will one day have to stand before God.”
Well, I’d committed a grave error twelve years ago. A mortal sin, from which only a priest could absolve me. But I had no desire to talk about it with the cardinal.
I tried to change the subject. “I see that at least here we can smoke,” I said, pointing to the terrace.
“Naturally, the Vatican falls outside the count’s ‘jurisdiction,’ so do join Angelo if you wish,” he joked. He was affable, playful. But he was a little distracted, as if pursuing some thought of his own.
I went outside and, while Angelo was working, smoked a couple of cigarettes.
Then the telephone rang in the study, and while the Cardinal answered it I asked Angelo how much he still had to do. “Almost done,” he grumbled. He was serious, deep in thought. I cursed Alessandrini and his power over my friend. I didn’t like to see him under the thumb of his priestly boss.
The cardinal’s call was brief. He said, “We’ll meet there at a quarter to seven.” Then he hung up the phone.
Angelo went back inside and handed the papers to the Cardinal.
“Everything’s in order, Your Eminence. I’ll leave the arrangements on your desk so that tomorrow morning you can confirm everything before the guests arrive. I’ll see what I can do about the other thing.”
“I’m sure you will. Well now, I suggest we go down. It’s ten past six and I have to be at the Vatican. And I believe you have plans this evening?”
“Won’t you be watching the final, Your Eminence?” I asked.
“I too am flesh and blood, Balistreri. I shall try to be back by eight thirty.”
We went down in the elevator. I gave a last glance at the open window on the second floor. I had to stop thinking about her.
Gina wasn’t at the gate; she must have gone to Mass. The cardinal said good-bye in a hurry and got into a taxi that was waiting by the gate.
We were getting into the old Fiat when the count came out of Building A along with a much younger woman and a tall young man with muscles rippling beneath his red T-shirt. He wore a full-face motorcycle helmet. As usual, the Harley was parked next to the Aston Martin. The count placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and opened the gate with his remote control. Then they all left, the count and the women I assumed was his wife in the James Bond car, the kid on his Easy Rider bike.
. . . .
When we got to Paola’s there were already a number of people there. Angelo went straight to the kitchen, being one of the cooks, while I offered to set the large table in front of the TV. Then I helped Paola to welcome the other guests while Angelo was busy cooking. This way I could get a good preview of the female talent coming in. My brother Alberto came along with the elegant German girl who would later become his wife. Every so often I went into the kitchen and found Angelo sweating more than ever over the gas stove and glasses of wine. He was completely consumed with preparing the penne all’arrabbiata together with Cristiana, a petite girl with long red hair, large tits, and a pair of jeans that perfectly framed her notable bottom. From that moment my visits to the kitchen increased, ending with me hanging around to chat with her.
By eight o’clock, about fifty people were squeezed into every nook and cranny. The heat of that stifling afternoon was still entering the open windows. The neighboring housing blocks gave off the laughter of groups of friends gathered for the event. I glanced down at the street. Absolutely deserted.
The atmosphere in the house was festive. After several glasses of white wine, I got into a discussion with Cristiana about whether it would be better to get it on after a victory or after a defeat.
“You’re nice enough, Michele, but I know better than to trust you. Paola warned me about you.”
In reality, Paola was a good friend. She knew very well that that type of advice attracted the girls like flies to honey.
“Watch it. I could arrest you for insulting a public official.”
“And would you have to handcuff me, Captain?” she laughed.
“First, I’d handcuff you. Then I’d interrogate you, and I’m tough. If you offered any resistance . . .”
“Oh, you’d have to punish me to get me to talk. You might have to get out a whip.”
I glanced pointedly at her butt.
“That doesn’t work on women who like it.”
She blushed, but laughed. The part of the evening after the game and the poker was in the bag. Not much of an effort that evening. Besides, with all the cigarettes and alcohol, it was better like that. I peeped into the kitchen. Sweating like a pig and now almost drunk, Angelo was putting the finishing touches on a magnificent rice salad in the colors of the Italian flag.
Then the game started. I sat on the floor and leaned against Cristiana’s legs. I was drinking, smoking, and praying for Paolo Rossi.
. . . .
The first half was scoreless. Strung
out from the tension and the heat, Italians flooded the streets, balconies and terraces to cool down and get some fresh air. Paola’s phone rang.
“It’s my uncle. He wants to speak to you,” she said to Angelo, looking puzzled.
I saw a line deepen on Angelo’s forehead as he listened to the cardinal.
“I’ll come right away,” he mumbled, and he put the receiver down. His voice was thick with drink.
I was concerned. “Same problems you were dealing with this afternoon?”
He looked at me vacantly. “They can’t find Elisa.”
“Who can’t find Elisa?”
“Her parents. They’re really worried. They say she was supposed to come home to watch the game with them and she never showed up. They contacted the cardinal.”
I laughed. “They contacted the cardinal? She’s out with some friends watching the game. Typical overprotective Italian parents.”
Angelo shook his head. “Elisa would have told them if she’d changed her plans.”
I was irritated. “Really? This has to happen tonight? Okay, let’s go. We’ll reassure her parents and be back in time for the second half.”
I was really annoyed at this bother, but it wouldn’t take long with the lack of traffic and I couldn’t let him go alone in that state.
We were both drunk. I drove Angelo’s car, and we were on Via della Camilluccia within five minutes. The Aston Martin was parked next to the Harley-Davidson. From the illuminated terrace of Building A came the sounds of a party. The count had guests for the game.
The cardinal and Elisa’s parents were waiting for us beside the large fountain. Amedeo and Giovanna Sordi were a little over fifty. Elisa’s father was a tall, gaunt man. His hair was already white. Elisa, their only child, they told me, had gotten her height and bearing from him. From her mother she’d gotten those deep-set eyes. Those eyes were looking at us worriedly.
“We’re so sorry, Mr. Dioguardi, sir, tonight of all nights,” Elisa’s mother said. Her father stood off to the side. Mr. Dioguardi. The poor are too respectful of those in power, which is why they stay poor.
The cardinal turned to Angelo. “Did you see or hear Elisa after we said good-bye this afternoon?”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 4
