Angelo staggered a little, his cheeks flushed. He managed to mumble, “No. I told her that if I hadn’t come back by six thirty it meant that everything was fine and she could leave.”
“I spoke to her several times today,” said the mother. “I also called her in the office just after five. She told me that Mr. Dioguardi was leaving, and that if everything went smoothly she’d be home by seven thirty. When she wasn’t home by then, I just assumed something had come up. I didn’t want to call and bother her.”
Her husband gazed at her protectively. “Amedeo wanted to drive over and pick her up, but Elisa never wanted to inconvenience him. At eight I began to worry. I called the office, but no one answered. Now we don’t know what to think.”
I stepped forward. “I’m a friend of Dioguardi’s and a police captain,” I said, trying not to slur my words. “Perhaps Elisa simply changed her mind and went to watch the game with some friends.”
Giovanna Sordi stared at me. I can’t have looked very good, but I guess the fact that I was a policeman reassured her..
“She would have called us, Captain,” she said respectfully.
Parents fool themselves into thinking they know everything. That thought came to me together with the fact that the second half of the game was about to begin. I assumed an exceptionally professional manner.
“Maybe there’s no phone where she is. Procedure would dictate that we wait and see what happens when the game is over,” I said firmly.
I noticed a shade of annoyance on the cardinal’s face, but unlike the two parents he made no objections.
“Let’s do that,” said the cardinal. “Mr. Sordi, head on home now while there’s no traffic. If Elisa calls or comes home, let us know. Your wife can stay here with me until the game ends. If Elisa hasn’t called by then, Captain Balistreri will tell us what to do.”
I was getting worked up, not about Elisa Sordi but about the Italian national team. And I was also drunk. I drove as fast as I could to Paola’s, while Angelo sat beside me with his eyes shut tight.
. . . .
The second half had just started.
“What’s wrong?” Alberto asked when we entered the crowded living room. As usual, he was the only one to show concern.
“Nothing serious. A woman who works with Angelo didn’t go home. I’m sure she’s out with friends watching the game, but her parents are worried.”
Alberto shot me a disapproving glance, just as Cardinal Alessandrini had, but he didn’t say anything.
I snuggled between Cristiana’s legs with my wine and cigarettes. Italy’s three goals gave rise to an equal number of roars across the country. Come the third, people left the television to fly down to the streets, or out onto balconies and terraces. The noise of car horns and air horns added to the thunderclap of fireworks.
On the referee’s final whistle, tens of thousands were already in the streets. In a few minutes the traffic was jammed solid, people sitting on car roofs shouting with joy, waving flags, sounding air horns, and beating drums. Columns of red, white, and green smoke were everywhere; the night was painted with the national colors.
Amid this deafening racket, the telephone rang. While Angelo went to answer it, I had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Alberto looked at me.
“If she hasn’t showed up, you’d better get over there right away.”
His tone was calm, but forceful, leaving no room for argument. It was the same tone my father used when I was little. You must learn to be more responsible, Michele.
“The cardinal says we have to get back there with the office keys.”
Angelo was less drunk now, and more worried.
It was no longer possible to go in the car with the uproar unleashed on the streets, but the complex was fairly close by, so we walked through the celebrating crowds, pushed and shoved by everyone and pushing and shoving everyone back in turn. It was a ridiculous situation: in the middle of the most unbridled joy, there we were like two drunken branches battered left and right in the wind.
It took us twenty minutes. I was in a state of near delirium about the glorious victory and the probable hook-up with Cristiana. The thought of Elisa only crept in every once in a while.
Cardinal Alessandrini and Elisa’s mother were waiting for us. She looked hopeful. We went straight to Building B. Elisa’s window was closed, though the flower still sat on the windowsill. Alessandrini was very tense; Angelo was white as a sheet. The office door was double-locked, as it was supposed to be. Angelo’s hand trembled from tension and alcohol as he opened it. I told everyone to stay out, but the cardinal objected.
“You’re a civilian, Your Eminence. I’m a policeman. Wait here.”
But he ignored me and turned to Angelo.
“Stay here with Elisa’s mother, Angelo.”
He went in without even looking at me. I didn’t care. I wanted to get away as soon as I could—to play poker, and then take Cristiana to bed.
We switched on the lights. Everything was in perfect order. Folders in storage boxes, windows closed. There was no sign of Elisa Sordi. We looked through the papers on her desk in the unlikely event she’d written down some kind of appointment. Nothing. We found her time card in its place in the rack where the staff’s cards were kept. She had been the only one in that day. Her departure was properly stamped at six thirty.
Angelo locked the office, and Alessandrini stepped to one side and spoke quietly to me.
“You and Angelo are extremely drunk,” he said, not beating around the bush. “Go home. I’ll go to the police with Elisa’s mother and file a report.”
I thought this was an excellent idea and only made a feeble protest that the Cardinal didn’t even hear. So off we went. As well as our smelling of alcohol and smoke, I’d even let a burp escape my lips.
When we got back my brother had left. No poker. But Cristiana soon returned with Paola. I carried her to the guest room and shut the door.
She stood by the door, her cheeks flushed.
“Michele, I’m engaged to a man who works in Milan. We’re getting married soon.”
I’d heard that story before. Michele Balistreri was every woman’s dark little secret, that borderland that girls know, that they fear and dream about without daring to get too close. They soon understood that if they strayed over the line of good behavior with Michele Balistreri, they could always go back to being cosseted by reassuring guys like Angelo Dioguardi, the ideal boyfriend and companion for life. It was much more enjoyable like this; I enjoyed corrupting their good principles to the point where they not only slipped out of their clothes but also the protective layers built up from years of education and self-control. Along with their panties they handed over that part of themselves they knew existed but were ashamed of, the part that no fiancé had ever seen before and no husband after. They never truly fell in love with me out of an instinct for self-preservation, but when I disappeared they couldn’t forgive me. I took away with me the most secret side of their face, even if I was perhaps the only man who had never tried to deceive them.
I unbuckled the belt around her jeans.
“I don’t have my handcuffs, so I’ll have use this.”
She unfastened my leather belt.
“And if I refuse to cooperate with the police, you can use this to punish me.”
It was going to be a hell of a night. I forgot all about Elisa Sordi.
Monday, July 12, 1982
SPENDING THE NIGHT AT Paola’s also gave me a huge logistical gain. I was only two strides from the Vigna Clara police station and could therefore sleep in longer. And that morning I needed it. I ignored the alarm completely, having told the station I’d be late. Cristiana was sleeping at my side and from the bedroom next door there was no noise. In the end, what forced me to get up around eleven was hunger.
I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth. I just quietly slipped on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to the café in the piazza. A crowd was discussing the previous night’s win. The sidewalks we
re packed with people who should have been at work, just like me. In the general throng, I put myself right with a tall coffee and a pastry.
“On the house,” declared the man behind the bar, obviously a soccer fan. “Only Germans pay today.”
I bought the Corriere dello Sport and went back to Paola’s apartment. I wanted to read all the details of the big win in peace and quiet. I stretched out on the sofa in the living room with the paper and my cigarettes to enjoy reports on the game.
After a while, I heard Cristiana and Paola talking in the kitchen and smelled coffee. They came in with a steaming cup for me, as well as some toast and jam. They were in slippers and robes, their eyes still puffy.
“There you are, fit for a king,” Cristiana said. She leaned down and I gave her a quick kiss.
“Paola,” I said, “Angelo won’t be happy if he wakes up and knows I’ve seen you in this state . . .”
“Angelo went out at seven thirty. The big jerk woke me up.”
I was a little surprised, but then I remembered that he had problems to sort out with the priests and nuns. I dove into my second breakfast, then went back to reading the paper. My head hurt, but my spirits were sky high.
Angelo called a little after noon. Paola handed me the phone.
“The police are here, Michele. From your precinct.” He sounded scared.
“Who’s there?”
“Your deputy, Capuzzo. Elisa’s mother reported her disappearance at midnight, and this area is in your precinct. I told Capuzzo I know you, but I didn’t say you were at Paola’s. They were looking for you at your house. They don’t know where you are.”
Good man, Angelo, but this was still a real hassle. “I’ll be right over.”
I phoned the office, pretending to know nothing. They said Capuzzo was looking for me and gave me a number where I could reach him—the number for Dioguardi’s office. I called and a secretary put me through to Capuzzo.
“What’s up?”
“Captain, a young woman is missing. She works for your friend Dioguardi.”
“Who reported it?”
“The mother. She came to the station at midnight. She was with some priest. I told him the procedure for filing a missing persons report about an adult is complicated, that we have to wait twenty-four hours.”
“Listen, between you and me, Capuzzo, the young woman in question is a hot ticket. Chances are she’s off celebrating the big game with some lucky son-of-a-bitch.”
“The priest is really leaning on us. He must have clout because halfway through the morning the rapid response team was ordered to go and check out the situation.”
I took some time to make myself presentable. Sure, dressed in jeans and T-shirt I hardly looked professional, but there was no time to go home and change. I made my way on foot through the many knots of idlers discussing Italy’s triumph. All the balconies were displaying the national flag. It must have been the first time since Mussolini’s era. Perhaps since the day they hanged him upside down in Piazzale Loreto. A country without honor. I squashed the thought that had followed me throughout adolescence; this wasn’t the right moment.
The regular concierge wasn’t at the gate; she was probably already on her way to India. In her place was a polite young woman who resembled her—her daughter, I assumed. I was smoking when I got to the green gate. I showed her my police badge and entered with the cigarette still in my mouth. I wasn’t Angelo Dioguardi’s friend this time; I was the police. Just let Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno try to impose his medieval rules and regulations on me.
The reflection from Building A told me that Manfredi was on the lookout. I was in such a bad mood that I almost pointed in his direction to threaten him. Instead, I waved my cigarette in greeting. I hoped he would tell his arrogant shithead of a father. I knew all this aggression was motivated by feeling liked I’d come off looking stupid during my single brief encounter with the count. Knowing that only made me angrier.
Capuzzo was waiting for me in Angelo’s office. My friend looked as if he’d slept little and badly—dark circles under his bloodshot blue eyes. He was unshaven, and his hair stuck out all over.
It was really too much. I took him to one side.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, Angelo?”
He shook his head.
“We’re assholes, Michele. Such assholes.”
“Why, because we didn’t do anything last night? Elisa’s out with some guy, I’m sure.”
“You really are an asshole,” he said to me.
He’d never insulted me like that before. I decided to let it go. He was sensitive, that was all.
“So, Capuzzo, who saw the girl last?”
“We don’t know, Captain.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Her time card was stamped six-thirty, but Signor Dioguardi told us that he went away at six-fifteen with you and the cardinal, and the only people who live in the other building left at the same time. The young priest, Father Paul, had already left when you arrived, and the concierge went to mass at six, then took a bus to the airport. She was seen in church, but the village where she’s staying in India has no telephone, so—”
I interrupted him.
“Okay, Elisa left a little after we did, two hours before the final, planning to go home and join her parents. Then she probably ran into someone she knew. He whisked her away to watch the game at his beach house, and she’s still there with him recuperating after a long night.”
“No,” Angelo said, giving me a dark look.
“No? How do you know?”
“I already told you, Elisa’s not that type.”
I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to one side. “Listen, you might fall for that shit, but I know a lot more about women than you do. Elisa the saint spent Sunday night fucking some lucky bastard. And tonight she’ll come home all apologetic.”
Angelo turned his back on me and left the room.
“Go fuck yourself, Angelo Dioguardi!” I shouted after him.
Capuzzo looked on, appalled.
“She’s an adult, Capuzzo, and the law is clear. We can’t do anything until there’s an official report. Yesterday the concierge told us she saw Elisa after five, just before Angelo and I arrived. Even if she punched out at six thirty, let’s say she disappeared at five. Get a photo from her mother. It should be easy to find a good one. Just don’t get a photo of Elisa in a bathing suit or we’ll have thousands of reports from perverts. Her face is unforgettable all by itself.”
I carefully avoided mentioning that I’d spoken to her on the phone myself around five o’clock, a few minutes before Angelo came to pick me up at the station.
Capuzzo took notes. “Captain, what should I tell her parents and that priest?”
“Tell them that these are the procedures and it’s a free country and not a Church state. And tell them to get off my back.”
I left without saying good-bye. I was angry with Angelo and irritated with Cardinal Alessandrini.
Next to the fountain was the skinny kid with the glasses I’d seen with Elisa from Angelo’s office window. He looked lost.
“Where are you going?” I barked.
He gave a half jump from fear and I saw the small gold crucifix swaying around his neck.
“Who are you?” he asked nervously, adjusting the glasses on his nose.
Of course, the right and proper thing. I showed him my badge and he became even more nervous.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To see a friend of mine, but I’m not sure if she’s there.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Elisa Sordi. She works in the office on the third floor of Building B.”
“Did she watch the game with you last night?”
He turned pale.
“With me? No, I was at home with my parents.”
“You didn’t see Elisa yesterday?”
He thought for a minute.
&nb
sp; “Yes, just for a moment right after lunch. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because Elisa never went home after work yesterday.”
“Oh my God,” he muttered.
“Was that unusual for her?”
He hesitated. Finally, he spoke.
“Yes, it is unusual, because—”
“Because she’s not like that, I know. Is she your girlfriend?”
He stepped back and blushed, running a hand through his smooth, fair hair, and adjusted the glasses again.
“No, no. We’re friends, close friends, but—”
“And what’s your name?”
“Valerio. Valerio Bona.”
“All right, Mr. Bona. Elisa’s not here. Go home. I’m sure you’ll see her tomorrow.”
I was angry, but I didn’t want the whole day to be ruined. On the way back to Paola’s I bought a copy of the Gazzetta dello Sport. I wanted to read another take on our triumph. When I got back I was covered in sweat from walking in the sun. In the apartment the air conditioning was on and Cristiana was waiting for me on the bed, wearing only her underwear. She was on the phone.
There was little else to discover about her after that night, and I wanted to read the paper. But I noticed she was on the phone with her fiancé in Milan.
I pulled off her underwear while she was promising caresses to her fancy man.
. . . .
Cristiana woke me later in the afternoon.
“There’s someone called Capuzzo on the phone for you.”
What a pain in the ass work is.
“Capuzzo, what the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Captain. I took the liberty of calling you there.”
“It’s all right, Capuzzo. What’s up?”
“She hasn’t come home.”
I checked the time. A quarter to six.
“Okay, let’s put out a bulletin.”
“Already done, Captain. That priest—the cardinal—came by at five. He made some phone calls, and Chief Teodori is here.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Rapid response team, section three,” Capuzzo said in a funereal voice. “He told me to track you down right away.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 5
