Balistreri decided not to press him further. They were forecasting a night and weekend of warm temperatures. There wasn’t a breath of wind in the dark of San Valente’s garden. The children had gone to bed, the lights and the cries extinguished. Around the lamp fluttered a lazy moth.
He left Father Paul and that unbearable peace with the feeling of having entered the darkest of labyrinths.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Morning
VALERIO BONA HAD ALWAYS loved the sea in Ostia, where Romans went to the beach. His parents had taken him there every summer since he was little. It was there that he had met Elisa Sordi in 1981, when she was seventeen and he was eighteen, a recent high school graduate who had just enrolled in computer science at the university. He wore his hair long that summer, down to his shoulders, and they frequently took long walks by the sea together. Then autumn arrived. Elisa started her last year of high school, and he was starting his first year at the university. Things changed. For him, the friendship had turned to love, but not for her.
Balistreri called him at eight Saturday morning. Valerio was preparing his dinghy for a solo outing, just himself and the sea. It was a moment of peace, when memory mingled with the lapping of the waves on the hull and the whistle of the wind. But Balistreri wanted to see him right away, and Valerio felt obliged to wait for him.
The weekend traffic was very heavy. Balistreri preferred to take the Metro line. He stepped out onto the seafront surrounded by bathers off to the beaches. Valerio was waiting for him on his moped. “I’ve got a helmet for you as well. Let’s go to the harbor—we can talk in the boat.”
Ever since the summer of 1970 Balistreri had avoided going out in boats as much as possible. He realized, however, that this would be the best place to talk to Valerio Bona. Valerio hoisted mainsail and jib and chose a close-reach course that allowed a little coolness and a seat in the shade of the sails. In ten minutes they were out on the open sea and the sounds from the crowded beach had become faint.
The cockpit was plastered with photos of Valerio at different ages at the helm of various boats. The two odd ones were one of Pope John Paul II and one of Italy’s 2006 World Cup-winning team.
Valerio was relaxed at the helm. The gold crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck gleamed against his sunburned skin. He was completely at ease on the boat, as if he were inside a shell that still allowed him to control his surroundings. The insecure, awkward kid had been left on the shore.
Balistreri tried to relax, but the silence was broken by his worst memory. “So, here we are,” he said. He was lighting a new cigarette every five minutes. The iron-clad rules he had set for himself were starting to rust and crumble.
“When you came to San Valente the other day, Paul and I were sure it was about Elisa’s mother’s suicide,” Valerio said, looking out at the sea. “Instead it was about Alina Hagi. We were stunned.”
Valerio Bona was incapable of forgetting. Inventing a new life is a justifiable defense after a great tragedy, and he had tried: his degree, IBM, and a career. But something had pushed him back; something stopped him from going too far away.
While Paul had been a kid back then and in time had matured into an adult, in 1982 Valerio Bona was already an adult, so he could only grow old.
“Do you both think I don’t care about Elisa Sordi and her mother?” Balistreri asked.
Valerio seemed put off by Balistreri’s directness.
“No, no,” he murmured. “We were just surprised. But you’re here about Alina Hagi, I imagine.”
“And about her friend Anna Rossi and her boyfriend at the time.”
A long silence.
“We’re going to come about—watch out for the boom,” Valerio said at last.
After the maneuver, Balistreri found himself with the sun in his eyes.
“You introduced Francesco Ajello to the count, right?” he asked, shading his eyes from the sun.
“Yes, I introduced him to the count, who offered him a position as an intern with the law firm that looked after his properties, the same one where I worked on the first PCs.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Right here in Ostia, during a series of regattas for two-man crews in 420s. He came from a wealthy family, had the nicest boat, and was looking for a good helmsman. The sailing club put us in touch and we tried several outings. It turned out we made a good team. We won eight of the ten regattas and the title in the summer of 1981.”
“Why did you introduce him to the count?”
“Francesco was very smart and was studying for a law degree. He knew that the law firm that took care of the count’s business was looking for an intern, and he wanted the experience.”
“And after several months the Count introduced him to Cardinal Alessandrini?”
“Yes, the cardinal wanted a legal assistant to work for free on the orphanage’s paperwork. The count introduced him to Francesco, who was more than happy to lend a hand.”
“Generous of him.”
“A lot of people, including Paul, said he was just a social climber. The fact is, he was very smart.”
“And he had a girlfriend, Anna Rossi.”
Valerio thought for a moment. “Francesco was pretty casual with women. Yes, Anna Rossi was his steady girlfriend, but probably not the only one. He was a certain type.”
“Someone who tried to get every woman he met into bed? That type?”
“Only the attractive ones,” Valerio said, almost admiringly.
“Was Elisa Sordi one of the women he tried to get into bed?”
Valerio lost control of the boat for a second. The sails lost wind and began to flap. The boat turned and the sun was no longer in his eyes, and when he looked at Valerio Bona he saw the deeply lined face of an old man.
Valerio got control of the boat and himself. “Elisa was off-limits. And I don’t think she liked Francesco much.”
Returning to Rome on the train, surrounded again by beachgoers, Balistreri fell asleep. The sun, the wind, the sea, and too many cigarettes had taken their toll. In his dreams, he met Linda Nardi in a place where there were families all around them. He looked at her breasts, and the vertical crease appeared in the middle of her brow, and then Linda Nardi’s face was replaced by the sweet and childlike face of Elisa Sordi.
Afternoon
Balistreri was surprised that Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno agreed to see him right away. Either he didn’t bear a grudge or he was simply curious. Most likely the latter. For his part, Balistreri would happily have skipped the meeting altogether, but it was unavoidable. He remembered the incompatible feelings of respect and repulsion the count stirred in him. Moreover, the man was the living memory of his most egregious investigative failure.
When it became clear the investigation had become a shameful mess, the count had taken his leave of him, along with his boss Teodori, with the same icy contempt he had shown for them from the start. It was a contempt mixed with the commiseration that superior beings absentmindedly display to imbeciles. The humiliation that accompanied that contempt had haunted him for years.
The residential complex on Via della Camilluccia was even nicer than he remembered. The trees had grown taller; the two buildings had recently been repainted.
The wide green gate through which Elisa Sordi had exited for the last time a little before the 1982 World Cup final was covered in ivy, as were the concierge’s house and the gatehouse next to it.
Naturally, Gina Giansanti was no longer the concierge. Instead, the gate was manned by a young immigrant in uniform. It was hard to believe that this complex was located in the same city where Casilino 900 existed, the same city where Nadia’s broken body had been hauled up from the bottom of a well.
Before entering, Balistreri smoked a cigarette. He remembered the strict ban on smoking inside that gate.
“The count is waiting for you, Captain Balistreri. You can park by the fountain,” the young concierge informed him pleasantly
.
Democracy has made its way inside. The count must have softened in his old age.
The sun illuminated the twin penthouses: the count’s and the cardinal’s. Balistreri drove across the grounds, circled the fountain, and parked his old Fiat in a shady corner beside an Aston Martin—a later model than the one he remembered. Behind the swimming pool and tennis courts sat Building B. The blinds on all its windows were closed. Balistreri’s gaze fell on Elisa Sordi’s window, and he quickly looked away.
He entered the small elevator in the lobby of Building A and pressed the button for the penthouse. On the landing, the gloomy prints of ancient Rome had been replaced by fine photographs: bright-green highlands, a lake that looked as broad as a sea, a river that was almost white.
The count’s personal secretary, a young man wearing jeans and a Lacoste shirt, welcomed him. The residence that had always been dark, with its curtains drawn and the blinds pulled down, was now completely open to the sun. The heavy curtains were gone.
They crossed through two rooms. There was no trace of the black leather sofas and the disturbing tapestries—they had been replaced with modern furniture and mirrors.
The young man ushered him into a small air-conditioned sitting room furnished with two armchairs. The blinds were open.
“The count will be with you in a moment. May I offer you something to drink?”
Balistreri asked for coffee and sat down. He was breaking rules left and right, but decaffeinated coffee was no longer enough for him. The French doors looked onto a large terrace. A table shaded by a large umbrella sat outside with a computer on it.
“Captain Balistreri.”
He hadn’t heard the count come in. Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno stood straight as a ramrod. His smooth hair, combed straight back, was only slightly thinner and sparser than it had been. A few gray streaks broke up the black. A short, well-trimmed gray beard had replaced his goatee. His double-breasted blue suit was impeccable. The surroundings might have changed, but the man himself looked the same.
“Count.” Balistreri held out his hand, which the other man shook with the strong grip he remembered well.
“We’ll be undisturbed here. Do sit down.”
The count displayed not a bit of surprise, annoyance, or hostility. In front of him sat the man who, twenty-four years earlier, had unjustly accused his son of murder, causing his wife to kill herself. But nothing in his calm manner indicated that he was still chewing over the past. He was probably sick of thinking about it, though surely he was curious to know the reason for this visit.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I’m not as busy these days as I was back then, Captain Balistreri. Also, I hope the circumstances will be less unpleasant.”
“I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“Please, it’s not a problem. I’m a retired landowner. I keep a hand in things, but I’m officially retired. Also, I admit, I have something to ask you. The events of recent months interest me a great deal, although they don’t come as a total surprise.”
Balistreri decided to let that insinuation lie there, untouched.
“A war was about to break out between Romania and Italy,” the count said, seemingly amused by the thought.
“And all it took to avert it was a soccer victory,” Balistreri said.
The count nodded. “We live in a superficial world. This country’s values lie buried under the garbage the sanitation workers leave in the middle of the street when they go on strike.”
Things change around us, but not inside us.
“I know you haven’t been involved in politics for many years.”
The count smiled. He commanded the same respect as he always had, but not the same fear. He really did have the air of the retired landowner he claimed to be.
“After everything that happened in 1982, I gave up trying to bring back the monarchy to a country where no one would dream of being king. I was destined to fail, Balistreri.”
“I can’t believe you’re afraid of a fight, Count.”
“It was an unequal fight. The Christians were already democrats, the Communists have become democrats, and with the Vatican willing to turn a blind eye, everyone is democratically becoming wealthy. Too many challengers for an old aristocratic idealist.”
Balistreri began to feel uneasy. It was annoying to share even a part of this man’s ideas. Finding them in some way similar to his mother’s was unacceptable and revolting. It was on these occasions that Alberto, always the respectful one, was the rebel.
Don’t trust the Catholics. Theirs is a religion founded on resentment, bad conscience, and repentance. Don’t trust the morality of the weak. It only distances you from life’s joy.
The count was completely relaxed. He spoke as if they were old friends.
“I imagine you’re not here to discuss politics with me, Captain Balistreri. The suicide of that girl’s mother must have reopened a wound for you.”
Here he was after twenty-four years, a few days after Giovanna Sordi’s suicide. Father Paul, Valerio Bona, and now the count—how could they think he wanted talk about anything else?
“Actually, I’m here about another matter.”
The Count politely raised an eyebrow. “Something to do with your recent adventures?”
“To tell the truth, at this point I don’t know. Maybe.”
The man smiled. “I see that time has given you the wisdom to accept doubt. That’s one of the few advantages of growing older.”
“I have to reconstruct several links from the past that partly concern you.”
“Before you do that, Captain Balistreri, I’d like to understand how I can help you.”
“I’m a policeman, Count. I’m conducting a very confidential investigation.”
“But you know that I am a most confidential person. And I could help you better if I know what we are speaking about.”
Balistreri decided that, leaving aside ENT and the incised letters, he could risk it.
“I’m trying to track down a ghost,” he said.
“Interesting,” the count said. He pressed the button on a remote control. “This room has a smoke extractor. Smoke if it will help you think.”
The count enjoyed his astonishment. A little hesitantly, Balistreri lit a cigarette, nervously awaiting a reaction.
Instead, the count listened in silence to the summary of Nadia’s kidnapping and murder. Balistreri carefully avoided any mention of ENT and Colajacono’s possible involvement.
“It was Alina, the deceased wife of Marius Hagi, who led me back to the church of San Valente,” Balistreri explained.
The count was silent, his deep black eyes unreadable.
“Yes, I remember Alina Hagi. Cardinal Alessandrini introduced me to her one day together with her husband, Marius. Two very special young people, both blessed with great energy.”
Balistreri knew it would be useless to ask direct questions. He remained silent and enjoyed his cigarette.
“I’ll have my accountants check my records for you. I think I gave Marius Hagi some work, as I did with everyone, perhaps too readily.”
Balistreri shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It would be difficult to discuss Anna Rossi and Francesco Ajello without showing his cards.
“Do you happen to know whether Alina Hagi was particularly close to any of the volunteers?”
The count gave him another smile. “I never saw Hagi’s wife again. As you know, unlike Ulla, I kept far away from San Valente and Catholic circles. However, I imagine you’ve already questioned Father Paul and Valerio Bona in this matter.”
“Yes, I’ve spoken to them. And they mentioned a very close friend of Alina’s whose boyfriend was one of your employees.”
“What does that have to do with the death of this Nadia or with Marius Hagi?”
Balistreri said the only thing he could say. “We’re not convinced that Alina Hagi’s death was completely accidental. A few da
ys before she died, her friend noticed her arms were covered with bruises. We don’t know if Hagi was responsible, but if we find evidence of violence in Marius Hagi’s past, that would support the theory that he was a party to the crime that took place this Christmas.”
It was a logical explanation. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. The count mulled it over in silence, as if he were calling up a distant memory. Finally, he spoke.
“Captain Balistreri, if you’re not in a hurry I’d like to show you something before we continue this conversation. Now that the sun is setting we can go outside.”
The French windows that opened onto the terrace surrounded by tall plants were wide open, and the sun’s setting rays fell on the parquet flooring. Outside, Balistreri saw the parasol, the work table with the PC, and the powerful shoulders.
A tomb on which I put a lid that was wasn’t strong enough to last.
Hearing the sound of footsteps, Manfredi turned around. Balistreri turned into a pillar of salt. The disfigured youth was an adult with a normal face and calm demeanor. There was no angioma, no harelip, no swollen eyelid. His black hair had no need to hide anything. The plastic surgery had worked a miracle in aesthetics; the rest must have been worked by the medicine of the mind. Now Ulla’s angelic face could be clearly seen beside the aquiline nose and features of the count. The slender lines of the scars could just about be seen, but the surgeons had done an incredible job. His powerful muscular structure was the same as it was twenty-four years ago, now it was covered with a suntan that must have been natural. The ugly duckling had become a normal man, handsome even in the contrast between his father’s marked features and his mother’s delicateness.
Manfredi rose to come and meet them. He had grown a little in height and was taller than Balistreri by half a head. He held out his hand, and Balistreri shook it in silence.
“I’m glad to see you, Captain Balistreri.” His voice was quiet, soft and deep. He spoke soothingly, like a doctor with a good bedside manner. His eyes were bright and clear. His manner was unruffled, as if he were greeting an old acquaintance, not one of the pack of hounds that had once hunted him down.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 40
