‘At any rate, this man had the satisfaction of not only making me pay him an acceptable sum—oh, I could see in his eyes that he knew I was still cheating—but also of seeing his bitter words become fact. My wife had returned and heard our raised voices. She had come out to look for me and had heard everything. My marriage ended that night. It was June 13th, my birthday. That’s why she came back early. She didn’t want me to dine alone on my birthday.
‘If Umberto ever decides that you have need of this tape you will become the third person in this world to know the truth about me. Umberto always knew, your mother I told. She would have loved me with all the strength, all the fierceness of her generous spirit, no matter what I did. I think only women are capable of that kind of love and few even of them.’
Jacob reached out and unseen hands helped him to place the framed painting on his knees.
‘This painting, Sara, is yours. Umberto tells me that we must now take a Polaroid photograph of it and me and today’s newspaper, just like a kidnap victim. I suppose your painting is a kidnap victim. He also tells me that this has no validity in a court of law. It can only help protect you from any accusation of making a false claim. Umberto believes that I am doing it to ease my own conscience, that I should tell my son the truth now. I hope he is wrong in saying that my belief that Kista will do the right thing is an imaginative product of my cowardice. I think he will give you your painting when he receives my request after I’m dead. There is more of his mother in him than of me. I have no right to ask for your indulgence, Sara, but I must. The letter which my son will receive will tell him about Ruth, about you, and about the Monet. Unless you have need of this video, no one on this earth other than Umberto will ever know how I got the fortune which qualified me to marry into my wife’s greater one. No one other than my … victims. We did everything possible to prevent Kista from knowing about our broken marriage. My wife always behaved impeccably. Her manners never failed her. Oh, Kista may have felt something of the truth, he must have, but he never saw any manifestation of it. The rest … my past is something I must protect him from. His mother suffered from it all her life. I feel it as some hereditary disease that I don’t want my son to inherit. Sometimes he looks at me in a certain way, asks a question, and I think he suspects me, but he never insists. I know he doesn’t love me. He belongs in her world and sees me as a stranger. I don’t talk to him. What could I possibly say? I’ve heard it said that the degree of civilisation can be measured by the distance man puts between himself and his excrement. I believe that in the world’s terms it is the distance between a rich man and the source of his wealth. A few generations and any stink will fade away.
‘I hope that if you ever find it necessary to know this story, you will have something of your mother’s strength and compassion, not for my sake but for your brother’s. Try to love him. Loneliness is terrible … Loneliness …’
He sipped a little water. The hand that held the glass shook. A faint voice again off camera. Jacob shook his head and turned away. The screen went blank.
They waited but there was nothing more and the prosecutor pressed the rewind button. ‘And he says he never let Sara see this?’
‘No. When she went to him for help he told her what was on it but only the bit that concerned her—Jacob’s admitting paternity—and her painting. He suggested she just tell her brother it existed.’
‘So precipitating her death. Does he realise that?’
‘Yes. Of course. But he said if he’d shown her the film the result would have been the same.’
‘Not easily moved from his purpose, Umberto D’Ancona. Yet you think it’s worth my talking to him?’
‘Definitely, yes. It’s not that I think you’ll change his mind. What his organisation is doing is too important to risk and, as he says, it’s too late to help Sara.’
‘And have they succeeded in helping others?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite a few. He told me about one French couple living out their last years in dire poverty and the woman suffering from cancer. One of their paintings that had been stolen by the SS was spotted by a member of the organisation in an exhibition in Paris. Of course, I’m talking about stolen paintings now, different from Jacob’s thing, but it’s still quite a business to get them back, especially if they’ve changed hands a few times, and the last buyer loses out.’
‘Hm. They must have known of the dubious provenance.’
‘It’s still not easy.’
‘No. And D’Ancona’s right, of course. If Jacob Roth’s story gets splashed all over the papers—not just his ill-gotten gains, but Ruth’s story and poor Sara’s death—it will get a lot harder. A gift to the racists: “They rip each other off and we’re supposed to do the right thing.” He’s not going to change his mind for me, Guarnaccia.’
‘If you could just talk to him. There must be a way. You would think of something between you.’
‘Well, I’ll give it a try.’
‘Yes. We have to find the brother and find out where Rinaldi fits in and …’
‘And?’
‘There’s something more.’
‘You keep saying that. But surely, you already know from D’Ancona that Sara, infuriated by the way she’d been led on and wasted her life, was claiming more from Jacob’s estate than just her painting. I’d say her mother had a lot to answer for myself, but, in any case, you’ve shown me the dates and it all fits. The business of Sara’s needing psychiatric help after her mother’s death but not immediately after. That odd gap. It was the death of Jacob’s wife a few months later that did it. She thought she’d get her painting but Jacob held off, didn’t want his son to know. And then her more recent relapse. That was Jacob’s death. She inherited a brother and still no painting. She contacted him, she was seeing him. She wanted money; he, presumably, wanted her off his property. I agree that we need to find the brother, I agree that Rinaldi’s interest needs clarifying but that said, what’s happened has happened. The lawyer’s right when he points out that as nothing can save Sara now, the problem’s a judicial one. We want a conviction for the attack on her. The rest is history.’
‘Yes, of course. You’re right. I’m not competent to … So, you’ll go and see him.’
‘I’ll go. And I’ll see to it that in the meantime, a close eye is kept on Rinaldi. If we leave him in peace long enough, put it about that our case is sewn up with the arrest of the two porters—I’m going to let them out on bail—he’ll get careless and use his regular phone. He’ll probably even get together with them after a while. Why not? They work for him. People always get careless, fall into old habits. It’s to our advantage that he thinks he can laugh in our faces, as your man Lorenzini said.’ He got up and pressed the eject button. ‘I’ll have this copied and take it back to him.’
The marshal stood and picked up his hat. ‘What do you want me to do next?’
‘I don’t know but I know what I’m going to do next: get back into my own shambles of an office and smoke a cigar. Better switch this thing off … Right, let’s go.’
Out in the corridor he took a look at the marshal’s face and said, ‘Take a break from this business. There’s not much you can do right now. Have you much else on at the moment?’
‘No…’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘No, no … It’s just a case I was involved in, not my case at all really but—’
‘Come in and sit down a minute.’
Hadn’t the marshal said it himself, on hearing that Sara Hirsch had talked about him to D’Ancona as a trusted friend, someone she’d confided in when really she hadn’t? You only realise when it’s too late that if you’d trusted someone they would have helped you. He sat with his hands planted on his knees, staring dumbly at the prosecutor, struggling with the idea of taking a bit of his own advice.
The prosecutor was determined to find an ashtray.
‘It may look untidy but I know exacdy where everything is as long as nobody moves an
ything … Ah!’ He lit the tiny cigar and leaned back, contented. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you about, now I think of it. I was talking to Maestrangelo about arrangements for the surveillance of Rinaldi this morning, very early this morning—does he ever go home or—never mind. Anyway, he mentioned you. He seemed a bit concerned about you. That’s why I asked you if you had much else on at the moment. He was telling me about this latest Albanian affair, the young girl on the motorway. You were there?’
‘Yes, I was there. And if I’d …’
‘How is she?’
‘They had to operate twice. Now they’ve moved her to a place where they can teach her to walk but it’s not going so well. She cries a lot for her mother.’
‘I’m afraid her mother won’t be crying for her, or if she is, she won’t be looking for her. But they’ll get her on her feet again, you’ll see, and when they do—I think I told you when we met that I used to be a children’s judge?’
‘Yes.’ The marshal’s sad face brightened. ‘Is there something you can do to help?’
‘There is, yes. A good friend of mine—a very old friend, we were at elementary school together—runs a little home for children in distress out in the country. In my days as a children’s judge I often had need of him. You know the sort of thing. A man murders his wife, he gets put away, and the children are orphaned of both parents. A lot of cases of children battered or sexually abused within the family, children stolen from God knows what country, escaped from their Gypsy captors and a life of begging and being beaten, all the usual things. They have about fourteen children there now. It’s the first peace most of them have ever known. They go to school, do their homework together round a big table by a log fire, eat to their hearts’ content, help feed the hens and rabbits, play. Have you ever seen children who’ve never played, Marshal?’
‘I think Enkeleda might be one of them. She probably knows how to feed hens and rabbits, though. She’s not a child, really, but the brain injury’s left her with a mental age of about five.’
‘I think she’ll do all right with other children around. It’s a lovely place, high up in the hills so it’s cooler there. The only trouble is that, though it’s healthy, it’s a bit isolated and these are children who are already afraid of the outside world. It’s good for them to have a variety of visitors, to learn a bit about life in the safety of their refuge. I go up there as often as I can. I suggest you and I pay them a visit one day, have lunch with the children. Wear your uniform and talk to them a bit about your job. Introduce Enkeleda to them.’
‘Introduce her?’
‘That’s right. I’ll have a word with the hospital social worker about it and we’ll take her with us. Make sure she understands in a few simple words that if she learns to walk she can go and live there. She’ll learn all the faster for it, you’ll see. I’ll give them a ring and we’ll organise it as soon as possible. In the meantime, take a break from the Hirsch case until you hear from me that there’s some development. I think I’ll ring our friend Rinaldi up for a cheery, even apologetic chat. It occurs to me that I might remember now where we met at dinner.’
‘You do?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m sure we never met at all, but if I choose a suitably illustrious name, titled, of course, he’ll be quite happy.’
‘Yes.’
‘A little baroque curlicue. I’m learning from you.’
‘Me?’
‘Not as impressive as your off-the-cuff one about D’Ancona’s name.’
‘I’d have done better to ask Sara Hirsch his name, along with a few other things. I’d better go.’
‘Take that break, Guarnaccia.’
He took a break. That is, he did nothing useful as far as the Hirsch case was concerned, which, in his opinion, was what he’d been doing all along. Not much of a break. He did come to the surface of life sufficiently to have a row with Teresa about Giovanni.
‘Salva, you can’t force children to do what they don’t want to do.’
‘Did I say anything about forcing him? I’m just saying we could have discussed it, that’s all I’m saying!’
‘Discussed it? Discussedit? I’ve been trying to get you to discuss it for the last month but I might as well have talked to the wall. I’ve been telling you about it day after day but the spoken word means nothing to you. You haven’t heard a thing I said, have you? Well, have you?’
‘Of course I have …’ Out of the fog some sentences emerged, sentences he’d responded to with a grunt or a hug, according to mood. That night … that dreadful night after the motorway … he’d been so desperately grateful to her for talking to him long and quiedy about the boys, soothing him until he fell asleep. Those floppy little limbs, a poor dead rabbit … but the prosecutor—
‘Salva, for God’s sake! You’re not even listening to me now! If you can’t be bothered to take an interest, then all right, but don’t start giving orders when the war’s over.’
‘War? Orders?’
‘You spend all day ordering those poor lads around and then you come home and start—’
‘Poor lads? What do you mean “poor lads"?’
‘Living in a barracks away from their families. And some of them not much older than Giovanni. I don’t suppose you ever listen to them any more than you listen to your own children.’
‘They’re not in the army to be listened to!’
‘Just as well. Do you want coffee?’
‘Yes, but what do you mean “the war’s over"?’
‘I mean he’s already made his choice. He’s signed up for the Technical Institute.’
‘But that means …’ He knew by now he was on thin ice and prudence prevailed. ‘He’d already decided at the end of the school year, before we went on holiday.’ Said in a way that he hoped might sound somewhere between a question and a statement—in case she’d told him at the time. She had. He submitted to the ensuing tirade.
He was upset. He had left school at fourteen himself and he’d been looking forward to having his sons at the high school. The last he’d heard, or so he’d imagined, was that Giovanni was to go to the School of Science. The thought had given him enormous satisfaction.
‘He said he was sure.’
‘Well, he’s changed his mind. At his age—’
‘No, he hasn’t changed his mind. Toto’s changed his mind for him, preparing the way for himself! It’s all the fault of that blasted computer!’
‘You’re the one who wants Giovanni to join the carabinieri.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘These days they need modern skills, Salva. I bet you’re the only person in your station who can’t use the computer.’
‘Well, I’m not. Lorenzini’s fifteen years younger than me and he can’t, either.’ Lorenzini would have been surprised to hear this but Teresa didn’t know any different and he clung to his traditional ally. ‘Besides, Toto will have enough trouble getting through his national service, never mind joining up professionally, so he hasn’t any excuse for not going to a good school just so he can type theft reports into a computer.’
‘The Technical Institute is a good school and Toto wants to design software. I told you.’
‘What does that mean—don’t tell me! I don’t want to hear any more about it!’
His heart was pounding. He could hear it in his head. Teresa got up from the kitchen table where they were having their coffee.
‘Where are you going?’
She came round to him and drew his head close. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you, Salva? Why are you so upset?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to swallow down the pounding that made it hard to breathe. T don’t know what’s wrong with me and I don’t know how you put up with me. I’m useless. I should have helped you with this weeks ago, not now. It’s too late now. I’m too slow. My mother always said I was and she was right.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? You always do.’
/>
‘Well, then. There’s no call for you to be saying it, is there?’ She held his head and looked down into his big, mournful eyes. ‘What is it, Salva? It’s not just the schools. You’re really upset about something else, aren’t you?’
‘Just about being slow. What else is going to blow up in my face because I wasn’t listening …’
As long as she kept hold of him and he could feel the vibrations of her voice it was all right. But the rest of the time he felt the cold fat toad still squatting in his stomach and he couldn’t dislodge that feeling of apprehension.
Still, days passed and nothing happened. He listened with dogged attention to all the usual people with all the usual problems. Some of them were quite taken aback by the interest their lost passports, stolen mopeds, broken car windows provoked.
‘You’re not thinking it’s connected with some bigger crime or something, are you?’
‘No, no …’
With August came the first big exodus from the city. The evening news showed mile-long queues for the ferries to Elba, Sardinia, Sicily. The local news announced the death from a stroke of Sir Christopher Wrothesly.
‘Sir Christopher had been ill for some time,’ the announcer intoned.
Poor sad man. Still, it was one thing less to worry about. After all, if there should be a big robbery up there now, Sir Christopher wouldn’t suffer from it.
The temperature in the city was 102 degrees. At the airport, the hottest place of all, it was 105.
More warnings were issued about going out during the middle of the day. The pollution alerts that had been flashing almost daily on the avenues went dark as the resident population deserted the city. Storms exploded in the north and south of the country but Florence lay in an unbroken breathless torpor, broiling the tourists so that they got tireder and hotter and more forgetful of their cameras and handbags. The marshal’s office filled daily.
At last, after a few false alarms, the first August storm broke, plunging the city into afternoon darkness and washing it clean. Terra cotta roof tiles were soaked, white and green marble was refreshed, gilding glittered in the pink evening sunlight.
Some Bitter Taste Page 18
