by Grace Brophy
“I want something from you and I’m willing to give something in return. But if I don’t get my something, Paola Casati’s statement goes to the papers along with my statement implicating your son in Minelli’s murder. I’m not naive enough to believe that the son of the Minister of the Interior will actually be charged with a crime, but I’m absolutely certain that the political furor will shake the PM’s coalition to its very shaky foundations.”
She responded without a flicker of emotion. “Put it on the table, Dottore. Let’s see what we’re fighting over. That is, if we’re fighting over anything.”
He said, “Someone close to the PM is applying pressure, daily, on the questore. I’ve been told twice already to arrest the woman who found the body, a Croatian, for Minelli’s murder.”
“So why don’t you arrest her, Dottore? Don’t tell me all this fuss is over a straniera. Is she perhaps very beautiful?” she asked, her eyes locked to his, a slight twist to her full mouth. She’s mocking me, he thought.
“She’s innocent, and I want the pressure off, today. I also want a name. Who’s applying the pressure!”
“Two somethings, Dottore! You said one! Do I get two in return?” she asked, her tone bordering on the flirtatious.
He pulled a folded white paper from his jacket pocket. “Paola Casati’s statement, the only copy in existence!” She leaned forward as though to take it, and he drew back.
“It would seem, Dottor Cenni, that you’re quite comfortable in your present position, with no ambitions to move on. I find that regrettable. You seem to have some remarkable gifts.” She smiled. “I’ll give you your beautiful Croatian, Dottore. Don’t look for anything more,” she added, extending her hand for the paper.
Cenni still held back. He wanted to know where the pressure was coming from. If from Giorgio Zangarelli, it was one more proof of Russo’s guilt. Two years ago, Zangarelli, then an active member of the PM’s coalition, had tried to take Isotta Montoni out in a violent disagreement over immigration quotas. Zangarelli used cheap immigrant labor in his fish-packing business, mainly Albanians who came into Italy through Brindisi. Montoni had won and the Albanian quota was cut, but even in victory she was not one to forgive. If the pressure were coming from Zangarelli, she’d give him up readily.
“Two somethings? I think that’s doable for someone I like, Dottore. The paper, please.”
30
UNTIL RIMINI, ALEX had planned to eat a solitary meal later that evening at La Cantina, where he ate his dinner three or four times a week. It was a trattoria of no account, a local food critic had written, but he liked the food and the prices. Scratch that, he decided, on the drive back. It was the first time in six days that he could stop worrying about Sophie Orlic. He needed an outlet for his relief.
Isotta Montoni had left him alone in her sitting room for ten minutes while she’d gone to make a telephone call. In the end, she came through with exactly what he wanted. The pressure would be removed and, as a bonus, Georgio Zangarelli’s name was printed in childlike letters on a scrap of paper. “I hope she’s worth it, Dottore, your beautiful Croatian. You shot yourself in the foot today. But not to worry. Georgio may not like you, but I do.”
When he was leaving, she shooed away the maid and helped him with his overcoat, brushing against him seductively. He could feel the pressure of her knee against the back of his and he blushed like a schoolboy. She laughed when she saw his confusion. “I never let politics interfere with my pleasures, Dottore. Call my office the next time you’re in Rome,” she said and slipped her card into his breast pocket. No chance of that, he thought as he exited the super strata at Gubbio, but he had figured out on the return trip what it was that he needed.
It seemed to him most of the time that everything in Italy is illegal. Fines are imposed for putting doors in places where windows had been, for putting windows in places where doors had been, and for anything else nonsensical that the legislators could legislate. Unlike the laws on windows and doors, however, which shone clear in the cold light of day, the laws on prostitution were nebulous, perhaps because it was chiefly a nighttime activity. Even the commissario, who was now in his sixteenth year as a police officer and a graduate of the finest law school in Italy, had trouble distinguishing between what was and what was not legal. For Sonila, the woman in Gubbio that he was on his way to visit, it was crystal clear. “What I do in my place is my business, and what I charge in my place is my business.” Cenni tended to agree. He’d been visiting Sonila for fifteen years, beginning the year after Chiara had been kidnapped. They were close in age, although Sonila might be a few years older. Not that she admitted to it. In her record book, she had lost a few years in their time together while Cenni had found a few.
Five years ago, at about the same time that he’d visited Sandro, his Freudian friend, he’d had long discussions with himself about his reluctance to accept the loss of Chiara, to marry and have children, to stop visiting Sonila. This internal debate had raged on for six months. In the end, he’d even told Sonila about it. She’d stopped the debate in its tracks. “Caro, when the time comes you’ll know.” He was beginning to wonder if the time had come. Four nights in a row, he’d had the same nightmare. A young woman, always with flaxen hair, turns into a crying, terrified child. He and the child are pursued by an unknown enemy, whose faces he cannot see and whose footsteps are always gaining on him. Last night he’d awoken twice in a cold sweat; twice he’d tried to drop the child to save himself and both times he had failed. She had wrapped her legs so tightly around his torso that he couldn’t let go.
Daytime was not much better. He was fixated on Sophie Orlic. He had just risked his job to blackmail a minister of state, and he was not sure of his motive. Was he fighting to save Sophie because she was innocent or was he bewitched by her blonde beauty, by her resemblance to Chiara? The similarities were outward only, not even that. Sophie, at thirty-seven, was far more beautiful than Chiara had been at twenty, but the Croatian’s beauty was a frozen dead thing and her temperament was brooding and contemptuous; she was detached from everything and everyone around her.
She was nothing like Chiara, who had loved to laugh, or like Sergeant Antolini for that matter. The sergeant had a dazzling smile. Renato had once accused him of being contrary. “You always take the opposing view purely for the pleasure of disagreement,” his brother had yelled in frustration during one of their heated discussions on football. What if Renato were on to something? With the exception of Elena and Sergeant Antolini, everyone else concerned in the case was convinced that Sophie was the murderer. Sonila has a Freudian bent; she’ll sort me out, Cenni decided. Besides he needed her tonight. He was horny.
Book Six
* * *
Things are what they are.
* * *
1
THREE TIMES IN five minutes tourists looking up at the message boards rather than in front of them had collided with the commissario and then excused themselves in languages other than Italian. Sorry mate, perdone, oops (the last was not even an apology). The coffee at the station bar was barely drinkable. He had two short ones after getting off the train. And the cornetti would shame even an Irishman, or was it an Englishman? Both, he decided. He had two cornetti as well. And yet, Rome Termini was still one of the more exciting, exasperating, and Italian of places to be in the capital—a bit like Naples, he often thought, but with a purpose.
Zangarelli’s secretary had given him an appointment for eleven when he had called the previous evening. L’onorevole is having breakfast with the Prime Minister, she had told him, showing off. It sounded like l’onorevole was coming back into his own, which was hardly good news. Isotta Montoni, Cenni’s other l’onorevole, had been quite specific that Giorgio Zan-garelli was his nemesis in Rome. Cenni was way out of line coming to see the man, but he had a policeman’s hunch. His grandmother’s drunken evening with Grazia Russo had yielded more than just misinformation about Fulvio’s whereabouts on Good Friday. The bottle of
Brunello Reserve that the two women had shared led to secrets being exchanged, marital secrets in Grazia’s case. Giorgio hates Fulvio, she’d had told Hanna. Every time we’re alone together, he yells at me to get a divorce. So if Giorgio hates Fulvio, why is Giorgio making my life a hell by pulling strings for Fulvio? One way to find out, Cenni decided. Ask Giorgio.
At precisely one minute to 11:00 l’onorevole’s secretary escorted the commissario into the great man’s office. “He’ll be with you shortly,” she said, and left him to look around at the oak-paneled walls and elaborately carved ceiling moldings with some irony. Democracy is a wonderful thing, he thought. We should try it some time. His own office, with matching wooden desk and chair and an antique file cabinet (no separators though), was considered something of a perk by his colleagues, but it paled in comparison to what was considered appropriate for a member of parliament. The paintings and sculpture and Persian rugs were no doubt personal items—one of the paintings was an early de Chirico—but the highly polished marble floors were the same in all the offices he had passed. That his entire detective squad would fit comfortably in Zangarelli’s inner office was just too irritating for comment, Cenni decided.
“Do you like abstract art, Dottore?” a voice asked, startling Cenni, who had just slipped on his glasses (for reading only) to check the signature on a painting of red, green, and yellow swirls (or was it blue?) that was hanging next to the de Chirico.
“This one, not particularly,” Cenni responded, turning around to greet his interlocutor. “But mostly, yes, I do.”
“I agree with you about that one—childish. I’m trading it and one other for a Jackson Pollack,” Zangarelli replied with a generous smile. He walked over to Cenni to shake hands, and the two of them stood together for a quiet moment, observing the interlocking swirls.
Cenni had heard Il Lupino speak of his brother-in-law more times than he cared to remember, but he’d never met him in person. He had always imagined him as a smarmy, menacing type, laced in gold jewelry. Seeing Zangarelli for the first time today, Cenni realized that he had prejudged the man, but he had some excuse: any brother-in-law of Il Lupino’s, etc., etc.
The senator was in his mid-forties, of medium height and slight build, had dark olive skin, intense green eyes, a full mouth, straight nose, and by most standards of pulchritude (Italy set the gold standard), he was quite good looking. He was dressed impeccably in a business suit and displayed no flourishes of gold, not even on his wrist, which sported a leather watchband. Equally surprising, his speech had none of the Calabrian slide of r’s and t’s. In fact, he had no discernible regional accent whatsoever. The Zangarelli fortune had been accumulating for two generations now, but it generally took more than two generations to mold an Italian gentleman. L’onorevole was a fast learner.
“Dottor Cenni, you neglected to give my secretary a reason for this meeting, other than saying it’s highly confidential. I agreed to see you because of my sister. Grazia tells me you have a very nice grandmother.” He smiled graciously.
Their meeting was brief, under thirty minutes, with only a few of them focused on the Minelli case. Cenni put out a few feelers with no response from Zangarelli. The remainder of the meeting was devoted to Fulvio. Zangarelli had turned into a human Vesuvius, spewing out epithets in Calabrian that left nothing to the imagination, even to an uninitiated Umbrian. Cenni left the Piazza Madama very sure that Zangarelli was not acting on Fulvio’s behalf. He’d actually found himself apologizing to Zangarelli for his part in Fulvio’s reassignment to peaceful Assisi, and not to some remote and dangerous out-post in Sardinia or Sicily.
“I’m insulted, Dottore,” Zangarelli had snapped. “You thought I’d let a fool like Fulvio represent me in a scheme to buy up half of Umbria. I kept quiet for Grazia’s sake; she loves the bastard.” He grinned outrageously before his next comment. “It’s difficult to arrange an accident in Assisi and have it look natural.”
Alex had more than an hour to kill before his train left for Chiusi, and he walked slowly through the twisting narrow streets of Rome, stopping twice for a coffee to help him think. Zangarelli had listened politely to him and he to Zangarelli, but neither of them had revealed much beyond their absolute contempt for Fulvio until just as he was leaving. “Dottore, your family’s well established in Umbrian society, at least that’s what Grazia tells me. Don’t you people stick together? Signora Casati . . . Artemisia; it’s a damned shame what you . . . what the police have put her through this week, and all because of a straniera. What are you going to do about it?” And then. “Surprising, isn’t it, that she’s still unmarried, a woman like that? So beautiful and the daughter of a count—a real catch!”
Cenni didn’t say anything in defense of the police, just shrugged. Yes, he thought—a real catch!
2
“BUGGER ALL! HOW MANY times do I have to tell you? No calls, particularly from my wife.” Fulvio Russo’s high-pitched voice came screeching across the transom into the interrogation room where Sergeant Antolini was hiding out, pretending to file.
Why does she put up with him? Genine wondered. With her money she could have him whacked. Cheaper than divorce! And then she grinned, remembering Grazia’s brother. Wouldn’t even cost.
Ever since finding his cashmere scarf in the dumpster, Genine had been paying close attention to Il Lupino, hoping he’d screw up again, say or do something incriminating that she could pass on to Alex. She had certainly noticed a difference in his temper in the last few days and in his habits. Everyone had, particularly after the countess had killed herself. He never left his office now; it was close to 5:00, and yesterday and today he had been impossible, driving Lucille to tears three times. He was at it again.
Worse, all of a sudden he was her best buddy, stopping by her desk umpteen times to ask her umpteen questions about the Minelli investigation. Did Cenni have any new clues? Had Cenni given her a copy of the forensics report? What specifically did Cenni have her working on? Cenni, Cenni, Cenni! And always at the end, why hasn’t Cenni arrested the Croatian? And today, out of the blue, “I hear Cenni has another suspect— a priest, the father of Minelli’s child. What’s that about?”
“What new suspect?” she’d replied. How did he know about the priest? Piero had sworn her to secrecy; the stuff in Minelli’s diaries was strictly need to know, on Alex’s orders. For self-protection, she was now hiding out in the interrogation room. It was next to his office but he never came near it: too close to the women’s toilet, which on most days smelled of sewer gas— something to do with a faulty return the janitor said. Funny enough, the men’s toilet smelled fine.
She heard his office phone ring again. He picked it up after three rings with his usual impatience, his tone loud and aggressive, but his voice dropped a few notches almost immediately. She strained to hear but all she caught at the end were a few muffled words. Call back and some random numbers.
She looked across the room at the transom, which was wide open. Why not? Slipping off her shoes, she carried her chair over to the connecting door and climbed up. Just in time too, as his telefonino rang almost immediately. He spoke softly so she couldn’t hear everything, but she heard enough. “Si, ho capito . . . the cemetery.”
And then, loud and clear, “At seven—I’ll be there!”
3
THE ONLY MIRROR in her tiny apartment was an ugly unframed piece of glass indiscriminately covered with black spots where the silver lining had worn off. Sophie generally kept it turned to the wall, having no use for it. She wore no makeup, not even lipstick and on most mornings she combed her hair by rote. It was strange that she cared so little now about how she looked. She had once been quite vain. Her grandmother, who knew much of Shakespeare by heart, had often quoted Lear’s fool to Sophie when she’d catch her only grandchild preening in front of the mirror, “There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass,” her grandmother would say, and then nullify the effect of her scolding, by hugging and kissing her beautifu
l Sophie. Before she was five years old, even before she began school, Sophie knew that she was beautiful. Friends of her grandfather who visited the house would slip her a few coins, for sweets they said, and then ask for a kiss in reward. She would stand on tiptoe, put her arms around their necks, and kiss them on their cheeks, even the ones who came direct from the fields smelling of sweat. She liked the power that she had over them. She also liked the chocolates that she would buy with their coins.
Sergio had liked her vanity. He was pleased when other men admired his wife. Even at the very beginning of their marriage, when there was little for extras, there was always money for a strapless evening dress or a pair of dangling earrings. She always knew when men desired her, and in Baranj she had applied her makeup with care whenever she had visited the pharmacy, where she would flirt with Visnar, a harmless diversion. Once he had tried to kiss her, and she had laughed and pushed him away.
Sophie wished that her grandmother had quoted the poet who’d said Vanity is a snare. Visnar had raped Christina and then killed Sergio, the two people she loved most in the world. Once the knowledge that she was admired had excited her, but that was in another lifetime. Two years ago, when she was caretaker for Anna Casati, the count had tried to kiss her in his mother’s bathroom. She had been washing out a pair of his mother’s soiled panties. He had apologized afterward, after she had pushed him away. That same evening she had cut off her hair, “almost to the roots,” the countess had remarked in horror when she saw Sophie the next day. Even if the countess had played dumb, Sophie was sure that Artemisia knew why; she had been jealous of her for years. Whenever Sophie and the count were in the same room together, Artemisia would follow her father possessively with her eyes.
