Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  "Yes, most likely," comments Bianca.

  "You dared doing that, Bianca?" Anna exclaims, visibly awed. "But what happened between you and Professore Visconti?"

  "It’s too long a story. I don’t have time to tell you now, but it has to do with the kidnapping."

  "From the TV shots I saw of your rescuer, he is much better looking than Visconti, and then I guess you also feel grateful to him."

  "I don’t marry him because of that. No, I have never met a man who is more alive than he, and we got to know each other under the most trying circumstances."

  "To be honest, I never could understand your infatuation with Visconti. He isn’t even good in bed."

  Bianca laughs. "I don’t understand it either anymore. But how do you know he’s no good in bed?"

  "I had a bout with him last year. He promised me a good grade." She suddenly looks alarmed. "Bianca, you’re not mad at me, are you?"

  "No, I couldn’t care less."

  "But won’t it be awkward to sit in his class?" interjects Anna. "Aren’t you afraid he’ll fail you out of spite?"

  "It will be awkward, but probably more for him than for me. I already had a serious confrontation with him and I think I came out on top. Then, one never knows. He may suddenly disappear. In fact, I bank on that."

  "Do you know something?"

  "No, it is just that he lost face, and you know that’s the worst thing for an aristocrat, and I have this hunch, or what André calls a premonition. He had several during our escape and I’m certain that acting on them saved our lives."

  "So, when will we get to meet this hero of yours?" queries Angela.

  "I don’t know. He’s often a bit shy," Bianca replies laughing.

  "You must be kidding. Not from what I’ve seen on TV and in the papers."

  "When is the wedding?" Anna cuts in. "And what do your parents say?"

  "We’ll only have a civil ceremony, just with two witnesses, probably next week. Does that also answer the question about my parents?"

  "It does," says Angela grinning. "I guess they didn’t take kindly to your man burning that check. You know, it was one of the most amazing things to see that. And he did it with a smile. Look, there he comes." She points to Viale delle Scienze.

  Bianca turns and waves, her mind already elsewhere. "Ciao," she cries to her friends, as she runs off to meet him. He takes her into his arms as if they hadn’t seen each other for days, not just two hours.

  After returning to the pensione, they fill in the marriage application forms. At noon they have a luncheon appointment with Bianca’s paternal grandmother. On the way there, they pass by the Marriage Registry to hand in the forms.

  Her grandmother awaits them in the garden, pruning a rose.

  "Ah, here you are Bianca and you bring your fine fidanzato with you," the old woman exclaims, as she straightens herself stiffly and offers André her hand. He holds on to it and smiles at her, one of those open smiles that invite an equal response. She watches her grandmother’s face light up and her eyes sparkle. "I’m so glad to have the opportunity to make your acquaintance," she says.

  "Bianca told me much about you, but she did not tell me about your beautiful roses." He lets go of her hand and holds a nearby delicate white flower at its base, inhaling its aroma. Bianca is curious about what he is up to. There is this faint twinkle in his eyes.

  "Ville de Zurich, isn’t it?" he says, exhaling. "My mother’s favorite rose. It must be the first bloom of the season."

  "Yes, it is, young man, it is. It is my favorite also. You know about roses?" her grandmother responds enthusiastically.

  "Far less than I would like to." He reaches out to the adjacent bush, which has several pink blooms just on the verge of bursting open. "And this is a … how silly, its name is on the tip of my tongue."

  "First love," her grandmother chips in eagerly.

  "Yes, first love, the rose for my true love," he replies, giving Bianca one of his smiles.

  Now she cannot hold back her giggle any longer.

  "It has a rare delicate pink," her grandmother says, and then turns to her: "But, Bianca, this is remarkable. I never met a busy young man who knows about roses. You are so lucky."

  Bianca meets André’s gaze. He winks. He is up to one of his tricks. She almost explodes laughing and suppresses it at the last moment.

  Her grandmother now gives them a tour of the rose garden she is so proud of. There are, in fact, only another three bushes that have flowers already. It is also obvious that her grandmother is completely taken with André. Bianca has rarely seen her so animated, and it lasts beyond lunch.

  After enjoying coffee in the glass-covered pergola, her grandmother takes leave. "You must forgive an old lady. I’m no longer used to be so active for such a long time. But, Andrea, I thank you for coming. I have rarely enjoyed a visit as much as this one." Then she hugs Bianca and whispers into her ear: "He is such a delight. You are a very lucky girl."

  Driving back into the city center, Bianca says: "André, André, how could you play such a sly trick on this dear old woman. I bet that Ville de Zurich is the only rose you know by name, you miserable cheat."

  "She is a dear old lady with emphasis on dear. I like her very much, and you are right. It is the only rose I know by name."

  "Your mother’s favorite." She giggles.

  "Didn’t you see the rose bush outside the sunny corner of the cottage? It is a Ville de Zurich."

  "And the only rose your mother has."

  "Right, so it is a fair guess that it is her favorite, unless she bought it at a sale."

  "Oh, André, you are incorrigible, but you gained yourself a strong ally. She will let everybody know what a wonderful young man you are … and so knowledgeable about roses." She laughs.

  "Do you have any doubts that I am a wonderful young man?" he asks, winking. "Am I mistaken when I believe your grandmother whispered into your ear that you are a lucky girl?"

  "Oh, no, you are not, and on this I fully agree with her."

  "Good."

  * * *

  Bianca’s first lecture with Visconti is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. She deliberately times herself to be one of the last to enter the lecture room, so that she does not have to face the members of her tour party and answer more awkward questions. She takes a seat toward the back and waits with a degree of trepidation for Visconti’s appearance. She just hopes that he will have the good sense and courtesy not to single her out or make a reference to the kidnapping.

  As the big arm of the clock jumps to nine past the hour the low hum of voices fades. Everybody is waiting for his entrance. They know that he dislikes it if they are still talking when he enters. At ten past exactly, he comes through the door and strides to the podium. His face is haggard. He looks ten years older than what Bianca remembers.

  In contrast to other times, he does not greet the students. His eyes roam over them, coming to rest on her. She arms herself, taking strength from her earlier discussion with André on how to respond if he singles her out. He calls on Paolo to distribute the course outlines for the coming semester and then briefly summarizes the course requirements and, in particular, the assignment on the archaeological study tours to the South American sites. He asks if anybody has any questions on that. Nobody holds up a hand.

  "In this case, this is all for today. We will meet again on Friday afternoon." He now looks at Bianca. "Miss Pacelli, I ask you to come to my office so that we can discuss what special considerations we must make for your assignment."

  "Professore, I do not request any special considerations." Those students already standing sit again. "I will do the theoretical and historical aspects from sources in the literature, as everybody else, and the comparative part on my own observations for those sites that I visited and for Machu Picchu I shall use photographs and films taken by Signor Villier." She feels proud that she manages to state this without her voice trembling or faltering.

  "It is therefore even more imp
ortant that we discuss this in detail. I want you to come to my office after this class."

  "Professore, with all due respect, since I do not request any special considerations, there is nothing to discuss." It was André’s advice to stonewall by repeating statements several times if need be.

  "Miss Pacelli, you let me be the judge for that and, in particular, the admissibility of photographs and films taken by another individual."

  She is prepared for that line of argument and takes a deep breath. "Professore, if this is the case I ask that you discuss these aspects here in class. My fellow students have the right to know if and what special considerations are offered to me."

  "Miss Pacelli, I am astounded by your attitude toward your study advisor. I order you to come to my office henceforth."

  She suddenly knows that she has gained the upper hand. "Professore, your course outline does not specify that all students must have a one-on-one session with you to discuss their assignment. Therefore, it is my choice whether or not I seek such a one-on-one session, and I do not. All I ask is that my assignment be judged on its merits and without prejudice and on the same points as the assignments of all other class participants."

  His face turns red. For the first time that she can remember, he seems lost for words. His mouth remains half open, and then he catches himself. "As you wish, Miss Pacelli. I hope you will not come to regret your recalcitrance." With that, he picks up his case and strides out of the room without turning again.

  He is threatening me, as André predicted he would, but she also knows that he has no power. Given their previous relationship and the way it ended, she will have a good case to have his grade assessment reviewed by a third independent party, if need be.

  As she leaves the lecture room, several fellow students flock around her.

  "Wow, Bianca," exclaims Angela, "that took courage. Frankly, I would not have expected that from you. You really have changed."

  "Yes, I have. The experience in Colombia, rather than making me a mental wreck, has made me come out stronger."

  "But why did you not want to see Professore Visconti in his office and see what special consideration he was willing to offer you," questions Anna.

  "First, I don’t want to give him power over me by getting special considerations, and second, I don’t want to be alone with him ever again."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he claimed that the kidnapping has traumatized me and that I need psychiatric treatment to find myself again. I am perfectly sane, saner than I was before the trip."

  She excuses herself shortly afterward.

  * * *

  Thursday, while Bianca attends lectures, André completes writing up his personal story of the kidnapping and rescue. It starts with what he overheard in the bar and ends with handing the stolen money to the Bogotà Women’s Refuge Center. It tells about his falling in love with Bianca, but remains silent about the cocaine find in her handbag. It details the inferences he deducted from the various facts, in particular, that the instigator of the kidnapping had to be somebody close to Bianca at the time, who knew her schedule in detail. He does not name Visconti, leaving it up to the readers to draw their own conclusions from the fact that it was Visconti who had arranged all the details of her visit to San Agustin.

  Next he trims it down so that it will fit on two full-size newspaper pages, suitable for inclusion in a weekend issue. Finally, he carefully edits this version so that individual aspects cannot easily be misconstrued and so that it reads fluently. This is the version Bianca sees Friday morning. He encourages her to suggest changes.

  At noon, he transmits it electronically to a friend who is the editor of the news service he usually uses for his reports and stories. He warned him earlier that this was coming. By evening, he gets confirmation that the story and translations of it into French, English, German, and Spanish have been snapped up by sixteen major European and American dailies for their weekend editions, including three in Italy, Il Messaggero one of them.

  * * *

  Friday afternoon Bianca attends Visconti’s second lecture. She feels quietly confident that there will not be another confrontation with him. Again, as usual, the lecture room goes silent as the clock approaches ten past. Many eyes are turned toward the door, expecting Visconti to enter.

  The clock ticks on. Slowly, its big arm passes a quarter past. Several students begin conversing again, while others look around, perplexed. As far as everybody remembers, Professor Visconti has always been punctual to the second. Twenty past, half-past ticks away, still no Visconti. Paolo runs to the office of the Classics Department. He comes back a few minutes later. Nobody at the office knows why Visconti has been delayed. A group of students now leave the lecture room. Bianca joins them. Several ask if she knows something. She replies "no", but wonders whether the Gucci handbag finally arrived and the police swooped on him.

  When she is alone, she calls his home number on her cell phone. She considers that safe since she knows he does not have caller-display. A female voice answers: "Pronto 4-5-2-7-7-1-3-9."

  The number is correct, but the voice is unfamiliar. It is not his housekeeper. She asks: "May I speak to Professore Visconti?"

  "Professore Visconti is not available at this moment. Who is calling?"

  It sounds peremptory, like somebody used to being in charge, somebody official. Her heart starts beating faster. "A student of his, but I can call back another time. Goodbye." She cancels the call.

  How can I find out what has happened, she questions herself? He lives too far out to walk past his house. She would have to take the underground to Monti Tiburtini, nor does she want to be seen out there. Maybe André is willing to drive there with her. She calls him to find out where he is. He answers at the second ring. He is at the pensione, working on a short article about the current political and social situation in Colombia. He agrees to pick her up in her car at the university.

  While waiting, she goes to the cafeteria for a drink. Several of her fellow students are there too, all wondering why Visconti has not shown up. Again, they ask her whether she knows anything. Fifteen minutes later, she sees her Peugeot stop in the bus stop outside the cafeteria and rushes out. André has already shifted over into the passenger seat. She slips into the driver seat and they kiss. She notices that several of her colleagues have followed her out and are watching.

  While she drives out toward Monti Tiburtini, she quickly tells him again about Franco’s failure to come to the lecture and her phone call to his home. "Do you think the Gucci bag has arrived?"

  "If the police are at his house, then this is a fair conjecture. Start driving slowly when you reach his street. I will pretend searching for a particular house on the opposite side."

  Two police vehicles are indeed parked outside Franco’s house and a policeman stands guard at the entrance.

  "You are right. The police are searching his house."

  "They nabbed him," she exclaims.

  She doesn’t know whether to be exuberant that their frame-up worked or feel bad about it. A queasy discomfort invades her stomach. She knows it shows on her face.

  "Bianca, do you regret what we did?"

  She is startled that he senses her ambivalence. "I don’t know. It felt right when we did it, but now I feel guilty."

  "He deserves it. He plotted to have you killed. The evidence we have is unlikely to convict him of that, but possession of two kilos of cocaine will. Look, he could have refused to accept the package, or once he discovered its content, he could have immediately contacted the police. That would have gotten him off. But the fact that the police now search his house means that he kept it. He saw this as the way out from his financial troubles. So, don’t feel bad about it."

  "Yes, André, you are right. It’s silly of me suddenly to feel guilty."

  "No, it’s not silly. It’s natural and it shows that you have a conscience in contrast to Franco. I’d not want you any different, love."

  She briefly glan
ces at him, grateful for his understanding and support, filled again with love for him.

  "We should though do something more now," he remarks after a short silence. "We should call the press and tell them that the police have swooped on Franco’s house, nothing more, just that."

  "You think so?"

  "Yes, it is then much more difficult for the Questura to suppress it."

  "You think they might?"

  "Look, Commissario Farnese may not be his only friend there. The fact that she risked taking charge of the investigation against me may well mean that there were others higher up who deliberately ignored it and might be willing to lend a hand again."

  "You really are the most suspicious person I’ve ever met, but you could be right. You have the number for Il Messaggero?"

  "No, and I don’t want to use our cell phones. I don’t want to leave any traces leading back to us. I’ll use a public phone."

  He makes two calls from a public phone booth at the Tiburtina Railway station, the first to Il Messaggero, the second to a TV station. He also warns her that reporters will soon be calling on them. They agree to be doubly cautious in whatever they say. After parking the car in an underground parking garage, they enjoy an aperitif in a café on Piazza de’Fiori, before returning to the pensione. A short time later, the first reporter from Il Messaggero knocks at their door. Both pretend not to know anything about the arrest and the young man seems delighted to giving them a rundown. He then asks Bianca whether she ever saw Visconti sniff coke. She responds truthfully no, but that she once heard him talk about it.

  "Did you ever have any suspicions that he could be a drug dealer? I mean, the amount found clearly points in that direction."

  "No, never. This is as much of a shock to me as to my fellow students."

  "And how do you now feel about your previous relationship with Visconti?"

  "It sickens me that I was taken in by him, but then we don’t really know yet whether the drugs found are really his, do we?"

  "Who else’s could they be? Two bricks of cocaine were apparently found in a desk drawer in his study."