Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

  “Commissario Piero Trotti, it’d be a shame if you were to leave the Questura tomorrow.”

  “What job?”

  “No point in being coy. There’s been talk of a center for several months and I wasn’t the only one to recommend you to the Questore, if that’s what you think.” Unblinking, she looked him in the eyes.

  Perhaps his mouth had fallen open.

  “And now you start quoting European Community statistics to me. You know, you’d be making a lot of people happy, and not least me.”

  “You knew about the job?”

  “I was asked if I wanted to head the team. I’d much rather work with you, Piero Trotti.”

  “My wife escaped to America to get away from me.” There was a long silence. “I don’t know many people who want to work with me. My daughter’s now in Bologna.”

  Bianca Poveri asked fondly, “And Tenente Pisanelli?”

  “Avoids me.” Trotti shrugged. “Seems to think it’s my fault he’s not married.”

  “I’m too young for the job. No experience. Whereas you …”

  “Yes?”

  “Unlike me, commissario, you never lived through 1968. Or at least, you grew up at a different time, at a time when things were simpler. You have your solid values anchored in a simpler time. I’m a child of the sixties. All that stuff, Lotta Continua, feminism and throwing Molotov cocktails at the Celere—I grew up with it. That’s why I’m still confused.”

  “You were too young for the Red Brigades.”

  “Perhaps it’s my job—or perhaps it’s having a child of my own. There are things I’m only beginning to understand now. I burned my eschimese with its politically correct cape several years ago. And, like everybody else, I’ve seen the dictatorship of the proletariat replaced by the more insidious dictatorship of Berlusconi.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “My generation—we thought we could put things to rights with bombs and violence and P38s. We were arrogant—because life had always been easy for us. Your generation lived through the war. Your generation had gone hungry trying to survive. We thought our ideals were more important than life itself. But our ideals were bogus and we were arrogant because we didn’t have any experience of the real world. There’d always been three meals a day.”

  “I saw my first corpse at the age of sixteen. A couple of partisans no older than me.”

  “The sixties generation—it’s only now I’m beginning to understand. But you, Piero Trotti, you have experience. And you have wisdom. You understand other people—and you like women.”

  “My daughter nearly died. She stopped eating. And that—or so I’m told—was all my fault.”

  “These last few years, Piero, you’ve been marking time. With your experience, you could have done more. With your intelligence …”

  “Yes?”

  Signora Poveri breathed in. Her pinched nostrils turned white. “I’ve got the statistics here from Telefono Azzurro, the toll-free telephone.” She took a blue brochure from a pile of books on her walnut desk. She ran her tongue along her lips before reading. “Over a hundred and fifty telephone calls a day in Italy from children complaining of abuse or violence in the home. There are probably five thousand cases of sexual exploitation in a year.” She looked up at him. “You could do so much, Piero.”

  The phone rang softly, almost smothered beneath a pile of dossiers.

  “With your experience and your decency, there’s still so much you can do. For all the other Evas.”

  “I think I’ve done enough.”

  “Help them before it’s too late. Help them before they’ve turned into snails with a prison on their backs.” The young woman brushed away the hair from her ear with the receiver. “Women’s prison,” she said, speaking softly, her eyes turning downwards. Then she added, “Yes.”

  Trotti looked at her profile, almost girlish, softened by the oblique winter sunlight.

  Bianca held out the receiver. “For you, commissario. You’re wanted at Linate Airport—your plane’s due in thirty-five minutes.”

  15: Linate

  “AMSTERDAM?”

  Two Air France pilots, both looking like Gérard Philippe, walked purposefully across the concourse. One wore a thin beige scarf, the other carried a leather case. Women’s heads turned at their passage.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then it looks as if your cousin’s going to be late.” Bianca Poveri pointed to a nearby monitor screen. “And, as much as I’d like to stay, I’ve got to get back to the city.”

  “You’ve been very kind, Bianca. I’ll wait here for my cousin.”

  “How will you get back?”

  “A train. I’m surprised Anna Maria telegrammed me and not Sandro.” Trotti raised his shoulders. “Perhaps Sandro’s here too.”

  “What does your cousin look like?”

  “Sandro?”

  “Sandro’s the doctor at Brescia, isn’t he?”

  “Distinguished and very bald.” Trotti glanced around as if expecting his cousin to emerge from the milling crowd of travelers. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll wait for Anna Maria and we’ll get a train into Milan.”

  “Your cousin should’ve contacted you earlier.”

  “Anna Maria? Very organized. More Dutch than the Dutch.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Surprised Anna Maria didn’t phone me. She always phones at Christmas. No idea what’s got into her head. I haven’t seen her in years … at least fourteen years.” He glanced irritably at the flimsy blue paper of the telegram. “She hasn’t even indicated a flight number. I can only suppose she’s on the Amsterdam flight.”

  “Probably was in a hurry.”

  “A lot simpler to phone me.” Trotti’s face softened as he smiled at the young woman. “A coffee before you go, Bianca?”

  Signora Poveri was going to refuse, but then changed her mind. She slipped her arm in his and together they moved through the crowd towards the long granite bar. He liked her musky perfume and was glad that he had given up smoking over twenty years ago.

  Trotti bought a ticket from the woman sitting behind her isolated cash register. She did not look at him as she gave him his small change.

  A couple of barmen, their white jackets crumpled and slightly stained by a long morning’s work, served the customers. Efficiently and robotically.

  In a small recess, another man was working the Cimbali coffee machine, nodding in concentration as he took the orders and set out the filled coffee cups in a single row. The cups were speedily whisked away by the two waiters. One waiter brought the sandwich and Trotti’s brioche. The other waiter set their cups on to the polished granite of the bar and deftly spiked the receipt.

  “A Stakhanov approach,” Bianca said brightly, but Trotti did not appear to understand as he ladled two and a half spoonfuls of white sugar on to the dome of frothed cream.

  Rows of liqueur bottles stood before a tinted mirror behind the perpetual motion of the waiters. Attached to the top shelf was the black and red shield of Milan AC.

  “A coffee instead of a lunch.” Amusement in Bianca’s voice. “As good a way as any of keeping my weight down.”

  “There’s a restaurant upstairs, if you want something to eat.” Trotti could feel the warmth of her hand on his sleeve. “And you have a beautiful figure.”

  “Are you trying to flatter me, Commissario Trotti?”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Trotti said and he could feel strange muscles pulling at his smile.

  Trotti liked Linate. It was more like a railway station than an airport. You got off the plane, stepped through the sliding glass doors and there waiting outside was the 73 tram, ready to run you down the viale Forlanini into the city center, to the Duomo, to the shops, clattering through the traffic jams.

  “At least Anna Maria says Linate,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t have run you to Malpensa, if that’s what you think.”

  “Malpensa.” He clicked
his teeth.

  “All part of Tangentopoli.” The laugh was girlish and contagious. “You’re not telling me with a surface as flat as the Po valley, they had to build Milan’s bright shining new airport just beneath the Alps, almost into Switzerland.”

  “Everything’s Tangentopoli,” Trotti said simply. “Always has been, long before Mani Pulite. That’s why we have the highest taxes in Europe.”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “A realist.”

  “I’m the realist, Piero.”

  “You’re materialistic, Bianca.”

  “If you were a realist, Piero, you’d be a lot richer than you now are. And you wouldn’t be retiring to some chicken coop in the hills.” She tapped the back of his hand. “I feel guilty about leaving you here, commissario.”

  “Good of you to bring me into Milan.”

  “Nice to be with you. You’re good company. Mellowing in your old age—like a good wine.”

  “Turning to vinegar.”

  “And it’s about time you bought a car.”

  Trotti sounded offended. “I’ve got an Opel.”

  “That you bought the year Nuvolari was world champion.”

  “Before my time,” he laughed. “Good cappuccino.”

  His young friend drank fast between bites at the prosciutto cotto sandwich. Dusty flour fell from the bread on to her coat.

  “My cousin was always a great admirer of Nuvolari,” Trotti mused, almost to himself. “That’s why Anna Maria called her son Tazio. Tazio van Dijk. Well over forty now. Last time I saw him, he was in short trousers.” He emptied another half-spoonful of sugar into the cup. “There was a time when Tazio was estranged from his mother. Anna Maria never liked the girl he married. A black girl from Dutch Guyana. They’re divorced now.”

  “You’re going to take it, aren’t you?”

  Trotti frowned. “Time doesn’t stand still.”

  “You’re going to take the job?”

  “Job, Bianca?”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re sly and devious?”

  “Trying to flatter me?”

  “It would be a shame if you were to leave the Questura tomorrow.”

  “I’m leaving in September.” He turned his head towards her, noticing again the softness of her skin. She reminded him of his daughter.

  “I wasn’t the only one to recommend you to the Questore, if that’s what you think.” She looked at him unblinkingly in the eyes as she lowered the empty cup, with its blue insignia AEROPORTI DI MILANO. “Never understood why you loathe the poor man. Not his fault he can’t speak your dialect.”

  Trotti cupped his hand around his chin.

  “Piero, what on earth’s that green thing on your tongue?”

  “Rhubarb sweet.”

  “You even drink your coffee with a sweet in your mouth?” She looked unhappy. “Surprised you don’t have diabetes, Commissario Trotti.”

  “It was you who recommended me to the Questore.”

  “You’d be making a lot of people happy, Piero—and not least me.” She turned away and set the cup down on the bar. Taking a paper napkin from its steel holder, Bianca wiped her mouth. She did not wear lipstick. She looked small and fragile in her fur coat. “I was asked if I wanted to be on the team.” She raised one shoulder. “I’m not a policeman and I’d much rather work with you.”

  “Nobody in their right mind would want to work with me.”

  “Certainly be a lot easier if you gave up those awful sweets of yours. Your breath smells of synthetic rhubarb.”

  “And coffee.”

  Bianca Poveri asked fondly, “Why does Tenente Pisanelli think it’s your fault he’s not married?”

  “Pisa’s working for Merenda and the Reparto Omicidi. Avoids me, and I don’t think it’s because of the rhubarb sweets.”

  “Perhaps he ought to thank you.” Bianca nodded but her thoughts were elsewhere. “We could do some good work.”

  “You and Pisa?”

  “You’ll accept, commissario?”

  “I’m not taking anything on—not now.”

  “Don’t be silly. The best years of your life. You’re looking marvelous.”

  “I’m an old man. A balding dinosaur.”

  “When your wife left you, you looked absolutely terrible.”

  “You didn’t even know me then.”

  “You went around with a drawn face and harsh word for everybody. But you got over that—and now you look twenty years younger. And very happy. If only you could give up your sugar and take five kilos off your waist.”

  “Then I’ll just have to retire as a happy, fat old man.”

  “You don’t have ideals, commissario?”

  “You can’t feed your family on ideals. You were talking about hope, the rhetoric of hope. That’s what I’ve always been fed with. Too long—and I can’t go on believing. That’s why I’m bored with Mani Pulite. That’s why I don’t care about the reforms. You can’t reform people.”

  “You can care about people.”

  Trotti shook his head again. “When did you find out the Questore wanted to set up his children’s section?”

  Bianca smiled with satisfaction, then gestured to the Milan AC banner. THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT’S BEEN REPLACED BY THE MORE INSIDIOUS DICTATORSHIP OF SILVIO BERLUSCONI.

  “Another coffee?”

  She shook her head, not hiding her irritation. “The city needs you. You’ve been marking time, Piero Trotti.”

  “The city can get on well enough without Piero Trotti. It managed to get on without me for a thousand years, and unless it all crumbles away just like the Torre Civica, it’ll survive another thousand without me. The cemetery’s full of indispensable people. I think I’ve done my duty.”

  Suddenly the young woman burst out laughing.

  “Well?”

  “Piero Trotti, I will have another coffee.”

  “That’s what makes you laugh, Bianca?”

  “So determined to appear sour, so fed up. A grumpy bear. But of course it’s all an act. You know, commissario, you’re a big baby.”

  “That’s not what Pisanelli says.”

  “Perhaps with my job, I’m going to end up like you, pretending I don’t care. Trouble is, Piero Trotti,” and she prodded his chest with a hard finger, “you can’t fool me.”

  “Why try?”

  “Because you like to fool yourself. You’re a victim of your own myth. Your own private rhetoric. And you know what?”

  “I soon will.”

  “You’re going to take the job, Piero Trotti. Your goats and your chickens are just going to have to wait, I’m afraid. You’re going to run the child abuse section.”

  16: Anna Maria

  OVERHEAD, THE WHITE letters on the arrivals board fluttered and then the new times were announced.

  Commissario Trotti stood alone at the elbow-high stand, drinking his fourth cup of coffee.

  “Piero!”

  He turned and recognized Anna Maria. He put the cup down and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  His cousin was wearing a coat and beneath it a black skirt and black stockings. She looked like one of the old women from his childhood in Acquanera, only stockier. She pushed her way through the crowd, a suitcase pulling her arm to the ground. A pillbox hat with a veil.

  (Trotti was born in Acquanera but had gone to scuola media in Santa Maria, where he had lived with his aunt and her two children. Anna Maria was seven years older than Piero. She had loved him and looked after him like a scolding, solicitous sister.

  It was with Anna Maria that he used to cycle down to Tarzi on Sandro’s bicycle.)

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She spoke in dialect, the vowels oddly flattened by years of exile in the Low Countries. She pushed the black hat from her forehead. Her hair was as white as snow on the January hills above Tarzi. She kissed him hurriedly, smelling—it seemed to Trotti—of the same eau de toilette she had used as a girl.

  Taking Anna
Maria’s bag, Trotti replied, “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.”

  “You didn’t get my telegram?”

  “Anna Maria, why else would I be here? You forgot to put the flight number.”

  “I don’t like planes.”

  “What flight were you on?”

  “I managed to get on the Zurich plane and then change. I tried to phone you but you’re never at home.”

  “There’s an answering machine.”

  “What use is an answering machine?” Anna Maria said irritably, and added, “Why are you wearing that tie?”

  Bickering had been part of Trotti’s childhood. “Next time I’ll come to the airport in plastron and bow tie.”

  “Always so frivolous.”

  “Not at all, Anna Maria.”

  “You could have worn a black tie. You know Sandro’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “A heart attack.”

  “Sandro’s dead?”

  She looked at him in stern surprise. “Piero, weren’t you told?”

  The noise of the airport, the smell of coffee and lemons and behind his cousin, the neon lighting of the arrival hall—suddenly Trotti felt weak. A band of metal across his head. His legs seemed to lose their support. “Sandro’s dead?” He leaned against the table.

  “Yesterday morning at the hospital.”

  “Why wasn’t I told?” His mouth was dry. It was only now that he noticed Anna Maria’s eyes were bloodshot behind her Count Cavour glasses. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “They phoned me from Brescia at midnight. In his own clinic. They waited nearly fourteen hours before informing me. And now you tell me you weren’t contacted.”

  “Sandro’s dead?”

  “Heart failure. Sandro was in intensive care for twenty-four hours.”

  Sandro was dead. Dead at sixty-eight.

  Trotti gave a sigh and he could feel his eyes beginning to burn.

  Sandro, climbing trees and catching frogs; Sandro, so young and cheerful on his bicycle; Sandro, the partisan bravely chanting “Bella Ciao,” afraid of neither German nor Repubblichino. Sandro, who had gone off to Milan when peace had returned to the hills. Sandro, who had studied. Sandro, the handsome medical student with the glistening black hair, the pipe and the easy smile. Sandro, the ladies’ man who had never married, who had never had children and who at twenty-nine had lost all the glistening black hair.