Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

  “Her brother?”

  “Methuselah of the Questura—and you don’t even know Signora Quarenghi’s maiden name is Viscontini? You don’t even recognize our Socialist mayor’s sister? Why else do you think a man like Quarenghi married her? An unattractive neurotic like her. Unattractive and flat-chested.”

  51: Utet

  “YOU’LL HAVE SOMETHING to eat with us, won’t you Piero?”

  They went under the bridge of the Genoa-Milan railway line and came to the traffic lights where the traffic converged at the feet of the statue. Minerva, goddess of learning, deity of the university city, stood proud and erect, immune to the noise and pollution of the angry cars, the delivery vans, the articulated trucks coming in from the city bypass.

  “I need to get back to the Questura.”

  It was as if she had not heard him. Simona Scola took the car nimbly around the statue—Minerva as arrogant and immutable as the Socialists before Mani Pulite—and headed down viale della Libertà, with its long line of trees and six-story apartment blocks. A street that was built in the years following the Second World War and the ravages of Allied bombardment, when the architects abandoned the pebbles from the Po and the red, Roman brick of the city for massive granite façades and concrete.

  She found a parking space opposite the Communist bookshop and was out of the car before Trotti, opening the door for him and almost forcibly hauling him from the low seat.

  “I should be getting back to the Questura, Signora. I need to see Maiocchi.”

  She silenced him with a finger to his lips. She then took his arm in hers and together they crossed the pavement and went into an apartment building.

  The iron and glass doors swung open and as they went up the highly polished steps a concierge put his head out of a small window to acknowledge their passage.

  “A nice part of town to live in,” Trotti remarked.

  “My husband’s family bought the place in nineteen sixty-two,” Signora Scola replied simply.

  They did not take the lift but went up two flights of steps. With the young, lithe woman beside him, Trotti felt old and overweight. He was soon out of breath.

  Reaching the second floor, Signora Scola rang the bell of a polished walnut door. Almost immediately various heavy-duty bolts were pulled back and the door was opened by a maid.

  “Ah, Enza,” Signora Scola said. “I’ve brought a colleague home for lunch. Could you set another place—if that’s not too much trouble?”

  The maid nodded and Trotti followed Signora Scola into the house.

  A smell of cooking, of olive oil and garlic.

  The maid took Trotti’s waxed jacket and his shabby scarf.

  “Come on through.” Signora Scola removed her gloves and sunglasses. She beckoned him into a bright living room.

  There were paintings on the wall and various photographs. Photographs of the city, of the Duomo, of the covered bridge, of San Teodoro and San Michele.

  There was also a large portrait of Signora Scola in student robes and the peaked academic cap, set above a mock fireplace.

  More photographs on the piano and on the bookshelves.

  Lots of bookshelves.

  Heavy Garzanti and UTET encyclopedias and dictionaries in various languages, but the books gave the appearance of not having been disturbed in a long time.

  The furnishings, expensive and somewhat old-fashioned, were comfortable and indeed elegant, but there was a lumpiness that dated them as late fifties or early sixties.

  “Perhaps you’d care to wash your hands, Piero?”

  She took him to a bright and spacious bathroom. He could feel the touch of her body against his. “Clean towel by the sink.”

  Left to himself, he washed his hands and face and ran a comb through his hair.

  The bar of French soap was new and unused.

  (“You’ll find out in time,” she had said in the car.)

  In the tinted mirror, his eyes appeared tired and bloodshot. They stared back at him noncommittally.

  “Ready to eat?”

  The table was placed by the window and the midday light flooded on to the spotless tablecloth, the cutlery and fine china plates. Packets of grissini and freshly cut white bread.

  The table had been set for two.

  A dish of celery was in the middle of the table and the slices of parma ham had already been served.

  Two places facing each other across the dazzling breadth of the tablecloth.

  “Piero, do sit down.”

  “And your husband, signora?”

  “This morning you were calling me Simona. You make me feel like a schoolmistress when you call me Signora. An old schoolmistress.”

  Trotti smiled sheepishly. “I thought we were having lunch with your husband.”

  She had kicked of her shoes and her feet were small against the grey wool of the carpet. She moved towards him. He admired the movement of her girlish hips beneath the neat skirt. Simona Scola took hold of his forearm. “Before we eat,” she said.

  “What?”

  She was a lot smaller without her shoes. “You want to meet Massimo?”

  She crossed the room, pulling him like a child in need of guidance. She opened the far door.

  Trotti allowed himself to be guided by the young woman into the adjacent room. It was a lot less bright. The blinds had been drawn and the only source of light came from a bedside lamp.

  “Massimo, I’d like to introduce Commissario Trotti.”

  Ingegnere Scola sat in a chair. The head rest had tilted backwards. The man’s head was to one side and he appeared to be sleeping with his mouth open.

  She pulled Trotti forward.

  Massimo Scola was in pajamas. A blanket covered the lower part of his body and beneath the blanket, his slippers came together at an unusual angle.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  Trotti recognised the smell of medicated soap.

  “Massimo’s been paraplegic ever since the skiing accident,” Signora Scola said brightly. “Best not to bother him now. He’s already eaten.”

  52: Thermal

  A LIGHT KNOCK on the door and then, without waiting for permission, he entered Trotti’s small office. His glance went from Trotti to Maiocchi and back to Trotti. “Commissario Trotti?” A hopeful smile.

  He had to be wearing thermal underwear, Trotti decided, as the man held out his right hand. Beneath the other arm, he carried a briefcase of crocodile leather. “I’m Regni.”

  “Do I know you?” Trotti queried, slightly puzzled.

  “Avoccato Regni.” A smile that revealed bright teeth. “I represent Signora Lucchi. I understand you spoke to her yesterday.”

  Trotti was surprised by Regni’s youth. He must have been thirty-five years old at most. Long blond hair, even features and fashionable tortoiseshell glasses with blue-tinted lenses. He had a short mustache, slightly darker in shade than his elegantly cut hair.

  Despite the cold weather, the lawyer wore no coat and his jacket was undone. A navy blue tie and a well-pressed Oxford shirt of a paler blue. He was dressed for a mild day in autumn, not for the rigors of the Po valley in the middle of a long cold winter.

  Just looking at him, Trotti felt cold and pulled his jacket tighter to his chilled body.

  “I was hoping I could speak with you, commissario.” He tilted his head slightly towards Maiocchi. “Alone, if that’s possible.”

  It was past three o’clock and a fog was fast coming up from the river, engulfing the provincial city outside the window. “If you wish to speak with me alone, perhaps you should first ask Commissario Maiocchi. There’s been a rather unpleasant murder—”

  “You work for the Reparto Omicidi?” the lawyer asked. Before Trotti could reply, he continued, “You don’t mind if I sit down?”

  “Best if I leave you,” Maiocchi said, addressing Trotti. Maiocchi was now standing behind Avoccato Regni who had lowered himself into one of the greasy canvas armchairs. Regni could not see Maiocchi as Maiocchi rais
ed a hand to his ear—the Italian gesture signifying male sterility and homosexuality.

  Grinning, the empty coffee cup in one hand and an unlit pipe in the other, Maiocchi left Trotti’s office, quietly closing the door behind him with his foot.

  “You must forgive my barging in on you like this, Trotti.”

  “Commissario Trotti.”

  “It was Signora Lucchi’s sincerest desire I contact you as soon as possible.”

  “Signora Lucchi?”

  “You were with her yesterday.”

  “You know my name?”

  “You went to her apartment in via Montenapoleone in Milan.”

  “I don’t recall Signora Lucchi’s ever having asked me for my name.”

  A glint of the glasses as the man held his head to one side, “You are Commissario Trotti?”

  “Of course.”

  Satisfied, the man sat back in the armchair, folding his hands over the briefcase. He appeared immune to the damp chill of the unheated office. He seemed similarly immune to Trotti’s rising irritation. “Bassi told me all about you, commissario.”

  “Why should Bassi feel the need to tell you anything about me?”

  “You’ll soon be retiring, I believe.”

  Trotti bit his lip. “Next year.”

  “And you have a state pension?”

  “I’ve been a policeman for a few years.”

  “Well that’s good.”

  “I fail to see how my private finances can possibly be of interest to you, Avoccato Regni.”

  “Precisely what Bassi told me.” There was another movement of his head and it was only then that Trotti understood Maiocchi’s suggestion of homosexuality. Despite the brash approach, there was something delicate, even feminine, about Avoccato Regni.

  Trotti also noticed that the nails were well manicured. “I fail to understand.”

  Regni raised his hands—the gesture of a priest or of a talk show host on Berlusconi. “Not really all that much to understand. After all, you don’t work for Reparto Omicidi. Even if you did, there could be no justification for your carrying out inquiries in Milan. At least, not without proper authorisation.”

  Trotti looked at his watch. “I’m a busy man.”

  An ingratiating smile. “I certainly won’t keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary. I studied in America. I know all about doing business.” He added in English, “Time is money.”

  Trotti frowned gloomily.

  “To come to the point … I think we could do business.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Signora Lucchi says you’re a charming man.” Regni pursued blandly. “I’ve good reason to believe you are.”

  “What precisely is it you want?”

  “You were in Milan yesterday. For an inquiry which does not officially concern you.”

  “You know very little about police procedure, Avoccato Regni. You don’t know who I work for.” Trotti went to stand up. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if you left this office now.”

  A placating hand. “It is not my intention to quarrel with you, Trotti.”

  “Most people call me Commissario Trotti out of common courtesy.”

  “Of course.”

  “It is not my intention to waste time.”

  “Then we can see eye to eye, can’t we?” A priest, a talk show host or, perhaps worse, a patronizing schoolmistress.

  “What makes you think I want to see eye to eye with you, Avoccato?”

  “Bassi told me Commissario Trotti could be prickly.”

  “If you choose, Avoccato Regni, Commissario Trotti can be violent.”

  “Bassi also said you were scrupulously honest and that’s why he wanted you helping him in his enquiry. Your honesty, Trotti …”

  “What about it?”

  “Signora Lucchi’s willing to pay good money for your honesty.”

  “My honesty’s not for sale.” Piero Trotti snorted faint amusement. “If it were, it wouldn’t be honesty.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Trotti waited.

  The lawyer gathered his thoughts. He sat back and looked around the small office, as if noticing it for the first time—the greasy armchairs, the piles of dusty beige folders, the teak topped desk and the ancient telephone with its faded Columbus sticker.

  “Signora Lucchi wants you to work for her, commissario. She wants you to carry on where the poor Bassi left off.”

  “Left off?”

  “You name your price.”

  “Where Bassi left off?”

  “You know, Signora Lucchi was very upset to hear Bassi had met with a tragic accident.”

  53: Fountain Pen

  “I HAVE POWER of attorney for Signora Lucchi.” Regni took a checkbook from his jacket pocket. “What sort of sum do you feel would be reasonable?”

  “How did Signora Lucchi hear about Bassi’s murder?”

  The lawyer smiled sweetly. “I told her.”

  “Where did you find out?”

  “Don’t forget, Commissario Trotti, it was I who engaged Fabrizio Bassi in the first place. My client was understandably very upset about the death of Dr. Turellini. Even if they were no longer man and wife. Signora Lucchi wanted the killer brought to justice, and that’s why she asked me to hire someone. Someone who’d be willing to work fast, efficiently and discreetly.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Question?” the lawyer repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment.

  “How did you find out about Bassi’s murder? I’m not aware of the papers mentioning anything.”

  “I would be most remiss in my responsibility as Signora Lucchi’s lawyer if I didn’t keep some kind of tabs on people she chooses to employ.”

  Trotti frowned. “You’d seen him?”

  “Who?”

  “Had you been in touch with Bassi recently, Avvocato Regni?”

  He nodded. “Very recently.”

  “When?”

  The hands came together on top of the briefcase. “Am I right in assuming you’re willing to accept Signora Lucchi’s proposition of employment?”

  A shrug. “I can give no engagements, Avoccato, without first having some idea of the details of the proposition.”

  The young face stiffened. “It’s not Bassi’s demise which concerns my client. This should be quite clear from the start.”

  “If I’m to take up the inquiry where Bassi left off, I might just worry about ending up in a polluted stream with a bullet lodged in my brains.”

  “Then you accept her proposition?”

  “Tell me how you discovered Bassi had been killed.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want me to work for you or not?”

  The lawyer took a deep breath. “The Turellini inquiry’s been going on for over a year. The various police forces of our Republic seem to be at a complete loss. And the poor Bassi until very recently was getting nowhere. Understandably, I needed to know whether it was worth my client’s while to continue paying the private detective a retainer. Thirteen months’s a long time for somebody to pay out good money and get very little in return.”

  “When and where did you see Bassi for the last time?”

  Regni frowned and then suddenly laughed. “You talk to me as if you think I were in some way responsible for the poor man’s murder.”

  Insincere laughter and it grated on Trotti’s nerves. “Perish the thought.”

  A moment of silence as the two men looked at each other carefully.

  Regni was the first to lower his glance. He ran a hand through his hair. “The day before yesterday. I was driving back from Genoa and he called me in my car, asking me to speak to him. At about eight o’clock.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To see me.”

  “What did he want to tell you?”

  “That he now knew who’d murdered Dr. Turellini.”

  “And he told you?”

  “Not over
the telephone. Signor Bassi believed his telephone was being monitored. He wanted to speak to me in person.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I came off the autostrada. There’d been an accident in the fog. A car had gone through the red lights at Zinasco. Two or three people were badly injured and with all the ambulances and the police, the traffic had slowed down to a snail’s pace for eight kilometers. I got to Bassi’s place at nine thirty—half an hour late and he’d already gone.”

  “Bit strange.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why not? After over a year, you weren’t thrilled at the idea the murder was going to be cleared up?”

  “Cleared up?” Regni lowered his hand in a gesture of moderation. “It wasn’t the first time Bassi had found the murderer of Carlo Turellini. He was on a retainer. The golden goose and he needed a few ersatz eggs. For the occasional omelette.” Regni laughed again. “That was the whole point of the Vissuto operation. Or so I believe. As I understand it, there wasn’t—never had been—any word from the Pubblico Ministero telling Bassi to lay off the Turellini case.”

  “Then why the article?”

  “Just another figment of Signor Bassi’s fertile imagination, just another way to stay on my client’s books for a few more months.”

  “That’s not the impression I got,” Trotti replied simply. “Bassi came to see me a couple of times. The last time he seemed very keen to sort out the case. He offered me money.”

  “Not his money.”

  “You’re suggesting Bassi wasn’t honest?” Trotti asked.

  “Who is?”

  Trotti made a gesture of irritation.

  “Who’s honest in this country? Tangentopoli, Commissario Trotti—it didn’t just come about. It wasn’t just the politicians sewing things up among themselves to their own advantage. It wasn’t some evil Mafia living on the edge of society and preying off it. An ulcer on the surface of the Republic?” He shook his head. “The disease will remain. Tangentopoli’ll remain because it’s in us. We are Tangentopoli, Trotti, and Tangentopoli is Italy.”

  “Bassi was dishonest?”

  Regni hesitated before answering. “Neither honest nor dishonest. Signor Bassi—God rest his poor soul—was only too pleased to be earning good money. I assume the inquiry into Turellini’s death was more exciting than his normal run of divorce work. And it let him live out his fantasies of being a private detective like the Rockfords and the Colombos of those American films he loved so much.”