Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

“I can’t find any doctor.”

  Typical of Riparto Rianimazione.

  There was a long corridor. Evening had fallen—it was now past six o’clock and the place was lit by harsh neon. The sound of their footfalls echoed off the spotless walls.

  There was a smell of perfumed detergent. Trotti had found a banana-flavored sweet and placed it in his mouth.

  “Anna’s with him now. They wouldn’t let me in—there’s a God-awful nurse who must’ve been a Swiss guard in an earlier incarnation.”

  “Anna?”

  “I picked her up at the Stazione Centrale, as you asked me to.” Magagna grinned. “She recognized me before I recognized her—I hadn’t seen her since she’d gone back to the South with her parents. At least ten years ago. Pretty girl. She’s filled out a lot since then.” Magagna said admiringly, “Pisanelli’s got good taste.”

  “What do you mean by deep coma?”

  “I saw one of the doctors about twenty minutes ago—they all look so young, for heaven’s sake. They’re unwilling to give any prognosis. They just say it can go either way.”

  “Deep coma, Magagna?” Trotti repeated and he could sense a tightening of Simona Scola’s fingers on his arm.

  Magagna held his hands down in front of him, like a contrite child. “Either way, commissario. There’s nothing wrong with his body apart from a few bruises. Whiplash. At some point when the French car was sliding over, there must’ve been a sudden deceleration of the body. You were lucky. Goodness knows why—it seems unfair.”

  “Who said life’s fair?”

  “The doctor was telling me it’s like pilots when they use the ejector seat. The body can’t always cope with sudden, excessive acceleration. Or, in Pisa’s case, deceleration.”

  “Deep coma?”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “So I see.”

  “Pisanelli’s been here all day. You’ve had ample time to consult a real doctor.”

  Trotti replied tersely, “I’ve been busy.”

  “Now you’re no longer busy?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Magagna, who can tell me about the coma?” Signora Scola spoke from behind the bunch of flowers. “The difference between sleep and coma is that somebody can be woken from sleep. In a coma, the brain’s activity as a whole is suppressed.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You can cough or sneeze in your sleep. They’re spontaneous reflexes which are unaffected by sleep. But not when you’re in a coma.”

  Although the temperature in the corridor of Riparto Rianimazione was high—outside it had started to snow again—Trotti felt cold. “What are the chances of Pisa’s pulling through?”

  “When there’s continuous bleeding in the brain or if the body continues to absorb poison, a coma can go deeper. Which means the brain’s slowing down. Which means the brain’s less and less able to carry out its functions. Such as breathing.”

  “Pisa’s going to stop breathing?”

  Signora Scola said, “I don’t know anything about Pisa’s situation. But there are a lot of people who pull out of a coma without any side effects.”

  “Is he going to pull out?”

  “I studied it a bit for my degree. Epilepsy’s a brief form of coma—and nobody really knows what causes it. But that’s why you’ve got to have intensive care.”

  They had come to a door and Magagna gestured with his thumb. “The deeper the coma, the more attention that’s needed to prevent the patient from choking to death. From choking on his own saliva. Or mucus.”

  Magagna had folded his arms. “They won’t let us in.”

  Trotti turned the handle. The door was locked. Glancing at Magagna, he knocked, not softly, at the painted surface. “I should’ve come earlier. I didn’t realize …”

  Trotti felt slightly giddy. The sickly fragrance of the sweet cleaning liquid that could not completely mask the underlying hint of ether. Even the perfume of the flowers made him feel uncomfortable. The neon lighting hurt his eyes.

  He knocked again. It was as if his knuckles suddenly unlocked the door. It was opened by an unsmiling nurse.

  Perhaps she was a nun. She did not wear a coif but Trotti noticed the discreet cross attached to her lapel.

  Behind her was the bed, bathed in a subdued light. Both the head and the feet of the bed had been raised.

  Anna was there. She was sitting in an armchair. Her eyes were closed; she appeared to have fallen asleep.

  The woman asked crossly, “Commissario Trotti?” She looked tired, with lines under her eyes.

  Beyond her stood a couple of monitors. A dancing spot, like a ball in a strange video game. The feeble guarantee of Pierangelo Pisanelli’s survival.

  “How is he?”

  “Commissario Trotti?” A harsh face, red, blotchy skin. “You’re wanted.”

  “Wanted?”

  “An urgent call just a couple of minutes ago from the Questura. There’s a car coming for you now. Should be downstairs any minute.” For a moment, the weary face softened. “You mustn’t worry, commissario,” the woman said softly as she closed the door. “Trust in the Lord.”

  71: Esselunga

  “THERE SEEMS TO be a blackout on the radio, commissario.”

  The driver took the car fast over the cobbles through the back streets, heading towards the Questura.

  “Who told you I was at the hospital?”

  “Commissario Merenda.”

  “On a Sunday evening?”

  The speeding car crossed the Ghislieri piazza, almost hitting a student on her bicycle. Then going past the Carabinieri barracks, the revolving light reverberating off the cold walls, the car braked slightly. The driver accelerated into Corso Carlo Alberto and turned right into Strada Nuova.

  For a moment, Trotti thought it was a road accident. There were cars parked haphazardly in front of the Questura. Doors hanging open and the revolving lights, out of phase, were swirling to different rhythms.

  Trotti and Magagna jumped out of the car before the driver had brought it to a halt.

  Up the granite stairs.

  The man on door duty was trying to hold back a small crowd of journalists. Another man, in dark civilian clothes, was helping him. Recognizing Trotti, he stood back, making way for Trotti and Magagna to step through the metal detector.

  Inside the Questura people were running up and down the stairs. No one took any notice of them. The lift door was open. Together Trotti and Magagna stepped into the small cubicle with its permanent smell of old cigarette smoke and the hammer and sickle scraped into the aluminum paint.

  Surprisingly, the third floor seemed empty.

  Nobody was at the desk.

  Trotti headed towards his office just as Merenda stepped out of the Questore’s bureau. “Where in God’s name were you?”

  It was, Trotti realized, the first time he had ever seen Merenda ruffled.

  Merenda beckoned vigorously and they entered the office.

  The first person Trotti recognized was the Questore’s personal secretary. She was impeccably dressed. It could have been nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning. The woman was wearing the same beige skirt and blue high heel shoes.

  She rarely, if ever, spoke to Trotti, but he knew that her first name was Giulia.

  Giulia saw him and she stepped aside. As she did so, Trotti saw that she was crying. Mascara ran down her powdered cheeks in two dirty rivulets.

  Maserati from Scientifica, his plump face pale, nodded.

  “Ciao, Piero.” He also stepped back.

  Trotti and Magagna approached the vast desk. Somebody must have ripped off the bag—a recycled plastic bag with the logo of Esselunga. For some reason, Trotti recalled an article in the newspaper, announcing the merger of the Esselunga chain with the biggest supermarket in England.

  The expensive loden coat lay on the desktop.

  “Must’ve been dead for ten minutes. His secretary found him.”

  String, tightly knotted just above the Adam’s apple, encircled t
he Questore’s swollen neck.

  The body had been pulled back against the armchair and now the bulging eyes stared up at the Italo-Californian chandelier.

  Behind Trotti, Maserati remarked flatly, “Classic example of cyanosis and petechial hemorrhaging.”

  “Not even a suicide note,” Merenda was saying in Trotti’s ear. “Self-inflicted death from asphyxia.”

  72: Giuda

  “A HUMAN LIFE,” Trotti raised the glass of Sangue di Giuda. The kitchen light bulb was refracted in the dark wine.

  “You don’t seem particularly upset.”

  “I’m not going to cry crocodile tears, Magagna.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked noisily. It was past ten and Trotti knew he had drunk too much.

  Anna Maria said nothing. She sat with her hands folded on the table, her eyes fixed on Trotti, her lips pressed together, as if she had just taken a vow of eternal silence.

  “He killed Pisanelli.”

  “Pisanelli’s not dead,” Magagna retorted.

  “He tried to kill me and Pisanelli’s going to die. Trouble is, the Questore killed the wrong man.” In one swallow, Trotti emptied the glass. He smacked his lips noisily.

  “Why kill you, commissario?”

  “Because with time I would get to the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I haven’t gotten there.”

  “You can’t accuse the Questore like that.”

  “He committed suicide, Magagna. The act of a desperate man. The act of somebody who sees there’s no alternative.”

  “Alternative to what, commissario?” Magagna asked. “The Questore left no note. You’re merely surmising.”

  “He’s connected with Bassi’s murder—and possibly Turellini’s.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea.”

  “Then how can you accuse him of murder?”

  “The Questore didn’t murder anybody with his own hands. Other than himself. But he was there at Bassi’s place. Within a few hours of the body being found.”

  “He’d probably been informed.”

  “Of course he’d been informed. Magagna, the Questore was not a detective. I’d never seen him out on an inquiry. He’d have gotten his fine clothes dirty. Freezing his balls off in a stakeout?” Trotti shook his head. “There was something he wanted in Bassi’s apartment. He was frightened Pisa and I had found it. He knew Pisa had taken the tape from the answering machine.”

  “What did he want the tape for?”

  “It wasn’t the tape. There was nothing on it apart from some message, probably from Signora Viscontini, that had never been wiped off.”

  “What was the Questore looking for?”

  “Something that could incriminate him.”

  “Commissario, a Questore’s not a murderer. Not in the real world.”

  “Since when has Italy been the real world?” Trotti laughed but there was no amusement. “In the real world, politicians aren’t on the take. There’s no Tangentopoli in the real world. In the real world, there’s no collusion between the secret services and the Mafia. Between the terrorists and the Freemasons and the politicians. In the real world, there are no Giulio Andreottis, there are no Bettino Craxis. But we’re not in the real world.” Trotti raised his glass. “Welcome to Italy, Magagna.”

  “There’s no case against him.”

  “Of course there is.”

  “What?”

  “Pisanelli and I were driven off the road after going down to see the journalist Maluccio in Alessandria.”

  “Organized crime.” Magagna raised his shoulders. “Nothing to do with the Questore.”

  Trotti banged his hand against the Formica tabletop. “When are you going to understand that the Socialist Party is organized crime? The Socialists and the Christian Democrats—they’ve had this country sewn up the way the Cosa Nostra has Little Italy sewn up in New York. Only this isn’t Little Italy. This isn’t New York. It’s Big Italy—and the politicians’ cut is a damned sight higher.”

  Magagna leaned forward and took hold of the bottle. He raised it towards Anna Maria who simply shook her head without taking her eyes from her cousin.

  “Look, Magagna. You’re not stupid. Can’t you see Maluccio was framed? Somebody wanted him out of the way—possibly because of the article in Vissuto.”

  “Who?”

  A gesture of irritation. “I don’t know who and I don’t know why. The cocaine found in Maluccio’s car was a setup. The man neither drinks nor smokes. A family man—and you’re telling me that with two little girls and a loving wife at home he was suddenly going to get involved in the drug trade? In Alessandria? In a place that’s been the private property of the Calabrians and the Pugliesi for the last decade?”

  “Who framed Maluccio?”

  “No idea. But I do know it’s not easy to throw an innocent person into prison. Suppose you or I wanted some innocent bastard put away for a few weeks. Not easy, Gabriele.”

  “Gabriele?”

  “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve never used it before.”

  “I never called Pisa Pierangelo,” Trotti said. He took another gulp of wine.

  “Sangue di Giuda makes you maudlin, commissario.”

  Trotti clicked his tongue in irritation. “It stops me from screaming.”

  “Why scream?”

  “Because Pisanelli’s going to die and it’s my fault.”

  “You didn’t push him off the road.”

  Trotti said, “You know he intended to leave the police? Anna told me Pisa was thinking of going back to his medical studies.”

  “Then he can specialise in intensive care.”

  “You’re an unfeeling bastard, Magagna.”

  Anna Maria stood up. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” She carefully set her chair under the table and went towards the kitchen door. “I’m sleeping on a mattress on the floor. If Anna Ermagni comes, put her in the big bed. Tell her not to trip over me.” She closed the door silently behind her.

  “An old maid,” Trotti whispered. “A sour old maid. She hates it when anybody starts to appreciate a good wine.”

  “Very kind to me.”

  “Her fiancé was killed by the Germans and she subsequently married a man she never loved. A Dutchman.” Trotti added, “When I was a boy, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.”

  “I prefer your Signora Scola.”

  The smile vanished. “You’re a married man, Magagna.”

  “You can call me Gabriele.”

  “You’re married. So is Signora Scola.”

  “That doesn’t stop her from holding your arm, commissario.”

  “I’m a married man as well,” Trotti said, and standing up went to the sink. He ran water on to his hands and then rinsed his face. His eyes burned. He felt tired, worn out, but he knew he would not be able to sleep.

  Trotti filled a saucepan with water and set it on the rear burner. “But she’s an interesting woman.” The blue flame jumped to life. “Your cousin?”

  “Simona Scola’s intelligent.”

  Magagna smiled. “Attractive, too.”

  “Got a degree in child psychology.”

  “Commissario, when you hear the word psychology, you pull out your gun.”

  “I’d heard about Scola from various people. At the time of the Barnardi child. Somebody told me to contact her and amazingly, she managed to get the little Alessio Barnardi to reveal who had been molesting him.” Trotti took a jar of loose chamomile from the cupboard over the sink.

  “That’s no justification for holding her arm.”

  “With the Viscontini woman—she saw I was being aggressive and she spontaneously fell into the friendly, understanding big sister role. Sweet and sour. I swear, Magagna, it’s a technique I’ve used with a thousand men. But it’s the first time I’ve worked as a team with a woman. Instead of clamming up, the Viscontini woman told us what she knew
about Bassi.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “It’s a shame Simona’s not a cop.”

  “You could always set up a detective agency together.”

  “FBI? Like Fabrizio Bassi?”

  Together the two men began to laugh while the water started to boil and dance in the saucepan. “Christ!”

  A pale face had appeared at the kitchen window, to the left of the sink. A pale face deformed by the mist of the glass.

  A hand tapped lightly at the pane.

  73: Prontuario

  “DOES THE PRONTUARIO mean anything to you?”

  “Is this Lascia o raddoppia? Another Mike Bongiorno quiz?”

  “I was told you were difficult, commissario. Difficult but honest.”

  “I was told you were from the South.”

  Judge Abete laughed. “You don’t expect Southerners to be honest?” There was hardly any light other than the green dials of the dashboard but Trotti caught the movement of white teeth.

  “I don’t expect Italians to be honest.”

  It was a Fiat Argenta. The engine ran quietly, keeping the car heating effective.

  Trotti had no idea where they were. Probably fifteen kilometers out of the city. They had driven northwards. When he pulled back the curtains, there was an amber glow against the sky.

  Milan. Moral capital of the Republic.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, Trotti.”

  “What Prontuario, Signor Giudice?”

  The voice came out of the darkness. “Firstly, I must apologize. All this secrecy. Coming to fetch you in the middle of the night. But I feel it’s the least I owe you. It’s the least I owe Bassi.”

  “Bassi?”

  “Not necessarily the most intelligent of men. But I suspect that like you he was honest.”

  “Or unimaginative.”

  Abete laughed in the dark. “You denigrate yourself. You should know in Milan there are people who have respect for you, Trotti. For you and the people like you who’ve worked away these last thirty years and more. Keeping their faith in a Republic that’s a republic only in name.” A slight movement on the rear seat beside Trotti. “That’s what I was afraid of. Secrecy that allows collusion and connivance. Secrecy that’s the bedfellow of the corrupt and the corruptible.”