He rang the bell of the legal office and the door clicked open. Second floor. . . .
The lift was engaged. He pressed the bell and waited. When it came down, two men wearing short-sleeved shirts and carrying briefcases came out in a waft of perfume, deep in conversation. One of them held the lift door open for the marshal.
‘Thank you.’
He got in and closed the doors on himself. It was a small lift, and it smelled strongly of the men’s perfume and old varnished wood and whatever that linoleum stuff was at his feet. He raised his finger to the button marked two and felt a sickening drop in his stomach as though the lift had set off at high speed. What was he doing here? This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be! He couldn’t press the button. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He pulled the inner doors open and pushed at the outer one. He would phone, cancel the appointment. He had to get home. He made for the bridge. Home. He wanted to take a shower, see and touch his own things, feel the coolness of the leather sofa, rest in the quietness of a shuttered room. Despite the heat, he quickened his pace, or tried to. Sauntering tourists on the bridge bumped into him, blocked his way with wide carrier bags from the fashion shops, framed rucksacks, big cameras. On the other side, hot wafts of pizza dough, peppers, and herbs awoke hunger and loneliness. Here and there, shopkeepers greeted him.
‘Morning, Marshal.’
He was almost home. When he got there, he went straight to his quarters. Bracing himself for the silence of the clean, bare kitchen, he opened the door.
‘Oh, so there you are! What in heaven’s name is going on?’
‘Teresa . . . ?’
Nine
'I’ll “Teresa” you! And don’t you tell me Lorenzini didn’t tell you to pick me up at the airport. Nearly ‘I an hour I waited for you, and then had to wait for a taxi in this heat—but don’t bother to tell me what’s going on! I’ve nothing better to do than fly up and down the country running after you instead of looking after people who really need me—and don’t just stand there staring—just what is the matter with you?’
He followed her as she swirled into the kitchen like a tornado. The light was on in the shuttered room and there was stuff everywhere, cupboards open, a basket of washing. Her voice was angry, but it was her voice. She was home.
‘Flying up and down . . . ? You’re going back . . . ?’
‘Of course I’m going back!’
‘And how much is that costing? We’re going to have to be more careful now that—we can’t afford this! And where were you last night? We can’t afford all this eating-out business either!’
‘Eating out? So that’s it—I was wondering what this was about.’ The fridge was wide open, emptied. She thrust a small pan under his nose. He stared at it and at the curl of dried reddish-brown crust inside without understanding. ‘It’s nice to know you’ve been enjoying yourself eating in the best restaurants in Florence while I’ve been—’
‘Restaurants? I’ve been working night and day, I’ve had no sleep—’
‘Oh, I can see that. That would account for all those restaurant bills on the chest of drawers in the bedroom and two pairs of trousers ruined with wine stains.’ She slammed down the pan and held up a pair of trousers in each hand. The wine stains were still there, pinkish now, but the trousers looked small and had blue streaks on them.
‘What have you done to them?’
‘What have I done to them? Oh, for God’s sake, Salva.’ She rolled them up and stuffed them into a half-filled rubbish bag. ‘Brand-new—a beautiful summer wool! What were you thinking of? And stop staring at me as though you’d never seen me before— Do you even know what day it is?’
‘Of course I know what day it is! Do you imagine I can run a barracks and not know what day it is? Don’t talk to me like that!’
‘Don’t you dare be angry at me!’
‘It’s not you I’m angry at!’
‘Well, there are only two of us here!’
‘I’m. . . .’
‘Salva, do you know what day it is, or not?’
Why was she asking him that? Why? Blindly he groped through the family calendar of birthdays and anniversaries, but it was no use, so he only muttered ‘Tuesday. . . .’ That much was on the daily orders, that much he was sure of.
‘And? I can’t believe you! You’ve actually forgotten that they operated on Nunziata yesterday? And not a word from you, not so much as a telephone call to ask how she was. Don’t you have a thought in your head for anybody but yourself ?’
‘I did call. Yesterday. I don’t know how many times.’
‘Salva, I told you I’d be at the hospital all day and that if they let me, I’d stay the night.’
‘But . . . there was nobody, not even the boys. . . .’
‘They slept at the Di Luciano’s in the flat opposite. I told you. . . . And I told you that when I was home, I’d call you so you could call me back. You know I can’t have a mobile phone switched on at the hospital, but you never listen to me. I don’t know what to do with you. . . .’
She was winding down, but he was sorry she was. A senseless quarrel was better than a serious talk, a real explanation. He couldn’t tell her. He would tell her about the restaurants and the trousers, but he couldn’t tell her he’d resigned.
She turned her back on him and started washing the little pan, rinsing it, washing it, rinsing it, over and over, her movements furious.
He remembered the tomato sauce, now, with the leaves of basil left whole. He remembered that there were some other things, favourite things, that she’d prepared and left in the freezer.
‘Remember to take out what you want the night before.’
They were still there, untouched.
He moved close behind her and put his arms around her. She went on washing and rinsing the clean pan, her body stiff, resisting him. He bent his head to breathe in the smell of her hair.
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’ll be fine. She’ll have to have a check-up every so often, but she doesn’t need chemotherapy. They caught it very quickly. Lorenzini said. . . .’
‘What?’ He rested his cheek on the top of her head. She was softening against him. ‘What did Lorenzini say?’
‘He said there was something wrong with you. He was afraid you might be ill. He said he couldn’t get a word out of you and that you didn’t look well. And he said—’
‘You’ve been spending a lot of time chatting to Lorenzini.’
‘Well, I could never find you. Besides, he was worried about you. You’re not really feeling ill?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s . . . I’ve had some really big problems with a case . . . serious problems. I tried and tried to call you and talk to you, but—’
‘A case? All this upset’s about a case? Salva, I know how much you care about your job, how important the army is to you, even if you grumble and pretend it’s not, but. . . .’
Her words cut him like razor blades. She turned in his arms and looked up at him.
‘Can’t you just do your best and leave it at that, like other men do?’
‘I do do my best.’
‘But you always get so upset! You can’t save everybody, you know. And look where it’s got you this time. You’ve got everybody worried, even Lorenzini—and he’s not one to take any notice when you get in one of your states.’
‘What states?’
‘You’ve upset me and got me rushing up here when I should be looking after Nunziata—and she doesn’t even know you’ve never asked about her. I had to pretend I’d talked to you and that you sent your love and were thinking about her.’
‘I have been thinking about her. But I thought she thought I—I thought she was annoyed with me for interfering, and you too. After what she called me.’
‘After . . . you’re not serious? That was a joke, Salva.’
‘No, no. She was right. I’ve no business to be deciding everything, controlling everyb
ody’s lives. It’s women who do all the work, and men just make a nuisance of themselves.’
‘What?’ She pulled back, staring up at him in alarm. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘No. I’m not all right. And it’s not true that I only care about my job, either—and I certainly don’t care about the army. You’re wrong about that. I’m tired of it, all of it. Totò’s right.’
‘Totò? What’s Totò got to do with it?’
‘He said I should get a proper job.’
‘When did he say that?’
‘Oh, years ago. . . .’
‘Years. . . . You are having problems with a case. What’s it all about? Come on, let’s go and sit down and you can get it off your chest. There’s no hurry to get the meal on. It’s early.’
‘No. I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t talk about it and I’ve told you, I’m tired of it all. If I got a proper job—’
‘You? You mean leave the army? You?’ She burst out laughing and gave him a hug. ‘All right. I’ll get the pasta on. You must be really hungry if it’s as tragic as that. Go and have a shower.’
He held on to her.
‘Go on! I can’t cook with you in the way.’
He went.
In the afternoon it rained. No fussing and storming, apart from some low, distant thunder. Just steady rain. A soothing, regular patter. He leaned back against the soft coolness of leather and closed his eyes for twenty minutes or so in front of the television. He was aware of the newsreader’s familiar voice and of Teresa moving about the flat, throwing back the shutters and opening the windows a little.
Once in a fresh uniform, ready to leave, he found her up a ladder with all the cupboards in the corridor open, pulling down parcelled-up winter woollies.
‘Might as well take advantage of a day of without the boys—switch that light on for me, will you? I can’t see what I’m doing.’
The rain-dark flat smelled of camphor.
He switched the light on and left.
He hadn’t told her.
He’d have to tell the prosecutor, though, and it was impossible to guess whether he’d be relieved or alarmed. Or could he get away with not telling him? He thought about it, sitting at his desk, watching the rain fall outside his open window. In the three months of his notice, going his own way, could he solve . . . solve what? Apart from the fact that he couldn’t, in any case, make a serious move without a warrant signed by the prosecutor, what could he possibly solve? His only real concern was to get those girls and, above all, the children, out of Paoletti’s clutches. But what about the death of his daughter? In the end, it might well be Nesti who blew the whole Paoletti setup apart and uncovered the murderer in the process. At that point, the prosecutor would be forced to issue the necessary warrants. The press had more power than a marshal of carabinieri. Who did he think he was? A private investigator with excellent computer skills and a dynamic personality? That advert said it all.
So what was he going to say to the prosecutor? Probably nothing. Or rather, ‘Yes, Mr. Prosecutor, no, Mr. Prosecutor,’ like on the phone. If he could only stay in his office, talking to the people who came into the waiting room, where he belonged. The calm that had enveloped him while he was safe in his quarters, with Teresa moving quietly about, was leaving him, as the cold fat toad of anxiety squatting in his insides began to stir.
He got up and looked out at the waiting room. Nobody. Some wet footprints on the floor, a forgotten umbrella. He looked in at the duty room. The lads there were intent on their work and didn’t even notice him. He couldn’t put it off. And much as he would have preferred to be alone, he couldn’t walk to the Procura in the rain either. He closed his window and summoned the youngest of his carabinieri to drive him. They got as far as the top of the staircase and stopped.
The youngster snapped to attention and stood back. The marshal reopened the door and held it.
‘Captain. . . .’
Captain Maestrangelo reached the top of the staircase and came in without a word. His face was dark.
The two of them went into the marshal’s office and sat down. They made no polite conversation. They were neither of them adept at it. Looking at him now, the marshal realized that Maestrangelo’s face wasn’t dark with anger, as sometimes happened, but with what seemed like pain. There were deep shadows under his eyes. Instead of reproaches, the marshal received only a request: ‘If you wouldn’t mind . . . a glass of water.’
The marshal stood up and went to get it himself.
The captain swallowed some pills, drank a little more of the water, and murmured: ‘Bad headache. Politically sensitive cases are a headache in both senses. . . .’
‘The gypsy business. . . . Of course. I’m sorry. I mean I’m sorry that, on top of that, I had to. . . .’
‘No.’ The captain took the letter of resignation from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the desk. ‘No. Under no circumstances can I accept this. Whatever’s wrong will be sorted out, but you’re not going to resign.’
Not knowing at all what he should say, the marshal said nothing. The captain was a soft-spoken man, but today his voice was exceptionally low, as though the noise of it hurt his head.
‘I know you have a family member sick, down at home. If that’s the problem, leave tomorrow. Go down to Syracuse, do what needs doing, and if you have to commute between here and there for a time, then do that. Be here to put your signature on the daily orders often enough so that I’m covered; and if the expense of the flights is a problem, I’ll find a way to solve it.’
Still the marshal said nothing. He was both amazed and touched by what he’d heard, but it didn’t change anything.
‘That’s not the problem, then?’
‘No. No, that’s not. . . .’
‘You must forgive me. I haven’t had the time to follow much of this case you’re on, but I saw in my morning’s batch of cuttings that there’s some scandal concerning this man, the victim’s father.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your problem’s with this case, then?’
The marshal planted his big hands on his knees and stared down at them.
‘I am your superior officer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But I can’t order you to reveal anything covered by the secrecy of your investigation.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Guarnaccia. . . .’
The marshal stared down at his hands. He listened to the rain.
‘Is there no way at all for me to help you?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve written a report for the Procura of Genoa. Will you tell me whether I should address it to the Chief Public Prosecutor there—or is the Inspectorate . . . I’ve no experience in this sort of thing, and it’s important that no time is wasted. It’s very urgent.’
He raised his head now, wanting to transmit that urgency without any further explanation. They looked each other in the eyes for what seemed like a long time and he thought, This is the only man in the world I really trust. He almost weakened. The temptation to un- load this burden was almost too much for him. Almost, but not quite. He wasn’t going to put Maestrangelo at risk. So he looked down at his hands again and waited.
The captain took out his pen and wrote on a sheet of paper which the marshal had passed across the desk.
‘Given the urgency, you should transmit it. I’ll have to make a phone call. Excuse me.’ He called his own office for the E-mail address and wrote it underneath the name. The marshal took the sheet of paper from him.
‘Thank you.’ It was done.
Maestrangelo took another sip of water. He didn’t get up to leave. He was frowning, and his eyes seemed dazed with pain.
The letter of resignation still lay there on the desk between them.
‘I’m sorry, Guarnaccia. I really am. We both knew from the start that this prosecutor . . . I said you’d be all right and, though I’ve examined my conscience since receiving your letter, I really thought you woul
d be all right. You’ve worked with him before. . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘The first time, if I’m not mistaken, was in my absence.’
‘You were away on holiday, yes.’
‘Yes. And I might as well have been away on holiday this time, too, it seems.’
‘No, no. . . .’
‘And then, I’ve always felt you were so much better at dealing with people than I could ever be—but these are not excuses. I’ve neglected you. I’ve let you down. And there’s no excuse for that. My first duty of care is to you, not to the mayor. That you should come to this . . . without my even being aware that you were in difficulty— I’ll tell you the truth, Guarnaccia: If there’s one thing that grieves me more than the idea of losing you, it’s losing your trust. That’s just vanity, I suppose.’
‘No. No, that’s not right, not right at all. You haven’t— no, no . . . it’s what I have to do. It’s better if the responsibility’s mine, believe me.’
‘I am your superior officer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Taking responsibility is what I’m here for. The only reason for keeping this report of yours to yourself is that revealing its content to me would compromise your investigation. Would it?’
Why couldn’t he leave it? Go back to his office, get on with his life, his career. He was too clever at talking.
‘Would it compromise your investigation?’
‘No.’ It would compromise you, though. Don’t insist. Please don’t insist—but wasn’t that what Piazza had said? Don’t insist, Guarnaccia. And he had gone his own way because he was incapable of any other. ‘Your little independent ways . . . ,’ as the prosecutor said.
‘And yet you insist on taking it upon yourself to be the only one responsible. You’re not. That’s not how the army works. It may be how you work inside your own head; but have you thought about what happens if what you’re trying to do goes wrong? Are you sure you’re capable of dealing with whatever this problem is, all alone? It’s clearly something very serious indeed, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m the last person to doubt your capabilities, Guarnaccia. I’m just saying think about the consequences—you know what they would be, I don’t—if this report is inadequate in some way, if it doesn’t communicate the urgency, the seriousness which I—knowing you and trusting you—believe in without question. Just remember that you’re sending it to someone who doesn’t know you and without my recommendation.’
Vita Nuova Page 15
