Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  Trotti walked slowly home. Beneath the bright lamps, the street was empty. The air was still warm, but not as warm as it had been the previous weeks. The first hint of autumn.

  Trotti pushed open the garden gate and went up the steps. Lost in thought, he glanced absentmindedly at the potted plants that needed watering. Eight o’clock in the evening and, as he turned the key in the lock, he closed his eyes and made a silent prayer. He felt the temptation to return to the hospital. By being there, perhaps he could help.

  Trotti let himself into the house and immediately recognized the reassuring, familiar smell. A smell of floor polish and emptiness. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  Pioppi’s bear was there, sitting on the wardrobe and staring down at him with its dusty glass eyes.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Cheese from the hills, milk. There was lasagne the housekeeper had made him and which he had not touched. Trotti was not hungry. The wine and truffles still lay heavy on his stomach. He poured himself half a glass of chilled mineral water and turned on the television. Cold bubbles jumped from the glass onto his hand.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw again the small, sunburnt face.

  He tried to concentrate on the television program. Maggots and dried blood.

  Half an hour later the front door bell rang.

  “Do you still go to church, Piero?”

  Trotti said nothing, but held out his hand. “Come in.” He smiled and led the man into the kitchen.

  “More than forty years ago, Piero. You had a lovely voice.”

  “Have you eaten, Fra Gianni?”

  “Turn the television off,” Fra Gianni said peremptorily and sat down. “And give me a glass of wine.” He nodded to the bottle of wine that stood beneath the sink. “You always said, Piero Trotti, that you were going to become a priest.”

  Trotti switched the television off. “And instead I became a policeman, for my sins.”

  “You have done well.” Fra Gianni took the glass and raised it to his mouth. “You still go to church?”

  “My wife has left me, you know.”

  The dark eyes stared at the younger man and there was a smile at the corner of his lips.

  “She wants a divorce.”

  “What do you want, Piero?”

  “Agnese was never very happy with me.”

  “Other things to marriage than happiness—I don’t have to tell you that, Piero. There is a home, there are the children.”

  “I have scarcely seen my daughter in eighteen months.” Trotti shrugged. “Pioppi’s gone to Bologna to study—and she only writes when she needs money.”

  “Like you, Piero, Pioppi is stubborn. But at least she is eating now. If you hadn’t sent her to that place near Ravenna, she’d have died of anorexia.”

  “I miss her company.”

  Between the old, gnarled hands and the long fingers, Fra Gianni held his glass of wine. He was leaning forward on the kitchen chair, his elbows on his thighs. The gentle features were friendly but he had aged and the skin appeared parched. Behind the tired face, Trotti could recognize the young country priest that Giovanni Batelli had once been.

  “Now that Pioppi can look after herself, her mother has decided to live her own life. Without me and without her daughter. She phoned the other day to tell me that she’s living with an American … a rich American.” Trotti smiled. “But it wasn’t to hear my life story that you have driven down to the city, Father. I am boring you.”

  He produced a cigarette from his pocket. “You will give her a divorce?”

  “I know how the Church feels about divorce.” Trotti raised his shoulders. “But if Agnese wants her freedom, why should I stop her? She was never happy with me. The least I can do is give her the chance of finding happiness with somebody else.”

  “The Church and divorce.” Fra Gianni’s smile was apologetic. “We really are too old-fashioned. Time for a change … I am not alone in thinking that there are more important problems facing the Church than sexual behavior and birth control.” The smile broadened. “When I see a beautiful woman I can’t help feeling that the Kingdom of Heaven is here on Earth.” He paused. “I am sorry to hear about Agnese. She is a very beautiful woman.” He held out the packet of filterless cigarettes. “You smoke?”

  “I gave up more than twelve years ago—and since then I have been addicted to cheap boiled sweets.” Trotti shrugged. “One of the things about me Agnese couldn’t stand.”

  Fra Gianni lit the cigarette, inhaled and then held it between his finger and his thumb. It was a habit that Trotti had forgotten about. He looked at the old priest and felt a flood of affection for him.

  “I still think you should have stayed with the church, Piero.”

  “And then I wouldn’t even have a daughter. No, no …” Trotti laughed. “I have been happy with my wife and daughter—and like all good things …”

  “You also had a brother.”

  “Italo?”

  The name hung in the warm air of the kitchen. Outside in the street, someone was whistling.

  “A long time ago,” Trotti said.

  The priest took another long drag on the cigarette. He was wearing an old jacket. The dark trousers were frayed at the cuffs.

  Trotti said, “I saw him when he came out of the hospital. Mother and I went to fetch him at the station in Voghera. Italo was already dead.”

  “You saw him at Voghera?”

  “Italo had been my hero. In his uniform he was handsome and I looked up to him.” Trotti paused. “I was young and I believed in it all. Everybody in Santa Maria did—we believed in Fascism and we believed in Mussolini. And then Italo went off to fight. To Africa and then to Spain. We never saw him. For seven years we never saw him. Just the letters that he would write. And then he wrote to Mother telling her he was being sent to Russia. You hadn’t come to the village yet—this was before September 1943. I think Mother must have prayed every day. And in the end her prayers were answered.”

  The old priest had closed his eyes.

  “We went to the station at Voghera, Mother and I. We knew he had been wounded—but he was Italo, he was my brother. I never … Italo—the brother I had loved and admired for all those years … He could scarcely speak. His mind had gone. It had started to wander.” Trotti bit nervously at his lip. “Sometimes I think the Fascists were doing him a favor when they put the gun to the back of his head.”

  Fra Gianni shook his head. His hair—in 1944, when he was chaplain to the partisans, he had the long black hair of a matinée idol and more than one girl had fallen in love with him—was now white and thin. He looked long and emaciated as he leaned back in the chair, with his hands holding the half-empty glass and loosely folded over the slight paunch.

  The clock ticked on the refrigerator.

  (Mother had always spoken well of Fra Gianni.)

  The smell of war came back: the smell and the taste of the coarse maize bread that had been Trotti’s staple diet through the long winter.

  “I think your mother knew, Piero.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Italo was badly injured. But he could have been called up by the Fascists. By the puppet government at Salò. They were desperate times and there were spies everywhere. Perhaps he shouldn’t have lied to you—but I still believe it was a good thing. You were sixteen. A life in the hills, fighting for a just cause … the sort of thing that would set a boy’s romantic mind ablaze. Your mother didn’t want that for you, Piero—and neither did Italo.” Fra Gianni raised the glass and held it against his chest. “His mind was as lucid as ever it had been. He was not sick in his head—but he was sick of war, and he did not want to go back, return to fight for a lost cause and empty words. Russia had cured him of all that.”

  Forty years.

  “Russia.”

  The telephone rang and the sudden sound caught both men by surprise.

  Trotti went into the hall.

  The priest finished the glass o
f wine and stared at the blank screen of the television. When Trotti returned he was smiling.

  “Good news, Piero?”

  “A call from the hospital. Somebody—a friend—I thought he was going to die …”

  “A friend?”

  “A little boy—and nothing wrong with him.” Trotti took the wine bottle and filled the two glasses before sitting down. “I feel like celebrating.”

  “Then let’s celebrate.” Gianni held out his glass.

  The two men smiled at each other and drank.

  “We were talking about your brother.”

  The lingering smile disappeared. “Fra Gianni—what difference does it all make? Italo’s been dead for a long time—and Mother died last spring.”

  “Italo lived with the Garibaldi Brigade. He never fought, he never carried a gun—but he helped with the cooking and did chores. He had seen too much fighting and he had seen too much blood spilled.”

  Trotti had begun to shake his head. “I don’t want to know, Fra Gianni. I don’t want to know.”

  “You loved your brother, Piero.”

  “I still put flowers on the grave.”

  “But he was murdered, Piero.”

  “The Fascists, the Repubblichini killed him. They admitted to it; all that came out at the end of the war, during the trials. They murdered him when the Germans regained control of Santa Maria.”

  The priest said simply, “They are still murdering in Santa Maria.”

  9: Bear

  “A FRIEND OF yours?”

  Pisanelli wore a flower in his buttonhole. He held the door open.

  Trotti did not reply. He got into the car and placed the bear on the back seat.

  “You look tired, Commissario—both of you.”

  “I was up late talking to an old friend.” He gestured towards the back seat. “As for the bear, he’s not tired, just astigmatic. Been astigmatic for the last twenty years.”

  “You’d better have a look at the Provincia. They’re having a field day with it.” Pisanelli had not turned off the ignition and now he pulled the black Mirafiore out into the traffic. “Where to?”

  “Field day with what, Pisanelli?”

  “A rapist at large, a monster. Trying to frighten the readers. Trying to create hysteria in the city.”

  “That’s what makes papers sell.”

  “Where do you want me to take you?”

  “The hospital.” Trotti glanced at him. “And thanks for coming to fetch me, Pisanelli.”

  “On the phone you told me to be here.”

  “I didn’t tell you to be half an hour late.”

  The familiar, sheepish grin. “A bit of a celebration last night. The doctors were amazed—they couldn’t believe it. For nearly forty-eight hours the woman refused to talk—forty-eight hours while Ivan …”

  “Ivan?”

  “That’s what the nurses in Ostetrica have christened the little boy. Ivan the Terrible. A nice crowd of girls, very friendly …”

  “I don’t wish to know that.”

  Pisanelli repressed a smile. “The baby was exposed, quite naked and unprotected. Two days and two nights out in the open. At San Matteo they cleaned him up—he was crawling with lice—and they put him in the incubator. And the only thing wrong with him is mild pneumonia.”

  “So he’s going to survive?”

  Pisanelli nodded like a pleased child.

  “Does that mean that you won’t be going on any wild chases today, Pisanelli? Does it mean that Commissario Merenda won’t be needing your services? And does it mean that perhaps I can ask you to carry out one or two little chores for me?”

  Pisanelli’s smile vanished.

  “Perhaps even ask you to help Brigadiere Ciuffi? If you don’t mind, of course.”

  Pisanelli frowned, concentrating on driving.

  “A few little chores concerned with the Vardin enquiry—but of course, nothing too strenuous.” He tapped Pisanelli’s lapel. “After all, you are celebrating. Celebrating with Commissario Merenda and his men. And the nice nurses in Ostetrica.”

  Pisanelli leaned forward in his seat.

  “I’m sure that Brigadiere Ciuffi would appreciate some logistic support. Or at least your presence.”

  Pisanelli spoke in a flat voice. “Brigadiere Ciuffi manages to get by without needing anybody’s help.”

  “Don’t you believe it.”

  “The trouble with Brigadiere Ciuffi—”

  “You said something about the paper, Pisanelli?”

  “Brigadiere Ciuffi would get a lot more cooperation if she—”

  “Where is the article, Pisanelli?”

  “The front page.”

  The air was already tinted with the exhaust of the commuter traffic. The pavements along the outer boulevards of the city were filling up with erratically parked cars.

  They reached the traffic lights in via Milano, went over the canal and took the direction of the autostrada. Pisanelli drove awkwardly, putting his foot on the brake and then accelerating aggressively from the lights.

  Trotti tried to read the article. There was a picture of Piazza Castello and another of the Vardin’s living room. The print of the photograph was coarse and the details were unclear. A MONSTER, ran the headline, ATTACKS SLEEPING SCHOOLGIRL. In smaller letters: CAN THE POLICE PROTECT US? ARE THE WOMEN OF OUR CITY SAFE?

  “Well?” Trotti said.

  “And that?” Without taking his eyes off the road—they were approaching the railway bridge—Pisanelli tapped the bottom part of the page. “A secretary attacked,” Trotti read. “Another victim of the same monster?” He held the paper up but the movement of the car caused the printed lines to dance in front of his eyes. “What does it say?”

  “Read the article, Commissario.”

  “How can I read it when you’re driving this car over cobbles?”

  “There are no cobbles.”

  “Drive a bit more smoothly.”

  “A woman has been attacked.”

  “When?”

  “At home. In bed. At night, while she was sleeping.”

  “And she informed the police?”

  Pisanelli gave a slight shake of his head.

  “How did the Provincia know about her?”

  Pisanelli stamped on the brake.

  Trotti was tugged forward. His forehead would have hit the windshield had he not been held back by the belt.

  “For God’s sake, Pisanelli.”

  “Commissario?”

  Trotti straightened his tie. “And her address?”

  “Who?”

  “This woman who was attacked.”

  “Somewhere near Ciel d’Oro.”

  “I want to get out of this car. Drop me off at the hospital.”

  Pisanelli said, “Can I go over to Ostetrica?”

  “Follow it up, would you, Pisanelli? Find this woman who says she’s been raped and—”

  “I’d like to get over to Ostetrica.”

  “Get her address. Contact La Provincia.”

  Pisanelli repressed a sigh. “This woman, whoever she is, will be at work on a Monday morning.”

  “Perhaps you can take Ciuffi—she should know how to ask intelligent questions. Just take notes—and shake your head if you think it’s necessary. Get a statement from the woman and see if you can get her to come in for a picture on the computer.”

  “Shall I see you later, Commissario?”

  “I’ll make my way back to the Questura from the hospital.” Trotti put his hand on the door handle. “You didn’t use to drive so aggressively. Not in love again, are you, Pisanelli?”

  “I beg your pardon, Commissario.”

  “You can drop me off here.”

  The car stopped at the railway bridge and Trotti turned in his seat and picked up the bear. “When you’ve finished with the raped woman, help Ciuffi find the boy.” He opened the door and climbed out of the car.

  “The boy?”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to wear
a carnation, Pisanelli?” Trotti slammed the door shut—a middle-aged man on the city pavement during the Monday morning rush hour, holding a moth-eaten teddy bear under his arm.

  Somewhere in the city, beyond the ocher walls and the red tiles of the rooftops, a siren began to wail.

  “No call for a flower in your buttonhole. You’re not getting married today, Pisanelli.” Trotti lowered his head and looked at Pisanelli’s disgruntled face. “Or are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The Bianchini kid—see if you can find out where he is.”

  Wearily Pisanelli asked, “Who’s he?”

  “Ciuffi’ll explain everything.”

  Pisanelli put the car into gear.

  “One other thing, Pisanelli.”

  “Commissario?” Pisanelli did not look at him.

  “Ivan’s mother—how did you get her to tell you where she had hidden her baby?”

  “I did as you told me, Commissario—I threatened to seduce her.”

  Against his will, Trotti found himself smiling.

  10: Ward

  “WELL?”

  “I would like to see the child.”

  “What child?”

  “The girl that was attacked in her bed.”

  “It is too early for visiting hours.”

  “I told you. I am Commissario Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.” He was not sure whether it was the same woman he had seen the previous day. If not, the two nuns looked remarkably alike: stocky, the wide coiffe that hid the ungentle face.

  “You told me nothing.”

  “I am telling you now.”

  “It is too early to see the child.”

  “Sister …”

  “This is very irregular.” She turned away and said, “You’d better follow me.” She took short steps down the empty hospital corridor.

  Trotti followed the small woman.

  “You don’t think she’s a bit old for dolls?”

  “We all need affection, sister. Some of us find it in marrying Jesus. Don’t begrudge children the joy of loving a bit of cloth and stuffing and a couple of glass eyes.”

  “You laugh at me.” She stopped so suddenly that he almost walked in to her. She held out a thick, short finger. She had pale eyes and no eyelashes. “I could have married—I could have had children. Don’t laugh at what you can’t understand. I didn’t have to become a nun.” She spoke in a flat monotone. “If loving Jesus means emptying bedpans, I am not ashamed of my love for Him.” She turned again. “This way please.”