Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  Ciuffi said, “She’s not a virgin.”

  He laughed, then hid his mouth with his hand. “She gave you her life story?”

  They walked down the steps.

  It was not yet nine o’clock and the city was coming alive. There hung on the air the smell of methylated spirit. Neatly dressed girls cleaning their shop windows.

  A low mist, still chill with the memory of the night, hovered over the city.

  “Being raped is not a laughing matter, Commissario. It is debasing. A human being—a woman—is treated like an animal; with less respect than an animal. I think that Signorina Podestà merits the benefit of the doubt.” She held her head to one side, frowning and in thought. She took short steps. The leather shoes were silent on the pavement. “It is possible that she’s making it all up—it’s possible. But when so many women are raped—are being raped every day—and they don’t dare come forward … And when those women who do have the courage to come forward are dismissed as merely sex-starved spinsters …” She shook her head. “That’s too easy, Commissario.” Another vigorous shake. She was not looking at him but at the ground. “Too easy. And it’s not fair.”

  “Signorina Podestà’s not my idea of who I’d like to rape.”

  “You’d like to rape someone, Commissario?”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant. But if I was going to exert force for my …” He hesitated. “If I wanted to force myself upon a woman, there are a lot of women I’d think of before I’d think of Signorina Podestà.”

  “You’d rape me, Commissario?”

  “Of course not,” he answered hurriedly. “And anyway, you’re not the sort of woman to allow yourself to be raped.”

  “Then you think that there are women who like to be raped and others who don’t?”

  “That’s not what I meant. But with your police training, I’m sure you could look after yourself. Of course, you are an attractive young woman …”

  “You are a gentleman.” The young face broke into an unexpected smile. It was like sunshine in a cloudy sky. “But men will rape anybody—anybody or anything that moves. Including ninety-year-old women.”

  They reached the car and, while Ciuffi unlocked the door, Trotti looked at her. Her job in the Questura was hardening her; three years of dealing with the dregs of society had seriously shaken her faith in human nature. She was learning to conceal innocence beneath a series of masks, masks of hardness which she was assuming to protect her own decency.

  She caught his look and gave Trotti a hurried smile.

  “What did Podestà tell you about herself, Brigadiere?”

  They got into the car.

  “She just said that she had never married. She’d looked after her mother. But that she had once lived with a man.”

  “You pronounce the word man with disapproval.”

  Ciuffi turned on the engine and they left the parking lot. As they went past the Bar Dante, a couple of officers from the Questura looked out at the car and one of them said something to his companion who laughed.

  “A married man—a school teacher. She said that they lived together for five years. On and off. Then she discovered that he had been having an affair with her sister—a mentally retarded woman. In the end he went back to his own wife and family.”

  “They still meet?”

  “She didn’t tell me, Commissario.”

  “And you think she was raped?”

  For a moment, Ciuffi did not speak. They took via Aldo Moro—the plaques had been recently embedded into the brick walls outside the Civic Museum—and headed towards the edge of the city.

  “You think she was telling the truth? Tell me, Brigadiere. You’re a woman. You have your intuition.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “Not at all. But I want to know whether you think it’s worth my following up the whole thing—lose hours over an army buckle that was allegedly left by her phantom rapist. Or whether I could be spending my time—and yours—in other fields of enquiry.”

  The traffic lights and then the canal. Ciuffi drove well. Trotti noticed several foreign number plates—the tail-end of the tourist season, one or two adventurous travelers who had ventured beyond the Certosa eight kilometers up the road.

  Ciuffi spoke slowly. “I don’t think she’s lying.”

  Trotti noticed the hesitation in her voice. He waited.

  “But yesterday …” she started, then stopped.

  “Yes?”

  A different voice, a different subject. “It’s not for me to complain, Commissario, but I would appreciate more support from Pisanelli. You said we should work as a team.”

  “What happened yesterday, Brigadiere?”

  “Pisanelli is supposed to be working for you and not for Commissario Merenda.”

  “Merenda’s a nuisance and I’d be grateful if he used his own men rather than poaching mine.”

  Her hands were delicate and clean. She moved the steering wheel with short precise movements. A smile at the edge of her lips.

  They reached the bridge just as the Genoa train pulled out of the station below them. “A lot of people believe that Commissario Merenda is bringing new life to the Questura. New life and new dynamism.”

  “Then he doesn’t need Pisanelli.” Trotti’s voice was cold. “What happened yesterday, Ciuffi?”

  Another layer of mask.

  “Well, Brigadiere?”

  “I checked with the registry office.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that the records show Signora Vardin is not the first Signora Vardin.”

  “What?”

  “His second wife.”

  The traffic policeman in the middle of the road beckoned them on. He glanced at their number plate but there was no recognition in his eyes as he watched Trotti and Ciuffi drive past. He did not salute.

  Past the enormous billboard advertising the local fur atelier.

  “Is that important?”

  “It could be.” The mask now hid all emotion. “Because it means that little Laura and Antonetta are not sisters.”

  “Of course they’re sisters.”

  “The same mother, Commissario. But not the same father. They are stepsisters. And from what I can gather, they don’t get on very well. Netta seems to think that Laura is too spoiled. They quarrel quite a lot it seems. They even fight.”

  21: Incubator

  THE MASKS HAD been dropped, Trotti noticed as he moved towards the incubator.

  “Ivan,” the young doctor said softly as she came to Trotti’s side. “We’ve christened him Ivan.”

  They had placed the baby under the plastic dome and he now lay asleep, naked on the sheet. Tubes ran into his arm and into his nostril. They were anchored with plasters. The face and hands were slightly darker than the rest of the body.

  “Another few hours and he would have died.”

  “Such a little thing,” Ciuffi said. It was as if her face had been lit up.

  There was a clip on the lower belly and Trotti noticed that the doctors had neatly cut the umbilical cord. A bandage on his forehead. The face was strangely old and the spiky hair gave the impression of a grown child.

  Ivan slept with his minute fists clenched.

  “He was kept alive by the good weather we have been having—and by the rain at night. The human body can survive without food—but not without water. These last few days, the weather has grown chill.”

  Trotti turned.

  “Another night of exposure could have killed him.” An acrylic glass door in the wall of the incubator. The doctor opened it and carefully changed the position of the sleeping baby.

  The skin of the groin and at the elbows was wrinkled and reminded Trotti of chicken flesh. He moved away.

  The doctor smiled. “I think we were all taken aback. Not every day that you see a newborn child crawling with worms. And a full-length umbilical cord.”

  “An attempted abortion?”

  �
�Not possible. It was a bit late for that sort of thing. He weighs two kilos, eight hundred grams. You’re a big boy, aren’t you, precious?” She made gentle sounds and Ciuffi moved to her side, looking down at the minute body. The doctor smiled at Ciuffi and then closed the door. She ran her finger down the scale on the thermostat.

  “If the mother didn’t want the baby, couldn’t she have had an abortion earlier—before it was too late?” Ciuffi asked.

  The doctor looked at the young policewoman thoughtfully, then shrugged. She wore a gold crucifix at her neck and the lead of her stethoscope hung from the pocket of her blouse. Not very attractive, but with a kind, intelligent face. Blonde bristles along her upper lip and freckles on the back of her hands. “It’s not unheard of for mothers to murder their children.” Her lipstick was a bright red and ran over the edge of the lips at the corners of her mouth.

  Trotti said, “It’s abnormal.”

  “We are all abnormal at some time or another, signore.” She turned to give him a blank stare.

  Trotti held out his hand. “Commissario Trotti, Squadra Mobile.”

  They shook hands; her grasp was firm. “Dottoressa Silvan.” She added, “Stefanella Silvan.”

  “And this is Brigadiere Ciuffi.”

  The two women exchanged brief—almost conspiratorial—smiles.

  “And now?”

  “And now, Commissario?”

  Trotti asked, “What’s going to happen to the child?”

  She shrugged. “With a bit of luck he should grow into a healthy young boy. Nothing wrong with him that food and warmth can’t solve. And love. Above all, love.”

  Ciuffi bit her lower lip. “But there will be problems?”

  “Not necessarily. There’s a risk of pneumonia and we’ve put him on antibiotics. But he’s tough, our Ivan.”

  “And who’s going to look after him?”

  “Look after him? You don’t think we’re doing a good enough job?”

  He shook his head. “But once he leaves here. Will he go back to his mother?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Very unlikely. Probably he will be sent to the Institute—and then I imagine he will be adopted.”

  “Adopted,” Trotti repeated and he turned back to look at the sleeping baby.

  “I am sure there are a lot of loving people who would like to look after Ivan.”

  Trotti frowned. “How many days did he spend like that?”

  “At least a couple.” Although her face was prematurely wrinkled she had a nice smile. “Have faith in the human body. It clings to life.” Her pale eyes looked at Trotti playfully. “We all cling to life—it’s all we have.”

  “He will be adopted, you say.”

  “In his way, he has been lucky. If it hadn’t been for Commissario Merenda, we would never have found the child. And that other nice policeman.”

  “Nice policeman?” Trotti looked at her and laughed. “Not a contradiction?”

  She raised a hand to the side of her head. “The policeman with hair over his ears—and none on top.” She added, “And with a suede jacket. An old suede jacket.”

  “Pisanelli.”

  “That’s right. He was concerned. He was very good with the mother.” She gave Trotti a shrewd glance. “I think Signor Pisanelli understands female psychology.” She moved towards the incubator and looked down at the sleeping child. “A lucky boy, aren’t you, Ivan?”

  “Ivan would have been a lot luckier if his mother hadn’t dumped him in the middle of the field.”

  “Perhaps she had no choice.”

  “She had the choice long before the child was ever conceived.”

  “Have you ever carried a child in your belly, Commissario?”

  He shrugged. “It’d be a bit difficult.”

  “Then I don’t think you’re in a position to judge a woman. Do you?”

  Ciuffi was still smiling.

  22: Police Woman

  THE SUN HAD risen above the veil of mist that hung over the city.

  “Are you coming with me to see Signor Vardin?”

  “But you haven’t looked at the dossier yet, Commissario.”

  “The dossier?”

  The policewoman allowed a brief smile to flicker across her lips. The serge uniform suited her. She wore just a hint of lipstick. “You told me you wanted to know how Vardin was involved with the AVIS transfusion center.” She took the folder from under her arm. “I was working on it until late last night. By myself.”

  “Then why didn’t you give it to me?”

  The young face hesitated between amusement and irritation. The eyes looked tired, weary. “When I wanted to give it to you in the Questura, you said you were coming to the hospital.”

  “Poor bastard,” Trotti said.

  “Pisanelli? There’s nothing poor about him—just lazy.” She pursed her lips.

  “A poor child, Ivan—being left like that by his mother.” Trotti took her by the arm. “Come,” he said, but she had stopped still. In the hospital, in front of the incubator and the sleeping form of the baby, Ciuffi had been subdued, silenced by the miracle of birth, the miracle of life. Now she was reassuming her own identity, her own slightly querulous assertiveness. She stood with her arms folded, the file held to her chest.

  They were beside the entrance to Ostetrica. In the hospital grounds, the leaves on the chestnut trees were already beginning to turn brown. The ground was damp with patches of dew in the shadows. Somewhere somebody was whistling—an old, almost forgotten tune. Trotti tried to remember the name. A song from the past.

  “Pisanelli is not being very helpful at the present moment.”

  Trotti said, “Pisanelli has his own way of doing things.” He shrugged. “The lady doctor seemed very impressed.”

  “You asked me to find out about Vardin—and the AVIS blood bank.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t see why I have got to do everything by myself in archives. I am not a secretary, you know.” She pursed her lips again. “I worked as a secretary for three years. And I hated it. That’s why I joined the PS.”

  “Signorina Ciuffi, we must all play our part. We’re members of the same team.”

  “Then why doesn’t Pisanelli play his?”

  “Pisanelli is a good policeman—it’s just that he likes to do things in his own way.”

  “And in his own time—when all the footwork has already been done for him.” Ciuffi pulled her arm from Trotti’s hand and turned away. The muscles of her jaw were taut and her nostrils were pinched.

  A doctor parked his car—Swiss registration from the Ticino canton—and climbed out. He brushed past Trotti and entered the building, leaving a faint odor of antiseptic and tobacco.

  The whistling stopped and then started again. Perhaps a janitor or a cleaning woman in the maternity section. And the repeated melody that Trotti could not put a name to.

  There was a packet of Charms in Trotti’s pocket. “A sweet, Brigadiere Ciuffi?”

  She shook her head.

  Trotti put an aniseed-flavored Charm in his mouth. “A bit of sugar in the bloodstream can calm your nerves.”

  “My nerves don’t need calming. I need support. And help. I don’t see why Pisanelli thinks he can go off when he pleases.”

  “Go off where?”

  “To the hospital.”

  “There’s no need. The baby has been found.”

  “He’s getting married.” Ciuffi shrugged. “He’s getting married to a nurse.”

  A dry laugh. “Pisanelli has been about to get married for the last three years. Two years ago, it was with a little slip of a girl from the university.”

  “If we’re to work as a team, Pisanelli must help.”

  “You heard what the lady doctor said. Pisanelli understands women.”

  “A pig-headed phallocrat, you mean.” She spat the words out, “A balding, ineffectual, greasy phallocrat. And stupid. And ugly, too.”

  “Pisanelli?”

  Ciuffi looked at Tro
tti carefully before answering. The young eyes were tinted with blood. Ciuffi had not been getting enough sleep. “Pisanelli,” she said. “And all the other men in the wretched Questura.”

  “A bit harsh, Brigadiere?”

  “It’s not always easy for a woman.”

  “You do very well.” He slipped into the familiar “tu” form.

  Ciuffi seemed not to notice the change in the form of address; it was as if she were talking to herself. “After all, what are we women but poor, weak, mindless creatures?”

  “Single-minded.”

  “There you are wrong, Commissario.” She shook her head. “Competent—just like men. No better, no worse.” Ciuffi looked up at Trotti.

  “What have you found out for me?”

  “On Vardin?”

  Trotti nodded.

  She folded her arms before answering. “I told you—the two girls, Netta and Laura, are half-sisters. They don’t get on very well.”

  “And Vardin—what do you know about Vardin?”

  She took the dossier from under her arm. “At least Maserati and Schipisi were willing to help. Most of the stuff is on the database.”

  “Database?”

  “Maserati has filed everything onto his computer.”

  Trotti raised an eyebrow. He took Ciuffi gently but firmly by the arm and started walking towards the main entrance of the hospital. “I think we could do with some breakfast.”

  She looked at her watch. “At half past nine, Signor Commissario?”

  Verdi, of course, Trotti told himself, recognizing the whistle as an aria from Simone Boccanegra.

  One of the porters got up from his broken chair in the entrance hall and saluted as they went past. Trotti led Ciuffi across the road and they entered the Bar Golliardico. The smell of roasted coffee and fresh lemons.

  Two girls were playing on the pinball table. One of them wore a loose necklace and a cigarette hung from her lips. They had placed their medical textbooks on the top of the pinball table. Electronic bleeping and the slightly raucous laughter of the girls.

  “Something strong perhaps? A grappa? Or brandy? To cheer you up.”

  “While on duty?” Ciuffi gave him a worried glance. “A cup of coffee will do. I don’t need cheering up.”