Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  “Who attacked her?”

  “Laura?”

  Trotti nodded and gave a sideways glance at Ciuffi.

  “A madman, I suppose.” She pronounced her words with difficulty. “A sexual maniac.”

  “Nobody ever threatened you, signora? You or your husband? Or the girls?”

  The eyes were brown—like those of a cow at pasture. Signora Vardin shook her head.

  “And the name Galandra means nothing to you?”

  “Galandra?” Signora Vardin thought for a moment. She frowned and looked down at her shapeless slippers on the cold, stone floor. Then she nodded slowly. “A long time ago. That was when my husband was working at the AVIS.” A pause. “It was a good job at the AVIS—he got it because the priest helped him. And with his lungs he could no longer work in the quarries.

  Ciuffi said, “Galandra came out of jail earlier this year.”

  The light of understanding began to dawn upon her face. “You think my husband has been receiving threats from Galandra?”

  “Galandra has spent the last seven years in prison. In Verona. Sent there thanks largely to the testimony of your husband.”

  “My husband is a very proud man,” she said simply.

  “Signora Vardin,” Trotti said, “I think you’d better show me the gun.”

  The chair creaked as the woman placed her hands flat on her thighs and wearily stood up. She was wearing a black blouse and beneath it her body was shapeless. She wore ankle socks.

  An old body battered by a life of hard work. Difficult to believe that not much more than a decade earlier she had been fertile, that she had given birth to Laura.

  Signora Vardin left them and, walking heavily, she went into the bedroom.

  The sound of traffic came from Piazza Castello.

  Ciuffi said in a quiet voice, “You haven’t asked about the girls, Commissario.”

  Trotti glanced at Ciuffi and grinned. “You believe the older sister took a knife to Laura?”

  “Unlikely—particularly since the cousin Bettina was there. But it is just possible that as a stepfather—” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Stepfathers aren’t always very nice people.”

  “Vardin seems a kind person.” He placed his hand on the table. “These are good people—from the Friuli, country folk, undemanding and honest. And proud. The backbone of Italy—its only true wealth.”

  Ciuffi raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t forget that it was his blood-daughter—not Vardin’s stepdaughter—who was attacked.”

  “Strange how Vardin’s identikit of the attacker was so much like Riccardo.”

  “Perhaps it was Riccardo.”

  Ciuffi shook her head.

  “Or perhaps Vardin chose to make him look like his stepdaughter’s boyfriend.” He frowned. “What makes you think Riccardo couldn’t have attacked the little girl?”

  The sound of cupboards being opened and closed in the next room.

  “Riccardo’s not the type.”

  “We are all the type at some time or other. We are all capable of criminal behavior if the temptation is great enough.” Trotti unwrapped a boiled sweet and placed it in his mouth. “It’s possible Riccardo attacked her—just as it’s possible he attacked Signorina Podestà.” He took the belt buckle from his pocket and played with the sliding clasp. “But I’m not sure Riccardo is the type to wear army surplus. Lacoste and Enrico Coveri seem to be more his style.”

  Ciuffi laughed. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about clothes …”

  Trotti raised his shoulders. “A wife and a daughter—and magazines hanging round the house …”

  “Now you believe Signorina Podestà was raped, Commissario?”

  “A boy whose father has run off. A boy who has been smothered by his mother—and who is perhaps afraid of his own sexuality.”

  “A sweet boy.”

  “Don’t trust your emotions, signorina.”

  “Yet you trust Vardin, Commissario—just because he’s hard-working and from the Friuli.”

  “Don’t trust your emotions—and don’t trust appearances. I was once a sweet boy.”

  Ciuffi stretched out her hand, and ran the index finger lightly across his knuckles. “Hard to believe.” Her eyes—no longer tired—watched his. There was a smile at the corner of her lips.

  Signora Vardin appeared in the doorway.

  Ciuffi quickly removed her hand.

  The plump, white arms hung at her side. “I don’t understand,” Signora Vardin said. In one hand she held a cheap canvas case—a case for holding a rifle. “He keeps it in this but the gun is not there.” The cow-like eyes looked at Trotti and the young police woman. “I didn’t see my husband take his gun this morning.”

  26: Gino

  “WE’RE NOT GOING to look for Vardin?”

  The lift doors opened before Trotti could answer.

  Gino slowly raised his head. “Two love birds,” he said and from behind the desk gave his tired smile. “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, Gino.”

  The smell of death as they stepped out of the lift. Ciuffi put her hand to her face, her fingers against her nose.

  The corridor was empty on the third floor and although the windows gave on to Strada Nuova, the sounds of outside traffic were muted. The blind man gave a little wave of his hand. At his feet Principessa slept her mid-morning siesta.

  “Where’s Pisanelli?”

  Ciuffi began opening several of the windows.

  “Only creates a breeze,” Gino said irritably. “These women always wanting to organize.”

  “A woman,” Trotti said lowering his voice, “but a good policeman, Gino. Believe me.”

  “Still a romantic, Commissario?”

  “Gino, have you seen Pisanelli?”

  “Merenda was looking for him a minute ago.”

  “Pisanelli works for me, not for Merenda.”

  “Must’ve been about ten o’clock.” A muffled voice, as if the dentist had anaesthetized his mouth. “Said he was going to see the Vardin man.”

  “Pisanelli’s probably gone off to see one of his girlfriends.” Trotti clicked his tongue. “We’ve just been to the apartment in Piazza Castello.”

  “Commissario, I am not party to Pisanelli’s methods of enquiry. I am just the old man who answers the phone.”

  Trotti placed a hand on Gino’s shoulder. “You know, you’re really beginning to sound like an old man.”

  “Old enough, Piero, to see that you’re too hard on your men. That’s how you lost Magagna—and, if you’re not careful, Pisanelli’ll go the same way.” He added, “Not all your men can be pretty girls in uniform.”

  “Trouble with you, Gino, is you’re a phallocrat.” Trotti took a packet of Charms from his pocket. “You and all the men in this Questura. Here, have a sweet. Fennel flavor—it should sweeten you up. If I didn’t know you so well, I would be tempted to think that you are brooding. The male menopause, Gino?”

  “Piero, I’m retiring at the end of the year.”

  “And you should be glad to be getting out of here. A lucky man, Gino.”

  “I’ll miss you all.”

  Trotti asked, “And Principessa?”

  “The vet says …” Gino began, then shook his head quickly. The stained teeth worried at the lower lip.

  “We’ll get you another dog.”

  “Another dog after fourteen years?” The sightless eyes peered from behind the thick lenses. “A dog isn’t like a wife. You can’t just change like that when the first one gets to be too old.”

  Ciuffi had gone into Trotti’s office.

  “You must cheer up. Retirement—you’ll be able to get out, to meet your friends. And you know you’ll always be welcome here, among us.”

  “Pazienza.” Gino raised hands in an Italian gesture of resignation.

  “You’ve always been like a father to us, Gino.”

  “Father? There can’t be more than two years’ difference between us, Piero Trotti.” H
e laughed. “There was a phone call for you.”

  “Who from?”

  “He said to ring Gianni in Santa Maria.”

  Trotti sighed. “A priest who has been reading too many detective novels.” He gave Gino a friendly slap on the shoulder. “You’d better give me a line,” he said.

  “I hear the Provincia is stirring up trouble.”

  Trotti left the old man and went into his office.

  “You must do something about that wretched dog, Piero.”

  He looked at Ciuffi as he stepped past the files cluttering the floor. A raised eyebrow. “Christian name, Brigadiere?” He found himself smiling as he picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “If you don’t want to do anything, I’ll kill the dog myself—the smell is unbearable.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to call me by my Christian name.”

  “You said we were friends.”

  Trotti nodded. “Outside the Questura, Brigadiere.” He frowned as a voice came on the line. “Fra Gianni?”

  “Don’t you ever work, Piero?”

  “I was at the hospital.”

  “Have you started checking?”

  “Checking for what?”

  “The man I told you about.”

  “Primula Rosa, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have been busy all morning. I do have a job to do—and a city to worry about.”

  “You promised me you would start looking for him.”

  “I told you. Santa Maria is not part of my jurisdiction.”

  “But you are concerned.”

  “A trace on somebody—somebody who has no criminal record, who has done nothing wrong—do you realize the effort involved?”

  “You have computers.”

  Trotti laughed. “You don’t even know what a computer is.”

  “You promised, Piero.”

  “It’s not up to me. It’s up to the Carabinieri.”

  “And you know what the Carabinieri are like.”

  “Fra Gianni, I am not—”

  “Piero, you gave me your word.”

  The pigeons. They were cooing beneath the roof; beyond the window, the terra-cotta tiles of the city, the towers and the dome of the cathedral were bright and clear now that the mist had lifted.

  “Piero, you gave me your word.”

  “And how am I going to find him?”

  “Use the computer.”

  “Primula Rosa is not his real name.”

  “Don’t make excuses. You know his real name.”

  Trotti waited.

  “His name is Vecchioni, Mario Vecchioni. Class of twenty-three.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “Well?”

  “What was it you said the other day? That, with my singing voice, I should have gone into the Church.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “That’s what you said, isn’t it—I should’ve gone into the Church?”

  “I’ve always thought that.”

  “And you, Gianni, you have all the single-mindedness of a policeman.”

  The priest laughed, said, “God bless you, Piero,” and hung up.

  27: Spadano

  THE TWO MEN shook hands.

  “You’re not looking any younger, Trotti.”

  Trotti sat down in the leather armchair.

  Spadano returned to his desk and picked up the stub of a Toscano cigar from where he had placed it on the ashtray. A plastic ashtray, chipped and advertising the Provincia Padana. “What brings you here?”

  “Good to see you, Spadano.”

  “It’s always good to see you, Trotti—when you’re not asking for favors.”

  “I need a favor, Spadano.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Then you know the answer.”

  The office was spacious and well-furnished. For unimaginative southerners, the Carabinieri did well for themselves.

  Spadano lit the black end of the cigar with a kitchen match. “Trying to give them up.” He looked at Trotti, “One of the remaining vices.” He blew out the match.

  Later a man in uniform brought in a tray of coffee. Little cups with the insignia of the Carabinieri. There was also a bottle that Spadano took and opened, twisting the cap with a rapid movement.

  “Grappa?”

  Trotti shook his head. “I’m having lunch soon—with a friend.”

  “Never known you to refuse, Trotti.” Spadano poured grappa into both cups.

  They drank—Spadano in one gulp, Trotti slowly.

  “Lunch with a lady friend, Trotti?”

  Trotti nodded.

  “And the family?”

  “My wife’s in America.”

  “So I heard.” Regular features, tanned skin and hard eyes behind the acrid cloud of cigar smoke. A perfectly ironed khaki shirt. “So I heard.”

  “Probably better for everybody.”

  “A very sophisticated woman, Signora Trotti.”

  “Too sophisticated for me.”

  “Being a policeman is a full-time job—and it takes the place of wife and family.” Spadano leaned forward and placed the cup on its saucer. “You have a wife. And you have your daughter. You must not complain.”

  “Pioppi is in Bologna.”

  Spadano tapped his left shoulder. “The pips and the insignia. This is my life. Nearly thirty years in the Carabinieri. They have been good years—and the friends are good friends.” He gave a brief shake of his head. “At least those who are still alive. The Years of Lead haven’t been kind to any of us.”

  “The Years of Lead are over, thank God.”

  “We knew then who the enemy was. Urban terrorism. And in Dalla Chiesa we had a man—a Carabiniere—who knew what he wanted. Terrorism was the enemy—and we defeated it.”

  “The Carabinieri defeated terrorism?”

  “Italy, Trotti. The Italian people—it was they—us—who said we’d had enough of kneecappings and bombings, trains being blown up and policemen murdered. Innocent people being blown apart in Brescia or Florence. Terrorism from the extreme left and the extreme right. Years of Lead—but they were also years of hope.”

  “And now?”

  “They sent Dalla Chiesa to Palermo—this time to combat the Mafia. Within three months he was dead.”

  “The Mafia killed him.”

  “Rome killed him—because between an honest Carabiniere and the Mafia, Rome will always prefer the Mafia.” For a moment he was silent, his eyes bright and watching Trotti through the rising clouds of smoke. “Rome needs the Mafia because Rome is the Mafia!”

  “You are bitter.”

  Spadano put the cigar back on the ashtray and fumbled in a drawer. He produced a letter that he held out to Trotti.

  Trotti did not take the letter. He recognized the heading: Ministry of Defense.

  “They are sending me to Sardinia.”

  Trotti whistled softly.

  “Orgosolo in Nuoro Province.”

  “At least you won’t be bothered by the Pubblica Sicurezza coming to ask you for favors.”

  “I have grown to like this city.”

  Trotti raised an eyebrow as he set the coffee cup down on its matching saucer.

  “A northern city. Hard-working, conservative and quietly xenophobic. But kind. And decent—in its own provincial way.”

  “Sardinia is the south, Spadano. You’re going home.”

  “Who told you I wanted to go home?”

  “We all want to go home. We are getting old—and there is nowhere else.”

  “I like this city—and they’re sending me to Nuoro. Working with helicopters, looking for the shepherd kidnappers and their wealthy victims in the barren mountains of Sardinia.”

  “Promotion, Spadano.”

  “All my life I have thought about the Arma—about doing my duty. And about promotion. And the insignia have grown into my flesh, have become part of me. There has never been anything else. And
now …” He shrugged. “The Ministry is pleased with me.” He glanced at the letter and shook his head.

  “What more do you want?”

  “I want what you have always taken for granted.”

  Trotti smiled without understanding.

  “The best men, the best equipment, helicopters and land vehicles. Night vision equipment and the full support of the Finanza. I will be part of one of the biggest attacks mounted against organized crime in this country’s history. A direct line to Rome and the Ministry. British and American advisers—there are even going to be watchers from the UN.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  “When all the time I find myself looking at the kids in the street, Trotti, and wishing that one was mine—wishing that instead of a barracks to come back to, there was a little boy just a little bit like me—perhaps a bit cleverer—who was going to grow up and become like me. Like me, but wiser.”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “I never gave marriage a second thought. Not once in thirty years. But now I am suddenly afraid that all that I have worked for will die with me. You have a daughter, Trotti.”

  “I scarcely ever see Pioppi.”

  “But you know that she is there.” Spadano sat back. “You know that when your time comes, a part of you will live on.”

  “I genuinely believe that the Captain of Carabinieri is feeling sorry for himself.”

  “A life in the hills, chasing bandits … How can I ever hope to find a … to start a family now if I am away from civilization?” A deprecatory shrug.

  Trotti laughed, not unkindly. “We can’t all be Dalla Chiesa, Spadano. We can’t all be high-ranking generals. We can’t all be the man the country turns to in its moment of need. And above all, we can’t all hope to find a beautiful young wife to share the evening years of our lives. Dalla Chiesa had money and fame. A wealthy background—Piemonte. And an international reputation. But where are you and I—ageing policemen, Spadano—where are we going to find a young wife half our age?”

  “You don’t need a wife, Trotti. You have a daughter, you should be happy.”

  “My wife is in America and I see Pioppi at best a couple of times a year. She has decided that she’s happier without her father.”