Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  An atmosphere of expectation.

  Old men were selling cushions to the latecomers. The ancient, weather-worn tiers of steps where Trotti and Signora Bianchini sat were hard. Without a cushion, the stone was cold. There was more comfortable seating nearer the stage. Chairs—and even armchairs—in the stalls, to which the elegant concert-goers were escorted by officials in tails and bow ties. Red carpets that silenced the discreet footfalls.

  “What do you want from Pisanelli?”

  “From Pisanelli, I expect help.”

  “But you yourself say that your enquiry is not official. I imagine he has other things to do.”

  “That doesn’t mean he has to work with Merenda.”

  “Who’s Merenda?”

  “Pisanelli has been with me for more than five years—and we get on well together. Merenda is only—”

  “If Pisanelli has a job to do, you can’t really expect him—”

  “Pisanelli knows how I feel about Ciuffi.”

  “And Merenda is in charge of the official enquiry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then is there any need for Pisanelli to help you?”

  “Pisanelli and I have always worked together.”

  “You are not working now, Commissario.”

  “I need his help.”

  The lights around the arena began to dim; spotlights turned towards the orchestra. There was clapping and then the musicians filed like penguins into the floodlit oasis beneath the strange roof.

  “I left a message for him to contact me in the hotel.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  The Dresden Orchestra.

  Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony and, beside him, Trotti felt Signora Bianchini’s body swaying gently with the rhythm. Overhead in a now cloudless sky, the stars glittered. The smell of Signora Bianchini’s perfume seemed to be an extension of the music, part of it.

  Applause.

  A woman with an English name came on to the stage. The conductor held her hand and there was more clapping. The woman faced the audience and sang. Strauss, the last lieder. Music both beautiful and sad.

  Trotti could sense a change in Signora Bianchini and he found his own thoughts returning to the pain in his ribs. Instead of the German orchestra, before his eyes, he saw the image of Ciuffi’s face.

  The lights came on.

  When Signora Bianchini turned to look at him, she was frowning.

  “You are not listening, are you, Commissario?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “You do not like the music?”

  “Let’s go.”

  They climbed up the several rows of seating—twice she turned to look over her shoulder—and then they took the long, broad stairs that carried them out on to the piazza.

  “You want to go back to the hotel?”

  “Ponderous German music.” She slipped her arm through his.

  “The hotel—or perhaps a nightcap in Piazza delle Erbe?”

  They went past the brightly lit shops in Corso Mazzini, pushing and jostling their way through tourists strolling, window shopping, eating ices and enjoying the cool evening air.

  Suddenly she stopped outside a bookshop and stepped into the small portico. Signora Bianchini bent forward and for a moment he thought she was studying the book display—several photographs of Umbria, advertising a guidebook of the Touring Club Italiano.

  She had not released his arm.

  “We must hurry. The bars in Piazza delle Erbe will be closing.”

  “You can’t feel it, Commissario Trotti?”

  “Feel what?”

  Instinctively she rubbed at her shoulders. “Feel it in your back.”

  “What?”

  Her voice was very low but hoarse. “We’re being watched. In the audience—there was somebody behind us and he was watching us.”

  “Who?”

  “Watching us—and he followed us out of the arena when we left.”

  44: Room

  “I CAN’T SLEEP.”

  For a moment, Trotti hesitated. Then he stepped back. “You’d better come in.”

  She was wearing the shawl over her nightdress. A brief smile. “You do understand, don’t you, Commissario?”

  “I had just dozed off.”

  “By myself I’m afraid.”

  “I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.”

  “You must think I am a foolish woman.”

  He shrugged. “You can use the other bed if you wish, signora.” He closed the door and turned the key. Signora Bianchini watched Trotti in silence.

  There was a folded blanket in the wardrobe. He took the blanket and, opening it, placed it on the smooth bedsheets.

  “Afraid I’m going to be cold?”

  “I sleep with the window open.”

  “You think this is all a trick, don’t you? You think I just want to sleep with you.”

  “An old man with a broken rib?”

  “I don’t like that room—and I don’t like being alone.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “There was a man—of that I am certain.” She pulled the shawl to her throat. “I saw him in the Roman arena. He had a program in front of his face but he was watching us. It was like a gimlet in my back. And when we left, I am certain he followed us.”

  “Nobody knows we’re here.”

  She climbed into bed.

  Trotti waited until she had pulled the blanket up over her shoulders before turning out the bedside lamp.

  Outside the occasional car and the permanent, lulling rush of the Adige, swollen with the first autumnal rains, running towards the sea.

  Signora Bianchini spoke. She had turned in the opposite direction and her voice was muffled.

  “Please try to sleep, signora.”

  “I’m not scared here.” She moved her head on the pillow. “Not here with you.”

  Trotti stared at the ceiling, at the reflected lights of the city moving towards the lightbulb.

  “It is kind of you to put up with me like this.” A light laugh. “There are times when you are almost human.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And then there are times when you are worse than a monster.”

  “I should like to sleep, signora.”

  “That’s what you need …” Her voice part muffled by the pillow. “You need someone to look after you.”

  “Signora …”

  “You’ve never thought of getting married again, Commissario?”

  “There will be time enough in the morning for matrimonial counselling.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are interested in me as a woman but—”

  “Interested in getting some rest.”

  “You really don’t like me?”

  He turned his head.

  “You don’t like me, do you, Commissario?”

  He could see the whiteness of her face and the shadows of her eyes.

  “That’s not what Brigadiere Ciuffi thought.”

  “The dead girl?”

  “Ciuffi didn’t like the way I ate your truffles.” He propped himself up on an elbow and switched on the bedside lamp. It threw its pink glow over the neat hotel room.

  Signora Bianchini was smiling.

  “Please, signora, let me get some sleep.”

  “You talk like an old man.”

  “If it is necessary, I will go and sleep in your bedroom.”

  “Stay with me, Commissario. I am scared.”

  “You must keep quiet.” He switched off the lamp. “Goodnight, signora.”

  “I am cold.”

  A sigh of exasperation. “I will close the window.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

  “You see people as enigmas—or as numbers. But you don’t see them as human beings. A woman is not a machine—a woman is a human being who needs affection.”

  “
Goodnight, Signora Bianchini.”

  “Why did you bring me here, Commissario? Two days in your company—and I still don’t know what you want.”

  “I want to sleep.”

  “A stubborn man.” Signora Bianchini sat up in her bed. “You are not making things any easier for me. Can’t I—”

  There was a light knocking on the hotel door.

  Signora Bianchini held the bedsheet to her throat.

  A man’s voice. “Are you there, Trotti?”

  45: Man

  “A TURD.”

  “Why?”

  Soldati laughed. Not a pleasant laugh but a laugh that turned down the corners of the small, bruised mouth. Short lips, dark stubble and furtive eyes whose glance, behind the smudged glass, darted from Trotti’s face to the continual flow of customers.

  “Why is Galandra a turd?” Trotti glanced down. The digital readout registered two units.

  “Haven’t seen him in more than three years.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “At first he was all right—but that was when he was new in Santa Cecilia.” A grim smile behind the glass. “That was before I found out what he was really like.”

  “What sort of person is he?”

  “A turd.”

  Trotti tightened his hold on the mouthpiece. “Why didn’t you like him?”

  “I just told you that at first he was okay.”

  “Then what happened?”

  A pause.

  Trotti repeated his question. “What happened?”

  “The English journalist said you were going to pay me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Three hundred and fifty.”

  “Tell me about Galandra, Soldati.”

  “You’re going to pay me?”

  “If you don’t give the information, I won’t pay anything.”

  “I can tell you all that you need to know.”

  “Hurry up, Soldati,” Trotti said tersely. “I’m paying for this call.”

  A harsh, rasping laugh. “The Pubblica Sicurezza can afford that, I think.”

  From the other side of the glass, Trotti saw the man’s eyes wrinkle in amusement. A face that was neither cunning nor stupid. A face that was pale from a life spent indoors.

  Trotti waited, but there was just the crackle over the line.

  “You shared a cell with him, Soldati?”

  “Too damned cramped.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Together?”

  “You and Galandra?”

  “We got on well—until the fight.”

  “How long were you in the same cell?”

  “On and off for over two years.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “I cut him a bit.”

  Three units and the colons blinked with each second.

  “What for?”

  “Nothing serious. But he deserved it.” The same laugh. “I didn’t even leave a scar.”

  “Why did you fight with Galandra, Soldati?”

  “My name is Signor Soldati.”

  Although the two cabins were less than five meters apart, the line was far from good and it was only by looking at Soldati and seeing the movement of his lips that Trotti could understand what the man was saying.

  “Signor Soldati, why did you fight with Galandra?”

  “At least he wasn’t a queer.” A derisive gesture of the free hand to his ear. “Then I’d’ve cut his balls off.”

  “Why did you fight?”

  “Because he was a two-faced bastard, that’s why.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “No more than what he did to everybody else.” A spitting sound. “A bastard, a sly bastard.”

  “Did Galandra tell you about the plasma—about how he’d been watering down blood at the Policlinico?”

  “He said it was a frame-up.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I told you—Galandra was a turd.”

  Four units, in a blinking quartz green.

  “Did Galandra ever mention Vardin?”

  “Who?”

  “Vardin? The porter at the AVIS institute?”

  “You mean the plasma thing?”

  Trotti nodded.

  People—young men in their uniform tight jeans and several tourists in bright summer clothes—were forming a queue at the cash counter. Trotti’s view of the other man was blocked. “Yes, the plasma thing.”

  “He said it was a frame-up.”

  “What was a frame-up?”

  “He was going to get his revenge.”

  The queue at the counter moved forward, letting Trotti catch sight of Soldati again. The pale face was looking at Trotti.

  “Galandra told you he was going to get his revenge?”

  “After the riot, I didn’t believe anything he said.” A pause. “A turd and a liar.”

  “But he told you about Vardin?”

  “After the riot there were a lot of people who wanted to get even with your friend.”

  Trotti said, “Galandra is not my friend.”

  “Policemen are turds.”

  “A different class of turd, Signor Soldati.”

  “But still turds.”

  “You want the money?”

  A cough.

  “The choice is yours—three hundred and fifty or else I put this telephone down.”

  “The journalist said you would pay me.” He added lamely, “I need that money.”

  “You must tell me the truth.”

  “Not my fault if I hate the bastard. He would use anybody if there was something in it for him. He’d sell his own mother.” A click of the tongue. “Galandra’s a turd.”

  “What did Galandra say about Vardin?”

  “You’ve got the three hundred and fifty thousand lire?” The voice was ingratiating.

  “Of course.”

  “The journalist didn’t say you were with the Pubblica Sicurezza. Not that I care, of course—but it’s just that—”

  “You’ll be paid. Just tell me what you know.”

  “He always lied.”

  “Galandra?”

  A nod from the other side of the glass. “We thought that he was with us. When there was first talk of a demonstration—you ever been inside, you know what the food is like? But I keep forgetting you’re a turd of a cop.”

  “A turd with money in his pocket.”

  “Things were getting impossible at Santa Cecilia, people were falling ill because they weren’t getting a decent meal. And when there was talk of taking action, Galandra was in the front line.” A dry laugh. “Oh, yes—he was all for doing something. He was good at talking. And after talking to us, he talked to the warders. Galandra was the one who kept the warders informed.” He placed his hand on the glass window—pale, outspread fingers. “If you see Signor Galandra, you can tell him from me that he’d better keep out of my way. My way and the way of thirty or forty other old friends from Santa Cecilia.”

  “He rioted?”

  “Of course not—it was just part of his plan. What better way to get remission than by spying on his fellow prisoners?”

  “And it worked?”

  “He made a lot of enemies.”

  “When did Galandra leave?”

  “I was given an extra six months. You realize that? And you think it’s easy for a man to find a job after that?”

  “When did Galandra get out?”

  “He was hoping for remission—but I don’t know if he got it. After the riot, they sent him to Modena—he wasn’t safe at Santa Cecilia. The last I saw of him was about three years ago. And the extra six months—it was his fault.”

  “Before you quarreled, what did he tell you about himself?”

  “We didn’t quarrel—I didn’t see him after the riot. Because if I did, I would have perforated his rectum.”

  “Did Galandra ever say what he was going to do once he got out?”

  “A divorce.” The man ha
d turned his back and was now speaking into the phone, with his shoulders hunched. The shoulders moved with amusement.

  “But he didn’t say where he was going?”

  “He’s got a sister, hasn’t he?”

  “Where?”

  “Get even on the bastard that had put him away. And then hole up with his sister in Bergamo. That’s what he said he would do. Get back some of the money he was owed.”

  “Money he was owed?”

  “They’d been working together. It was a business arrangement.”

  “Who?”

  “You knew that, didn’t you? They’d been working together.”

  “Who was working with Galandra?”

  “Working together and then the porter got greedy—or perhaps just plain scared. Either way, Galandra was set up. The bastard handed Galandra over, hook, line and sinker.” A laugh and a movement of the shoulders. “Unreliable—a liar and a spy, Galandra, and he would use anybody—but when the porter at the AVIS did the same thing to him, then he was furious. His so-called business associate.” More laughter. “God knows why you want to see Galandra.” A sound of spitting into the telephone. “One of the Creator’s mistakes.”

  “Worse even than a cop?”

  “A turd. A real turd.”

  46: Vermouth

  “VERMOUTH?”

  Trotti shook his head.

  MacSmith shrugged his narrow shoulders, poured two glasses, then returned the cap to the sugar-encrusted bottle-top.

  He drank. “So what are you going to do?”

  “See Vardin.”

  “Go back and you’ll be out of action. The Questore will see to that. He’ll make sure you stay put.” It was Spadano who spoke. He sat back in the leather armchair. He held his glass of vermouth in one hand. A cloud of smoke rose from the stub of his cigar. “The Questore’s not overjoyed by the way you’ve disappeared, Trotti.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Spadano laughed.

  “Vardin lied,” Trotti said.

  “So what?”

  “All along Vardin knew who was behind the attack on his daughter.”