Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  She hesitated, then released the pressure on the accelerator. The Audi moved to the right.

  The Lancia pushed past and then pulled in sharply, fishtailing the Audi.

  She had no choice.

  Signora Bianchini pulled hard on the steering wheel.

  The seatbelt bit into Trotti’s shoulder as the car went onto the shoulder, where the nearside hit a billboard.

  Over a hundred kilometers an hour as the wheels on the left-hand side lost their adherence.

  The engine roared. The wheels left the ground.

  The Audi went into a spin.

  49: Recovery

  “BIANCHINI?”

  It was hot.

  “Who is Primula Rosa?”

  “Bianchini?”

  Trotti was sweating. He tried to concentrate. His eyes hurt. “Where is Signora Bianchini?”

  “The Commissario needs rest. He needs care. He is very sick.”

  Trotti could smell Bianchini’s perfume. He could also smell spilled petrol.

  A seagull.

  “Let him sleep. He is very sick.”

  Then the hush of whiteness, restful and undemanding.

  “Doctor!”

  Trotti opened his eyes. “Where am I?”

  A white figure with a necklace about the long neck. “You must sleep.”

  Trotti tried to sit up several times, tried to reach out but there was a cold hand on his forehead and he was engulfed within the rising darkness.

  “Sleep.”

  Trotti moaned.

  “Please sleep.”

  Yellow flowers. Bright roses. A clear blue jar. A crocheted mat and a crucifix. Clean and white.

  His vision disintegrated.

  When Trotti next woke, his eyes hurt and he blinked against the harsh light. A nurse had brought him a drink of camomile. A nun with gull wings on her head. She watched with satisfaction as Trotti drank. She then went away, leaving him alone.

  Trotti kept blinking.

  A bright room. Sunshine poured through the high window, past the iron bars. The window frame was open. Air rustled the flowers in the blue jar.

  Through the windows came the sound of life. The distant rumble of occasional traffic and the singing of birds.

  His head ached but now he was no longer blinking. The smell of petrol had gone from his nostrils.

  Trotti placed his bare feet on the small carpet. He tried to stand. His knees buckled and he fell forward on to the bedside chair.

  On to the floor, with the chair on top of him and a cheek against the cool tiles. It was nice there. Cool and very nice. He wanted to sleep, to sleep forever. He closed his eyes.

  The stocky nurse was pulling at his arms.

  Sensibly, without any fuss, her shoes on the tiled floor, her strong calves bulging, she heaved him back on to the bed. His feet were cold and poked against the plump pillow. She dragged him around. His head brushed against the ample chest, against the nylon weave of her white apron.

  His eyes closed again and, when Trotti opened them, there was the other figure—the figure in white. The figure leaned over him and clamped his arm. A pin-prick—a little pain in a sea of calm—and the room swirled away down the white, bottomless well.

  Peace.

  Night came and Trotti awoke. He tried to speak, but mumbled like a patient in the dentist’s chair. “Where am I?”

  “You are safe.”

  “Will Signora Bianchini die?”

  “I will prop you up.” The nurse helped him move against the pillows. “You will need a lot of rest.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  She shook her head.

  Trotti smiled and fell asleep.

  The nurse was still there when Trotti came awake. Her face was immobile, like a sculpted madonna.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You’ve had a running fever.”

  “Where is Signora Bianchini?”

  “You’ve been talking in your sleep.”

  “What did I say?”

  She did not reply.

  “What did I say, nurse?”

  “You’ll be better soon.”

  “Where is Signora Bianchini? Is she hurt?”

  She fussed at the bedsheets, pulling the blanket up against his chest. “You are being well looked after.”

  “Where am I?”

  “San Matteo, Signor Commissario,” she said, smiling with faint surprise.

  He caught her arm. “Nurse, how is the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “Is she all right? Is Signora Bianchini all right? She was in the car with me. She was driving.”

  “I am afraid your friend was badly hurt. But she has ceased to suffer.”

  “She is dead?”

  The nurse raised her shoulders. “Now please rest.”

  When Trotti next awoke, it was early morning and his head had lost its fogginess. He got out of bed and this time he did not collapse. His knees were weak but they held his weight. Trotti tried the door. It was locked. He placed a shoulder against the wooden frame but the door would not move.

  Trotti went to the window. Somewhere a cock was announcing the new day. The room gave on to the fields beyond the hospital. In the distance the sky was still dark with the memory of night. Even the sound of traffic was faint, as though anaesthetized.

  Signora Bianchini was dead, and it was his fault.

  He went back to bed where he stared at the ceiling until the nurse brought breakfast. He nibbled at the rolls and the floury bread. He drank the coffee.

  When the nurse had left, Trotti placed two fingers down his throat and retched like an animal. Masticated dough flooded into his mouth and poured in a thick stream into the sink. Bile burnt at his lips, his eyes watered. The acid smell was pungent and unpleasant. He watched the grey vomit caught in the vortex of clean water as it was pulled out of the sink.

  Trotti washed out his mouth.

  It must have been eight o’clock when the doctor arrived. The white coat, the stethoscope and hands that smelled of carbolic soap.

  The nurse closed the door and went to the window. Trotti studied her sturdy silhouette through his half-closed eyes as the doctor took his pulse. Trotti could feel the man’s breath on his cheeks.

  “Nurse,” he said, “the pulse has accelerated—are you sure …?” There was a slight nasal accent and Trotti caught him on the side of the neck.

  Disbelief in the cold eyes and Trotti hit him again, as hard as he could.

  50: Policlinico

  THE DOCTOR CRUMPLED to the ground with a slight murmur.

  Trotti was expecting the nurse to scream.

  He moved out of the bed. A sheet caught at his ankle and he tumbled into the sturdy body. The nurse staggered and fell backwards, a cry of surprise caught in her throat as Trotti reached out for the mouth and tried to close it.

  She bit his hand. She was a strong woman. Her arms tried to push him away. Her knee came up fast and pain flooded through his groin.

  Trotti held her arms and she pulled.

  She was stronger than Trotti.

  They were caught in a silent embrace of hatred. Saliva looped in thin threads behind her teeth. Trotti saw her throat swell and he put his hand to her neck. Her body seemed to relax. Then she suddenly moved away and banged rapid blows into his ribs.

  He screamed his pain but managed to remain on top.

  Trotti punched. He punched hard, knowing that he was losing his strength, aware that her hands were moving down his body, moving towards his groin.

  Blood began to pour from the open mouth.

  Trotti hit her hard with the flat of his hand, banging her head against the floor. Trotti hit the face again and the woman went limp. The eyes closed and the head rolled to one side.

  Trotti climbed to his feet.

  His head was spinning; it was hard to think, hard to concentrate.

  He went back to the man. He took the coat and the stethoscope.

  Trotti did not loo
k like a doctor. The lab coat could not hide the bare feet, the pajamas or the growth of beard. Or the awkward, painful walk.

  Trotti opened the door carefully and moved out on to a small landing. Stone stairs ran downwards, flanked by potted plants. He locked the door and went down the stairs.

  Pain flooding through his chest.

  The mist was returning to his eyes. Trotti went slowly, holding the banisters. Nobody about.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs.

  He found himself in a large, smoky room with onions hanging from the wooden ceiling and a smoldering log fire in the hearth. An old woman was slicing runner beans. She caught sight of him and put a hand to her toothless mouth.

  The knife glinted as the woman screamed and Trotti broke into a clumsy run.

  Limping as fast as he could, Trotti went through the open door and out into a courtyard. Chickens scattered before him.

  He ran towards a tractor.

  An old man headed him off. Trotti ducked sideways. In surprise, the old man watched, as if nailed to the ground by his shapeless boots.

  A pig squealed, flustered hens flapped away. Trotti went past a dung heap. Several dogs yapped at his heels. He ran unsteadily, breathing hard. There was no strength in his legs, no power in his muscles.

  Trotti stumbled forward, lost balance and fell.

  The dogs gathered about him, suddenly docile. One dog licked his face. It shied away as Trotti pulled himself to his feet.

  Naked, cold feet.

  Trotti ran out of the farmyard, down an embankment and the dogs lost interest in him. He headed towards the open fields.

  He heard a car horn and stumbled on. There was a small river that cut through the fields. His chest hurt and he wanted to slow down, but he was afraid of the shouting that came from behind him.

  His vision was turning red.

  Trotti stopped, exhausted.

  He leaned against a tree. The bark was gnarled and cold beneath his forearm. His hands were hot, there was a spreading pain in his side.

  Trotti tried to run forward, towards the stream, towards a dusty cart track.

  It seemed to recede as Trotti approached.

  The driver saw him. The red taillight blinked as the car went into reverse. Trotti zigzagged away, running off in the opposite direction, looking over his shoulder and bent double.

  The pain in his side was now unbearable.

  Two yapping dogs accompanied him.

  The car turned and was catching up.

  Above his breathing, the sound of the wheels on the cart track.

  Trotti headed for the grass ditch.

  “Get inside.”

  Trotti shook his head.

  “Don’t be a fool. They’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “You have no choice.” She leaned over to open the door.

  Trotti flopped into the passenger seat of the white Audi.

  51: Khaki Shirt

  “I THOUGHT SHE was dead.”

  Spadano laughed. “She saved your life, Trotti.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “She likes you.”

  “I still don’t trust her. She has been playing with me … using me.”

  “That’s not the impression I get.” Spadano ran a hand through his short hair.

  “They told me she was killed in the accident.”

  “Clearly she wasn’t.”

  “She was working for them. She was in on the whole thing.”

  “She spent two days looking for you.”

  “Why wasn’t the car damaged?”

  Spadano shrugged. “A bit of paint scraped off the side. But you know how the Germans build their cars. Teutonic thoroughness.” The shoulders of his khaki shirt rose. “And Turkish workers.”

  “I was there. I was in the car when it went off the road.” Trotti touched his face. “And I got hurt.”

  “Good job you were wearing your seatbelt.”

  “What happened to Signora Bianchini?”

  “She pretended she had lost consciousness—and when they took you from the car, she saw their number plate … with the name of the Vimercate Lancia dealership.”

  “You believe her?”

  “She contacted me personally. The barracks in Verona sent a man for me.”

  “And then?”

  “And then?” Spadano took a packet of Toscani from the glovebox and lit one. The acrid smell filled the car. “Then she spent the last two days driving between Monza and Vimercate. She was convinced you were somewhere in the area—and she did everything to convince me.”

  Trotti coughed. His ribs hurt worse than ever. “Those things stink, Spadano.”

  “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” There was a cold glint in his eyes as Spadano glanced at Trotti. “Open the window if you wish.”

  Trotti opened the window.

  “She cares for you—as soon as she picked you up running half-naked across the fields, she drove you to the hospital in Monza—and insisted on their taking x-rays.”

  “Where are we going, Spadano?”

  “It’s been difficult holding the German. The consulate has only just been informed. But it was agreed that we shouldn’t do anything until you’d seen him. In Como.” A shrug. “Only you decided to disappear for thirty-six hours.”

  “Against my will.”

  Spadano laughed. “And your rib?”

  “Do you really have to smoke that thing, Spadano? I think I’m going to vomit.”

  The Carabiniere threw the smoldering cigar through the window.

  “You’ve picked them up?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Trotti repeated the question. “The people at the farm—the doctor and his nurse—have you picked them up?”

  “You shouldn’t have hit Signora Galandra so hard, Trotti. Wouldn’t be surprised if she took action against you.”

  Trotti could not hide the surprise. “Signora Galandra?”

  Despite the white hair at the temples, Spadano looked boyish. “How did you know it was the Galandras? Galandra no longer looks like the photograph on our records.”

  “Galandra was the doctor?”

  “I am impressed, Trotti. You couldn’t have been feeling too well after all you’d been through. They’d been pumping you with drugs for nearly thirty-six hours. Yet you managed to see through the disguise.”

  Trotti was silent.

  “How did you know it was Galandra?”

  “It wasn’t the Policlinico.” Another silence before Trotti continued, “The Policlinico may not be a wonderful hospital—no Italian hospital is, with beds in the corridors and doctors who can’t read—but San Matteo’s one of the best in the country. And I know how doctors act, how they work. And anyway there was no reason for taking me to San Matteo.”

  “And that’s why you fought?” Spadano laughed. “You fractured the poor woman’s jaw.”

  “One vase of flowers. When I was at San Matteo, there were flowers everywhere. And chocolates. And a few remaining friends.”

  “Some people must like you.”

  “Signora Galandra doesn’t. I fractured her jaw?”

  “At least something remains of your training from Padua.”

  “She’ll recover?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about her. On a kidnapping charge, she and Galandra face at least five years. And by the time she comes out, her jaw’ll have healed. She should’ve forgiven you by then.”

  52: Tedious

  “WE WERE WORRIED, Commissario.”

  The warm afternoon air had turned chill. Now it was evening, and Como was like any northern town, preparing for the September night.

  A light wind from Switzerland blew across the lake. Clouds were moving southwards, carrying the threat of a rainy night. The vast surface of water was dark and ruffled. There were not many people along the lakeside. A few late and isolated fishermen, dark silhouettes, stared out at their long, immobile rods.

  “I beg your
pardon.”

  A smell of roasting coffee in the evening air, and the neon lights of the bars looked inviting. Trotti felt tired. He knew that it would be some time before the chemicals worked their way out of his system. He resented the pain in his ribs.

  “I am not alone in having missed you in the Questura. You disappear for several days.” Pisanelli shrugged self-consciously. “We were worried about you.”

  Trotti noticed the blush as Pisanelli glanced at Spadano. Spadano kept his eyes on the road. The tip of his Toscani cigar glinted.

  “Several of us were afraid that you might be dead.”

  Trotti took a packet of sweets from his pocket. “After all these years with the PS paying towards my pension?”

  “You must be careful, Commissario.”

  “Why the concern, Pisanelli?” Trotti frowned. “It’s all very sudden.”

  The young policeman shook his head slowly. They were sitting together in the back seat of the car.

  Spadano seemed to take no notice of their whispered conversation.

  “Your disappearance coming as it did so soon after the girl’s death.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty about Ciuffi. If anybody is responsible for what happened to her, it’s me.” Trotti unwrapped the sweet.

  “Not easy coming to terms with the loss of Ciuffi.” Although Pisanelli looked tired and was in need of a shave, he had the fresh smell of soap. He coughed. “The way she was killed has been hard on us all.”

  Spadano turned left at the end of Corso Argentina; the green of the traffic lights stood out against the failing light. The smell of petrol fumes and the angry noise of accelerating Vespas.

  Trotti placed the lemon-flavored sweet in his mouth. “She is dead, Pisanelli. She was murdered and now she is dead and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “But she was special.”

  “Ciuffi was special for us all.”

  “Special for me in particular.”

  The Carabinieri barracks were in the center of the town. Concrete slabs had been set up as a protection against possible terrorist attacks. Spotlights lit up the barbed wire along the high walls.

  “You didn’t always treat her very well, Pisanelli.”

  “We teased her—we all did. But we were proud of her. Really proud. We liked to joke at her—telling her that she was only a woman and giving her all the niggling jobs where she would be out on her feet or taking tedious notes in her notebook.”