“Cosa Nostra?”
“They murdered General Dalla Chiesa.” Spadano was no longer looking at Trotti. “In 1982, it was a choice between our thing and the public thing—the Italian republic. We saw what had been obvious to every civilized human being beyond the Straits of Messina.”
“Namely?”
“There’s nothing noble or chivalrous about the Mafia. It’s not concerned with saving our island, our way of life, with protecting Sicily or the Sicilians. The old myths every Sicilian grew up with—they no longer held water. The Corleonesi wanted money and power—and when necessary, they’d kill anybody who came between them and their greed. In a year, they managed to kill as many people as the civil war in Ireland killed in twenty five years.”
“Different kind of war.”
“Our enemy’d always been the government in Rome—but when Dalla Chiesa was assassinated, we saw the real enemy—the enemy within. We weren’t fighting Italy—we were killing each other. A civil war. Someone put a wreath on Dalla Chiesa’s tomb: Here dies the hope of every honest citizen of Palermo.”
There was silence in the office. Spadano was looking out of the window, looking downwards into the street.
“Dalla Chiesa’s death was the birth of hope.” A thin smile as the grey eyes returned to Trotti’s. “There was a groundswell of sympathy for people like Gracchi. For people who did useful work, despite the Mafia. Against the Mafia. Useful work for the rest of us—for the honest citizens of Sicily.”
8: Lead
“Gracchi wasn’t involved in your goddaughter’s kidnapping—but he could’ve been. The Years of Lead, the years of growing up—they weren’t easy for his generation. They’d all been to university, there was no fear of unemployment but the choices life offered weren’t appetizing. They didn’t want to work in the car factories—Gracchi’d slummed on the production line in Turin, he’d worked in Germany and in England and had hated it. But the alternative was to join the doctors, the lawyers, the politicians. The classes controlled by the Christian Democrats and kept in power with the covert support of the Americans. And of the Mafia.”
“Not simplifying things, Spadano.”
“Piero, all the north—with the exception of the Veneto—and all the center of the country were on the left. It was the South that kept Andreotti and Forlani and all the rest of the Christian Democrats in power. In power for forty seven years while they pillaged our country.”
“You sound like a Communist.”
“Like a man who’s been taken to the cleaners.”
“You’re not forgetting the Socialists, Spadano? Or perhaps they weren’t on the left?”
“Forget Craxi? CAF—Craxi, Andreotti and Forlani. The Socialists came later and they were worse than the Christian Democrats. They tricked us. They gave us hope of something better—and in the end, they betrayed both our ideals and our innocence.” Spadano fumbled anew with the pack of cigars but he did not take one. He had already smoked two cigars and the room was thick with the smell of Toscani. “Gracchi came out of those years fairly unscathed.”
“Apart from the year in prison. And the saffron robes.”
“He kept his idealism.”
“Bravo!”
“He wanted to do something useful—to fight in a just cause in a practical way.” Spadano paused. “Some old guard from Lotta Continua went to Trapani with him—including Giovanni Verga.”
“Craxi’s chum?”
“It was Verga who owned the place in Trapani where Gracchi set up BRAMAN, the rehabilitation center for addicts. Verga’d known Craxi for years—but all this was long before Craxi became prime minister. Craxi’s—and Verga’s ascent came later.” Spadano paused again. “Even Lia Guerra joined Gracchi on his commune. Growing olives and making beads and selling organic food.”
Trotti repeated, “Lia Guerra?”
“Lia Guerra always hated you, Piero—with just cause.”
9: Lia Guerra
“I never harmed Lia Guerra.”
“You believe that, Piero?”
“Most people tend to forget their grudges with time.”
“Fortunately for you.”
“She wants to kill me?”
“You were responsible for Maltese’s death.”
“I had a difficult job to do and Lia Guerra didn’t make it easier, Spadano. She was in love with a dead man and she lied to me. I owed her nothing.”
“And Maltese?”
“When Maltese got himself killed, I just happened to be sitting beside him in some wretched bar. I didn’t even know who he was.” Trotti took a short breath, “It wasn’t me who fucked up Lia Guerra. First Gracchi and then Maltese—she managed to fuck herself up effectively without any help from me.”
“You weren’t very nice to her.”
“A policeman’s not paid to be nice, Spadano. You no more than me, so don’t sit in judgment. Even if you’re right, at this stage of my life, I really don’t care to know.”
“You regret what you did?”
“I regret nothing.”
“You can be a bastard at times.”
“All the time.”
Spadano shook his head. He had turned away from the window. “Piero, you’ve never fooled me. Beneath that surly exterior there beats a human heart.”
“I’ve fooled you.”
“You’re no cynic.”
“Cynicism’s a prerequisite for survival.”
“A bastard—but a decent bastard, and that’s why I’ve always liked you.”
“Don’t feel you have to.”
“If you were cynical, you wouldn’t now be living in some cramped house in the via Milano on the edge of your foggy city.”
“Where would I be?”
“Anywhere, Piero.”
“Anywhere?”
Spadano said softly, “Lia Gracchi was an attractive young woman. Her journalist’d been killed and there wasn’t much future for her in Milan selling prêt-à-porter at the Porta Ticinese. Of course she blamed you. Who else was there to blame? Bright and pretty girl—and she was alone.”
“An addict, as I recall.”
“Doesn’t even touch alcohol now.” Spadano remarked, his eyes on his friend. “Time you helped her, Piero.”
Trotti did not hide his surprise, “The crazy pasionaria needs my help?”
“Help her and help yourself.”
“Lia Guerra’s your professional killer?”
“Professional victim. She went back to her ex-lover in Sicily—she joined Gracchi at BRAMAN in Trapani.” Spadano allowed himself a grimace, “With just one little problem awaiting her in Sicily. Gracchi was now married to someone else and had a family of his own—a beautiful wife and a beautiful daughter.”
10: Peace of the Senses
“Guerra wants to kill me?”
“In a hurry, are you, Piero?”
“Forgive the morbid curiosity.”
“When d’you last see Lia Guerra?” Spadano asked pleasantly.
“The half-baked revolutionary must be at least forty now. Doesn’t she have children or something more worthwhile to do with her time than stick a knife into an old man?”
“If Lia Guerra wanted to kill you, Piero Trotti, I’d’ve given her the knife.”
“Who’s out to kill me?”
Spadano held up his hand. “Give me time.”
“I was hoping to return to my videos and my cramped house in the via Milano before the fourth millennium.”
“Didn’t know you were busy.” Spadano showed surprise, “Your truffles you’ve got to get back to?”
“At this moment, a young woman’s waiting for me in the Piazza del Campo.” Trotti gestured to beyond the cathedral. “It’s cold outside, and as much as I enjoy your company, Spadano, as much as I enjoy the excellent coffee and all the hospitality
and good taste of Tutela del patrimonio artistico, I’d rather be with her than you. You can understand that?”
“If a young woman could possibly want to spend time with you, I’m sure she’s totally immune to the weather.”
“I told her I wouldn’t be long.”
“You really should try to stay alive,” Spadano tutted. “It might give you more time for your girlfriends.”
“I’m well past the age for having girlfriends.” Trotti shook his head sadly, “I attained the peace of the senses years ago.”
“You talk such rubbish.”
Trotti opened his mouth, but before he could reply, he was silenced by the other man’s impatient gesture. “Listen to me for once, Piero Trotti, and try not to interrupt. Keep your head down and your back to the wall.”
“Why?”
“You should live out another twenty years.”
“Supposing I wanted to.”
“Supposing you’re allowed to.”
Fleetingly, Piero Trotti wondered if his hostility towards the general was not simply jealousy.
Jealousy of the man, jealousy of Spadano’s marriage, of his child. Jealousy of the fact that Spadano still had a job to go to every day, a job that gave a purpose to his life.
Spadano took a deep breath and returned to the Venetian desk.
Trotti asked softly, “Who wants to kill me?”
11: Rosalia
“Gracchi was getting bored. He was fed up with Trapani, fed up with Sicily. By 1987, he and his wife had spent more than six years at BRAMAN, and it was time for a change.”
“Gracchi didn’t get on with his wife?”
“A marriage more of reason than of two like minds. Chiara Gracchi’s not an intellectual like him—or like Lia Guerra—but she gave him security at a time when he most needed it.” Spadano threw a dubious glance at Trotti, “Why d’you ask?”
Trotti gestured for Spadano to continue.
“Chiara was his second wife. Gracchi had got married at the age of eighteen when he was doing his Marxist/Leninist stint on the FIAT factory floor at Mirafiori. Long before he ever met Lia Guerra. His first wife was a teenager who shared a lot of his socialist ideals. Juvenile socialist ideals. From a working-class family in Turin, the girl was called Bettina, and Gracchi married her from a sense of proletarian decorum—or perhaps because he needed to show his parents he’d definitively broken with them. After a few years, things went sour. Bettina wanted a house and a Fiat Seicento. She started seeing other men—and that’s when Gracchi left her. Left her, left their little boy and left Turin for Germany.”
“Gracchi should’ve married Guerra.”
“He met Lia Guerra a long time later—after Trento, during his Lotta Continua years.”
“An arrogant cow. Not my Molotov cocktail at all, I’m afraid.”
“Or your Vichy mint. But then, you don’t like many people.”
“Even fewer as I get older,” Trotti mumbled.
“In 1979, Gracchi was thrown in jail over the Pugliese murder. That’s when Guerra left him. She went off and started living with your journalist friend.”
“The unlamented Maltese,” Trotti said.
“And Gracchi met his second wife. He was in prison in Milan, and Chiara was his lawyer’s secretary. Very sensible, almost conservative—with a degree in law. The complete antithesis of everything Lia Guerra’d ever stood for. Chiara Gracchi had none of Guerra’s passion but she was sensible, with her feet firmly on the ground. And beautiful.” Spadano added, almost wistfully. “Still is.”
“What made Guerra join him in Sicily if Gracchi was already happily married?”
“What else was there to do?”
“Leave him alone.”
“It was her way of returning to the past.”
Trotti said, “And returning to Gracchi’s bed?”
“These things happen.” A sly smile, “You never slept with other women during all your happy years of marriage?”
“Gracchi’s wife wasn’t fazed at sharing her husband? Remaining silent while he was screwing about?”
“Bit censorious, aren’t you?” Spadano raised a brow above the grey eyes. “Gracchi and Chiara had a child. A daughter who was born before they moved to Sicily—born in fact while Gracchi was still languishing in prison. Chiara Gracchi never complained about any infidelities. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Women can be funny that way.”
“Gracchi absolutely worshipped the kid and was a very good father. His daughter’s now eighteen—the name’s Elena, but everybody knows her as Lakshmi.”
“Rosalia’d’ve been a bit more in keeping with her Sicilian background. Lakshmi?”
“The Hindu goddess of wealth, Piero. Try not to show your ignorance.”
“I don’t work for our cultural heritage, Spadano, nor do I have your pretensions to culture—and to long words.”
“You should try.”
“Or your sense of humor.” Trotti asked, “Lakshmi? Gracchi really believed all that Oriental stuff?”
“When Gracchi believed something, he believed it fervently.” Spadano had blushed beneath the tanned skin, but his speech remained calm and the grey eyes now gazed steadily at Trotti. He was leaning against the desk. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers. “He’d have his conversion and for a while, the intellectual in him ceased to ask questions. Unfortunately, before long Gracchi would start looking for different answers—for some new Holy Grail.”
Trotti winced. “Holy who?”
“Those oriental religions gave him some kind of peace, but the questions would change, and Gracchi needed to find a new set of answers. One of those people who’s always searching, always looking for something new. After six years at BRAMAN he was bored, bored of dealing with drug addicts, bored of producing designer olive oil, bored of Sicily. He was looking for a new challenge.”
“So he got himself killed? That must’ve been a change.”
“Nobody knows why Gracchi was killed.” Spadano started laughing happily.
“What’s so funny, Spadano?”
The general of Carabinieri coughed behind his hand.
“Strange sense of humor you have.”
“If I knew why Gracchi was killed, you probably wouldn’t be here talking to me—you’d have been eliminated years ago. Peace of mind or otherwise.”
12: Mattanza
“In 1987, Gracchi was invited to TRTP in Trapani. The local television station—a very amateur setup, no bigger than a couple of filing cabinets, a typewriter and a second-hand TV camera—wanted him on a program. This was just before a few elections, and Gracchi was invited along for a debate on local politics. It should’ve been your typical political broadcast—the sort of thing most local stations put out between some American sitcom and an old Totò film. According to Chiara Gracchi, her husband didn’t want to go. Gracchi’d become a recluse.”
“What about Guerra?”
“What about her?”
“Screwing her didn’t keep him happy?”
Spadano said, “On television, Gracchi rediscovered his old self. He regained all the charisma of Trento and those heady years in Lotta Continua. That night in Trapani, Gracchi mesmerized everybody. Brilliant—people were expecting another dull talking-head, another lump of furniture on the sound set, another double-breasted suit. They got this brash Northerner asking the kind of straightforward questions nobody else would ever’ve dared ask—questions nobody in his right mind’d ask aloud in Trapani province. This was 1987, the high summer of CAF—Craxi, Andreotti and Forlani. The days of endless rivers of verbosity, jargon and obfuscation. It was before the demise of the Christian Democrats, before Bossi and the Lombard League started using straightforward Italian to talk to the Italian people. Before Mani Pulite. That night, Gracchi spoke simple, honest Italian. Asked embarrassing questi
ons about bribes, about politicians on the take, about Mafia protection in Trapani, about the pizzo, about the clans.”
“A bit dangerous?”
“Very dangerous.” Spadano nodded, “The phones were jammed with viewers wanting to know who this Northerner was. Asking for more of the same. The manager who’d been shitting bricks suddenly realized he could afford to be delighted.”
“Gracchi was asked to stay on?”
“Gracchi’d been one of the editors back in the late sixties with Lotta Continua, but he knew this would be different. Trapani wasn’t Milan or Turin. In western Sicily, other rules apply. Being an intellectual and an outsider’d never be protection from the lupara.”
“You mean the Kalashnikov, Spadano.”
“From the mattanza.”
“What?”
“Years ago, when there were still fish in the sea, the Trapani fishermen would sail out and slaughter the tuna in their nets. The sea’d turn red with blood. The mattanza—the slaughter. Gracchi knew what he was taking on. He knew he’d talk too much.”
“Yet he accepted?”
“Limelight was a drug for him.”
“Even if it killed him?”
“Giovanni Verga asked Gracchi to stay on at TRTP.”
“Why?”
“Giovanni Verga was his associate at BRAMAN. Any good publicity for BRAMAN was welcome, indeed was necessary. In the mid-eighties, when Craxi became prime minister, Verga’d started getting into bed with his Socialist chums. Unlike the Christian Democrats, the Socialists hadn’t married into the Mafia, so it wasn’t as if there was a major conflict of interest. It suited Verga—and through him, Bettino Craxi—to be seen fighting the Mafia in Trapani. Giovanni Verga was delighted to let Gracchi get on with it.”
“Giovanni Verga was concerned about the Mafia?”
“Couldn’t give a shit.” Spadano smiled coldly. “Verga was from Trapani, where his father had been postmaster. He knew all about the Mafia. And he knew Gracchi was setting himself up.”
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 3
