“Looking good, Pisa.”
Pisanelli had lost weight since they had last met, and as he pulled himself upright onto the crutch, he appeared shorter than Trotti remembered him. Shorter and more frail.
“No need to worry about me, commissario.” Pisanelli must have caught Trotti’s glance, for he laughed. “The worst’s over. This”—he tapped the unbent leg with his hand—“got me away from your dreadful city.”
“You like Rome?”
“I like being with Anna,” Pisanelli replied, and the freshness of his smile pierced Trotti’s heart. “Forty-three years old and I’m marrying a woman almost half my age. A very lucky man.”
Trotti nodded. “I always told you that.”
A raised eyebrow. “Your goddaughter’s about the only thing I have to thank you for, Commissario Trotti.”
“She hasn’t forgiven me, has she?”
“I see your hens and your mushrooms and your chestnuts are keeping you fit.” Pisanelli put his head back and the long hair ran against the collar of his suede jacket. “Apart from the bruised face, you’re not looking at all bad yourself. Bruised face and a paunch. Pity about the Carabinieri overcoat.”
“I almost died of exposure in Siena.”
“Your fault for going there.”
“She hasn’t forgiven me, has she?”
“Forgiven you for what?” Pisanelli’s steady eyes held his.
“Your getting hurt.”
“Do I look hurt?”
Trotti made a movement of irritation. “Anna still holds everything against me.”
“It wasn’t you who drove the car off the road.”
“It was me who got you to run all over Lombardy on my wild goose chases.”
“I miss all that,” Pisanelli answered wistfully. “That and your bullying and all your obsessions, commissario. Plus the smell of your sickly, synthetic rhubarb sweets.”
Trotti smiled, but the pain in his heart lingered as he picked up his bag. Taking the younger man by the arm, he walked across the busy concourse of Stazione Termini.
25: Verdi
“It’s always rush hour in Rome—any time, night or day. That’s why the place’s eternal.”
The evening sky had cleared to the west. It was raining, but the drizzle was almost pleasant against Trotti’s skin; the air was softer and warmer than in the hills of Tuscany. Here winter was over and Trotti was tempted to remove the overcoat. He had forgotten about his sore throat and his bruises.
They stepped out of the station.
The lights and their reflections along the wet roads beckoned enticingly. Trotti, retired now for nearly a year, had the strange sensation of being on holiday. Piero Trotti, who had never been young or carefree, felt pleasantly young and carefree.
He caught a deep breath, and at that moment he saw Wilma; she was being accompanied by a well-dressed couple to an awaiting car. Perhaps before climbing into the back seat, the young face turned in the evening rain to glance at him.
Trotti could not be sure in the failing light.
Wilma was going to stay with friends of the American family for whom she babysat. Trotti had given her Pisanelli’s home number.
He watched the sleek car disappear into the swirling city traffic.
The Eternal City.
His sense of excitement was almost inebriating in its intensity.
“Don’t have much luggage, commissario?”
Trotti swung round to look at Pisanelli. “I’m not staying forever.”
“You’ve got a suit for the wedding, I hope.” There was concern in Pisanelli’s voice.
“Just flippers and a snorkel. And a present for Anna.”
The two men walked along the long row of taxis.
“I’d’ve married at the town hall, but Anna wants this to be a very special occasion.”
“You only get married once, Pisa . . .”
Pisanelli shot him a sideways glance.
“At least, in theory.”
“For years I thought I’d never get married at all.” Pisanelli balanced his weight on the aluminum crutch. He had shaken free of Trotti’s guiding hand.
“Tell me about your future wife, Pisa.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Nothing to stop you having children, I hope.” Trotti gestured towards Pisanelli’s crippled leg.
“Lost none of your tact, commissario.”
“Anna always wanted a family. Ever since she was a little girl.”
“I hope to be family enough for her.”
“Anna wants children that grow up. The kind of children that have hair on their head.”
“As delightful as ever,” Pisanelli retorted, not without bitterness. “The life of enforced inactivity hasn’t altered you, commissario.”
“People say I’ve grown worse.”
“Calumny.” Pisanelli asked, “You’re going to tell me what happened to your face?”
“Somebody pushed me over.”
“I know the temptation.”
They followed the taxi rank to where a yellow cab stood alone. The driver was standing out of the drizzle beneath a domed perspex shelter. He gave a smile to Pisanelli, a nod to Trotti and like a clever magician, produced an umbrella from behind his back. He took Trotti’s bag and placed it in the capacious trunk.
Pisanelli said, “Trastevere.”
Trotti interjected, “That’s where you live now, Pisanelli?”
“Don’t you want to be near the Pope?”
“I want to be with my goddaughter.”
“I’ve booked you into a hotel.”
The car smelled of new plastic and naphthalene. Pisanelli clambered awkwardly onto the front seat where there was more room for the unbending left leg. “Anna’s very busy before her wedding,” he said over his shoulder.
“You invited me to stay with you and Anna.”
“The bill’s paid for four nights—or for as long as you care to stay.”
The taxi pulled away from the curb and headed towards via Nazionale.
“I want to see Anna.”
“Don’t fret.”
“Can’t I see Anna now?”
“You’re very special for her—always have been.”
The wiper started its rhythmic beat; beyond its sweep, the city lights multiplied and twinkled in the raindrops of the windshield.
“Still angry with me, isn’t she?”
“If Anna were angry, she wouldn’t have invited you to her wedding.”
“You invited me.”
“A big mistake.”
“I’ll go back, if that’s what you want. What Anna wants.”
“So susceptible, commissario.”
“It’s to see my goddaughter that I’ve come down to Rome.”
The driver’s window was open and the damp air smelled of car fumes.
“Nearly seventy years old and you still behave like a petulant child. Of course you’ll see Anna.”
“When?”
“Her family’s staying with us at the moment. The apartment’s very small.”
They waited a long time at the traffic lights off via del Corso. The memorial to Victor Emmanuel was a brightly lit wedding cake against the darkening sky.
Soon the taxi was running over a bridge, over the Tiber, into Trastevere.
Pisanelli said softly, “Give her time, commissario.”
26: Athletic Club
Despite the toxic fumes of the traffic, the trees were already in bloom along the via Sidney Sonnino.
The taxi dropped them off at a tram stop; the driver, both brusque and friendly, handed the umbrella to Trotti as he pulled the bag from the trunk. With scarcely a glance at the bills Pisanelli gave him, he took the money and the umbrella and then returned to the driver’s seat. A screech of tire
rubber and the red lights joined the endless flow of cars.
They crossed the busy road, Pisanelli walking slowly beneath the light drizzle and refusing Trotti’s proffered help.
“Why do the Romans all sound like people on television?”
“Because the people on television are all Romans,” Pisanelli said. “You’ll like this hotel.”
The sound of the Corso fell behind them as they entered the side streets of Trastevere. The same cobblestones as those of Trotti’s city, fished from a river bed and neatly tapped into the ground. The houses appeared cheerful, as if illuminated by the optimism of permanent good weather. Lights were coming on and there was the smell of cooking—oil, tomatoes and garlic.
“I’ll get to see Anna before the wedding?”
They took a couple of left turns where the streets got narrower.
The streets reminded Trotti of his own city on the Po; as in his city, there was no sidewalk, but these streets were less cared for, less clean. Oil slicks on the cobbles, accumulated piles of detritus by the side of the road and between the parked cars, rusting Vespas and glinting new motorcycles. There were the incongruous reminders of a rich heritage: the unexpected fountain or an ancient engraving set into a building, a luxurious villa beyond a high wall.
Trastevere was both quaint and dirty.
“I wouldn’t like to live here.”
“Nobody’s asking you to,” Pisanelli retorted. He added, “You know my family’s from the South.”
“Always thought you were from Sondrio, Pisa. From the Alps.”
“My parents went north during the thirties, when Mussolini was trying to make the Alps a bit less Germanic and a bit more Italian.”
Pisanelli stumbled as they moved along a line of parked cars. The crutch tapped against the cobbles.
There was purple bougainvillea climbing down the brick of a wall. Beyond the wall stood a clinic or a hospital, and Trotti caught a glimpse of a few sprouts of grass and another forlorn fountain. He also caught sight of a nun.
“You’re going to like this hotel.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
The Hotel Toscana was hidden behind a couple of cars. There was an entrance and, set back from the road, a wooden doorframe with a ground-glass window.
The door would not move under Pisanelli’s hand. Stepping back, he rang the bell. A distant tinkle and after a while, they heard scratching in the lock and the door was opened by an old man with white hair and a smiling face.
He beamed at Pisanelli. “Commissario Trotti?”
Pisanelli gestured. “This is Commissario Trotti. He’s booked for four nights.”
“A gentleman’s just phoned for Commissario Trotti.” The old man ushered them into the gloom of the hotel. He was wearing a red and black striped waistcoat; he could have been a superannuated player from Milan AC. “Wouldn’t leave his number, so I told him to ring back later.”
27: Zapping
“That you, Piero?”
A grunt.
“That you?”
“How d’you know I was here?”
“I spoke to your goddaughter. You told me you were going to stay with her.”
“She’s a busy woman, three days before her wedding.”
“Signorina Ermagni’s charming—although she didn’t seem particularly pleased to hear from me.”
“I’m not particularly pleased to hear from you, either. You want your coat back, Spadano?”
“Keep the coat, Piero. It suits you.”
“So I’m told,” Trotti remarked coldly. “I’m about to go to bed. I haven’t slept for thirty-six hours and I can smell your cigars from here.”
“I’d like you to see Lia Guerra. You left in such a hurry to get back to your American girl, I didn’t get the time to tell you Guerra’s in Rome.”
“I’m not interested in Lia Guerra, Spadano. Nor in Gracchi.”
“For your own good.”
“My own good at this moment is to sleep.”
“Lia Guerra lives in the via Tempio, opposite the synagogue.”
“Spadano, I’m going to spend a few days in Rome with Pisanelli and Anna. On Saturday, I’m going to the wedding on Lake Bracciano and then I’m going back to via Milano, my video machine and my cousin’s cooking. Please don’t ask me to do favors for you.”
“For yourself, Piero.”
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Near the Colosseum. Via del Tempio, 26. Top floor.”
“I couldn’t give a damn.”
“You couldn’t give a damn Beltoni’ll kill you?”
“Beltoni’s not important.”
“Trotti’s important—and Beltoni’ll kill Piero Trotti if Piero Trotti’s not very careful.”
“Kill me? I’m not that interesting.”
“You don’t know Sicilians. His brother was murdered and he holds you responsible, Piero.”
“I know them well enough to know that I have nothing to fear.”
“And if he kills you?”
“If Beltoni kills me, I won’t have to fear him, will I?”
“Not afraid of dying, Piero?”
“I’m an old man.”
“You’re being foolhardy.”
“I can live with foolhardiness—not with fear.”
“Lia Guerra knew Enzo Beltoni well.”
“A good life—wife, daughter and now two granddaughters. I can’t complain. Remember the Fascist signs they used to paint on the walls, Spadano? ‘Better to live a day as a lion than a hundred years as a lamb.’”
“Ancient history. Do yourself a favor, Trotti. Speak to Guerra.”
“Ciao,” Trotti said and he put the receiver down.
Trotti showered and climbed into bed.
He stretched out, feeling his tired muscles, feeling the bruise on his face, feeling the dull pain in his knee. Yet, despite his fatigue and the missed night’s rest, he could not get to sleep.
He turned on the television and switched between the mindless pap of the Berlusconi stations.
After ten minutes he turned the television off and turned the bedside lamp back on.
“I’m not interested in Lia Guerra, Spadano. Nor in Gracchi.”
Trotti started to read.
28: All You Need Is Love
Prince Magazine: Are you a Communist?
Gracchi: I am absolutely nothing. My parents were Communists—my father worked his way up the ladder at Fiat, then studied in the evenings to become an architect. It took him ten years. When I was growing up in Turin, there was a picture of Stalin on the kitchen wall. For all that, my parents sent me to the priests. Five years of schooling with the Rosminian Institute of Charity, then seven years with the Salesian brothers. It took me a long time to see that with their centralized structure and their hostility towards intellectual independence, the Church and the Communist Party were really the same thing. Neither had faith in the individual.
It’s the individual who counts.
Communist? I nearly joined the party, you know.
In Trento, as a student, I believed in the existence of classes, just as I believed in the oppression of the working class. Lotta Continua became my platform. No doubt as a response to that period of tension—the forces of progress had been silenced and then killed off by Pinochet in Chile—Lotta Continua slipped out of control and became too radical. And violent. I found myself at odds with my companions. Soon Lotta Continua was no better than the Partito Comunista Italiano that it so despised. Good friends of mine became apparatchiks, toeing the line while using Lotta Continua for their personal aims. “Power to the people”—I was beginning to have second thoughts. Power to the person, power to be free, power to live one’s life to the fullest. I was concerned with the pursuit of happiness, the pursuit of my happiness. The Beatles
were more important than either Marx—Karl or Groucho.
The apparatchiks learned to hate me. Dope was now part of my revolution. They said I was setting a bad example for the working masses on the factory floor. I told them the masses were already under the influence of cheap red wine.
As a punishment for the drugs, my long hair, my clothes and my women, Lotta Continua sent me to cool my heels in Palermo, then to Padua where I taught at the university. [Laughter.] I taught sociology during the day and screwed my sociologists at night—something very special about the girls from the Veneto—beautiful, church-going and slightly crazy. The Rector told me to take my salary and stay away from the university.
Prince: Perhaps he was jealous.
Gracchi: Not long after that, I was wrongly arrested in Lombardy—a little girl had been kidnapped—and I spent a couple of nights in a pokey, provincial prison where I was interrogated by a policeman who ate sweets and pretended to be stupid— at least, I think he was pretending. That he—or anybody else—could believe me capable of kidnapping a child I found quite unbearable. Let me tell you something—and you can quote me. Children are the justification for our struggle, they are our hope and—forgive me if I sound like a Salesian—they are our redemption. Lakshmi—my daughter—for nine years now has been my source of joy, my true raison d’être. Her smile gives sense to my life.
During those days in prison, a fellow inmate—a defrocked priest who’d got a couple of nuns pregnant—talked to me about India. He gave me a book on transcendental meditation. In prison, you always try to sleep as much as possible—it’s the safest way of killing time. I can remember sitting up all night in my damp cell of that horrid, humid city on the Po, reading the book.
Prince: Destiny whispering in your ear?
Gracchi: A few days later, my mother died. I realized then how much I loved her. A hard woman, but I appreciated her more in death than I ever did in life. One morning I woke up and the two most important things in my life had gone forever. My mother was dead. Lotta Continua was dead. One of my best and dearest friends, another founder member of Lotta Continua, Antonio Cocco, was in prison and his beautiful young wife had been gunned down by the Carabinieri.
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 7
