“She could’ve been murdered before arriving at the hotel.”
Trotti shook his head. “The guy who hit me—he knew she’d rung me just as I was about to leave the hotel.”
“Rang you?”
“Wilma wanted to see me, said she had something to tell me. Said it was important. Said she hadn’t been totally honest.”
“What does that mean?”
“She couldn’t have phoned me if she was already dead.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“How could the body’ve been taken up the narrow stairs to my room without being seen?”
Magagna squinted as smoke rose into his eyes. “You sure you didn’t kill her?”
“Too many people saw Pisanelli and me bickering. I’ve got a cast-iron alibi.”
“Bickering, commissario?”
“Pisanelli was acting churlishly.” Trotti sighed. “The stress of getting married.”
Magagna asked, “Who killed your girlfriend?”
“She went to my hotel. Alive. Either willingly or under duress. Somebody knew I’d just left and probably took her there. Wilma was murdered there in my room. Murdered so I’d be seen as the culprit.”
“It wasn’t a sex killing?”
“She was raped, the poor girl, but nobody’s going to find my DNA on her body.”
“Sure you’ve got any DNA at your age?”
Trotti shook his head. “It’s me the killer’s out to get. Wilma was just a tool.”
“Why get you?”
“According to Spadano . . .”
“Your Carabinieri friend?”
“What friends do I have, Magagna?” Trotti made an impatient gesture of his hand. “According to Spadano, there’s a Sicilian hitman looking for me.”
“A hitman should be able to distinguish between an aging, rather ugly white male and a pretty black woman.”
“Something went wrong.”
Magagna asked, “When’d you last see your Wilma?”
“I was looking for a taxi with Pisa and she was getting into a car. Outside Stazione Termini.” Trotti went on, “You’ve read the paper. There’d been intercourse. That can only mean she got to the hotel, was raped, was murdered, and the police alerted—all within four hours.”
“So?”
“Wilma was set up. The patsy.”
“Set up by who?”
“Somebody she trusted.”
“Who, Piero?”
“No idea. Wilma told me she knew nobody in Rome.”
“Then she was lying?”
“I never got the impression she was lying.”
“You always believe women. Particularly if they’re young and pretty and have small tits.”
“Lying or telling the truth, there was no reason for her to be raped on my hotel bed. Enough places in Rome to rape a woman without having to go to the Hotel Toscana.”
“She was followed there?”
“Why go to Trastevere. I was going to meet Wilma in the via Veneto. After lunch.”
Magagna was shaking his head, “You really believe all that crap about being Gracchi’s daughter?”
Trotti laughed without humor, “You’re just like Pisa.”
“Flatter me.”
“Pisanelli claims Wilma was using me.”
“She wasn’t?”
“She wasn’t completely honest with me. She didn’t tell me the whole truth. If she’d told the Americans in Milan she was Gracchi’s daughter, she must’ve known her father was dead. And that’s not what she told me.”
“There’d’ve been no reason for you to go looking for a dead man.”
“Precisely, Magagna.”
“Gracchi was the bait. And you rose to the bait, commissario. Your young woman was manipulating you.”
“That’s not the impression I got.”
“Now you’ll never know.”
“Now I’ll never know,” Trotti repeated thoughtfully, just as Magagna yanked at the steering wheel. Trotti’s body was flung hard against the unyielding seatbelt.
The car swerved and left the road. The Alfa Romeo was traveling too fast for the four wheels to keep their traction.
58: Bordeaux
Two pumps stood like forgotten aliens beneath a stout pillar. The yellow and blue sign, with its six-legged, fire-breathing animal advertised AGIP petrol.
Magagna jerked the Alfa Romeo into the forecourt of the petrol station. The rubber treads screeched on the concrete.
In a uniform of the same yellow and blue, a peaked cap pushed back on his head and the pink pages of La Gazzetta dello Sport between his hands, sat a young man.
At the squeal of tires, he looked up in surprise.
Magagna braked sharply; without waiting for the car to stop, he threw the gears into reverse.
“Trying to kill me?”
“You mustn’t put ideas into my head, Piero.”
The rubber screeched unhappily and Magagna rammed the car backwards into the shade of an immense hangar. The vehicle lurched on its springs.
“Now breaking my neck with whiplash.”
Magagna pulled the handbrake with theatrical finality.
Trotti’s head throbbed painfully; he wondered whether it really was spinal fluid he could taste on the back of his tongue.
Both men rocked in their seats and their bodies were tugged by conflicting momentum.
“Third car back,” Magagna said. “After the four-wheel drive and the black Fiat.” He pointed a finger through the windscreen as he cut the motor.
Old bodywork and rusting engines littered the ground.
The following cars could not see Magagna’s Alfa Romeo where it was now hidden in the lee of the garage.
“One Cherokee,” Magagna said, holding out a finger. He added, “With Rome plates.”
The Cherokee immediately flashed past. It disappeared down the road, promptly hidden by the curving row of trees.
“One black Fiat Punto.” Magagna held up a second finger. “Plates illegible.”
The Punto went past.
From where Trotti sat, he heard the motor rattle as it, too, was soon lost behind the trees.
Magagna grinned expectantly as he now held up three fingers.
“What’s so funny, Magagna?”
A fraction of second later, the third car entered their field of vision, just twenty meters from where the two men were sitting.
“One rented Twingo. Bordeaux red, modern plates.”
It was midday and the sun was at its spring zenith. Sunlight glinted on the red car roof as the Renault went past.
There was little time to catch sight of the driver.
“Friend of yours, Trotti?”
A young driver, leaning forward. A woman; headgear that looked like a turban.
Just the briefest glimpse of the profile.
“Wilma,” Trotti said softly, so softly that Magagna hardly heard him.
Piero Trotti turned very pale.
59: Daisy
Magagna parked the car.
On foot the two men followed an unsurfaced road that ran between swaying fir trees.
(Trotti, still wearing the military pajamas, had bought a disposable razor in the AGIP garage. He had then shaved in the lavatory, looking at his face in the mirror where Luca from Ravenna had scrawled encouragement to Lazio and obscene insults for Manchester, spelled without an H.
“Spinal fluid?” Trotti smiled at his tired and bruised reflection, had then changed out of the pajamas and put on the dark suit from Pisanelli’s house.
Magagna had brought him underwear but had forgotten socks and shoes. No choice but to keep the scuffed conscript shoes from the hospital.
Washed and shaved, Trotti felt much better, but cold at the ankles.)
Trotti was soon out of breath; Magagna strode effortlessly ahead. Magagna, now in his mid-fifties, looked tanned, well- fed and healthy.
“Wait for me.”
“Time you gave up your boiled sweets, commissario.”
“I’ll worry about sweets when I’m dead.”
“The sort of place you’re going to, there won’t be any sweets to worry about.”
The dull ache in his head was made worse by the wind buffeting Trotti’s face.
The wind grew stronger as they followed the road. It pulled at Trotti’s hair and flapped noisily at his trouser legs, chilled his ankles.
The church stood at the top of a hill and the undulating countryside lay around and below them on all sides, like the background to a Renaissance painting.
Sixth of April—the first day of the Renaissance.
Chiesa Sant’Antonio was at the end of the lane, surrounded by a half circle of fir trees. From a distance the two men could hear the music of an organ.
Trotti’s eyes had started to water.
They climbed up worn, marble steps and entered the church, pushing through the large wooden doors and the dark curtain.
Trotti was glad to get out of the wind.
Anna and Pisanelli were standing at the altar, facing a small, rotund priest.
The church was warm and very full; some people had not been able to find a place to sit down. Everybody seemed well dressed. Many of the women were wearing hats.
The air was thick with incense and the perfume of flowers.
Several guests turned to look at the new arrivals. Some smiled; Trotti had the impression they were expecting him.
Trotti and Magagna stood at the back of the church, near a couple of vases that overflowed with lilies.
All the flowers were white.
The pews were hung with chains of marguerites, and two tall lilies stood like trumpets at the end of each pew, lining the aisle.
Light streamed through the stained windows; saints, angels and nuns transfixed with eternal joy in the glass.
Trotti recognized Ermagni.
It was nearly twenty years since he had last seen Anna’s father. Ermagni had aged since the days when he was a taxi driver, had put on weight, but in his grey suit and with his carefully groomed white hair, he looked more like a prosperous banker than a taxi driver from Bari. Ermagni, a white carnation in his lapel, stood proudly beside his daughter.
Trotti could not see Anna’s face but from behind, in her white gown, she looked as beautiful as he had always remembered her.
Beautiful and young and as innocent as the day she was kidnapped.
60: Pullman
The man pulled the sliding door shut—it folded like a concertina—and Trotti approached the small crowd.
Anna was hidden by the people standing in a pool of light. A man was crouching in front of her.
He stood up. “Commissario.”
It was Magagna; he looked tired, but gave a thin smile as he approached Trotti.
“I thought you were at home.”
“I was sleeping,” Magagna said and shrugged his shoulders. He looked strange out of uniform. “So they phoned me.” He took Trotti’s arm and directed him towards Anna. The crowd—employees of the bus company, men in blue shirts and matching trousers—drew aside.
Anna was sitting on a chair. Her head lolled forward and her eyes were hidden by the fringe of dark hair; her feet just touched the concrete floor.
“She came in on the bus from Genoa. We tried to wake her up but she was sleeping.” The bus driver wore neatly pressed trousers and there were large, damp patches at the armpits of his shirt.
Trotti asked the driver, “You called a doctor?”
“We let her sleep.”
“When did she wake up?”
“Half an hour ago. Beppe recognized her.”
“Beppe?”
“That’s me.” Another driver, small and wiry, with a friendly face. “I came in on the Piacenza run. I saw the girl sleeping and I recognized her. I used to know her father.” The corner of his mouth implied that Ermagni was not a happy memory. He shook his head. “Poor little girl.”
Trotti crouched in front of the child. Her eyelids were heavy and there was no flicker of recognition. She was still half asleep. Her body was slumped forward and she had difficulty in keeping her head upright.
“Get an ambulance—quickly.”
Magagna was standing beside him. “It’s coming, commissario.”
For a while, nobody moved, nobody spoke. Trotti stared into the young, drugged eyes. Then in the distance, he heard the wail of the ambulance.
Trotti stood up.
61: Schubert
The monkey-like photographer danced and squatted and clicked, moving from the altar to the nave and back. He had various instruments that hung like necklaces at his throat. His camera flashed incessantly.
Trotti felt a pull at the sleeve of his jacket.
Two maids stood behind Anna, minute replicas of the bride but in short dresses. White shoes, white ankle socks. They had bows in their hair and they demurely held their hands behind their backs.
Pisanelli was wearing a frock coat. His thin hair, normally so unkempt and uncombed, had been trimmed at the collar. He looked taller, straighter and happier than he had appeared in Rome.
Pierangelo Pisanelli could not contain his joy. Whenever Pisanelli turned his head, Trotti was dazzled by the wide smile that split the middle-aged face. The crutch had disappeared. The groom leaned on a malacca cane.
The rotund priest mumbled, his voice relayed indistinctly from a microphone, as the couple were joined in holy matrimony. There was an exchange of rings, an exchange of smiles and a long kiss.
Then high above Trotti’s head, the pure, clear voice of a boy sang Ave Maria.
Everybody seemed to be smiling, including Trotti and Magagna.
Trotti remembered his own marriage. He remembered Agnese and how beautiful she had been. He remembered how in love he had been, how full of hope. How happy they both had been.
Agnese now lived in America, probably still working for the big pharmaceutical company. They never spoke to each other; an occasional message relayed by Pioppi.
Again Trotti felt a tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and realizing someone needed his attention, he stepped back.
The girl was wearing a turban.
Trotti had been right all along about Wilma: she had not been lying to him.
The girl was pretty, young, and white; she smiled and at that moment, Trotti could not stop himself from sharing the smile.
62: Benacus
Lake Bracciano was small; a mere pond, Trotti thought disparagingly, as he looked through the panoramic window.
(“You’ll be impressed by my lake.” One of the last things Trotti had said to the girl on the train.
“Your lake?”
“You must come and visit me at the Villa Ondina. Garda’s beautiful and very big. More like a sea than a lake.”
“Big lake, commissario?” Wilma giggled then, just as the Petrarca was pulling into Rome. “You really don’t know Lake Michigan, do you? You must come and visit me and my lake in Illinois.”)
The reception was being held in a hotel overlooking the placid waters. Trevignano Romano stood at the foot of the Sabatini mountains.
It was still too chill for the summer season. Within a month or so, visitors would return to throng the thirty kilometers of villages along the shoreline. There would be music and bronzed bodies lying at the lake’s edge, clear skies and a warm sun.
For the moment, there was peace.
Sailing boats rocked gently beneath their stretched winte
r tarpaulins while birds picked their way through the mud on long, articulated legs.
Trotti heard his goddaughter’s laughter.
Anna was surrounded by family and friends and he could hear the unrestrained happiness. She had chosen to ignore her godfather and he, in turn, had decided to keep out of the way.
Flowers—white peonies—everywhere and everybody seemed very happy, sharing in the couple’s joy, touching each other, talking, laughing, drinking.
On the spotless white of the tablecloth stood a folded card with the neat, handwritten inscription: Piero Trotti. Another hand, writing with a different pen, had added: The best policeman in the world.
A woman’s handwriting.
Trotti had been allocated a place at a small table, with his back to the groom, the bride and her family.
There was champagne—not Italian stuff, méthode champenoise, but the real thing—good, French and certainly expensive. After a first toast from Ermagni, everybody sat down expectantly for the meal.
“I’ll be back,” Magagna whispered in Trotti’s ear and disappeared.
The food was excellent, and Trotti realized that he was very hungry after two days of saline drip. He ate greedily while the waiters danced in attendance. Between dishes, Trotti spoke with a young man from Somalia who worked with Anna at the FAO.
From time to time, a quartet of musicians set down their plates of food, took up their violins and broke into a romantic air from Verdi or Puccini or Donizetti.
“A most lucky girl,” the man from Somalia said, showing a long, thin smile beneath a long, thin nose. His teeth were spotted with dark discoloration. His voice was wistful. “Quite beautiful and marrying the only man she’s ever loved.”
Trotti ate in silence and nodded politely while the man went on to talk about his own wife and family in Africa.
Speeches were given from the central table, more toasts were made, and the champagne and grappa and brandy and marsala ran free.
Sitting opposite Trotti, a buxom woman took little sips of Fiuggi water; she ate nothing but sometimes cleaned her teeth with a frayed toothpick. She dabbed at her ample chest and necklace with a napkin.
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 15
