Soon the bridesmaids and the little boys in bow ties were running between the tables and playing hide and seek. They shrieked gleefully and ignored their parents’ demands of silence.
The Somali man was right. Each time Trotti turned to steal a glance at his goddaughter, he was struck by Anna’s luminous beauty.
It was hard to believe this was the same face as all those years ago, in his provincial city. The drugged child at the bus station.
Anna was no longer a little girl and her body, her dark eyes and the lustrous hair with its tiara, announced the fullness of her womanhood.
She smiled radiantly at the guests around her; her hand rarely left her husband’s shoulder or his sleeve.
Pisanelli grinned foolishly. Confetti now speckled the lapels of the frock coat. The malacca cane had disappeared.
The newlyweds’ happiness was almost tangible, and Trotti bitterly regretted the accident, regretted ever having asked Pisanelli to drive him to Alessandria that winter’s evening in 1993.
As soon as it was politely possible, he rose, excused himself, left the table and taking the Esportazione cigarette that his African neighbor had proffered, Trotti stepped out through the large French windows. Out into the cool air and the failing light of evening.
Trotti had drunk too much champagne and the pain in his temples had got worse.
He made his way down the stairs—between the date trees and the hidden garden lights—to where the lake lapped gently at the shore.
“Commissario!”
Trotti turned and recognized the tall figure coming down the steps towards him.
63: Bongusto
“Commissario!”
Trotti, realizing there was no escape, gave a weary smile.
“Been having a few problems?” Ermagni said. “I heard you were in prison.”
“In a military hospital. The Carabinieri like to play their games.”
“Games, commissario?” In Ermagni’s mouth, the title was curiously formal.
“Call me Piero. I’m retired now.”
The two men met and shook hands on the wooden pier that jutted into the lake.
“I want you to talk to her, Piero.”
It was getting dark and the air was cold against Trotti’s bare ankles. The conscript shoes were thin and scruffy.
A few other guests had left the dining room and were chatting on the lakeside steps where they laughed, ate ice cream, or drank coffee or brandy and smoked.
“She still thinks the world of her godfather.”
Trotti ran his tongue against the packed, dark tobacco of the Esportazione. There was a smell of impending night, of the lake’s water, of perfume and of coffee.
The landing light of the jetty had come on; a couple of boats rocked gently on the lake’s surface. Wind worried the masts, rattling the ropes. The reflection of the green lamp danced on the water’s rippled surface.
From the reception came soft music. Una rotonda sul mare.
“Smoking now?” Ermagni held out an expensive lighter.
“I need something comforting.”
“You used to be so abstemious.”
Trotti brushed the flickering lighter away.
“Come.” Ermagni pulled at Trotti’s arm. “It won’t take long.”
Trotti tried to shrug off the large hand. “I’ve got to get back to Rome.”
“Rome? You’re booked into the hotel. And I want you to speak to my daughter.” Pulling him by the arm, Ermagni led Trotti back towards the steps.
“Anna thinks it’s all my fault.”
“My daughter knows how you helped me.”
Firmly held by Ermagni, Trotti reluctantly went up the steps, up to the brightness of the French window.
They entered the dining room and Trotti again tried to throw off the heavy hand.
He shook his head defiantly.
The floor was littered with crumpled napkins, cigarette stubs, crushed flowers, champagne corks, spilled water. The air was heavy with cigar smoke and mingled smells.
Only the white peonies were fresh and cool; the heat had opened them to their full extent.
Empty plates were strewn across the table. Anna had placed her head on her husband’s shoulder. She appeared to be smiling to herself as she admired her finger and the wedding ring.
“Your daughter doesn’t want to talk to me, Ermagni. You understand.”
“Of course she does.”
“She’s busy.”
“You must talk to her, commissario.” Ermagni’s eyes were strangely innocent; though his breath was heavy with grappa, he was not drunk.
“I think I’ve done enough.”
“That’s why you must talk to her.”
“I nearly killed the man she loves. What more d’you want? What d’you want me to say?”
The large eyes looked at Trotti: large, bloodshot eyes that failed to understand the reluctance in Trotti. “You’re her godfather, a policeman. Tell her the truth.” Ermagni tapped his chest. He was wearing a suit of linen and a silk tie. “Since her mother died, she’s been so good to me. My Anna loves you because she loves me.”
“Nothing that I can say.” Trotti pushed the hand away and at the same time placed his left hand on Ermagni’s shoulder. “The most important day in her life. She doesn’t need me.”
“Commissario, you’re part of the family.”
Trotti turned and walked back towards the steps and Lake Bracciano. “I’m sorry, Ermagni.”
“You’ve always been a good godfather.” A voice that trembled on the edge of doubt. “A good man. A good friend.”
Trotti stepped out into the evening. Clouds had come up from the west. The rippling waters had turned black.
Ermagni stood with his mouth open and his feet apart as he watched Trotti walk away. He moved towards the top of the steps.
Trotti did not turn.
“It’ll only take you a minute.”
Trotti continued down the steps, between the terracotta vases, towards the jetty.
“Please.” A different voice—a softer voice. “Please, Piero.”
Trotti stopped.
“You’ve always been our friend.”
He smiled and turned.
Ermagni was still there, standing at the top of the flight of stairs, his large hands hanging at his side.
Anna held her father’s arm.
“You’re not going to kiss the bride, Piero Trotti? Not going to kiss your favorite goddaughter on the happiest day of her life?”
Signora Anna Pisanelli smiled, the smile bright in the darkness.
A smile that lit up the night, that lit up Lake Bracciano, that lit up the Apennines, that lit up Trotti’s weary heart.
64: Polgai
“What’s wrong?”
“A pain in the side of my head.”
“You didn’t stop smiling all evening.”
“That’s a nasty accusation.”
“Driving up in the car, I thought you were still in a coma. Or dead.”
“Wishful thinking, Magagna.”
Soon it would be dawn.
“You’re cheerful, commissario. It’s all rather unexpected and a bit frightening.”
“What happened to you? You disappeared.”
“I had things to see to,” Magagna replied enigmatically.
“In Bracciano?”
“You never stopped smiling at Anna. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”
“I was happy because my goddaughter’s happy.”
“I never knew you could dance, commissario.”
“I can’t.”
“You danced enough with Anna. And with her pretty stepmother, the delightful Signora Ermagni.”
Trotti did not feel tired although, as the reception progres
sed, he had drunk a considerable amount of local wine.
Smiling?
Thanks to the ballo liscio, for the first time since his return to the Hotel Toscana, Trotti had been able to think about something other than Wilma’s death, something other than the bruised young body beneath the sullied sheet.
Magagna gave a muffled snort of laughter. “Sure you’re not in love with your own goddaughter?” His large hands were folded behind his neck on the large pillow.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Signora Pisanelli’s always been beautiful. That’s part of the problem.”
It was a small room overlooking the lake. Comfortable beds, wooden paneling and a large bathroom with large mirrors.
“Problem?”
The two men lay parallel to each other in separate beds. From downstairs came the sounds of muted music, of furniture being rearranged, of tables being cleared.
Magagna said, “Anna’s always known exactly what she wants.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“It’s going to be hard for Pisanelli.”
“Marriage’s hard for everybody—you’re supposed to assume responsibilities.”
No reply.
“Your wife, Magagna?”
“What about her?”
“I’ve been promising myself I’d drive up and see your wife and the boys.”
“You have other priorities.”
Trotti turned to look at his friend, but Magagna did not move.
“I thought with retirement I’d find the time to do the things I’ve always wanted to do. Instead, I do nothing and I see nobody. I seem to spend my afternoons looking at old films on the television. Watching films while my cousin talks to me about Holland and her neurotic grandchildren.”
Light was coming from between the curtains as dawn arrived in the east.
Trotti asked softly, “How is she?”
“Who, commissario?”
“The last time I came, your wife gave me some Abruzzi honey. Isn’t it about time you took her back to Pescara? What sort of life is it for her, living with two boys in an apartment in Sesto San Giovanni? The boys need elbow room at that age.”
“You think I like Milan?”
“I don’t know anybody who does.”
“There was a time when a woman could walk alone at night and not be afraid. Now there are Albanians and Yugoslavs everywhere. It’s not even our Mafia; criminals and prostitutes from Eastern Europe. I take the boys to school every morning and I bring them home at lunch. I don’t want them picking up syringes in the gutter—or worse.”
Trotti asked, “Why not go back to Pescara?”
“Too late.”
“I don’t see why.”
There was no reply.
“You’ve put in the mileage, Magagna. You could get a posting to the Abruzzi if you wanted. Get a job at the new POLGAI. Why stay in Milan? Foggy and damp and you no longer need the promotion.”
“POLGAI? You think I have friends in high places?” Magagna rolled on his pillow, glanced briefly at Trotti. “Nobody owes me any favors.” He pulled the blanket up to his ears and turned away.
“A couple of days in Milan would do me good. It would be good to see you all. We could even go to a basketball game—see Olimpia Milano. I suppose the boys want to be policemen like their father?”
Silence.
Trotti waited but Magagna did not answer.
More furniture being moved and then the music was turned off.
Una rotonda sul mare.
To be policemen like their father—Trotti was tempted to ask his question again, but his jaw felt heavy and the words would not come to his lips.
Trotti was dropping off into sleep. A sleep free of bloodstained bedsheets, of pain, of saline infusion.
He dreamt of confetti and white peonies.
65: Wealth and Happiness
The lake must have been volcanic in origin, for it appeared to be lying in a crater and was perfectly round. On the far side of the calm waters, woods ran down to the lakeside.
“I like the turban.”
A sailing boat slid across the flat surface of Lake Bracciano.
“It’s not really a turban.” Lakshmi ran a hand through her loose black hair. “A scarf I wear when I’m driving.”
“It suits you.”
“I tie the knot at the front, in the style Papa liked. He had a fondness for everything Indian.” She paused, lowered her head and raised her eyes to look at Trotti. “You realize India was all your fault, commissario.”
Trotti found himself frowning and smiling at the same time. “I don’t see why.”
It would soon be midday, but the wedding guests were still taking a late buffet breakfast.
Pineapple and croissants on a spotless tablecloth. The smell of coffee and fresh bread rolls. The dining room was flooded with the spring sunshine. Last night’s spilt champagne and confetti had vanished.
“You threw him in prison. Just a couple of nights— but long enough for Papa to realize he’d been going in the wrong direction.”
“He needed me to tell him that?”
“Without those nights in prison, he’d never have left for India.”
“Glad to have been of use.”
“He belonged in India. Papa was an outsider, always looking for an alternative. Piemontese in Sicily, Sicilian in Piemont. A terrorist for the bourgeois, a middle-class poseur for Lotta Continua.”
“Why poseur?”
“He wasn’t willing to take up arms. That’s why he broke with Lotta Continua. It’d become a recruiting ground for the Red Brigades and Papa loathed violence.”
“Your father once told me the machine gun could be a clinical instrument.”
“Épater la bourgeoisie, as he used to say.” The girl smiled. “Papa spent over a year in India—at a place called Poona.” She added reflectively, “He should’ve stayed there.”
“He’d still be alive?”
She shrugged. “Giovanni Verga owned an old olive-growing estate in Trapani, and together they agreed to turn it into a commune. A transcendental meditation commune. So of course, back in Italy, Papa wore saffron—which didn’t go down at all well. Sicilians don’t like anything different. They don’t like anything—or anyone—foreign.”
“Not sure they like each other very much.”
“You’re Sicilian?” the girl asked in surprise.
“A peasant from the hills of Lombardy, signorina.”
“Sometimes Papa’d put a little red spot on my forehead. A caste mark. It never occurred to him he was being sexist. Just as he couldn’t see that wearing saffron and chanting his mantras in Sicily was patronizing. But then, I don’t think Papa saw people as being different. He saw all humanity as one. He wanted to take the best from each culture. From each individual.”
“Except me. Your father told me I was a fool—a dangerous fool, the worst kind of Fascist.”
Lakshmi laughed happily. In the bright light of day, she no longer looked like her half-sister. Lakshmi had a thin, pale neck. The long hair accentuated her Sicilian origins. An olive complexion. She was younger than Wilma, Trotti thought, probably a little over eighteen. Her body had the same structure of wide shoulders and narrow hips.
She was wearing jeans and a Benetton polo shirt. A gold medallion nestled in the hollow of her throat. An Indian goddess with many arms and legs.
“How old are you, Lakshmi?”
“Old enough.”
“Old enough to hire a car?”
She smiled.
“What are you doing here?”
“Talking to you, commissario?”
“I don’t imagine you were invited to the wedding.”
“You can help us, commissario.”
“How’d you know I was co
ming here?”
“I didn’t.” The set of her lips reminded him of Wilma. The same mixture of shyness and self-assurance. “My mother’s been accused of aiding and abetting in the murder of her husband.”
Quite suddenly, the oval face crumpled and tears began to run down her cheeks.
“Get her out, commissario. Get my mother out of prison.”
“What on earth do you think I can do?”
“Everything.” Lakshmi Gracchi produced a beige folder and tapped it. “Papa always spoke so well of you.”
66: Ronald
Vissuto, Palm Sunday Edition
“I simply seek the truth.”
Chiara Gracchi speaks in a calm voice, but it is clear that she is a woman in anguish.
“The pain I carry within my heart can’t disappear. I merely hope the wounds will lessen in time. Living here in Turin, where my husband grew up, is helping me find new meaning to my life.”
Does the sostituto procuratore really believe Signora Chiara Gracchi is guilty of aiding and abetting the killer who gunned down her husband as he was driving back to BRAMAN?
“The wretched man thinks I’m Clytemnestra. He thinks I murdered my husband just as Clytemnestra murdered Agamemnon.”
Chiara Gracchi lights a cigarette. “The accusation of murder is not something you can shrug off. Yet if my imprisonment means at last there will be a trial, if my imprisonment means there’s now a genuine desire to get to the bottom of my husband’s death, believe me, prison’s a cross I’m more than willing to bear. For myself, for the memory of Tino and above all, for the happiness of our daughter, Lakshmi.”
Chiara Gracchi pushes her large glasses up onto her forehead. “My husband was murdered at a time when things were getting better for him, when his life—and the life of our family—was approaching an important turning-point. I was four months pregnant—and the evening of his murder, I miscarried. In just twenty-four hours, I lost the two most important men in my life—my husband and my son. Since that day, I’ve spent eight years going over Tino’s death, going through all the documents coming out of the Trapani Palace of Justice. I’ve hardly slept, thinking of Tino, thinking of our son. I have constantly been searching for the elusive clue that’ll unmask the assassins of my husband and my child. Eight years of nightmare. Fortunately”—and here Chiara Gracchi finally smiles from behind a cloud of smoke—“I have Tino’s daughter beside me. Lakshmi’s been a tower of strength. An adult when she was still just a little girl. Tino’s murder has robbed her of her childhood, just as it has robbed her of the baby brother she dreamt of.”
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 16
