The Second Day of the Renaissance

by Timothy Williams

  A mere nine years old at the time of her father’s death, Elena Gracchi—Lakshmi to her friends—is now at liceo classico in Turin, where she is a model pupil. Her ambition is to become a television journalist, just like her beloved father.

  “‘Don’t cry, mamma.’ That’s what she’s always told me. It’s Lakshmi’s strength I’ll miss if I’m put behind bars. Prison will change little else; even as a free citizen, I’ve endured every indignity our Italian justice can mete out to a woman. If the worst comes to the worst, if I’m permanently silenced, Lakshmi will continue the battle to clear my name, continue the battle to bring the murderers to justice. I’m not Clytemnestra—but like Electra, Lakshmi will avenge her father’s death.”

  For eight years, the Trapani judges believed the murderer of Gracchi was an inmate of BRAMAN: Enzo Beltoni, an ex-addict who had been recruited by Giovanni Verga to help in the running of the commune.

  The judges knew about an acrimonious quarrel between Enzo Beltoni and Valerio Gracchi just a week before his death. Gracchi accused Beltoni of selling heroin to the BRAMAN inmates. He also accused Enzo Beltoni of being in the pay of the Trapani boss, Roberto Palermeri. In anger and in the presence of witnesses, Gracchi threatened to have Beltoni arrested. Enzo Beltoni replied by threatening to kill Gracchi.

  Following an initial interrogation in October 1988, Enzo Beltoni chose to abscond. He hastily left BRAMAN, Trapani and Sicily. It was believed at the time that he returned to the United States, where he had spent much of his childhood and where in his youth he had murdered a man.

  According to this, the official theory, Gracchi was killed by Enzo Beltoni with the help of the Trapani Mafia.

  Valerio Gracchi, one of the founding journalists of Lotta Continua when it was a fledgling political tract in Trento, had taken it upon himself to attack the Mafia on television. The local boss, Roberto Palermeri, no longer able to tolerate the daily attacks that Gracchi mounted against him—and against the wealthy politician Mario Agrate—ordered Enzo Beltoni to silence Gracchi for good.

  Over the years, frequent and insistent dissenting voices have claimed that Gracchi’s death had nothing to do with Palermeri, Mario Agrate or the Mafia in Western Sicily. Indeed, the investigating magistrates have never found any corroboration from pentiti. No criminal giving state evidence has ever spoken of a link between Roberto Palermeri and Gracchi’s death.

  For many, the true motive behind Gracchi’s death is to be found in BRAMAN. The Guardia di Finanza continues to look into the murky accounting at BRAMAN—and more importantly, into the nature of the ties that held Gracchi, his wife Chiara and Giovanni Verga together.

  Chiara Gracchi promptly dismisses such theories. “It’s true my husband and Giovanni Verga disagreed—at times almost violently—about the nature of BRAMAN. Yet there can be no doubt in my mind Tino was killed by the Mafia. I bear no grudge against the sostituto procuratore. He has his job to do; I am convinced of his good faith. A job that’s difficult elsewhere becomes impossible in a place like Trapani—a city backward in outlook, yet thoroughly modern in its criminal methods. The globalization of the drug trade and the Trapani ramifications of this trade—that’s what my husband denounced on the very evening he was slain.”

  Chiara Gracchi pauses, inhales more smoke from her German cigarette. “I find it incredible anyone could possibly believe I was involved in my husband’s death. I was carrying his child in my belly.” She pauses before continuing, weighing her words carefully. “My loathing of Giovanni Verga, my husband’s associate and alleged friend, is total. I have no idea who Giovanni Verga thinks he is. All I can say is he’s a person I despise intensely. I have not seen him in a very long time—and I thank God for that.”

  After eight years of enquiry, in Trapani, in Palermo and even in Nice where BRAMAN ran a French rehabilitation commune, still very little is known about the death of Valerio Gracchi other than that he was shot with eight bullets to the head and body as he was driving back to BRAMAN in a Fiat Duna on September 26, 1988.

  For the last couple of years, the Trapani magistrates, aided by the enquiries of the Guardia di Finanza into the finances at BRAMAN, have been taking a hard look at the relationship between Gracchi’s widow and Giovanni Verga.

  Like Clytemnestra, was Chiara Gracchi in love with another man? Like Clytemnestra, did she feel her husband had become an obstacle to her happiness? To her happiness and the happiness of Giovanni Verga? Was Gracchi really the father of the child she was expecting? Had Gracchi’s role as the scourge of the Mafia become a threat to their power at BRAMAN?

  Verga, originally from Trapani, was a good friend of various Socialist politicians in Milan. Meeting with Gracchi in India, he decided to set up a rehabilitation center in Sicily. Before long, considerable financial support was pouring into BRAMAN.

  At a time when Bettino Craxi was prime minister and Craxi espoused the hard-line position of President Reagan on the drug trade, Giovanni Verga’s stand against all forms of drug use was appreciated by Craxi’s inner circle.

  BRAMAN received a significant amount of financing, not just from Craxi’s Socialist government but also from the autonomous region of Sicily.

  Drugs were certainly a cause of conflict between the two founders of BRAMAN. On the one hand, Giovanni Verga, the Sicilian businessman with close ties to the government in Rome, needed to show his pro-Socialist loyalty by endorsing Craxi. On the other, Valerio Gracchi, the eternal outsider, the Sicilian from Turin, the ex-university lecturer, the ex-journalist of Lotta Continua, the convert to Indian religions who could see no harm in a joint, had become a serious embarrassment. Gracchi’s “hippy” libertarian views constituted a threat to the steady flow of subsidies.

  The widow lowers her cigarette. “People say Giovanni Verga and I were lovers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although there was a time when I admired Giovanni Verga profoundly, and although there were periods of great stress in my married life, my first concern’s always been for the happiness of our daughter, Lakshmi. Despite his failings, Gracchi was a good father. I could never have loved another man as I love Tino.”

  67: Oenone

  “My mother’s not Clytemnestra.”

  Trotti shook his head as he set the Vissuto magazine down on the beige folder.

  “Solenghi thinks my mother killed my father.”

  “Who’s Clytemnestra and who’s Solenghi?”

  “The sostituto procuratore in Trapani—he’s from the north. Solenghi hates my mother, and now he’s had her arrested and put in prison.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she killed Papa.”

  “Why’d your mother kill your father?”

  “Of course she didn’t kill him,” Lakshmi retorted. “Mamma loved him. And Papa always loved her in his own way. Ours was a happy family—a very happy family—until Papa was murdered. Solenghi needs to show he’s in charge. After waiting eight years, he’s suddenly decided he’s found Papa’s murderer.”

  “Why wait eight years?”

  “You tell me,” Lakshmi said, and again she started to cry.

  Trotti leaned forward and squeezed her hand where it lay on the beige folder.

  “He’s now decided my father wasn’t killed by the Mafia.” Lakshmi repressed a sob.

  Guests at the neighboring tables turned to look at the old policeman and the unhappy adolescent.

  “Clytemnestra’s from BRAMAN?”

  The girl smiled through her tears. “You never studied mythology?”

  “I left school at the age of fourteen.” Trotti released her hand. “A long time ago—in those days, not everybody could stay at school. Work to be done in the fields. There was Mussolini. There was the war. War in Africa, in Spain and Greece and Russia. Then there was the war with Hitler and the Repubblichini.” Trotti breathed in. “Just an ignorant peasant, I’m afraid.”

  For a moment, she look
ed at Trotti’s hand where it rested beside hers on the folder. Very briefly, she touched the knuckles of his finger. Then, taking the fork, she prodded her slice of pineapple.

  She blushed. “I’m sorry, commissario,” she said without raising her eyes.

  In the large, bright dining room, Trotti had the feeling they were alone together, just him and the girl, and that the lake was some picture projected onto the panoramic window. Lake Bracciano and the chattering guests at the other tables had nothing to do with either of them.

  They were alone.

  “Solenghi maintains my mother killed her husband, just as Clytemnestra killed Agamemnon.”

  “Please explain, Lakshmi.”

  She jabbed a slice of pineapple, “Agamemnon was the king of Mycenae and commander of the Greek army in the Trojan War. Helen was the most beautiful woman in all Greece. She was courted by almost every prince in Greece, but in the end she married an old man.”

  “What possible interest could a beautiful young woman have for an old man?”

  “Menelaus—the king of Sparta—happened to be the richest of the suitors.”

  “Helen was in it for the money?”

  The girl gave a nod, “At least, until she met a handsome prince from Troy called Paris, and Paris fell in love with her.”

  Trotti laughed.

  “What’s funny? You don’t believe in love at first sight, commissario?”

  “Not with a married woman.”

  The girl brushed away a tear with the back of her hand. “Paris was so smitten by Helen that he left his girlfriend and abducted Helen. Left Oenone and ran off with Helen to Troy.”

  “Where they lived happily ever after?”

  “Happily ever after for ten years. Menelaus wasn’t thrilled about losing his young bride, and he persuaded his brother Agamemnon to organize an expedition of all the Greeks against Troy. That’s why Agamemnon and the Greeks set off and for ten years besieged the city of Troy. The impenetrable, walled city of Troy.”

  “The young man didn’t get bored with the stolen wife?”

  She said in irritation, “You don’t believe in the power of love?”

  “Life’s not very romantic by the time you reach my age.”

  “Nobody’s too old for love.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Nobody’s too old for love—not even you, commissario.”

  “Tell me about Clytemnestra.”

  “The Greeks built a horse and left it in front of the city gate before finally sailing back to Greece. The Trojans assumed the horse was a gift and dutifully hauled the thing inside Troy’s walls—and that, of course, was their undoing. Greeks hiding in the horse jumped, burned down the city, and massacred the Trojans. After ten years, Helen was reunited with her rightful husband.”

  “Soiled goods by that time.”

  “Helen’s considered to be the daughter of Nemesis because she caused such unhappiness.”

  “Unhappiness?” Trotti poured himself another cup of coffee from the plastic beaker. “Unhappiness is not being able to drink and eat what you like.” He spoke to himself rather than to the girl. The coffee was strong and bitter and Trotti winced as he drank. “What’s all this got to do with your mother?”

  “While Agamemnon was away at war, besieging the city of Troy with his army, his wife Clytemnestra had taken a lover.”

  “Ten years’s a long time for a woman just as much as a man.”

  “You know about these things, commissario?”

  “I attained peace of the senses years ago.”

  “The lovers decided to kill Agamemnon.” Lakshmi said. “Actually, Clytemnestra had another reason for wanting to kill her husband. When the gods had refused a favorable wind to the Greek fleet, a sacrifice seemed the best way of appeasing them. Agamemnon had sacrificed their eldest daughter, Iphigenia. Ten years on, when her husband got back, Clytemnestra welcomed him, but that same evening, as Agamemnon was taking a bath, Clytemnestra murdered him.” Lakshmi stopped.

  “A dysfunctional family?”

  “Most families are, commissario.” Lakshmi sighed. “That left the problem of Electra—Clytemnestra’s daughter. According to the papers, I’m Electra and I persuaded Orestes.”

  “Orestes?”

  “My brother.”

  “You just told me you were your father’s only child. You’re confusing me, Lakshmi, with all your talk of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra and Electra and Orestes.”

  “Not me, commissario. It’s the newspapers.” The girl’s hand lay atop the magazine. “They say my mother murdered my father.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “You’re being deliberately obtuse?”

  “It’s not deliberate. If you’re Electra, you seem to think your mother’s innocent.”

  The pale skin was turning red. Lakshmi put down the fork and raised her glance to meet Trotti’s. Her breath smelled of pineapple.

  “My mother’s innocent.”

  68: Uncle

  Trotti pointed at the magazine. “It says you hope to be a journalist?”

  “Journalist or novelist—I take after Papa. Mother’s the realist, thank God for that. In many ways, I think she should’ve married Zio Chicchi. She had more in common with him than with Papa. Papa was a dreamer and an idealist. Like me.”

  “Zio Chicchi?”

  “I always called him Uncle Chicchi.”

  “Him?”

  “Giovanni Verga. When I was a kid, he was like an uncle.”

  Trotti was surprised, “You liked him?”

  “Always very kind to me. And it was nice to have somebody a bit more realistic around the place, somebody with his feet firmly on the ground. There was a time—I was still very little—when Papa lived on a cloud—a cloud of dope. Unlike Papa, Zio Chicchi’d grown up. He’d moved on to making important friends and lots of money. Zio Chicchi was set on turning BRAMAN into an empire—but Papa wasn’t interested in power. Papa always saw himself as a thinker.”

  “That’s why there were rumors about your mother and Giovanni Verga?”

  The smile vanished from her face. “You’re not going to start talking rubbish, are you, Commissario Trotti?”

  “They had an affair?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But they liked each other a lot.”

  “My mother loathes Giovanni Verga.”

  “Your mother liked him at the time your father died.”

  The girl said nothing. She raised her head and turned to stare out of the window.

  “Your mother liked Giovanni Verga at the time your father died—even though she was pregnant.”

  69: Waterloo

  At the other tables, the guests were rising, preparing to leave for the long drive back to Rome.

  “I couldn’t have asked for a kinder or gentler father. I used to curl up in his arms and fall asleep. Those were the happiest days of my childhood: the smell of his clothes, of his lavender soap, and just a hint of a smoked joint. I felt safe.” Lakshmi laughed before adding, “Now that I’m a woman, I can see how selfish Papa was.”

  The young woman stopped and looked at Trotti. Her fingers touched the Vissuto magazine where it lay open on the table. “Look,” she said pointing to the photograph beneath the title in large red letters.

  Trotti reached across the table and picked up the magazine. A color photograph taken at BRAMAN.

  Trotti held it out at a distance to get the page into focus—he had left his glasses in Rome, at Lia Guerra’s. He studied the text beneath the blurred picture:

  a group of people at braman.

  According to the magazine, the photograph had been taken a year before Gracchi’s death—June 1987. Men, women and a couple of children who stood or sat in the Sicilian sunshine, beneath an olive tree.

  Gracchi and
his wife Chiara were on the left of the photograph, standing hand in hand, smiling at the camera. Gracchi was dressed in a white linen suit with a matching Panama hat.

  “The clothes are an improvement,” Trotti remarked. “When I knew your father, he wore flared jeans and tight-fitting shirts.”

  “And listened to Abba and watched Saturday Night Fever?” Lakshmi smiled fondly. “He liked to show me the old photos. He was so thin in those days. He always said those were the best years of his life. As he grew older he put on a lot of weight. And stuck to the Indian robes.”

  In the photograph, Chiara Gracchi was almost hidden beside her husband. She held a smoking cigarette in her hand. She was not looking at the camera, but smiling at the little girl at her feet.

  Lakshmi, dressed in a saffron dress, sat cross-legged on the ground. Trotti had no difficulty in recognizing her; there was a red spot on her forehead. The dark hair was hidden by a turban. She eyed the camera and the cameraman inquisitively, with her head to one side.

  Lakshmi tapped the photograph. “Papa never loved her.”

  “Never loved who?”

  “It wasn’t Mamma he loved. Despite the big smile.”

  “That’s not what your mother says in the article.”

  “They were friends—more than friends. Papa didn’t love her.”

  “They were husband and wife. And later she got pregnant for a second time.”

  “Papa tried as best he could to assume his responsibilities—it was more from love of me than for love of my mother. It would’ve been better if I’d never been born. Without a child, they could’ve drifted apart. Very amicably, of course, but that would’ve been better for everybody.”