Black August

by Timothy Williams

  “Isn’t Gardesana where Lawrence used to live?”

  “Lawrence who?”

  “D. H. Lawrence—he was an English writer.”

  “You must ask my wife. She knows everybody in the village.”

  “She lives there?”

  “My wife’s in America—in Evanston, in Illinois.” A blank smile. “She invents new kinds of saccharine for a big American chemical firm. She’s very happy.”

  Boatti fell silent. It was still hot and a humid haze had turned the sky to a leaden grey. They walked along the empty streets that smelled of wine, cork and the afternoon dust.

  “Rosanna,” Trotti said, taking Boatti by the arm. “Your wife said she helped you get the flat.”

  “Rosanna’s always very helpful.” He added, “I’ve lived there now for over fifteen years. I moved in before I was married. And fortunately for us, Rosanna doesn’t ask for a very hefty rent.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is she helpful? That’s the way Rosanna is. You knew her, Commissario, you must have seen how she feels—the need to be useful. A genuinely kind person.”

  “But she’s been particularly kind to you.”

  Boatti said nothing.

  “Why’s she so nice to you, Boatti?”

  “I don’t understand your question.” Boatti stopped walking. He had started to perspire again. They were outside the Città di Pechino, a small Chinese restaurant in via Langobardi. The restaurant had not yet opened for the evening, but a couple of flat-faced Chinese men were carrying out dustbins from the neon-lit kitchen. A cassette blared foreign-sounding Chinese music.

  (It was generally believed in the Questura that “il treno del sesso”—the evening train from Genoa bringing African and Brazilian prostitutes to work the night and early morning in Voghera and along the via Aurelia—was organized by Chinese triads, working out of the Città di Pechino and other restaurants in Lombardy.)

  “You don’t understand my question? Let’s say Rosanna matters a lot to you.”

  Boatti nodded.

  “Yet when you thought she was dead, you didn’t cry.”

  “I didn’t cry in front of you, Commissario. You didn’t see me cry.”

  “You want to write a book. For her sake.”

  “She is a friend. I thought she was dead.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What’re you getting at?” He pulled his arm away from Trotti’s hand. “I’m not sure I like your insinuations, Commissario.”

  “You knew Rosanna wasn’t dead, Boatti.”

  He replied hotly, “You’ve no right to say that.”

  “You invent a cock-and-bull story about wanting to write a book—but it’s just a big hoax, a way of getting in on the enquiry.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “A way of keeping an eye on me.”

  “You think you’re that important?”

  “Only I was taken off the case.”

  “What do you want from me, Trotti?”

  “What did you want from me, Boatti?”

  “What do you want?”

  They stood looking at each other, in the cobbled street, while the Chinese, taking no notice of the two men, prepared for the evening’s custom. Somewhere within the Città di Pechino a woman laughed.

  “The truth.”

  “I know no more than you, Commissario.”

  “You were lovers, weren’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You and Rosanna Belloni—you were lovers, weren’t you? You’ve been screwing her for fifteen years, haven’t you, Boatti?”

  The round face went pale.

  “Old enough to be your mother and you screwed her.”

  Boatti slapped him. One brisk, fast slap of Trotti’s face. Then he turned and walked fast away.

  38: Envelope

  The Questura was cool and almost empty.

  Taking the lift, Trotti thought about the birth of Pioppi, with her round, squashed face and dark hair. Nearly thirty years ago.

  He remembered Agnese’s pride. “Our first child, Piero,” she had said.

  First and only child.

  Smiling at the recollection, Trotti stepped out of the lift at the third floor and went into his office. “Time I phoned my daughter,” he said to himself as he opened the windows, letting the enclosed air escape into the mid-afternoon. Outside it was still hot, but the air over the city was getting cooler; on the roof, the pigeons had started to coo after the long intermezzo of the midday heat.

  Trotti’s eyes ached. For no apparent reason, the radiator started to vibrate with distant banging.

  Trotti set the chilled can of Chinotto on the tabletop.

  There was an envelope on his desk: Repubblica Italiana, Polizia di Stato. Piero, I’ll want this back if you’re going on holiday.

  Trotti frowned, trying to decipher the signature; it took him time to realize that the elided letters were Maiocchi’s initials.

  He opened the manila envelope and took out the square photograph.

  It was a Polaroid, with the flat, washed colors of flash photography.

  The couple sat at a table. Both were wearing T-shirts, with the white, superimposed letters, NY, on the left side of the chest. At first glance, Trotti recognized neither face.

  The man was young, with a fresh, Mediterranean complexion. Like the woman sitting beside him, he was looking at something to the left of the photographer, out of the picture. Luca’s left fist propped up his chin; his right arm rested on the woman’s shoulder. The bright light of the flashlight no doubt attenuated the woman’s wrinkles. The face was slightly bloated. She had a double chin and the dyed hair was pulled back in an unkempt, unflattering bun.

  It could have been Rosanna’s face, but plumper, coarser. And younger. The makeup—lipstick, eyeliner and mascara—was thick and gave the impression of having been applied by an unpracticed hand.

  Heavy loops of gold hung from Maria Cristina Belloni’s ears. Like Luca, she was smiling, but there was something tense about her features. The pupil of one eye was red. Her hands were propped against the edge of the table; the large fingers grasped a glass of amber liquid.

  07 21 90.

  It was a few seconds before Trotti realized it was the date—American style—that had been printed in pinprick letters in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame.

  There was a message on the reverse side: a heart pierced by an arrow and the carefully handwritten words: Luca e Snoopy—per sempre. The immature handwriting of a schoolgirl.

  Trotti turned the cardboard around and was still staring at the photograph as he reached out for the telephone.

  A young woman entered the office.

  39: Uncle

  “Zio!”

  Trotti looked up.

  “Zio Piero.”

  “Your uncle?”

  The girl came into the room and Trotti, replacing the telephone in its cradle, stood up, smiling and frowning at the same time.

  She smelled of fresh hay and youth; standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on both cheeks. “You don’t recognize me, zio?” She stepped back smiling and put her head to one side. “Your own goddaughter?”

  “Anna?”

  She nodded.

  “Anna Ermagni?”

  She laughed as Trotti took her in his arms and squeezed her. “Anna, I thought you’d gone back to Bari.” He moved backwards. “I thought you’d all gone back to Bari.”

  “You see how you care about me.”

  “How long have you been back in the city? But you’re a big girl, Anna.” Trotti put his hands on her shoulders—she was wearing jeans and Enrico Coveri T-shirt. “Let me look at my Anna. The bangs are gone—no, no, the last time I saw you you had a pony tail. But what are you doing here? Sit down, sit down, Anna.” He kissed t
he top of her head. “And Papa? And Simonetta? And the little boy—what’s his name? He must be nearly ten years old now.”

  “You forget even that, Piero Trotti? You forget that my brother is called Piero?”

  “A drink, Anna?”

  She shook her head as she dropped into the modernistic armchair.

  “I don’t believe it? Is this the little girl that I found at the bus station? The little girl they kidnapped?”

  “A long time ago, zio.” She revealed regular white teeth.

  “Too, too long ago.”

  “And Zia Agnese? How is she?”

  “My wife’s in America.”

  “And Pioppi?”

  “I was about to phone her as you came in. She’s married, you know, and now in Bologna. She’s expecting a baby any minute.” He grinned, and his eyes no longer felt tired. “You’re looking at a man about to become a grandfather.”

  “How exciting.” The beautiful eyes—the eyes of her late mother—looked at him and the soft skin—peach-like with a gentle, blonde down—wrinkled with pleasure. “Pioppi was always so beautiful.”

  “Beautiful.” Trotti shrugged. “There were the hard times, too. For nearly a year she went without eating. We were very worried—but then she met Nando.”

  “Nando is her husband?”

  “They’ve been together now for four years. He’s a lawyer. And you, Anna—why here? Your papa came to see me before you all went off to Bari.”

  “I’m at the university. Starting in October.”

  “How old are you? Eighteen?”

  “I’m studying languages—English and French and Russian.” A broad smile. “One day, after I’ve come back from London and New York, they’re going to have to employ me as an interpreter. At FAO.”

  Trotti placed his hands on the table. “Here’s a girl who knows her own mind.” He put his head back and laughed—telling himself it was the first time he had laughed happily in a long, long time.

  “I thought you were on holiday but Pierangelo said you’d be here, zio.”

  “Pierangelo?”

  “Pisa.”

  “Pierangelo? Do you know him?”

  “Pisanelli, zio.”

  “Pisanelli,” Trotti repeated dumbly. “My Pisanelli?”

  She nodded. “Pierangelo.”

  “Pisanelli’s called Pierangelo?”

  “My Pisanelli prefers to be called Pierangelo.”

  “Your Pisanelli, Anna?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Again the soft skin around the eyes wrinkled with pleasure. “We’ve been engaged for a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “He wants to marry me.”

  40: Flower

  Jealousy?

  “Zio, I knew that you were going to be happy for me.”

  “You’ve grown into a woman.”

  “Pierangelo is very special—Pierangelo understands women.”

  “You, Anna, engaged to Pisa?”

  “He told me about the death of Signorina Belloni. She was always so kind—so good with us children.”

  Trotti shook his head, frowning. “Pisa told me he had a girlfriend. He told me that I knew her. But little did I think it was my goddaughter.”

  “Have you found out who killed her, zio?” Anna shivered.

  Sitting behind his desk, Trotti leaned forward and placed his hands on the back of hers. “My little Anna, so serious, so quiet, with her black bangs and her white schoolgirl socks, sitting in the bus station.” Trotti laughed, feeling his eyes tickling him. “And now a grown woman. A beautiful woman.”

  A big smile as she tilted her head coquettishly to one side. “You find me pretty, Zio Piero?”

  “A flower. That’s what Rosanna used to say—children are like flowers. And you are like a beautiful flower in blossom.” Slowly Trotti shook his head. “I’m only sorry that I never did more for you.”

  “You did enough, zio.”

  Trotti looked around at the ugly little room. “My job—the Questura, a poky little office—that’s always been my job. My life. I’ve always put my job first—even before my wife and my daughter. And before all those people I should have loved more—and better.”

  She shook her hair, black, lustrous and now worn short. “You were always there—even if I didn’t see you.”

  Trotti looked at her.

  “That’s what Papa says about you, zio. A busy man, you like to give yourself work, you always like to feel you’re doing something. Papa says that you were very stubborn and that you thought you could get by without the help of others. But Papa knows that when he needed you—really needed you—you were there.”

  “Not quite true.” Trotti rubbed at his nose, ran a hand along his mouth. “I haven’t been much of a godfather for you. You deserved better than this surly old policeman.”

  “Papa always speaks well of you—and if I haven’t seen more of you, it’s because I have a father and a mother and a little brother of my own. I’ve never needed you because there has always been enough love at home. But I’ve always known that you were there, to be counted on.”

  Trotti said nothing.

  “And now I know you’re happy for me. Happy for me and Pierangelo.”

  Jealousy? The slow movement in the pit of his belly? The cool touch of her soft young hands beneath his.

  “And your little brother? How’s he?”

  “You know that Papa named Piero after you? After the death of Mama, he was very unhappy—and he says if you hadn’t helped him, he’d’ve never married again.” The young woman sat back and folded her arms. She had an oval face, with red lips that smiled to reveal regular teeth.

  “Tell me about your brother.”

  “Signor Ermagni Piero is now nine years old. He doesn’t like girls and he thinks that any man who gets married must be very stupid. Instead of a wife, he says that when he’s earning money he’s going to spend everything on his Lego collection.”

  “Lego?”

  “He has motors and cranes and he makes little cars. When he grows up he says he’s going to be an engineer and an architect. And he says he’s going to live in the Lego village in Denmark and he’s going to design new toys and games.”

  “A very decided young man, young Piero.” Trotti laughed.

  “And his older sister’s a very decided young woman—very decided and very lucky.”

  Trotti looked at her, admiring her youth, her vigor and her happiness, and sensing a pinching feeling in his nostrils. The years that creep by, the nostalgia of the days that hurry past. “Piero,” he said. “Not a bad name.”

  “At home everybody calls him Rino. He can be a little monster—but he’s affectionate . . . when he wants to be.”

  Trotti picked up the telephone, and banged the button.

  “Switchboard.”

  “Can you put me through to this number, signorina?”

  “Commissario Trotti?”

  “Yes. Can you give me Bologna two-three-two thirty-four twenty-three, please?”

  “Commissario Trotti, there was a young lady looking for you.”

  “My goddaughter is here with me now.”

  “And Commissario Trotti.”

  “Yes?”

  “Commissario Maiocchi was here. He had something to give you.”

  “I got his message—he left it on my desk. Thank you.”

  “Commissario Maiocchi said he would be back. Something that he wants to talk to you about.”

  “Thank you, signorina. Now if you could please get me two-three-two thirty-four twenty-three in Bologna . . .” Without waiting for a reply, he replaced the mouthpiece back in its dirty cradle. He smiled at Anna Ermagni. “I just know that Pioppi’s going to have a boy. I can feel it in my bones. And I just know that she’s going to call h
im Piero.”

  A wide grin. “I’d like to have children. Lots and lots of children.”

  “Not yet, Anna,” Trotti said, frowning again. “Wait until you’ve got a job. You’re still very young—you’re not even twenty. Pioppi, you see, she’s nearly thirty. Perhaps a bit late for a first child—but she spent a long time studying. And now she’s got a good job.”

  “Pierangelo says we’re going to live in the country.”

  “And FAO?” Trotti asked, worried. “And your interpreting in Rome?”

  “Don’t worry, zio. Don’t worry—I won’t do anything foolish. Before I do any settling down, I’ve got to learn English and French. Although every time I look at Pierangelo, I go very weak.”

  Trotti sighed. “I know what you mean.” He added quickly, “I want to speak to Pioppi. Haven’t spoken to her for four days. She’s expecting any day now. I only hope that blonde woman can get the line for me.”

  As if on cue, the light on the telephone started to blink.

  “Yes?”

  “Commissario Trotti, your call to Bologna—you didn’t tell me if it was a private call.”

  “To my daughter—she’s expecting a baby.”

  “It’s a private call, Commissario?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “You know the new regulations, Commissario. You know that the questore now asks us to log all long-distance calls. He says there are too many private conversations and that they cost too much and that they jam up the switchboard.”

  “Jam up the switchboard? It’s nearly the Ferragosto, for goodness sake. There’s virtually nobody around.”

  “But it’s a private call?”

  “Private call? If I had my own phone like Maiocchi or Merenda or one of the others, I wouldn’t even have to go through the switchboard.”

  “Please try to understand.”

  “Signorina, I’m about to be a grandfather—you please try to understand.”

  “I’m only doing what I’ve been told, Signor Commissario.”

  “Doing what you’ve been told.” Trotti snorted. Angrily he slammed down the receiver. “Thanks a lot.”

  41: Bologna

  The blonde woman must have relented because the ugly green phone began to ring. Hurriedly Trotti snatched up the receiver.