Adam's Rib

by Antonio Manzini

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There was no sign of breaking and entering on the door or on the windows. If they got in, either it was because Signora Baudo knew them or else because—”

  “Because they had the keys,” concluded Judge Baldi, getting to his feet. He was hyperactive: he couldn’t sit listening for more than five minutes at a time. He walked over to the window and stood drumming his fingers on the glass. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work solo, Schiavone. I’ve got some problems on my hands.” Immediately an image flashed into Rocco’s mind: the wife’s picture dumped into a drawer, if not actually tossed in the trash. Baldi stopped drumming and started whistling softly. Rocco recognized the Toreador song from Bizet’s Carmen. “We are on the trail of one of the biggest tax evasion cases I’ve ever worked on, me and the finance police and the Carabinieri. There’s just an endless supply of tax evaders, you know that?”

  “I can imagine. I can’t do a lot of tax evading with my paycheck.”

  Baldi turned around and smiled. “If we all just paid our taxes, the tax burden would be much lighter. You know that, I know that. But it seems as if the Italians aren’t interested in the fact. This really is a strange country, isn’t it?”

  Rocco braced himself for another pearl of wisdom from Judge Baldi, who always seemed to have some solution for the nation’s political and economic problems on his mind. His notions ranged from drafting cabinet ministers and secretaries from other countries, more or less the way that soccer teams are assembled, in order to have serious, well-trained, honest people running the government, to the elimination of banknotes so that all transactions would have to be conducted through credit cards. This would make all purchases traceable and make it impossible to conceal one’s income and evade taxes. “It’s a strange, deeply wasteful country,” Rocco said, encouragingly.

  Baldi didn’t have to be asked twice. “True. Let me give you an example. Public funding of the political parties. Right now, they take the money as an electoral reimbursement, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And I don’t actually disagree with the idea. Better for them to receive public money than get funds from some powerful, manipulative lobbyist or other. But follow me closely here.” He turned away from the window and went back to his seat at his desk. “I say what we do is take parliamentarians, cabinet ministers, and undersecretaries off the state payroll, because that’s clearly a waste of public money. Instead, we should have deputies, senators, and everyone else paid directly by the parties that run them for office. In that case, politicians would get the proper salaries. And just think of how much money the treasury would save. What do you think? Wouldn’t it be a great idea?”

  “But that would mean finally just giving up and bending over to take it from behind, and admitting that this country is in the hands of the political parties.”

  “Well, are you saying it isn’t? Deputies and senators, commissioners and outside consultants, none of them are civil servants, Schiavone. They’re servants of the parties they belong to. And in that case, let the parties pay them!”

  Rocco raised his eyebrows. “I’d have to give that some thought.”

  “By all means, Schiavone. Think it over. And please, help me understand what happened to Esther Baudo. I leave that case in your hands. After all, it’s clear that I can rely on you.”

  Baldi’s expression had changed. Now a sinister light glittered in his eyes.

  “Of course I can rely on you.”

  The magistrate’s mouth stretched out in a false, menacing smile. “And since I want to rely on you, look, I’d really like to get your version.”

  “My version of what?”

  “Of what happened in Rome.”

  Oh my God, what a pain in the ass, thought Rocco, but he kept it to himself. “You know everything that happened; there are reports and documentation. I’m sure you’ve read them. Why dig into it again?”

  “It seems to be an occupational hazard with me. I’d just like to hear your version. You’ve been here for six months now. You can tell me, can’t you?”

  “All right then.” Rocco took a deep breath, got comfortable, and began. “Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, age twenty-nine, had a bad habit: he liked to rape young girls. I followed him, I stopped him, but there was nothing I could do about him. It just so happens that his father, Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo, is the undersecretary for foreign affairs. You may have seen his name in the news.”

  Baldi nodded, brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Okay. Giorgio didn’t shake his bad habit, and he kept it up until one day he practically killed a certain Marta De Cesaris, age sixteen, who lost her sight in one eye; a hundred years of therapy will never turn her back into the pretty, carefree high school student who attended the Liceo Virgilio in Rome. So I finally had my fill, I went to see Giorgio, and I gave him a serious beat-down.”

  “Translate beat-down.”

  “I beat him up. I beat him up so bad that now the guy has to use a cane to get around. But he’s still the undersecretary’s son. And the undersecretary made me pay for what I did. There, that’s the story.”

  Baldi nodded again. Then he looked Rocco Schiavone in the eye. “That’s not the kind of law enforcement we’re in the business of delivering.”

  “I know. And my answer is I don’t give a shit.”

  “You seem to be overlooking the subtle but undeniable difference between a policeman and a judge.”

  “And again, the aforementioned answer.”

  “Fine. I thank you for your sincerity. But now let me tell you something. Listen up and listen good, because I’m only going to tell you once. If you go on being a good cop, you’re not going to have any problems, neither with me nor with the regional government. But if you start stepping over the line into my jurisdiction, I’ll turn your life into a living hell, even if you’re all the way up here in the snowy mountains. You’ll have a bad case of hemorrhoids from all the kicks in the ass I’ll give you. Arrivederci.” And he leaned over his documents again. Rocco said good-bye and left the office, deciding as he went that the right position for a manic depressive wasn’t in the district attorney’s office, but a nice quiet home somewhere, where he could take plenty of medicine and relax by taking long meditative walks.

  Outside, night was falling. As Rocco walked he kept getting the distinct sensation he’d forgotten something. Something important, something fundamental. He lit a cigarette and went back over everything that had happened that day. He thought about Esther Baudo, her husband, the apartment turned upside down, Irina, the retired warrant officer. Nothing. He was scorching his neurons to no avail. He decided to stop at the bar in Piazza Chanoux for an espresso. Maybe that would help.

  It was nice in there. It was warm, and there were lots of people sitting at the tables and chatting. Chatting in a language that Rocco didn’t understand. He shot a glance at Ugo, who was busy pouring tonic water into a customer’s glass of gin. Ugo replied by pointing with his chin to the table by the plate glass window, Rocco’s usual place.

  The deputy police chief sat down and Ugo came right over. “Sorry, there’s a bit of a rush this evening. But then, Fridays are always like that. What can I bring you?”

  “A cup of coffee, American-style.”

  “If you like, I’d be glad to let you sample a Blanc de Morgex that is out of this world.”

  Rocco thought it over. As he watched Ugo’s lips moving and smelled the fumes of alcohol spreading through the bar, he decided it was a good idea to try that wine. Ugo, as delighted as if Rocco had done him some great favor, went back to the counter. The deputy police chief looked around. Next to him, on his left, sat two students, deep in an intense conversation in low voices. They kept their hands on their glasses of beer and looked each other in the eyes. On his right were two women. Blond, short hair, fresh from the beautician, already on their third glass of red. They laughed frequently, elegant and carefree. They were both well over fifty. They spoke i
n Italian and Rocco caught an occasional snatch of their conversation.

  The one with blue eyes said: “I’ll tell you what I think. You’re doing the right thing. He’s handsome and he loves you.” Then she raised her glass ever so slightly and took a sip of wine. “Plus, and this is fundamental, he’s rich. You know what my mother always used to say?”

  “No, what did she say?”

  The woman lowered her voice, but Rocco heard her all the same. “She used to say, when your tits stop pointing at the stars and start pointing at your feet instead, that’s the time to make sure you have some very expensive shoes on those feet!” They both burst out laughing and took another gulp of their wine. Rocco too joined in the laughter, and it was at that exact moment that his mind grasped the detail that he sensed he’d overlooked and that he’d been trying to remember so unsuccessfully as he walked: Nora!

  HE THREW OPEN THE DOOR TO INSPECTOR RISPOLI’S office.

  “Give me some good news!”

  Caterina was at her computer. She leaped to her feet. “About what, Dottore?”

  “The gift.”

  Caterina smiled, pulled open a desk drawer, and extracted a magazine. “Take a look.”

  Rocco grabbed the weekly. On it was the logo of a hotel in Chamonix, France. Pictures of a swimming pool and a girl lying half-naked on a massage bed, with an Asian woman rubbing her back. “What’s this?”

  “Three days of total relaxation at the romantic Hotel Aiguille du Midi . . . ayurvedic beauty treatments, shiatsu massages, three heated pools, chromotherapy, all in the magnificent setting of the French Alps.”

  “You talk like a travel agent.” The deputy police chief laid down the magazine. “And you’re suggesting I give her this for her birthday?”

  “It’s a romantic hotel. You’d have three wonderful days, Dottore. And you’d definitely make her happy.”

  “I don’t have three days to spare.”

  “A long weekend.”

  “Thanks, Caterina, but it’s too big a deal. Believe me. Too much. Shit, it’s six o’clock and I’m back where I started from.”

  Caterina nodded.

  “What do you say to a pair of shoes?”

  Caterina made a face. “If you put it like that, it seems like a consolation prize.”

  “But not just an ordinary pair of shoes. Tell me, as a woman, what kind of shoes would any woman be happy to receive?”

  “Personally? Prada. Or Jimmy Choo. Though I wouldn’t rule out Manolo Blahniks either. But you have to try shoes on. Do you at least know the lady’s shoe size?”

  “Thirty-eight,” said Rocco.

  “Are you certain? Because I can tell you that it’s no simple matter with shoes, there are half sizes, different foot widths, in other words—”

  “Worst case, she can exchange them. Now, tell me what shop to go to here in Aosta.”

  “In the center of town; otherwise you won’t get there in time.”

  “We’re late as it is. In fact, put on your jacket and come with me.”

  Caterina walked around the desk. “Actually, any minute now D’Intino and Deruta are going out for their stakeout and I’m supposed to be—”

  “They’ll do fine without any help from you.”

  “Ah, and then there are all the interviews that Scipioni and Pierron did with the Baudos’ neighbors.”

  “Not now, Caterì, not now, or the stores will close!”

  OFFICER CATERINA RISPOLI AND DEPUTY POLICE Chief Rocco Schiavone strode briskly down Via de Tillier, the broad shopping street in central Aosta, lined with boutiques and restaurants. A few pedestrians glanced at them in alarm, convinced they must be on the trail of some particularly urgent case.

  “Where is this shop, Caterì?”

  “We’re almost there!”

  They narrowly avoided colliding with a couple walking out of a pub flying the Irish tricolor and other green flags with emblems of shamrocks and the Celtic harp. As the two policemen veered around them, a Yorkshire terrier covered with a Scotch tartan coat yapped madly at them.

  “Couldn’t we just have driven here?”

  “It’s a pedestrian area, Dottore.”

  “But we’re the police, and that’s got to be good for something, don’t you think?”

  Then Rocco came to a sudden halt like a stubborn mule, and stood gazing at the sign outside a shop.

  “This isn’t the place, Dottore!”

  But Rocco wasn’t listening to her anymore. “Just wait for me, I’ll be right back,” he said, and hurried off toward a menswear boutique called “Tomei.”

  It was an “English-style” shop, with faux antique paintings of golfers, horsemen setting out on fox hunts, cricket gear mounted on the walls, and the inevitable canvas Union Jack behind the cash register. They sold suits in tweed and glen plaid, lots of colorful cashmere sweaters stacked on wooden shelves. The place was wallpapered with something resembling a Scotch tartan. Set on the blue-green wall-to-wall carpeting were pairs of Church’s English shoes, and hanging on pegs along the shop’s long wall were Burberry jackets. A man in jacket and tie came over to the deputy police chief. From the way he walked, he clearly believed he resembled some member of the Spencer family. But to Rocco he was reminiscent of a night porter in a seedy, two-star hotel. “Can I be of any assistance?” said the counterfeit English lord, dry-washing his hands.

  “Maybe you can. I want to see your sacks.”

  The man didn’t seem to understand. “What do you mean, our sacks?”

  “The sacks you put the things you sell in, for the customers to carry out of the store.”

  “Ah, our shopping bags. But we don’t sell those.”

  “And I don’t want to buy one. I just want to see one.”

  “It’s a rather odd request, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly, mister, but it just so happens that I’m the deputy chief of the mobile squad of the Aosta police force, and I’m in the middle of an investigation.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I suppose I am, since a deputy police chief does work for the police.”

  The proprietor looked stunned. “Oh Jesus . . . Of course, of course . . . please come with me, right this way.”

  He rushed over to the cash register. He bent down and finally pulled out two lovely red shopping bags, big enough to accommodate a heavy sweater.

  “No, smaller. The smallest one you have.”

  The man smiled, bent over again, rummaged around a little more, then pulled out another shopping bag. It was black, with rope handles, and the Tomei logo enclosed in laurel branches. “Like this?”

  “Exactly! That’s it. Now let me ask you to concentrate for a moment. You might be very useful to me.”

  “Of course. Ask away.” Signor Tomei leveled his pale blue eyes at Rocco’s.

  “Yesterday or sometime in the past few days, a woman came to see you, perhaps you know her, Esther Baudo? About thirty-five, with curly hair?”

  The man looked up. “No . . . I don’t remember. A woman, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly, if you had a photograph . . .”

  “Try to remember.”

  “Look, right here and now? I couldn’t say, nothing comes to mind. And I’m not always present in the store. Sometimes my wife takes over for me, or my son . . . and mornings there’s a salesclerk . . . and she works part-time.” The way he pronounced the English word in Italian, rounding his r’s and hitting his t’s especially hard, was clearly meant as a proud display of his splendid and hard-won Anglo-Saxon pronunciation.

  “Shall I leave you the number of my mobail?” drawled Rocco, cocking an eyebrow and twisting the English word into a mockery in Italian.

  “Yes.”

  “Here, I’ll write it down.” And he stepped over to the briarwood table where the cash register stood, between the electronic credit card reader and two baskets piled high with cotton lisle socks. Rocco was almost tempted to buy a pair, but twenty-three euros seeme
d too high a price, no matter how nice they might be. Any market stand would sell you three pair for ten euros. Sure, they might not be made of cotton lisle or cashmere, but as long as he was wearing his Clarks desert boots, those socks weren’t going to last long anyway. After he jotted down his phone number he turned to look at the proprietor of the shop. “I’ll arrange to send over a picture of the person who might have been here.”

  “All right. I’ll show it to my wife and son and my part-time salesclerk,” he replied, once again with the impeccable English pronunciation.

  “Just to get an idea, what could you fit into such a small shopping bag?”

  Signor Tomei turned the bag over again in his hands. “Well, I’d say a necktie, or possibly a pair of suspenders. Or even a pair of socks. If you wear Church’s shoes, maybe a pair of shoelaces. I can’t think of anything else. Oh, yes, cuff links. Brass cuff links, you see? They’re on display in the window.” He pointed at a small set of wooden shelves full of shiny buttons. “They have replicas of all the flags of the British navy. They’re made of brass and enamel; do you want to take a look?”

  “No, thanks. Now, this is important: call me if anything occurs to you.”

  “Well, tonight we’re about to close. And tomorrow I only work a half day. It’s a holiday, you know?”

  “A holiday?”

  “Yes, it’s a holiday because my wife is Irish and we celebrate it. It’s March seventeenth.”

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” And once again, he uttered the name of the saint in perfect English pronunciation.

  “Ah, I see. That’s why the pubs have flags with shamrocks on them downtown,” said Rocco.

  “Sure, it’s a holiday now in Italy too. But you know why? It’s just an excuse to drink, not for any other reason . . .” He laughed long and loud. And alone.

  “Just another piece of information: do you sell women’s shoes?”

  “No, we sell only clothing for men, strictly Made in England.” Again with the accent.

  “Elementary, I daresay. Thank you very much.”