Trotti handed the boy the banknote but he clenched his fist and would not take it. He shook his head.
Trotti spoke softly, “This man who was calling Anna—where was he standing?”
The child stared at his shoes. “By the gate,” he mumbled.
“And what’s your name? You’re being very helpful, you know. Take the money.”
He shook his head.
The boy with the bruised lips answered, his voice jeering. “His name is Antonio Bennetti and he lives in via Varese, thirty-two, and he is in love with a stupid girl.”
A deep crimson blush crept over Antonio’s face, tinting even the small ears. “I’m not in love, I’m not in love! So shut up!”
“Don’t worry, Toni,” Trotti said quietly and placed a hand on the blond head. “Don’t worry, Anna will be all right.” The narrow shoulders had begun to heave beneath the T-shirt. Two tears, one after the other, fell onto the grass.
“She’s safe, isn’t she?”
“Of course,” Trotti said, “of course,” trying to convince the little boy.
And himself.
9
LEAVING THE GARDENS, Trotti looked up. Open blinds, like eyes, peered down from the high wall opposite. The plaster surface had been recently painted a dark brown and the woodwork of the windows was newly restored. As he came out of the gates, Trotti was surprised to see that the lower parts of the wall had not yet been defaced with the habitual slogans in scrawling paint. Clearly this was a quiet part of the town.
The sky had darkened again and the old man who pedaled past held an opened umbrella in one hand while he steered his bicycle carefully over the irregular cobbles. A pessimist, Trotti thought, until a cold drop of rain fell onto his neck.
At some of the windows above, lace curtains billowed in the breeze.
A heavy marble stone freshly engraved and polished had been embedded into the wall at eye-level. Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova in flowing italic letters and a coat of arms. In smaller letters: SEZIONE LAUREATI.
Trotti was standing before a large wooden gateway; the dark varnish looked so new and its smell was so fresh that Trotti was afraid to smear his fingers. The doorbell was to one side, a row of individual buttons and neat iron slats hiding a mouthpiece. He rang one of the bells at random; a scratching voice called angrily through the mouthpiece, a click and a door—part of the larger doorway and cut into it—swung open. Trotti had to bend to step through.
He found himself in a large hall. The floor was of gleaming marble with deep veins running through it like gorgonzola. The surface reflected the grey afternoon light. The far wall was a series of parallel jute blinds partially hiding a vast floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the window, Trotti could make out an enclosed courtyard.
“A nice place.”
“Can I help you?” A woman approached him. She was short and large and as she waddled across the brilliant floor, her legs seemed to be pulled by her flat cloth slippers.
“Dottor Trotti.”
He held out his hand. The woman hesitated, glancing distrustfully at his face. She put her hand to the back of her squat neck and then rubbed the same hand on the floral pattern of her apron. Then they shook hands—hers was hot and damp—and she nodded, her eyes not leaving his. She had a large face, rather pale. Two parallel lines, old white scars, ran down either side of her chin; the bulging skin graft gave her the appearance of an ageing ventriloquist’s dummy. Her hair formed an unkempt halo about her head.
“You are looking for someone, Dottore?”
“Perhaps. I have never been here before.”
“It used to be a convent.” She had a rasping voice. “But it has been converted—to the tune of three hundred million lire.” She pointed upwards and Trotti looked at the ceiling. Ancient wooden rafters, newly conditioned and varnished, held up the criss-crossing timbers. “This is the annex to the Sant’Antonio.” Her eyes returned to his. “Nothing but the best for the young gentlemen.”
“Which young gentlemen?”
“The doctors and the lawyers—the young graduates.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nowadays everybody is in a hurry.” She crossed her arms. “Give me time to explain.”
Trotti smiled. “Please explain, signora.”
“This is where they come, the young men. After they have finished their studies at the university and they are embarking upon their new careers. Young doctors doing their internship—or lawyers looking for their first job. For the most part they are old students of Sant’Antonio—the main college is across the fields,” and with a wave of her hand, she indicated vaguely beyond the quiet courtyard.
“It’s a Catholic college, isn’t it? With scholarships for gifted boys?”
“That’s right.”
“There was an inauguration in March? I remember reading about it in the paper.”
“By the Bishop of Milan—he’s an old boy of the college.” When she smiled, she revealed a straight line of false teeth. Her face was softly wrinkled with the lines of a lifetime’s work. “And my son, too.”
“He’s a bishop?”
She put a hand to her mouth to hide the silent laughter. “Of course not, Dottore. My son is a student at the Sant’Antonio and he’s only got three more exams to sit and his thesis before he graduates. He’s on a scholarship, of course—for we are poor people. But he’s a clever boy—though I say it myself—and I think the dean of the college has taken a shine to him.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how I got the job.”
“What job?”
“For seventeen years I was in a school canteen.” She gestured towards the marble floor, the dark wooden fittings and the jute blinds. “It’s a lot nicer here and I’m my own boss. My husband is already beyond retirement age.” She tapped her ample chest. “I’m the concierge.”
Trotti tried not to smile; she pronounced the word according to Italian orthography, con-cherdge.
“Of course he has to help me with the housework—making the young gentlemen’s beds and the sweeping. I’m not as young as I once used to be and I’ve got my troubles. I have to go to the hospital, you know. Dr. Gallese—he’s very good.” She added, somewhat ominously, “Women’s troubles.”
Trotti nodded sympathetically.
“You’d care to sit down?” She nodded towards a couple of low armchairs isolated in the empty hall; their reflection was caught by the polished marble. “You lecture at the university, Dottore?”
“No.”
There was an awkward silence. The woman looked at him expectantly but her smile, deformed by the double scar on her chin, was nervous. She was slightly ill at ease, Trotti thought, as though she expected him to break bad news—as though she expected all strangers to break bad news.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the garden—Giovanni’s in the garden with the lettuces. We have a little patch for ourselves, radishes and salad and runner beans. Sometimes I think Giovanni would be happier married to a lettuce patch and then”—the pale skin blushed—“I don’t think he would.” She smiled. “We had four children but only one is still alive. Giovanni is a good husband.” She stopped short and gave Trotti a searching look. “Has Giovanni done … Has he …?”
Trotti laughed. “Nothing, signora, nothing.”
“Sometimes he likes the ladies too much—even at his age.”
Trotti placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He spoke in the dialect: “You are from the hills?”
“O, dio mio!” The false teeth slipped out of place. “How can you tell?”
“An accent you can cut with a knife, signora. San Michele in Collina?”
“Santa Maria,” she said and gave him a proud smile.
Trotti laughed.
“You know it?” Her eyebrows were raised in astonishment.
“Do you know my Aunt Anastasia? And Uncle Vincenzo?”
“Vincenzo Trotti—Tino—who worked in the post office until he won the football pools?
”
“He now lives in a large villa on the edge of the town and plays dominoes with all the old men while he waits for his own contemporaries to retire.”
“And a wife, Anastasia, who spends all her time in church lighting candles and then spreads scandal behind your back—a pious old hypocrite.” The mouth snapped shut. “Oh, forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. It’s quite true.”
They both laughed; then, brusquely, she took him by the arm and saying, “Come, come,” she pulled him into her little apartment.
It was a couple of small rooms off the luxurious hall; by comparison, everything was tawdry. Something was cooking on the gas stove and the windows were steamed up. The floor was of bare concrete and the furnishings were old and inelegant.
She pushed him into the kitchen and set him down on a stool before a plastic-topped table. “Here.” From under the table, she hauled up a demijohn in a wicker flask. “Pinot—from the hills.” She poured red wine into two glasses and they drank—she noisily.
“Do you go home?” she asked, wiping her lips.
“I’m originally from Acquanera—five kilometers down the road from Santa Maria.” He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“You have a family?”
“I married a girl from the city.”
“Pretty?”
“Very.” He lifted his glass. “Salute.” He finished the wine and placed the glass on the table.
“And what,” the woman asked, about to pour more wine into his glass, “brings you here?” She was not looking at him.
“A thousand thanks.” He placed a hand across the top. “I am on duty.”
“Duty?”
“I am Commissario Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.”
A few drops of wine fell from the neck of the demijohn on to the table.
“Pubblica Sicurezza?”
Trotti recognized the weary look of resignation.
“Squadra Mobile.”
“If it’s about Giovanni—well, there are explanations.” She lowered the large flask to the floor.
“Enough.” He held up his hand. “Signora, I have not come to spy on you. We are friends, we are from the same part of the world.” He smiled. “I need your help.”
She visibly relaxed. “What help?”
“I am looking for a child.”
“Your own child?”
“The daughter of a friend. She may have been kidnapped.” He took a photograph from his wallet. Ermagni had given it to him; the white edges were dog-eared. Anna—it had been taken the year before at San Remo—sat cross-legged on the beach. One hand was placed on an inflatable plastic beach ball, red, white and green. She stared unsmiling into the camera; in the background, on the deep blue of the Mediterranean, a couple of pedalo boats approached the beach. Anna stared seriously. She wore a minute green bikini.
“When, Commissario?”
“Yesterday afternoon, at about half past four. From the public gardens opposite.”
“O dio mio.”
“Outside I noticed all the blinds and windows are open. I was wondering whether perhaps anybody here might’ve seen something.”
“How old?”
“About six. She is my goddaughter.”
The large woman was shaking her head. “We live in an evil age, Commissario, in an evil age. You know, the young, they say many bad things about Mussolini. And there were bad things—like when they made Andrea Pozzon drink castor oil and he was only a poor half-wit and wouldn’t have hurt a lizard. But I don’t think Mussolini knew about these things—there were so many things they hid from him. The Duce was a good man and in those days—you can remember—in those days you could leave your door open and nobody would take anything. There were no crimes then.”
“Not among the poor people.”
“We are Italians, we are poor people. With the Duce, there was none of this crime. The robbery, the violence, the kidnapping.” She made a clicking noise with her false teeth. “Look at poor Moro, look what they do to him and he is a good man. A pious man, a wise man and close to the Church. May God help him”—she crossed herself, the chapped hands lightly touching her pendulous chest—“because the politicians won’t. What we need is another Duce, Commissario.”
“Perhaps.”
They stood for a few seconds, looking at each other in silence. Then the woman sighed. “The poor little baby girl. And her mother?”
“Her mother is dead.”
“In this world and in this life, there are some people who suffer always.” And she screwed up her eyes. “While there are others who never suffer, who live only too well. They do no work and they always have money.” She filled her glass with pinot. “Another Duce, Commissario, we need another Duce.” She emptied the contents of the glass.
She put the two glasses in a shallow sink. “Talk with Dottor Clerice. He lives upstairs on the second floor—on the street side. He is normally in during the afternoon. A nice young man.” With her hand, she pushed Trotti gently aside and looked at the bank of name plates and electronic buttons, all in stainless steel and out of keeping with the drabness of the kitchen. A single red light was on, opposite a large number 37. “Dr. Clerice is in his room now. Why not go up and speak with him?”
“A good idea.”
She led him out of the kitchen. “The third floor.” She pointed towards a flight of steps at the further end of the hall. Her outstretched arm was laced with the pale lines of veins.
He thanked her, crossed the hall and went up the stairs. A green carpet, thick with pile, covered the cold marble of the stairs. The walls had been plastered. He went up three flights of stairs and found himself on a landing.
“Over here, Commissario.”
A man beckoned to him; he was standing by the wooden balustrade. He was not very tall and rather stocky. Dark hair fell across the forehead. Black eyebrows, long dark lashes and a hint of expensive eau de cologne. A fresh face of a young man just out of adolescence.
“Dottor Clerice.” He held out his hand.
Taking it—the grip was firm, friendly—Trotti enquired, “How do you know my name?”
“Your name?” Clerice’s face opened into a smile. “Because the concierge told me.”
“Told you?”
“Over the internal telephone.” He directed Trotti through an open door and pointed to a telephone attached to the wall. “That connects with the concierge’s office.”
The room was small, tidy, with the same thick carpet of the stairway. The fittings were of dark mahogany. A bed with a spotless counterpane and above it, on the wall, a wooden crucifix. A reading lamp, standing on the desk, threw its circle of light on to an opened text book. Human anatomy; Trotti caught sight of a couple of flesh-colored photographs.
“This is where I study and sleep.”
“And pray?”
Several devotional paintings, somber and in the style of the nineteenth century, hung from the far wall. And on the desk, another crucifix. The bare steel cross glinted in the light of the reading lamp.
Clerice was wearing a beige, sleeveless sweater over his open-necked shirt. “I am a Communist, Commissario. Certain compromises are necessary—indeed, they can be very sensible. This is a postgraduate college for Catholic gentlemen. And rooms for Catholic gentlemen are a lot cheaper than any private lodging I can find in town. The beds are made, the rooms are swept and we can eat for a very reasonable cost in the refectory of the undergraduate section of Sant’Antonio.” He raised his shoulders, still smiling. “If Paris was worth a Mass …”
Trotti frowned.
“Can I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? I have some Earl Grey that my mother brought back from London.”
“I have already drunk too much. The lady downstairs has some interesting homemade wine.”
“She is a good woman.” Clerice’s lips were thick and of a dark red. “She works hard.”
Trotti nodded.
“How can I help you then, Commissar
io?” He gestured towards a couple of straight-backed armchairs. “Please be seated.”
Trotti lowered himself onto the side of the bed and let his hands hang slightly between his legs. His head felt like putty. “Perhaps coffee if you’ve got some.”
There was a little kitchen built into the corner of the room. Clerice spent the next few minutes screwing and unscrewing a tiny espresso machine. He poured in water from a sink and added several heaped spoonfuls of coffee.
The window was open but not much daylight entered the room. The lace curtain fluttered outwards into the air.
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.” The coffee was good; black, strong and slightly bitter. Trotti placed the cup on the carpet and offered a sweet to Clerice, who shook his head. “I prefer to keep the taste of coffee in my mouth.”
They smiled at each other. The doctor—he was twenty-four, twenty-five—was young enough to be Trotti’s son. It was the smile that Trotti liked.
“I find that good coffee is necessary after a night in the emergency ward.”
“You are working nights at the moment?”
“You could say that, I suppose. More like standing in. As an observer. I haven’t got enough confidence in my skills yet. I don’t trust myself with a scalpel.”
“You’ve been trained?”
“I spent seven years at university—if that’s what you mean—but I wouldn’t say that I’ve been trained. Oh, I know about the circulation of the blood and the basics. But this is Italy, Commissario. Big classes at the university—sometimes four hundred students in an amphitheater built for fifty. And if there are four hundred students present, that means there are a thousand doing the course. University lecturers who haven’t got the time—or the inclination—to dedicate much time to teaching. You see, the best people want to be at the university because that’s good for their brass nameplates. Then—they can ask more for private consultation. Private practice, Commissario—that’s where the real money is.”
“And what’s your specialty?”
“Surgeon.”
“And you had no practical training in seven years?” Trotti was puzzled. “On night duty—who does your work?”
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