Converging Parallels

by Timothy Williams

  “He’s a fool,” Trotti said.

  “Who?”

  “Spadano. He’s a fool.”

  Pisanelli was wearing an expensive hide jacket over a blue shirt. Well dressed; dark blue trousers and polished shoes. But his shoulders sloped and his long hair needed combing. It was generally believed that Pisanelli had once studied to become a doctor. The hands which now held the steering wheel were certainly long; and the fingers were delicate. A bright young man and—this was Trotti’s opinion—someone who would go far once he made up his mind that he wanted to be a policeman. Pisanelli had the reputation of being intelligent—but also of being absent-minded, of being a dreamer.

  The sun was sinking to the west beyond the river and the row of gaunt cypress trees on the far bank. The sky was quite clear and of an unreal blue.

  Trotti was staring at the caravans. “We can’t afford to arrest anybody. Spadano knows that.”

  “The Carabinieri see things differently.” There was a light powder of dandruff his shoulders.

  “The Carabinieri think that brute honesty and the book of rules are a substitute for common sense.” Trotti bit his lip. Through the windscreen he watched the two girls who had come out of the caravan and now stood hand in hand looking at the police car.

  “Is that what you wanted me for?”

  Trotti turned sharply.

  “About the gypsies, I mean,” Pisanelli said and smiled feebly. He had a small chin and a half-hearted mustache the color of twigs. “I brought the file.”

  “And you didn’t look at it?”

  “I wasn’t told to.” He took the file from the back seat and handed it to Trotti. Trotti untied the string and opened the beige cardboard cover. He held out the photographs.

  “You know them?”

  Pisanelli shook his head and behind him, against the sky, a sheet of metal on the dome of the cathedral caught a ray of the sun’s light. The distant square shone brightly, like a dazzling headlamp. Trotti blinked. “Because you soon will. I want you to do a twenty-four hour surveillance. You and di Bono.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Red Brigades.”

  Pisanelli smiled foolishly. “And who have they assassinated?”

  “No one.”

  “What have they done wrong?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.” Trotti was terse and immediately he regretted it. “In my opinion, they have done nothing.”

  Pisanelli coughed politely. “I see.”

  “You don’t see anything—and neither do I. This is all Leonardelli’s idea. He wants no scandal that could possibly harm the smooth running of the city.”

  Pisanelli was leaning back, looking at the padded roof of the car. “Or his personal prestige.” He spoke quite flatly.

  “Keep them under surveillance round the clock. And you must be quite invisible. Apparently the NP are on to them, and I don’t want the NP watching you, too—and then complaining to the Prefetto about the deliberate lack of coordination between PS and Carabinieri. And they’d be justified, too, because we shouldn’t be wasting our time with political surveillance.”

  “Then why bother?”

  Trotti couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “You ask too many questions.”

  “Where do they live? This Guerra—is she really pretty? Or did she pose for the photo?”

  “The girl is a student in one of the university colleges but she lives with him. Somewhere behind the Cairoli barracks.” Trotti tapped the file. “You’ll find all the details here.”

  “When do I start?”

  “Now.”

  Pisanelli appeared shocked. “I haven’t eaten.”

  “You wanted to become a policeman. If you wanted five meals a day, you should have stuck to medicine.” Trotti opened the door of the car and put a shoe on the wet grass. “Any more news about Moro?”

  Pisanelli shrugged. “No. Just that the Socialists are still trying to make a deal with the Red Brigades.”

  Trotti grunted and got out. “I had better see that the gypsies haven’t stolen my bicycle.” He closed the door and spoke through the window. “Keep in contact with Gino. And you have my home number if anything important comes up.” With the palm of his hand Trotti banged the roof of the car. “Good luck.”

  Slithering slightly and throwing up mud and grass, the Alfetta drew away.

  Trotti walked back to the camp.

  12

  IT WAS NEARLY eight by the time Trotti got home. He went up the stairs and rang the bell while he fumbled with his keys. He was tired, his eyes ached. The door opened before he could find the right key.

  “Papa.”

  Pioppi stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She was wearing yellow slacks and a loose v-neck sweater three sizes too big. She ran her hand through his hair. “You’re just in time for supper.” Her smile dropped. “You’re wearing that awful suit.”

  “It’s comfortable, Pioppi. I like it.”

  “But it makes you look like an old man.”

  “I am an old man. Now, what’s for supper?”

  She turned round and headed back to the kitchen. “Risotto with saffron.” She was nearly sixteen and with each passing day she seemed to be changing. She was leaving her childhood; her body was filling out, her waist was growing narrower. She gave him a smile over her shoulder. “Your favorite.”

  He made an Italian gesture of approval, tapping his cheek. “But give me five minutes to wash.”

  He threw his jacket over the back of a chair and went into the bathroom. He showered noisily, letting the water splash against the plastic curtain and fall onto the bathroom floor.

  “Anybody phone?” he called out.

  “A man.” Pioppi’s voice was muffled by the sound of clattering utensils.

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say. He just waited and so I hung up.”

  “And your mother?”

  Pioppi said something that he did not hear. He turned off the hot-water tap and let the cold water run through his hair and into his eyes. He then stepped out of the shower and looked at himself the mirror. “Look like an old man,” he muttered. He dried his hair on a clean towel, then put on a T-shirt.

  “No news from your mother?” Water was still running down his legs and was forming tiny pools on the tiles. Trotti had wrapped the towel around his waist.

  Pioppi was standing before the stove. She shook her head. On the table were the dark husks of peeled onions. In the pan, hot olive oil bubbled quietly. “I phoned the nonna.”

  “You shouldn’t have done.”

  “Mama’s been away for three days now.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  “I want to know where Mama is. I am worried about her.”

  “There’s no reason to worry your grandmother.”

  Pioppi let her hair fall forward, hiding her young face. Sitting down at the table, Trotti placed his hands on the plastic surface. The parish newssheet had been tucked behind the alarm clock on top of the refrigerator. The clock ticked softly.

  “Where is she, Papa?”

  “How do you expect me to know?”

  “Why’s she gone? Why does she do it?” His daughter sniffed and although she had her back to him, he knew that she was crying. He felt angry.

  Her eyes were red when she turned round. She tried to smile. “I’m sorry. It’s the onions.”

  “I could do with something to drink.”

  Pioppi bent over and opened the cupboard door. “There’s nothing left,” she said, holding up an empty bottle of aperitivo.

  “In the cellar, there’s a bottle of Martini. And bring a bottle of wine, too. I’ll keep an eye on the rice.”

  She was wiping at a tear with the back of her hand as she went out of the kitchen and he felt a sudden sense of remorse. “Pioppi.”

  “Papa?” She stopped.

  “Smile,” he said and though her face was flushed and her eyelids slightly swollen, she tried to grin. She turned and went out of the c
orridor down to the cellar.

  Trotti was lost in his own thoughts, his eyes fixed on the parish newssheet, while next door in the sitting room, the television continued to flicker.

  “Signori, signore, buona sera.”

  The voice sounded lugubrious after the light, cheerful music. Trotti stood up and went into the sitting room.

  “Three more acts of terrorism by the Red Brigades.”

  On the small screen, there was the serious familiar face of the newsreader. The bags beneath his eyes seemed larger and darker than usual.

  “Forty-nine days after the kidnapping of the Onorevole Aldo Moro, the Red Brigades continue in their acts of political terrorism. In Genoa and Milan today, two men were treacherously attacked and shot in the legs.”

  At first, Trotti had difficulty understanding the newsreel picture. Then he saw a Carabiniere, plump in his uniform, with a machine gun across his chest. He was wearing a bullet-proof jacket. Several men in raincoats were standing in front of a large iron gate; two were taking measurements on the ground that was marked with dark stains.

  “Signor Alfredo Lamberti, personnel manager of Italsider in Genoa, was attacked by two men as he came to work this morning.”

  “Papa, Papa. I couldn’t find any red wine.”

  “Be quiet.”

  Pioppi came into the sitting room, her eyes now bright in the reflection of the television. “What’s happened?” She put a hand to her mouth.

  “The Red Brigades.”

  A different piece of film, showing the flat hinterland of Milan. A crowd of men in overalls stood with their hands in their pockets.

  “At the same time to the minute, Signor Umberto degli Innocenti was stopped on his way to work at Sip Siemans in Milan and seven bullets hit him in the legs. He is now in the hospital. Neither he nor Signor Lamberti is in a critical state.”

  The camera swung round to the group of men. Several were smoking; they appeared worried. The reporter held out his microphone to a man in dungarees; a woolen blanket had been placed across his shoulders. “I was coming off the night shift.”

  The journalist wore sunglasses and had a beak-like nose. He held the microphone to the man’s mouth.

  “Then what happened?”

  “They were in a car. Two men and a girl. They got out and they approached him. I didn’t know it was Signor degli Innocenti. I thought they were friends but then they pulled out their guns.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  The man faltered.

  “Did you hear the terrorists say anything?”

  “The girl. She shouted … it wasn’t very clear, as they were getting back into the car. Something about the justice of the proletariat.”

  In the kitchen the frying onions had begun to splutter angrily and Pioppi hurried away while Trotti sat in his T-shirt and the towel in front of the television. Slowly he shook his head as though trying to clear it of strange, incomprehensible ideas.

  “The risotto is ready, Papa.”

  The image on the screen returned to the Rome studio. “The Red Brigades have also claimed responsibility for the destruction by fire of the car belonging to Signor Gianfranco Bucciarelli. Signor Bucciarelli is a director at Alfa Romeo.”

  “Papa.”

  Trotti stood up and switched off the set. He went into the kitchen. On the table, Pioppi had placed two plates of yellow-tinted risotto and a bottle of white wine.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You must eat, Papa.”

  They sat down opposite each other and Trotti opened the bottle.

  From outside came the muted sound of the traffic in via Milano. Pioppi watched her father.

  He lifted a forkful of rice to his mouth and ate.

  “Buon appetito.”

  For a while they did not speak, then Pioppi remarked, “There is no red wine left. We must go and see the nonna soon. It would be a nice change. And we could do with some fresh vegetables.”

  “I have some salad, some lettuce. Damn, I must have left it with Pisanelli. Unless it’s on the back of my bike.”

  “I’ll go.”

  Pioppi dropped her fork and went out. When she came back a couple of minutes later, the white plastic bag in her hand, she saw that her father was lost in thought.

  The clock ticked discreetly.

  “There’s some garlic. I’ll make a salad dressing.”

  “It’s wrong,” her father said. He lowered his fork and propped it against the side of the dish. “It is all wrong. We never wanted this.”

  “Wanted what?”

  “You heard on the news. Fifteen murders and a hundred wounded by the Red Brigades. And then there are the other groups, the Fascists and the anti-Fascists.” He shook his head. “The war was bad, of course it was bad. And it was Mussolini’s fault because he should never have made an alliance with the Germans. He should never have dragged us into a war that the Italian people did not want. And when the war was over and Mussolini dead—they strung him up like a pig in Milan—we all thought that the violence was behind us. We’d had twenty-three years of Fascism. I was still young—I was your age, Pioppi—and I had seen things that you could never imagine. Dead bodies—they killed your uncle. People shot, people burnt to death. Italian, German and American bodies—when they’re burnt to a cinder, they’re all the same. It was …” He sat back. “It was hell and we wanted a change. We were determined to make a better world.” The lines on his cheek were drawn. “So what do they want? What can they possibly want?”

  “Who, Papa?”

  “The Red Brigades, the terrorists—all of them. What do they want? They have got everything. Cars, television, houses. When we were young, we were hungry. Life was hard and you had to be careful what you said. But we were satisfied. We didn’t kill people, we didn’t shoot them in the legs.”

  “Papa, eat your food.”

  “We made sacrifices. The years after the war were lean. They were hard for everybody—even for those who had money. They were the years of reconstruction and we believed that things would get better. And they have. Of course they have. We eat meat regularly, the children have got shoes to wear, there are schools for everybody—even in the south. Nobody goes hungry.” Again he shook his head. “What do they want, these young terrorists?”

  “I don’t know, Papa,” Pioppi said. She squeezed his hand. “Now eat your food.”

  13

  TROTTI TRIED TO push the hammering away and rolled over onto his side; but the banging continued and he opened an eye, squinted at his watch—a present from Agnese. Ten to four. “The inconsiderate bitch.”

  He threw back the bed sheets. There was still no noise from the road beyond the closed blinds, but somewhere a cock was crowing.

  More angry knocking at the door.

  He could not find his slippers and the stone floor was cold. He pulled on his dressing gown—another present from Agnese. A further burst of knocking and the doorbell was ringing with unbroken insistence.

  “I’m coming,” Trotti shouted irritably. “I’m coming.” She had probably forgotten her keys—or left them at a friend’s and that was her justification for waking up Pioppi.

  The door trembled beneath the banging. He turned on the hall light and pulled back the heavy iron bolt. He opened the door. The morning air was fresh, cool. To the east, through the row of plane trees and beyond the flat open fields, the sky was already tinted with the light of a new day.

  Ermagni.

  He stood there, one hand pushing against the bell, the other raised in a closed fist. A dark line ran across his forehead and down the side of his nose.

  “You bastard.”

  Above Trotti’s head, the electric bell was still ringing.

  In the large, closed fist, Ermagni held a gun—a police issue Beretta. He lowered his hand and the black hole of the muzzle looked at Trotti with reptilian indifference. The hand was unsteady. Ermagni was trembling and the gun began to move up and down, searching for its own target.

&nb
sp; “You’re a bastard, Trotti.”

  The ringing stopped and suddenly it was quiet; the other hand came away from the bell and grasped the wrist of his hand. Ermagni had not forgotten his training. He tried to stand straight, the large legs slightly apart.

  Trotti said softly, “Give me that,” and held out his hand.

  Ermagni moved back and almost toppled. But the gun in his hand was steady. “You’re a bastard and I’m going to kill you.”

  “I’m not worth it.” Trotti smiled and as Ermagni swayed slowly, his face came out of the shadow and the light from the hall fell on his crumpled features. He had been weeping; the heavy lids bulged from tears and lack of sleep.

  “I”ll make some coffee,” Trotti said. “Come in.”

  “Stand where you are or I’ll blow your brains out.” The gun jerked upwards and pointed towards his head.

  Trotti took the gun from Ermagni.

  “My God!”

  There was a pot of cyclamens by the balustrade. Ermagni knocked it over as he tumbled to the floor. The flowerpot fell into the courtyard below and Ermagni banged his large head against the concrete doorstep. His mouth fell open and grey saliva hung from the wet lips. He began to sob like a child and the line of blood ran across his chin, forming black drops that fell onto the concrete slowly.

  “Who is it, Papa?”

  Pioppi stood in the hall wearing nothing but a nightgown; concern had tautened the sleepy features of her face. “Is it Mama?”

  “A friend,” Trotti replied, hiding the gun behind his back. He put an arm around her shoulder and steered her away from the front door. “It’s just a friend from work.” He kissed her cool forehead and directed her towards her room, where the bed sheets lay drawn back and where the bear stared at him astygmatically. “Go back to bed, Pioppi.” He closed the door behind her and went into the kitchen, put on the coffee and then removed the magazine from the gun. Caliber 9 Beretta. It smelled of oil, a military smell that brought back memories, but soon the smell was smothered by the odor of coffee as the small machine bubbled on the gas ring. Through the kitchen blinds, the day was growing brighter.

  He placed the gun inside the washing machine.

  The coffee was ready. He poured two cups and added a lot of sugar. Ermagni was still sprawled across the doorway, his head on his arm and his feet pointing over the edge of the outside staircase. The body heaved spasmodically. Trotti set the two cups on the floor and tried to pull him into a sitting position. The head lolled like a puppet’s.