Converging Parallels

by Timothy Williams

  Magagna drove, an arm resting against the door frame. Without taking the cigarette from his mouth, he said, “These hills—I wouldn’t like to climb up them on an old bike. A strong girl, your cousin.”

  “To own a bike of my own.” Trotti shook his head. “That was my dream. The freedom to be able to escape.” He paused. “Later, after the war, I bought a Vespa. I had it for ten years and it was with it that I courted my wife—she was a student at the university. She used to ride side-saddle—all the girls did in those days. Then later, as the money came in we bought a car—a little Fiat. Then a bigger one when Pioppi was born.” He shook his head again. “My first love. You know, I don’t need a car and I could get by without one. Ugly, expensive and dangerous. But a bicycle. Nobody can build bicycles like the Italians. It was an old Legnano—I can remember it—with slightly buckled wheels. I had to stand on the pedals to get up any hill. And sometimes like Anna Maria I had to get off and push it. Then when my cousin went off to war he left the bike with me. Perhaps that was the happiest day of my life.”

  “And Anna Maria?”

  “My cousin? She went to university and there she met a foreigner and got married. A Dutchman. She lives in Amsterdam now.”

  “Anything to get away from the hills.” Magagna grinned and threw his cigarette out of the window. “And this convent?”

  “A couple of kilometers south of Tarzi. There.” Trotti pointed. “You can see the roof from here. Along the ridge where the two hills appear to meet.”

  They went through Tarzi and followed the winding black road that went uphill between the small fields towards the convent.

  The convent had once been completely isolated, cut off from the rest of the world and looking down upon it with disapproval. It was here—or so the tradition went—that Dante had spent a night in his flight from Florence. Now modernity had begun to encroach upon the convent’s independence. There was a hotel and a couple of hundred meters down the road a few shops selling souvenirs and Kodak film. Newly built villas stood in various clearings of the wooded slopes, their flat roofs and painted blinds out of keeping with the local architecture.

  “The Milanese,” Trotti said. “They leave the countryside to make their money in the city and then they come back to the hills bringing the ugliness of Sesto San Giovanni or Rho. They buy the land cheap from the peasants and then they put up their monstrosities. Look.” He pointed at a house, built in Spanish American style, with a patio and white plastered colonnades. The red earth at its foundations was a wound in the slope above the convent. “Of course the mayor lets them build—even if there is no water or drainage or electricity. The village mayor and the local inhabitants are only too happy for the work that building these villas brings. And anyway, the local people hate their own land. They don’t care about the way these villas spoil the country. They want to get away, too, get away from the soil that has kept them prisoner for centuries. They want to go to the city to get rich.”

  “Like you.”

  “I had no choice. When I was young, there was not enough food to eat. There was a war on and there was no mechanization. At harvest time, we couldn’t go to school; we had to help our parents in the fields. Things have changed. When my father was young, he worked for a kilo of bread a day. Now there’s a decent wage for a man’s work.”

  “You heard what the man in the restaurant said. The young leave as soon as they can. They can’t stand the life.”

  “Because they don’t know what the life is like in the factories.”

  The car came to the top of the hill.

  The convent Santa Roberta was in a clearing, its tiles of red and pink partially hidden by a row of high cypress trees, whose tops moved with the wind. Opposite there was the hotel, its name in sculpted yellow letters. One or two cars—local registrations—were parked in the shade of a couple of trees.

  Magagna parked the car and switched off the engine; the sound of the wind seemed loud; the mountain air was fresh and whipped at their ears. There was the sound of crickets, their monotonous and interrupted song competing with the wind.

  “I think we’ve come to the right place,” Magagna said and Trotti smiled briefly. “We’ve found our angels.” There was a distinct sound of women singing.

  A few people were sitting on the hotel terrace. Although the sun was shining, the air was cool because of the wind. One woman, her horse-like teeth caught in an ice cream, wore a heavy cardigan. A child in a sailor’s hat and white short trousers was playing with a colored ball.

  Somewhere on the far side of the valley a bird began to sing, and in reply, another bird, much closer, gave an answering song.

  They entered the hotel; the smell of boiled milk and bleach. A man was sitting behind the long bar; he was reading a newspaper balanced on his knee.

  “Commissario Trotti, Pubblica Sicurezza.”

  He lowered the paper. “Yes?” he said uncertainly. He was young and his dark hair fell into his eyes. Green eyes.

  “Two cups of coffee.”

  While the man busied himself before the Gaggia machine, Trotti said, “We’re looking for a car. Perhaps you might be able to help us.”

  “I have a car of my own.” His voice was highly pitched, almost effeminate.

  Magagna looked at Trotti. In a flat voice, Trotti said, “We’re not making any accusations. We just want your help.”

  “What sort of car?” He placed two cups on the counter and then set a couple of envelopes of sugar in each saucer.

  “A French car—a Citroën.”

  The man seemed genuinely surprised. “A red Citroën—one of those long things that have special suspension?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course I know it.”

  “Here in the village?”

  He nodded and his hair fell into the green eyes.

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “The mayor.”

  “You have a mayor here?”

  “This is part of Tarzi, administratively at least; although they make such a fuss of coming up here to empty our dustbins.”

  There was disappointment in Trotti’s voice. “And the mayor of Tarzi has a red Citroën?”

  “Of course not.” With a movement of his hand, he made a gesture of frustration at Trotti’s stupidity. “Your mayor—the mayor of your city. He’s got a villa on the hill. Gaetano Mariani.”

  24

  IT WAS LATE afternoon when they returned. Magagna drove while Trotti stared ahead in silence. For some time they had been able to see the city lying before them in the Po valley. Trotti was reminded of the old lithographs he had seen; the city looked like the medieval fortress it had once been. Sharing the horizon with the dome of the cathedral were several high brick towers. In the eleventh and twelfth century, private citizens had built them as a sign of personal wealth. Once there had been a hundred; now there were only seven, caught against the blue of the summer sky.

  Trotti spoke. “There was no sign of movement; the ground hadn’t been disturbed near the front or back of the house.” He offered a sweet to Magagna, who shook his head.

  “Use dogs.”

  “Probably the only solution. But it’s by no means certain Leonardelli will give me permission—particularly now. A warrant to search the mayor’s private villa—just before elections. You know Leonardelli, he’ll refuse.”

  They crossed the river, running sluggishly between the pebbly shores and the raised fishing huts, standing on their wooden stilts.

  Then they were in the city and Magagna took the northbound road out to via Milano.

  It was just after six when Trotti got home. Pioppi was waiting for him impatiently. She stood on the front balcony, wearing a blue skirt and a white blouse open at the neck. She was visibly relieved at the sight of her father.

  Magagna pulled into the curb and Trotti got out.

  “Tomorrow morning in the Questura.”

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  Magagna did a three-point turn
and drove back into the city.

  “Papa, you are late,” Pioppi said as he came up the stairs.

  He smiled. “A breakthrough. I was up in the hills and something unexpected came up.”

  “It could have waited.”

  He looked up and the effect was almost uncanny. The evening sun caught her black hair and she stood with one hand on her hip; an aggressive stance. Her voice was querulous. Unwittingly, she imitated her mother.

  “Five minutes to get washed,” he said lightly, stepping past her.

  “And put on a suit, Papa.”

  He showered quickly and shaved; then he slapped aftershave onto his wet cheeks.

  “We’re in a hurry.”

  He went into the bedroom—leaving a trail of wet footmarks on the hall floor—and took a shirt from the wardrobe. In theory, he shared the wardrobe with his wife, but gradually her collection of clothes had built up, leaving him little more than thirty centimeters for his suits and jackets. The floor of the wardrobe was cluttered with ill-assorted women’s shoes. Agnese often promised that she would tidy up; more promises that she never kept.

  His best suit, neatly pressed and still under the cellophane wraps from the dry cleaners, smelled slightly of cleaning fluid. He put on a white shirt, a dark tie and later, a pair of brown shoes.

  Pioppi was waiting for him downstairs. He bolted the door, placed the key under a flowerpot and ran down the stairs. Pioppi held the garden gate open for him.

  “Now take me to church.” He passed his arm through hers. “My daughter.”

  After a hot day in the windless Po valley, the air was beginning to cool with the approach of evening and from beyond the road, where the new blocks of flats petered out into open fields and ditches, there came the gentle cacophony of croaking frogs. Early Saturday evening and still little traffic along via Milano. One or two cars parked outside the brick walls of the new pizzeria—the neon sign had been turned on—and a few cars heading towards the city. A bus went past, almost empty and the driver smoking. Then a motorbike; and then an old Guzzi van, its engine beating with the slow rhythm of its single ageing piston.

  Pioppi walked fast and it was with surprise that Trotti noticed she was wearing high heels.

  “Did you have a nice day?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied without looking at him. It was probably the effect of her shoes that made her appear taller, more mature.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing much.” Her lips formed a pout; then, sensing the abruptness of her reply, she relaxed her face. “I studied in the morning and then Angela came over and we watched television. There was a film on Monte Carlo.”

  “Your mother didn’t phone?”

  Again the face hardened. “No.”

  “I’m sorry I was late in getting back—but it could be something important.”

  “You could’ve tried to get back just a bit earlier.”

  Trotti did not reply; he did not want to irritate her further. As a child, she was able to sulk for days on end. It was strange, Trotti mused, that although Pioppi was much closer to him than to Agnese, she had nonetheless many of her mother’s characteristics. He could now feel Pioppi’s mood as he walked beside her.

  They turned into viale Caporetto. Five years earlier, there had been only fields here—and an occasional, red-brick farmhouse, with the familiar smells of animals and the earth. Now there were low villas, slightly back from the road and hidden by trees and fences of cascading poinsettia.

  At the traffic lights they had to stop; then they crossed the road to the new fountain. The air carried the gentle smell of the tree blossoms and the odor of roasting coffee.

  Our Lady of Guadalupe was once a village church; by accident it had been bombed during the war as the Germans were in retreat. Then for thirty years it had been left unused and forgotten. It was the new priest who had organized the rebuilding program. The church was virtually new, built of red brick and a steeple of square cement. At the top, there stood a gaunt iron cross, silhouetted against the sky.

  People stood on the stairs leading up to the main porch.

  “You see,” Trotti said cheerfully. “We’re not late.” Then holding her arm tightly, he added, “You look very pretty in your shoes. A young lady.”

  She tried to smile but then looked down at the concrete steps; particles of glass-like sand glinted in the sun’s glow.

  “Pioppi,” he said softly.

  She stopped and looked up at him; around them, several young people, well-dressed and in dark clothes, made their way towards the church entrance. The lines about Pioppi’s mouth were firm—again he recognized her mother—and he knew that she was both angry and embarrassed.

  “Papa, you know that I love you.”

  “I love you, Pioppi.”

  She sighed. “Then why do you do it, Papa?”

  Trotti smiled. “Do what?”

  “Why do you wear that suit?”

  “My suit?” He looked down in amazement. A good suit, well cut and of a light brown color. “What’s wrong with my suit?”

  “It’s terrible.” She screwed up her eyes. “It’s absolutely terrible. I want to be proud of you, Papa—but you dress like a scarecrow. It’s old-fashioned, it’s too short for you and it’s tight at the waist like a sack of potatoes. And your shoes are the wrong color, Papa.” She shook her head. “You really don’t understand, do you? For you, it’s not important. But …” She blushed slightly. “You look like a peasant. A peasant, Papa—someone who’s never been to the city before.”

  The bells of the grey, concrete tower began to peal.

  25

  SUNDAY MORNING. ALREADY the sun was hot in the narrow streets. Half past eight; Trotti stepped past the fast-drying damp patches where the shopkeepers had sluiced down the pavements, and he could smell the tang of ammonia.

  The streets were empty. There used to be cars about the town hall; parked on the broad marble slabs, along the pavement and even at the top of the stairway. Now there was just a small sign indicating that the town hall was a historic building. If it had not been for the oil stains, black on the veined marble, Trotti would have found it hard to believe his own memory. Not a car in sight. A few bicycles leaned against the plastered walls of the town hall and two porters, hands behind their backs, stood talking. They were both looking up at the cloudless morning sky.

  Without ending his own conversation, one of the porters stepped in front of Trotti, barring his entrance.

  “I have an appointment.”

  The man nodded to his companion; then he turned to face Trotti. The smile on his face disappeared.

  “An appointment with the mayor.” Trotti showed his card. “Now.”

  The smile returned, but less sincere, more ingratiating. “This way, Commissario.”

  The city was Roman in origin, with the two ancient roads, Strada Nuova and the Corso that crossed at right angles and the bridge over the river to Borgo Genovese. But the churches, the private houses with their shaded courtyards and the winding cobbled streets were all medieval, the signs of a new, affluent class of burghers.

  The town hall was out of keeping with the city, out of keeping with the medieval architecture and the later Habsburg expansion. The town hall was baroque.

  The grandeur of the building still impressed him. The facade with its bulging balconies and its ornate, intricate decoration; the smooth marble pillars and on the inside, the winding staircases and the red—admittedly threadbare—carpet, the dark paintings of forgotten notables that hung from the high walls, themselves in need of a fresh coat of paint. Trotti was impressed and perhaps even intimidated. A sense of tradition, of both bourgeois frivolity and purpose filled the somber halls with an almost tangible quality. The city as a republic, as a responsible, self-governing entity. It was an atmosphere that he had rarely felt in Italian public buildings and certainly never in a Questura. But then, most Questuras had been built at the time of Mussolini in an age of national bombast. The cu
rving brick facades, the granite faced statues of purposeful, muscular men and women with firm, molded breasts, marching towards the new era of the Fascist, corporate state—they were buildings that were too old to be modern but not old enough to have character.

  The town hall had character.

  The sound of the street, the rest of the city—it was a world away; here there was silence and the continuing tradition of civic responsibility.

  The air smelled of damp carpets and furniture wax.

  Trotti followed the porter up two flights of curving stairs and they came to a wooden door opposite a painting—very large, it took up an entire wall—of St. George, his escutcheon the same as the city’s, slaying a grotesque dragon. Lit up by spectacular rays of sunshine on an otherwise gloomy horizon, the familiar silhouette of the city, its cathedral and its towers.

  A man was sitting at a desk before the door. He was reading a book, a yellow-bound paperback edition of Agatha Christie. Evidently the literature was too engrossing for him to look up. The porter bent down and whispered something, his lips almost touching the man’s ear.

  The sitting man did not raise his glance but continued to stare at the print of his book; nervously, the fingers of one hand played a tattoo on the scrubbed desktop.

  Then he looked up; a younger face than Trotti expected, narrow shoulders in a well-pressed serge uniform. The eyes were hidden by a pair of sunglasses, similar to those of Magagna, but with lenses tinted a pale, almost bilious yellow.

  “Yes?” Behind the glasses, the eyes looked at Trotti.

  “I have an appointment with the mayor.”

  Carefully a strip of paper was placed between the pages, the book was closed and relegated to a corner of the desk. The porter stood up. He was a midget.

  His small legs—the trousers well-creased and without a speck of dust—took him to the door where he tapped reverentially before opening and allowing his small frame to slip into the mayor’s office. The door was closed quietly behind him.