“Love?”
“She was like a child; still believed in all that fairy tale shit. She fell for him. The silly old hag, she was old enough to be his mother—and certainly stupid enough.” He gave a rasping laugh. “Could have been his grandmother but she believed him.”
He then rose to his feet; he was unsteady and he tottered slightly; his naked, runnelled feet on the cold floor. He moved towards a large refrigerator that had once been white. He pulled open the battered door and took a can of Peroni beer from the unlit inside. He returned to his seat, ripped the can open and threw the steel ring out of the window. “A soldier, a kid from Reggio Calabria,” he said, after taking a swig at the can of beer. “She thought he loved her. She was going to leave with him. When his military service was over. You realize”—he threw up a hand; a movement of frustration and poorly assimilated amazement—“they were going to live in the south. Work the land and be together. Grow artichokes.”
“Who was this man?”
“You think I know? You think I met him? I would have killed him, the lying, fornicating southern bastard.” He looked at Magagna; there was no hostility in his eyes. “A cigarette?”
Magagna gave him another and again he snapped off the filter. He breathed in the smoke gratefully. “She knew I’d kill him. I told her so.”
“So you killed her instead?”
“She was mad.” He shrugged, the shoulder touched the growth on his neck. “I was doing her a favor. A big favor.” More beer, a drag on the cigarette. “In love. She told me she was in love. She didn’t understand that all he wanted was to get it free. Love her? Of course he didn’t love her. She was a fat, ugly old fool. But she was easy pickings for a southern peasant.” Saliva and beer and smoke caught in his throat and he started to cough. Slowly at first and then the cough, like a fire, caught at his body and the thin frame within the dirty pajamas and stained T-shirt began to shake. Magagna found a plastic mug—it was lying under the bed—and filled it with water. The old man pushed away the proffered cup and continued to cough for several minutes. When he ceased, there were more tears in his eyes and beer-tinted saliva dribbled down the stubbly old chin in two lines, like snail tracks.
“When did you murder her?”
“Murder?” The word hovered, filling the dirty room.
“You killed her, didn’t you?” Magagna asked brusquely.
“It wasn’t murder.” He appeared offended, the running eyes glaring at Magagna. “I didn’t mean to kill her. It was a mistake, an accident. You see, she made me angry. She did it on purpose. Taunting me; she called me an old man, an old wreck. She—nearly fifteen years younger than me and breasts down to here?” The old hands tapped at his skinny belly. “And she called me an old man. Not up to it, she said. Past it, time I was put out to grass.” He snorted, his eyes angry, and made an obscene gesture with his forearm. “Like steel. An old man but I can get it up with the best of them. Sixty years old and then some but I can get it up all right.” He glared at both of them. “Probably harder and longer than you—the younger generation, they’re all queers. Tempered steel.” He tapped at his groin and the stained pajama. “Tempered steel.”
“How did you kill her?” Trotti was unsmiling.
“An accident. She killed herself.” The eyes were now cunning. “She fell.”
“Where?”
“On the stairs. She was drunk, like the slut that she was; and she was late. She’d been with him, hadn’t she, and he had got her drunk and screwed her senseless. But I was waiting for her.” He now stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to harm her. The old fool. Just a lesson, that’s all I wanted to give her. I hit her.” He shrugged. “I’d hit her before, she was used to it, but this time she fell. Must’ve cracked her head. Fell down two flights.” He repeated, “Two flights.”
“What time was this?”
“Six in the morning,” he answered hurriedly as though irritated by the interruption. “And when I picked her up—I’m not a young man, I can’t move fast—when I picked her up, she was dead. I’ve seen dead people often enough and I knew she was dead. There was blood in her mouth and her eyes were staring. The silly bitch, it was all her own fault.”
“So what did you do?”
“She was dead—what could I do? It wasn’t my fault, was it? Was it? But nobody had seen me and I thought—well, when I was in prison, I used to work in the kitchen and I had learned a little about butchering.”
He grinned. “I carried her back upstairs. Not easy, but I didn’t make much noise. And the next day—she was lying on the bed, there, Commissario, but with her head in a funny position and her neck was bloated. The next day I bought a couple of knives. A large one, a chopper, and a smaller one.” He pulled again at the cigarette and drank some more beer. Then he slowly got down onto his knees. He began to cough again, spitting light flecks of spittle onto the floor. This time the coughing bout was short and once he had regained control over his trembling body, he pulled a cardboard suitcase from under the bed. He opened it; a few paper clippings, a photograph of the Pope and almost hidden by brown wrapping paper, the glinting steel edge of a knife.
“I cut her up, Commissario.” He gave Trotti a smile—a craftsman pleased with his work. “I cut her up here on the floor.”
37
TROTTI WAS DEPRESSED.
While Magagna had been interviewing the Guerra girl—Trotti had not felt up to it, he knew he could not face the young arrogance and self-righteousness of the revolutionary—he had spent two hours in a stuffy room, thick with smoke, listening to the old man’s confession while a uniformed policeman banged away at an old typewriter. The sporadic rhythm of the machine, the bittersweet tobacco smoke, the smell of the old man’s unwashed body—they were like burning spikes in his brain. He wanted to go home. He had had enough of other people’s suffering.
Trotti recognized the tall clumsy figure coming up the steps. He turned away.
“Commissario!”
Ermagni lurched towards him and Trotti, realizing there was no escape, gave a weary smile.
“I should be working,” Ermagni said as they shook hands. The large cow-eyes were now red and were underlined by black half-circles. “I had to see you.” A quick, appeasing smile.
“I’m busy, I’m afraid.” Hearing the harshness of his reply, Trotti added, “My wife is waiting for me.”
“They won’t let me see her.”
They were standing at the top of the stairs outside the Questura. It was evening and after a long day, the air was beginning to cool. A few passers-by in Strada Nuova, some eating ice creams. There was a smell of honeysuckle blossom and fumes from the buses.
“Come.” He pulled at Trotti’s arm. The yellow taxi, its plastic signal already switched on, was parked on the pavement by the typewriter shop. “Come—it won’t take long.”
“I’ve got to go home.” Trotti tried to shrug off the large, hairy hand on his arm. “My wife’s waiting for me.”
“They won’t let me see her.” Ermagni did not let go but instead, pulling Trotti, led him towards the taxi. “They say that I’m not reliable. They’ve told her that I killed her mother.” He opened the car door. “That I killed my wife.”
“Look.” Trotti resisted the hand that was pushing him into the front seat. “I can’t come. You understand? I can’t come. I’m busy, I’ve got to go home.”
“But you must.” His eyes were strangely innocent; and though his breath was heavy with alcohol, he was not drunk. “I’m asking you for Anna’s sake.”
“I’ve done enough for Anna. She’s alive, isn’t she? Alive and well. What more do you want?”
The large eyes looked at him; large, bloodshot eyes that failed to understand the reluctance in Trotti. “You’re her godfather. A policeman. They’ll listen to you.” He tapped his chest; he was wearing a yellow sweater. “They despise me because I’m a taxi driver. Not good enough for them or for their daughter.”
“There’s nothing I can do. My wife i
s waiting for me.” He pushed the hand away and at the same time placed a hand on the shoulder of Ermagni’s jacket. “I’ve had a busy day. Understand me. I’m sorry.”
He then turned and walked towards the Questura parking lot.
“I’m not a good father.” A voice that trembled on the edge of self-doubt. “That’s why they don’t want Anna to see me. A drunkard, a dangerous man.” He was now imploring. “But you can tell them. Tell them that I love her. They will listen to you.”
Trotti unpadlocked the bicycle. “Tell them tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow.”
“My daughter—I must see her tonight.” Ermagni had stood with his feet apart and his mouth open as he watched Trotti walk away. Now in his top-heavy amble, he came towards the bicycle. Trotti pulled the front wheel from the concrete slab and swung his leg over the crossbar.
“You’re my friend, Commissario.”
“My wife’s waiting for me.”
“And I’ve got to go to work. It’ll only take a few minutes. A few minutes of your time. She’s your goddaughter, Commissario, don’t forget.”
“Tomorrow.” He released the brake and pushed on the pedal. The bike moved forward and Ermagni began to walk faster.
“Please,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” Trotti called and he pulled out into the middle of Strada Nuova, cutting in behind a large bus. Then later, before reaching the traffic lights, he turned round. Ermagni was still there, standing by the roadside, his large hands hanging emptily at his sides.
A large, clumsy man. A sad man.
38
PIOPPI WAS SITTING cross-legged in front of the television; a few school books were scattered on the floor beside her. She was writing, one eye on the thick green pen and the notepad, one eye on the television. A simple, repetitive jingle and then a famous footballer advertising chocolate.
“Where’s Agnese?”
She jumped up and kissed her father. She smelled of fresh clothes and soap; a clean, reassuring smell after the smoke and the old man in the Questura. “Ciao, Papa.” She gave him a hug and lifted one of her feet.
A clean, youthful smell; it gave him a twinge of envy and of nostalgia.
“Your mother?”
“She waited for you as long as she could. But I’m cooking.”
“Where’s she gone?”
Pioppi’s smile faded. “She had to go out. She waited for you but you’re late.” Pioppi was wearing a loose sweater that hid her young body. She looked like a boy. “There was a phone call and then a man came. About half an hour ago.”
“Who?”
The television was now advertising a brand of floor tiles; a fat baby, unsteady on his podgy legs and a flower in his hand, was walking across a polished floor. Naked except for a spotless diaper.
“Who?” He looked into her eyes, still holding her; then he looked away.
“I don’t know, Papa. He had a car. Mama said it was important and that she had to go—but that she’d be back early. And she said not to wait up for her.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, her hair brushing against his skin. “She’ll be back soon.” She took his hands in hers. “Now, tell me what you want for supper. There are some anchovies in the cupboard and I feel like making a pizza. And we could open a bottle of wine.”
She was trying to cheer him up.
He undid his tie and threw his jacket onto the settee.
In the event, they watched the news on television and then went over the road to the pizzeria.
Quattro stagioni for Pioppi and a Coca-Cola. Trotti had a pizza pugliese and a can of Nastro Azzurro beer.
Pioppi talked cheerfully. Trotti was silent; he had been overworking, he told himself, and he needed to sleep.
No news of Moro on the radio before he went to bed.
Trotti slept for a couple of hours and then woke up, the weight of the pizza and the onions heavy on his stomach. He lay in bed looking at the patterns of lights on the ceiling as cars drove past along via Milano.
He could not get back to sleep and at half past two he got up and put on a dressing gown. He went into the kitchen, heated some water and made a cup of chamomile tea. He did not feel well; his eyes ached and from time to time, he belched. A bitter, bilious taste at the edges of his tongue.
He poured honey into the tea and sipped slowly while his eyes scanned the parish magazine. The clock ticked noisily. Pioppi’s bedroom door was open; he could hear the soft sound of her breathing and he envied her restful sleep.
From time to time a car went past in via Milano; no car stopped.
The phone woke him. He must have dozed off, his head lolling forward. He sat up with a jerk and looked at the clock. Four o’clock. The chamomile was cold.
The telephone continued to ring.
“Commissario Trotti?”
“Yes—I was sleeping.”
“You’d better get dressed.”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Get dressed quickly, Commissario.” Something familiar about the voice, a man’s voice. “Get dressed and go down to the Bixio barracks.”
“The Carabinieri?”
“As quickly as you can.”
“Who’s speaking?”
The line was cut. Trotti replaced the receiver and stared at it. Then he shrugged. “A practical joker,” he said. He went into the kitchen and made some coffee. Then he got dressed.
Caserma Bixio stood at the far end of via Bixio.
The air was chill as Trotti got out of the car; he parked outside the derelict church and walked across the road, across the circles of white light from the street lamps.
There were no cars in front of the barracks.
A Cabiniere came out of the darkness of his box and asked Trotti in a southern, uninterested voice what he wanted.
“Commissario Trotti, Pubblica Sicurezza.”
The Carabiniere shrugged; his face was pale in the street light; pale and with grotesque shadows deforming his nose and the dark sockets of his eyes.
“I want to speak with Capitano Spadano.”
The Carabiniere must have pressed a button, hidden somewhere in the recesses of the box; a door opened in the large gate and he nodded to Trotti. Trotti stepped out of the street into the courtyard of the barracks.
It was brightly lit, like a football stadium for a late game. Incandescent beams shone down onto the cobbled courtyard. Several jeeps, a few motorcycles and a couple of cars. Men were sitting in the two cars; several whiplash aerials pointing at the dark sky. There was the sound of distorted voices over metallic radios. There was also the sound of music.
Trotti looked up and saw, blinking against the sky, a red light. It went on and off with a slow, pulsing rhythm.
Two potted plants on the far side of the courtyard. A jeep started up, the headlights were turned on and caught the stalking silhouette of a cat. It scampered into hiding.
Trotti crossed the courtyard, breathing in the mixture of cold pre-dawn air and petrol fumes. He went through a small wooden doorway and entered a long hall. Newly painted walls—grey paint and matching, narrow bars against the high windows. A colorless carpet running along the tiled floor. A few posters along the wall.
Everything was neat; again, Trotti found himself admiring the organization of the Carabinieri. A purposefulness that he had never met in any Questura; a purposefulness that was impressive and slightly frightening.
A man in black uniform went past. His face was familiar; he nodded imperceptibly and disappeared into a room off the corridor.
Trotti went up a staircase, along another corridor, identical in its color and cleanliness to the other one, until he reached a door marked NUCLEO INVESTIGATIVO printed in the ground glass. He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his knuckles fell against the glass.
“Ah, thank goodness.”
The room smelled of smoke and stale cigars.
The man stepped back. “Come in, Trotti, come on in.”
Trotti entered.
“I j
ust phoned your place. A young woman answered. She sounded very sleepy.”
“Most people prefer to sleep at this time of night.”
“A friend of yours?”
“My daughter.” Neither man smiled as they shook hands.
Physically Spadano was small. He was wearing a khaki uniform shirt, dark patches of sweat at the armpits. The sleeves were rolled up. The eyes were grey and his black hair was cut very short and brushed backwards.
“I’m glad you’re here, anyway.”
“What’s happened?”
He glanced at Trotti and frowned, as though he were surprised by the question.
Moths battered noisily against the desk lamp.
Trotti repeated the question. “What’s happened?”
“Perhaps it would be best if you came with me.” Spadano held out his arm and moved towards the door. Trotti followed.
They went to a lift and while they waited, neither man spoke. Spadano frowned, staring at the ground; then when the lift arrived, he politely stepped back to let Trotti enter first.
Three floors; they stepped out into another corridor, this time slightly cooler. They were beneath ground level; there were no windows. The air was damp.
“This way please.”
Although Spadano had lived in the north for most of his life, he had not lost his accent. Palermo. Trotti followed him, a step behind the small, muscular back and the thick neck. Hair that showed no sign of thinning. For a man well into his fifties, Spadano had aged well.
“Here.”
Spadano hammered at the grey door, the sound feeble against the thick, riveted steel. A scraping noise of a bolt being pulled back. The door opened outwards, and following Spadano, Trotti entered into a flood of blinding neon light.
It must have been in the first two years of marriage that Trotti had bought the stole. Agnese was only just starting out on her medical studies and they were still relatively poor. Her family, disapproving of the marriage, had made little effort to help them. Trotti could not afford a summer holiday—at least nothing more than a run into the hills or a day by the sea near La Spezia—and then, with the autumn, Trotti remembered, he had received a pay raise. Fifteen thousand lire—chickenfeed by today’s standards but then, in the early 1950s, the strangely large banknotes were hard to come by. Autumn, the first fogs along the Po; and so, to celebrate, he had decided to buy her the stole. Once, walking along Strada Nuova, she had pointed it out in Vanizza’s. It was real fur—but of what kind, he could never remember. Vanizza himself had sold it to Trotti; Vanizza who was himself heading out on a career that was to make him one of the richest men in Italy, a household name, the ambassador of fashion to New York and Moscow—a career that was to put his name on the advertising billboards around every professional football pitch in the peninsula. A career so successful that he now had to send his grandchildren to school in Switzerland, beyond the grasp of potential kidnappers.
Converging Parallels Page 23
