“You are all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Commissario.” She looked at him. “But the strange thing is this. The motorcyclist turned round and I am sure I recognized him. He was one of my pupils—a nice boy with blond hair and lovely eyes. I know his parents. He used to be a very pleasant child and very affectionate. Now he knocks over old ladies.”
“It wasn’t deliberate.”
“That is not the point. The point is, Commissario, that we live in a country that makes monsters out of human beings. A nice child transformed into an egotistical, selfish motorcyclist. But of course, it is quite normal. We live in a state that doesn’t really exist—at least, not for the individual. So in order to survive, the individual must look after himself—because if he doesn’t, he knows he will go under. Italy is not a nation—it is a land of fifty-five million individuals struggling to keep alive … where there is only one law: might is right.”
She paused, tapped lightly at her bun. “We’ve lost a leader. Moro, whether he’s been killed or not—his career is over, poor soul. We all have long faces, we think we have lost the one man who could save this country—because we like to believe in the man of providence, the man who is above the melee of corruption.” She shook her head, “We’ve never had leaders. Not even Mussolini. We didn’t understand, you and I, we were too young at the time. Mussolini—like Moro—was a puppet. He danced, he strutted, he gave the Roman salute and he led his country to destruction. But he was a puppet—the strings were held in Milan and Turin. You look at France and England. A ruling class—they’ve always had it. A self-perpetuating ruling class that has always gradually assimilated the emergent bourgeoisie, assimilated it and imposed upon it its own patrician values. We’ve never had that. Just rich peasants—rich, grasping peasants.”
Trotti said nothing.
The headmistress continued, “When I was a child I used to read the novels of Rudyard Kipling … and I could never really understand them. The British Empire—it seemed so organized, so civilized. But of course, I now realize that Kipling’s India was like England. They went out there, the pink-faced Englishmen, and they imposed their values—the values of a Protestant middle class. They had no right to be there and they were trying to give a moral justification for the depredations they made. The raw materials they sent back to England. But they gave a system, they united India into one country. They created a state and they created in people a respect for that state. We Italians have been invaded and conquered by everybody, but nobody has ever given us a state. And now that we are free, we allow the peasants and the Mafia to govern us, to usurp the true Republic.” A sad smile. “It is not India, Commissario, that is the third world; it is Italy. For us, state is a hollow, meaningless word—corrupted by the people who govern us. It means nothing. When a policeman or Carabiniere is shot down by terrorists in the street and his young blood pours into the gutter, our President sends a telegram to the parents. He speaks of the grief of the state. Meaningless. There is no state, our grief is individual. And now as the politicians in Rome squabble over Moro and evoke the reason of state to justify their own immobility, they are talking rubbish. They are trying to dress in the clothes of integrity; they have never had any other consideration than their own self-advancement.”
“Perhaps it is our fault, signorina. It is we who vote.”
“We had a chance, Commissario. After the war, we all believed things would get better. We were united—we’d all fought against the common enemy of Fascism. Catholic and Communist, we had been united by a common enemy. But we allowed our chance to slip away. The chance of a real Italy—a real Republic. Excuse me.” Her eyes were slightly damp. “I lived through those years, I remember our optimism. And still for me, Republic is a beautiful word. But we have let it fall into the grasp of our politicians. In our search for creature comforts, for consumer durables, we have lost sight of our Republic. We have no self-respect. We have been corrupted; the corrupters have made us like them. The Mafia, the men in Rome, the political parties, they have degraded us—and they have assimilated us.” She turned to look at him. “At least with Mussolini we had ideals. There was no cynicism. We had false ideals—but we believed in them; many even died for them. Now we have nothing. We have become a godless, valueless nation. We run after our easy luxuries, our daily piece of beefsteak and our motor cars and our fine clothes. The men talk about football and the women read photo-romance magazines. And we pretend not to understand why the young are angry.”
More tears appeared at the corner of her eyes.
“I believe in the Republic,” Trotti said quietly. Signorina Belloni wiped at her tears. “I believe in the Republic and I try to do my duty.”
“Then perhaps, Commissario Trotti, you are like me. You are a fool.” A hesitant, friendly smile. “A good man—a very good man—but a fool.”
“I must do my duty.”
Somewhere a bell rang, muffled behind several doors.
“I must speak with the child.”
“I cannot allow that, Commissario.”
“It is my duty.”
“And it is my duty to protect the child.”
“Do not compel me to use the force of the law.”
“The law?” She raised an eyebrow; she appeared slightly amused. “The law?”
“I must speak with Anna.”
“Commissario, her parents—or rather, her grandparents—told me explicitly that they did not want Anna to be disturbed—not by journalists nor by anyone else. They insisted, Commissario, and I must respect their wishes.”
“They are not Anna’s guardians.”
“The father is incompetent. A good man—I don’t doubt it; but not very intelligent and not reliable enough. The child lives with her grandparents—and it was when he should have been looking after her that she was taken from the gardens in via Darsena.”
Trotti waited before replying. “I have reason to believe that it was Anna’s grandparents who engineered the kidnapping. And they did it precisely with the aim to discredit Ermagni. They want to bring the child up as their own.”
“Absurd.”
“Absurd or not, signorina, at this moment, Signor Rossi is in a cell of the Caserma Bixio. Under arrest.”
She stared at Trotti while a hand went to her throat. She pressed the bell. “You put me in an awkward position.” Her voice caught in her throat.
“I am sorry. I, too, find myself in an awkward position.” Trotti allowed himself smile. “The truth can be very awkward.”
They then sat in silence until Trotti heard the fall of Nino’s steps outside. He knocked and put his round face through the door.
“Signorina Direttrice?”
“Bring me Anna Ermagni, please.”
He nodded. The door closed silently.
A few minutes later, Trotti said, “I should have looked after her more—I should have taken more interest in her. It is not as though I’ve got other godchildren. But I was in the South. And since I’ve been back, I’ve been busy.” He played with the wedding ring on his finger, turning it against the taut skin. “I hope it is not too late.”
“She is a shy child,” the headmistress replied and then was silent. It was as though she had lost all interest in talking. She sat with her hands on the paper in front of her. Her face was still slightly flushed.
Trotti had the impression that it was rare for her to open her heart and talk freely. He felt flattered and slightly surprised that she should have spoken with him at such length. Once or twice she turned to look at Trotti but when their eyes met, hers turned away.
It started to rain. She rose to close the window and Trotti, looking down, noticed that there was just a trace of blue lines along her calves beneath the dark mesh of her stockings. She wore blue shoes with squat heels.
When he had first seen her, Trotti had found her attractive. She was still attractive but there was something else as well. Something that Trotti had difficulty in defining. A kind of just anger, perhaps. A woma
n who had her own ideas, her own convictions but who was physically frail. The kind of woman who deserved respect, but who also needed affection. A woman who needed a man to protect her.
She was staring out of the window—the darkening sky threw light onto her profile and she appeared less agitated—when the porter knocked on the door.
He entered, holding Anna by the hand.
The girl was unhappy. She looked at Signorina Belloni and then at Trotti with her large, dark eyes. The fringe of dark hair came down almost to her brow. She hesitated and only reluctantly allowed herself to be prodded, one shoulder before the other, into the center of the room.
“Come, Anna.” The headmistress stepped round her desk and brushing past Trotti—the feel of the weave of her dress against his hand—she took the child by the elbow.
“Anna,” she said. She bent over, lowering herself to the level of Anna’s eyes. She stroked the girl’s lustrous black hair. “Don’t be afraid.” The long fingers were pale against the darkness of Anna’s hair.
Anna said nothing. A tentative smile flickered across the small, pale lips and then as quickly as it had come, it vanished. The eyes remained worried.
“This gentleman is Signor Trotti …”
“Piero.” Trotti smiled. He too crouched and, reaching out, took Anna’s right hand. A small hand. Soft, cool, very slightly damp. He remembered the time when Pioppi was that age. “You don’t remember me but I knew you when you were very little. Your papa used to work for me.”
At the mention of her father, the eyes seemed to darken.
“I am your godfather.”
The child nodded.
“Your godfather wants to ask you a few questions, Anna.” The headmistress glanced at Trotti. “He is a policeman. You have nothing to worry about.”
Again Anna nodded.
“Come,” Trotti said. “Give me your other hand.” He pulled the child around until she was standing between his knees. She was wearing a white blouse beneath the black overalls and the plastic white collar with its loose red cravat; on her feet, white socks and neat, good quality sandals. Clean nails, well brushed hair and a healthy although slightly pale complexion. A couple of scars on her knees, and beneath the eyes the trace of dark lines. The eyes stared at Trotti while the narrow chest heaved under the dark overalls.
“Don’t be afraid, Anna.” He gave her a reassuring tug.
Again the flicker of a smile.
“You see, I’m here to help you. It’s very important. What happened to you—the way you were taken away—we don’t want it happening to other children. You understand?”
Anna nodded; then catching her breath, said, “But I have already answered the questions. In the hospital. I answered them. You were there, I remember. You were with my father.”
“You were tired and that was several days ago. Perhaps you can remember more clearly now. Perhaps there are things that you forgot to tell us. It is so easy to forget things.” He smiled. “I know I’m always forgetting things.”
“I said everything.”
“Are you sure, Anna? Absolutely everything?”
She nodded. Her mouth had grown smaller. Firm wrinkles at the edge of her lips.
Trotti looked at her and she lowered her head.
“Are you hiding something?”
“No.”
Trotti stroked the back of her hand. “You mustn’t be afraid of us,” he said gently. “We won’t be angry. But you see, we must think about the other children. For their sake you must help us.”
“I’ve said everything.”
On the ceiling, the fan blade rotated.
“You don’t like your papa, do you, Anna?”
Anna did not move; yet he could feel the hands tensing.
“He is a good man—and a very kind one.”
“Anna,” Signorina Belloni’s voice was kind, motherly. “He loves you a great deal. More than anything else in the world. He often tells me that without you, he has got nothing.”
Anna turned to look at the headmistress.
Trotti said, “But you don’t like him, do you?”
Anna raised her shoulders and then let them fall. Her head was to one side. She continued to look at her sandals.
Nino was leaning against the door. He held an unlit cigarette between his lips. La Gazzetta dello Sport bulged in his pocket. He coughed and, looking up, Signorina Belloni frowned and gestured for him to leave. He went slowly out of the room. Anna’s eyes followed him. Then she returned to looking at her shoes.
“Why don’t you like your papa?”
There was no reaction from the child.
“Is it because of your grandparents?” Trotti let her hand drop and, with his index finger, he pulled up her chin. Her eyes refused to meet his. “Look at me and tell me the truth. Is it because of your grandfather?”
The eyes came up slowly. They had their own depth. In that moment, she looked a lot older than her age. She moved backwards, pushing Trotti’s hand away from her chin. She lowered her head.
“Grandfather tells you that your father is a bad man? That he doesn’t love you? You mustn’t believe those things, Anna.”
The headmistress said, “Your father loves you.”
Anna remained silent.
“Your father loves you very much and now that your mama is … now that your mama has gone, he needs you to look after him. A man always needs a woman, Anna.”
She mumbled inaudibly.
“You know you shouldn’t have left him in the garden. It wasn’t a kind thing to do. You shouldn’t have run away.”
She looked up. “I didn’t run away.”
Trotti gave her a disbelieving smile. “You ran away.”
“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.” She was now looking at him.
“You remember?”
“Yes.” Then vehemently she shook her head. “No.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You can tell us, Anna. You mustn’t be afraid.” Trotti turned to the headmistress. Without any expression, she looked back at him. Between them there was a tacit tie of collusion.
“Would you like something to eat, Anna?” Signorina Belloni asked.
Anna shook her head and, like the skirt of a dancer, her hair rose, lifted by centrifugal force, and then fell against her forehead.
“Your grandfather tells you bad things. You mustn’t believe him, Anna. He has never liked your father. He is jealous of him.”
By now the sky was dark. The clouds had come over the city, giving a leaden light to the sky. Suddenly the room was brightened by lightning beyond the roofs of the houses. A few seconds later, the rumble of thunder caused the windowpanes to rattle.
Anna shivered.
“Your father loved your mother very much.” Signorina Belloni lowered her voice. “She was a very beautiful woman.”
Anna looked at the headmistress.
Trotti said, “I was at their wedding.” He smiled. “I was the best man. I can remember your mother in her wedding gown. She was like a princess.”
The child smiled, then, embarrassed, looked downwards. She mumbled something.
For Trotti, it was a spontaneous movement. He put his hands to the sides of her head. Her skin was cool against his palms. He pulled her face upwards, bringing her eyes into line with his own. There was something in her features that reminded him of the father. Perhaps a hint of stubbornness.
“What did you say, Anna?”
She tried to shake her head.
“Your mother was very beautiful and he loved her. And she loved your father.”
“He killed her.”
There was silence. The thunder was moving away, moving north across the Po valley towards Milan. “And he wants to kill me.”
41
IT WAS NEARLY eleven o’clock when the taxi dropped Trotti off outside the Questura. The rain was pouring down, the pavement shiny.
An appuntato caught sight of him and came
running over to offer the protection of his black umbrella. “Dirty weather, Commissario,” he said. Trotti nodded.
He got into the lift and stepped out on the third floor.
Principessa raised her head, sniffed the air, looked through the damp windowpane and then returned to her dreams.
“Magagna?”
“He was here half an hour ago.” The blind man added, amused at his own joke, “I haven’t seen him since.” He took an envelope from where he had tucked it under the large telephone console. “He left you this.”
“Thanks.” Trotti said, taking the white envelope. “Any messages?”
“Avvocato Romano phoned.” The pale eyes screwed up behind the thick glasses.
Trotti went into his office. Rain battered at the window and rattled at the handle. He sat down to look at the envelope.
In scrawled handwriting, Magagna had written, Milan Central has checked. Voice on tape recording from provincia is not voice of Gracchi.
Trotti thought for a while; it took him several minutes to realize that the office was strangely quiet. And it took him several more minutes to realize why. The pigeons had ceased to coo.
Through the runnels of rain on the window, it was difficult to make out the forms of the terracotta roofs. The sky was dark.
The phone rang. It was Gino. “Leonardelli. He wants you. Now.”
“Thanks.”
Trotti left his office and went along the corridor, past the coffee machine. He was worried; a strange, heavy feeling in his stomach.
He knocked on the door.
“Of course, of course,” Leonardelli was on the phone and his smile disappeared as he saw Trotti. With his eyes returning to the telephone, he beckoned to enter. He pointed at a chair; between the fingers of his hand, a cigarette was burning. Leonardelli continued his conversation. “There’s not much that I can do at this end.”
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