Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  Signed Marshal Angelo Belsito, Commander of Carabinieri station Marina di Pietrasanta.

  Ferrara collapsed onto one of the visitors' chairs, closed his eyes and grasped the edge of the desk. His head was spinning.

  9

  During the restless and often sleepless nights that followed, Ferrara had time to reflect on certain assumptions which are taken as gospel truth, but clearly are not. One of these is the common belief that among the many misfortunes which could befall the relatives, friends or close acquaintances of a police superintendent, that of being suspected, let alone actually accused, of a serious crime is completely impossible.

  Why do we assume this? Probably because every police officer believes that those he knows are honest people and that, given his choice of career, they could only be on the side of the law. But even though life had taken it upon itself to show Ferrara that this eventuality was possible, he continued to consider it unlikely, and this gave his days the hallucinatory feel of a nightmare. He had to make an effort to keep a clear head, which had never been as necessary as it was right now.

  Another deeply rooted belief now being shaken - with consequences that for him, a true Sicilian, would be devastating - was the sacred, indestructible value of friendship.

  Of course he and Massimo Verga were very different. But only in the external choices they had made in their lives, in much of their behaviour and perhaps - although he wasn't

  sure of this - in their political beliefs, which they had always avoided talking about for fear of discovering they were either too similar or too different. What united them were much more deeply held values, which had brought them together and cemented their friendship despite misunderstandings and absences. It hurt him now to think back to those difficult days following his engagement to Petra, which had ended with Massimo leaving Sicily for good. And it made him melancholy to think that one of the things that united them and would always unite them was their love for the same woman, which Massimo had sublimated into his inveterate Don Juanism.

  The hours which had followed his reading of that incredible memo had been unsettling and interminable.

  Good old Fanti had refused to take his train (‘I’ll sleep here, chief, don't worry, this isn't the first time'), had grabbed the phone and had called the Carabinieri station in Marina di Pietrasanta, only to find himself up against a brick wall in the shape of a guard who was 'not authorised to report the movements, let alone the mobile phone number, of Marshal Belisto, not even to the President of the Republic in person!'

  'In my opinion, the bastard was enjoying it,' Fanti reported to Ferrara. Always ready to cooperate, those Carabinieri.'

  Ferrara was not surprised: the Carabinieri had never been very co-operative towards the police. Even when they did manage to get something out of them, it was like squeezing blood from a stone.

  'Did you tell him the call was from me?'

  'Of course, chief, but he didn't give a damn, I'm sorry to say! On the contrary—'

  'Did you tell him that they should call me back as soon as possible, even on my mobile or my home number?'

  'Yes, chief.'

  'Good, we just have to wait and hope. The thing I find strange ... I never heard anything about Massimo being investigated in 1970.'

  'That was a long time before you arrived, chief. Who knows where you were in 1970!'

  'Right. Well, seeing that we have to wait anyway, can you do me a favour? Go to records and get out his file. Now that we know it exists, let's see what he did that was so terrible

  By the time Ferrara had phoned home and told Petra he would be late, without mentioning the real reason, Fanti was already back with a thin file from 1970. The very sight of it set his mind at rest. He knew what a real criminal's file looked like, and this certainly wasn't one of them.

  He opened it.

  There were just a few sheets of paper inside, yellow with age.

  Massimo Verga had been picked up by officers of the Political Division at a house in Florence used by the Communist Party and frequented by intellectuals involved in the student and worker protests of the time. As he had no criminal record and had never been implicated in any crimes, there had been no further investigation and the file had been closed and never opened again.

  Nothing to worry about there.

  He walked into Fanti's office. He didn't have the heart to call him again. Fanti was always ready to work overtime, to take on any chores he was asked to, and Ferrara felt he owed him that courtesy at least.

  Fanti was busy zapping between the local TV channels searching for news of the case in Marina di Pietrasanta. But there was nothing. It was too late: nearly eleven o'clock.

  'Forget about that. Why don't you call our people in Viareggio? They should know something, as it's so close.'

  'I've already done it, chief, but they don't know much. Just that Ugo Palliadini's body was found in a villa belonging to his wife, a beautiful woman, quite well known in the area, who's gone missing. The Carabinieri were called in, but as usual they aren't saying anything, even to the local police.'

  'This Palladiani,' Ferrara said. 'Have we come across him before?'

  'I don't know, chief, I don't think so,' Fanti replied, embarrassed. 'I can take a look in records, if you like . . .'

  'Try that. And if he doesn't have a criminal record, check out anything else we have on him. Even applications for passports, licences, weapons permits. Find out all you can.'

  'Yes, chief.'

  'Check on his wife, too, this Simonetta who went missing with Massimo.'

  'I'll get right on it.'

  'You won't find much at this hour. Go to sleep now, I'm going home. It's unlikely this Belsito will call back tonight.'

  'How shall we answer the memo?' Fanti asked, anxiously.

  'I'll deal with that tomorrow. For now, let's keep them guessing.'

  Petra was waiting for him on the terrace, with his dinner ready despite the hour. This time he had to tell her.

  For a long time they sat in silence, without touching the food, under a starry sky which had lost all its magic. They were both absorbed in their memories of Massimo, both trying to make sense of the most difficult moments of their friendship, both full of remorse and regret.

  A year older than Ferrara, passionate about art, music and philosophy, Massimo Verga had considered himself, from the start, a spiritual guide to his younger contemporary. They had met in their schooldays, and a strange but deep friendship had grown up between the cleverest, most handsome, elegant, self-confident and unconventional heir of a rich, aristocratic family from Catania and the stubborn, somewhat reserved son of peasants from the slopes of Etna, solid people who clung tenaciously to that unforgiving land, to traditional customs and to their own children.

  Petra had met Massimo during a holiday in Sicily, her first holiday without her parents, who had stayed behind in Germany. She remembered him as a charming young man with noble features and a thin moustache which had reminded her of the Sicilian writer Elio Vittorini. It was her fascination with Vittorini that had made her choose to study Italian literature at the University of Heidelberg and to visit Sicily as soon as she could. She had been enchanted by the place and its mixture of cultures. It was an island where the wind from the East, tantalising and full of spices, caressed the columns of classical Greek temples.

  In those days, foreign women, especially the tall, slim, blonde, green-eyed Nordic type, literally turned heads in Sicily. Young Sicilian men, driving around in couples on their wobbly Vespas, were so distracted by these women - it would have been a 'mortal sin' not to look, and whistle, too - that they would sometimes lose control of their vehicles and come close to knocking down a pedestrian or crashing into a lamp post. Great times, which Petra remembered with affection and a touch of melancholy. She had liked Massimo immediately, but it had not been because of him that she had decided it would be better to continue her studies right there. It had been because of the shyer, more introverted but leve
l-headed Michele, to whom Massimo had proudly introduced her.

  What had followed - Massimo's 'flight', their long separation until many years later, when any possible resentment had gone, their meeting again in that city in central Italy which had adopted them - now hung over their silence like a shadow.

  What had become of him all that time? What had he been up to, apart from squandering his inheritance on love affairs?

  They realised - and it was perhaps the first time they had become so acutely aware of it - that Massimo had always been vague about his various flings. He had generally limited himself to making backhanded compliments about the inexplicable beauty of women. Women were a mystery; a mystery he usually summed up by solemnly quoting the humorist Campanile: 'Do we like women because they are wonderful, or do they seem wonderful because we like them?' They were divine creatures he simply couldn't resist, nor would he ever want to. Comments like these had always amused Michele and worried Petra.

  They also felt remorseful over last weekend's missed rendezvous. None of this would have happened if they had been with him on Saturday night for their long-planned get-together. So their silence was tinged with embarrassment. They even avoided looking each other in the eyes, each afraid of seeing in the other his or her own self-accusation.

  In the end, it was Petra who broke the silence. 'You must do something, Michele.'

  'I'm trying to think what,' he murmured.

  Her eyes were on him, and there was no hint of that smile he loved so much. 'I know,' she said, 'but it's not enough. This time I'm the one asking you not to spare yourself, to do whatever it takes. And you have to see it through to the end. Whatever happened, he had nothing to do with it.'

  'I know that!' he burst out, almost angrily, and immediately regretted it, fearing that his anger might betray a doubt, an uncertainty he was sure he didn't feel. Of the two of them, she was the one who might have doubts: she had always been afraid that Peter Pan's love affairs would end up getting him in serious trouble one day.

  'Of course he had nothing to do with it,' he said, trying to downplay his outburst.

  Petra said nothing, but looked at him sadly, her eyes glistening with tears - and it was not like her to cry.

  The following morning there was nothing in the newspapers, apart from an extraordinarily vague article in the Livorno daily Il Tirreno.

  MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF A FLORENTINE THE CARABINIERI ARE INVESTIGATING

  The Carabinieri in Marina di Pietrasanta, in collaboration with the provincial command in Lucca, are investigating the death of Ugo Palladiani, the Florentine director of a public relations company, who died in mysterious circumstances in a villa owned by his wife, the well-known cultural organiser Simonetta Palladiani. His body was found by the housekeeper yesterday morning in the ground floor drawing room at the foot of the stairs leading to the first floor. According to the housekeeper, one of the guest rooms, occupied by Ugo Palladiani, was in a state of disorder, as if a fight had taken place there, although no objects of value were found to be missing. Adding to the mystery is the absence of the villa's owner, whose bedroom was found to be perfectly tidy, just as the housekeeper had left it on Saturday morning. We have tried to find out more for our readers from the Carabinieri, but for some reason they have not been forthcoming with information — wrongly, in our humble opinion. Rumour - how trustworthy we do not know - suggests that the results of the autopsy, which took place yesterday afternoon, support the theory of a possible homicide.

  The mere mention of the word made Ferrara's cigar taste sour.

  That would put Simonetta Palladiani, who is missing, in a particularly sensitive position. Simonetta Palladiani is well known on the Versilia coast for her tireless activities in the social and cultural field: for the past two years she has owned the Archivolto art galley in Forte dei Marmi, where talented young painters and sculptors exhibit their works; she has been a member of several literary prize juries, and she has helped to organise festivals and other social and cultural events. In this she has had the support of her husband. The couple are separated but still married and appear to have been on excellent terms. While the Carabinieri carry out their duties, we can only express the hope that Simonetta returns soon to brighten our days and nights on the Versilia coast with her usual enterprising spirit and her luminous smile. CP.

  A strange article, he thought.

  He would have liked to talk to that journalist. To judge by his criticism of the Carabinieri and the familiarity with which he referred to Simonetta Palladiani, about whom he talked in such flattering tones - without once mentioning Massimo Verga, Ferrara had noted - he probably knew a lot more than he said.

  But was the 'he' a 'she'? he thought suddenly. Didn't the initials CP. at the end of the article belong to Claudia Pizzi, the very same woman who had given him the nickname II Gatto?

  For now, there were other things that needed to be done. He picked up the receiver and asked the switchboard operator to get him the commanding officer of the Carabinieri station in Pietrasanta. 'Tell him it's me and put me through only when the marshal himself is on the line.' 'Of course, chief. I understand.'

  A few minutes later, the phone rang and he lifted the receiver before Fanti could do so.

  'Chief, Marshal Belsito to speak to you.' 'Hello?'

  'Marshal Angelo Belsito here.'

  Ah, Marshal, hello. This is Chief Superintendent Ferrara, head of the Squadra Mobile in Florence.'

  'Nice to hear from you. I know you tried to reach me yesterday and I'm sorry I didn't call you back, but we were very busy until late last night. What can I do for you?'

  'I was hoping to talk to you, Marshal, because I received your memo. Now I've just been reading in Il Tirreno that this could well be a murder case and I wanted to find out more.'

  We're still in the early stages,' the marshal replied, vaguely. As I'm sure you realise, it's still too early to speculate.'

  The allusion to a possible murder, especially coming from the head of the Florence Squadra Mobile, must have made a spark of the age-old rivalry between the police and the Carabinieri flare up in the marshal. Since the case had been reported to the Carabinieri, it belonged to them, and the marshal was clearly determined to defend his jurisdiction.

  'Of course,' he continued, 'we know a man is dead and his wife is missing. As is her lover, Massimo Verga. All we need from you, Chief Superintendent, is routine information on the two of them, as is normal. Nothing else, at least for now.'

  'Yes, of course, Marshal, that's what I understood from the memo,' Ferrara replied, coldly. This was the first he had heard about Massimo being Simonetta Palladiani's lover, and the news naturally increased his anxiety. 'But what exactly do the results of the autopsy say?'

  'I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent, but I'm not authorised to tell you that. You know how these things are. I'm sure you understand. Do you mind my asking why you're so interested?'

  'Because Palladiani is from Florence, and so is Massimo Verga. In fact, I don't think Signor Verga is someone who could ever have been involved in something like this except by chance. In my opinion, he's completely innocent.'

  'Why, Chief Superintendent, do you know him?' the marshal asked after a very slight pause. Ferrara realised that he suddenly seemed to be paying close attention.

  'Yes I do, Marshal. I know him very well. In fact, I've known him a long time . . . and I'd vouch for him with my life!'

  A long pause followed. Then Marshal Belsito, now in a more official tone, said, 'Perhaps, Chief Superintendent, since we're dealing with a friend of yours, you'd be able to come here so we could talk to you.'

  You bet I could! Ferrara thought. 'No problem, Marshal. . . I could come right now. Will you be there?'

  'I'll be waiting.'

  'I'll see you later, then. As soon as I get there.' 'I'll be waiting,' the Marshal repeated, in a curt, formal tone. To Ferrara it sounded more like a threat than a promise.

  10

  The Carabinieri in Marina di
Pietrasanta occupied a small, red, two-storeyed villa one block from the sea, where two side streets met. On the small balcony at the back, washing was hanging out to dry. The front was separated from the street by a small, well-tended garden protected by a low white perimeter wall.

  The driver double-parked in front of the side gate. The word Carabinieri was on the name plate next to the entry-phone, while the blue and white sign was inside, above the main door. A woman in a sarong passed Ferrara, pushing a pram, with a little boy and a smaller girl in bathing costumes attached to the sides by leads. Around her waist, the girl was wearing a plastic life preserver shaped like a duck, and the pram was full of beach toys.

  Ferrara rang the entryphone.

  A sentry appeared almost immediately.

  ‘I’m the head of the Squadra Mobile in Florence,' Ferrara said, showing the badge that said State Police - Chief Superintendent at the top, and just under it a photo of himself in plain clothes.

  'Please come in, Chief Superintendent. The Marshal is waiting for you.'

  In the small waiting room, the air conditioning was full on. The room was sparsely furnished, and the only decorations on the walls were prints commemorating the deeds of the Carabinieri. A few in-house magazines lay on a low table in front of an imitation leather sofa.

  The sentry left the room for a few minutes, then came back and asked Ferrara to follow him.