My Italian Bulldozer

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I’m ready to accompany you to the police station,” Paul said. “Although I shall have to come in your car, as I don’t have one myself.”

  The policeman smiled. “You mustn’t make light of these things,” he said in a not unfriendly tone. “Car theft is a serious charge, you know.”

  Paul opened his mouth to say something, but found that he had no words. His Italian, his English, his French all seemed to have deserted him. Kafka, he thought, and then, more appropriately he felt, Lewis Carroll.

  I’m So Sorry, Dottore

  He was passive as they took his fingerprints, partly because he had no alternative, and partly because he was by that stage in a state of mild shock. He found it hard to believe that this was happening to him: that in Italy, a member state of the European Union, a signatory to conventions on human rights, suddenly and for no reason at all—or no sound reason—one could be taken off in a police car and fingerprinted like a common criminal. And even while he was reflecting on this, worse was in preparation.

  “You will be questioned shortly,” said the policeman taking his prints. “In the meantime, you will be kept in safety.”

  He was unprepared for this—“kept in safety” from what?

  “But I’m in no danger,” he said politely. “Why do I have to be kept in safety?”

  The policeman looked scornful. “It’s not your safety I’m talking about,” he said. “It’s the public’s.”

  Paul shook his head in puzzlement. “I’m sorry, ispettore…”

  “Not ispettore,” he snapped. “Not yet.”

  “Sorry, but I just don’t follow you. What has the public got to do with this?”

  The policeman sighed. When he answered it was as if to explain something very elementary. “We’re here to protect the public, right? To protect them from the likes of you.” He paused. “Understand?”

  Paul could not help but laugh. “From the likes of me? But what have I done to make me a danger to the public?”

  The policeman inspected the piece of paper on the desk in front of him. “Car theft,” he said.

  Paul groaned. “Car theft?”

  “That’s what I said,” repeated the policeman. “We can’t let car thieves wander about stealing other people’s cars, can we? No, we cannot. So that’s why we have to lock you up.”

  Paul sat quite still. It had been possible until then to treat the whole experience as a ridiculous diversion, even if an irritating one. Now, though, the matter was becoming deadly serious.

  “I need a lawyer,” he said, as firmly as he could.

  “That’s what they all say,” said the policeman, brushing aside Paul’s request. “Lawyers, lawyers, lawyers. All this talk of lawyers. That’s the trouble with Italy today—lawyers.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the time to talk. The Commissario himself is coming in a couple of hours. You can talk to him, if you like.”

  He rose from the desk and stood beside Paul, who was still seated. “This way,” he said, gesturing towards the door.

  Paul got to his feet. He felt unsteady, and for a brief moment he imagined that he was going to faint. He took a deep breath, and the feeling passed.

  “Are you going to come quietly?” asked the policeman.

  “Of course,” muttered Paul.

  “Good,” said the policeman. “It’s always best to co-operate with the police. Sometimes people don’t, and it gets tricky—quite unnecessarily. You know I had to arrest the Prime Minister once? He made a terrific fuss. Swore at us in dialect. Kicked one of my colleagues.”

  They were making their way through the door when the policeman made this comment.

  “The Prime Minister?” asked Paul.

  “Yes,” said the policeman. “Not the current one, of course, but a previous one—some time ago. We often arrest our prime ministers in Italy. You must know that—if you read the papers.”

  “For car theft?” asked Paul.

  The policeman remained impassive. “Not that,” he said. “For all sorts of other things.”

  “You’ll be arresting the Pope next,” said Paul. “Ever done that?”

  The policeman shook his head. “No jurisdiction. The Pope technically doesn’t live in Italy at all. The Vatican isn’t part of our national territory.”

  “I see.”

  “But of course if the Holy Father asked us in to arrest somebody, we’d do it—in a spirit of co-operation, you see.”

  “Naturally. It’s good to co-operate. And the more people you can arrest, the better, I suppose.”

  This remark was greeted with approval. “Exactly,” said the policeman. “And I must say that I’m terribly sorry to be arresting somebody as obviously reasonable as yourself. I hope you don’t get more than a year or two.”

  They had reached the end of a corridor, and were standing outside a grey door with a round observation window—a peephole—at eye level.

  “On the subject of the Prime Minister,” said the policeman, as he extracted a key from his pocket, “of course he was innocent. Being arrested just went with the job, I suppose.” He paused. “Do they ever arrest the Prime Minister back where you come from?”

  “Very rarely,” said Paul.

  “Too clever?” asked the policeman.

  “Possibly.”

  “He’ll make a slip one of these days, no doubt. They always do. Then they’ll get him.”

  Paul looked about him. At the end of the corridor was a window through which he could see the sky. This was the same Tuscan sky under which he had planned to sit and write. How long would it be, he wondered, before he saw it again?

  “I regret to say that you’re going to have to share,” said the policeman as he turned the key in the lock. He leaned forward to whisper to Paul. “This fellow inside—we’ve been looking for him for some time. Multiple thefts—with violence. Suspected of practically everything.” He shook his head. “Nasty. He’s called Calogero Occhidilupo, would you believe it? These southern names! Salvatore, Pasquale, Valentinianu, and so on. Then they go and add it to some really strange family name like Occhidilupo—wolf eyes, literally, just like the pasta. What are they thinking of, I ask myself?”

  The door opened. Nervously peering over his custodian’s shoulder, Paul caught a glimpse of his cellmate. He recoiled.

  “Listen,” he whispered to the policeman. “You can’t put me in there with a man like that.”

  The policeman shook his head. “We’re very short of space,” he said. “And you should have thought of this before you stole that car.”

  “I have never stolen a car,” said Paul. “Never.”

  Now he thought quickly. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the card given him by his companion on the plane. “Can you do one thing for me?” he asked the policeman. “One small favour? Could you phone this man and tell him I’m here—that’s all.”

  The policeman examined the card. “Professore Silvio Rossi,” he read out loud. Then, looking at Paul, he asked, “You know the Cavaliere?”

  “He’s a very close friend,” said Paul. That was technically true, he thought: we did sit together in a crowded economy compartment of a plane; that surely made us close friends.

  The policemen hesitated. “I suppose there’s no harm…”

  “None at all,” said Paul. “In fact, I’m sure the Cavaliere would be very grateful to you. And, who knows? He might even mention your helpfulness to somebody…” He pointed up at the ceiling. “Somebody higher up.”

  The policeman smiled. “I’ll be happy to make this call,” he said.

  Paul heaved a sigh of relief. “Straightaway?” he asked.

  “Immediatamente.”

  The policeman stood aside to allow Paul to enter the cell. “I’ll be back shortly to check that our southern friend is behaving himself,” he said, nodding towards the figure seated on one of the cots.

  Paul took a step forward as the door closed behind him. Hardly daring to look directly at the other man, he crossed
the cell to the other cot and sat down. Then, glancing quickly at his companion, he started to utter a greeting. His voice trailed away as he took in his cellmate’s appearance.

  Occhidilupo was a man in his forties with the wiry look of the hardened mountain shepherd. His head was small—too small even for his slight body—and his brow virtually non-existent. A ridge of eyebrows was topped only by the smallest ledge until it reached a thick mane of dark hair, roughly swept backwards. Although he had no moustache or beard, the rest of his face, including his nose, was covered with dark hair.

  Paul’s eyes fell to the hands. These were folded on his lap and were also covered with a thick growth of hair. The nails, which were long and uncut, looked remarkably like claws.

  Paul tried once more to speak. “Ciao,” he said, his voice sounding tense and strangled.

  Occhidilupo’s eyes flashed as he gave his reply—a sound that Paul had difficulty interpreting but that sounded very much like a growl.

  Paul raised a hand in what he hoped was a friendly gesture. “So…,” he began.

  Occhidilupo was watching him.

  “So,” Paul continued. “So here we are.”

  Occhidilupo growled again. This time, though, it sounded more like a snarl.

  Paul looked at his feet.

  Suddenly Occhidilupo spoke. “What they get you for, huh?”

  Paul shook his head sadly. He would need to be imaginative. “Omicidio eccezionale,” he said. He was not sure whether such an offence, exceptional homicide, existed, but it certainly sounded more serious—and frightening, he hoped—than the mere suspicion of everything for which Occhidilupo had been arrested.

  He had made the right choice. A look of admiration—fleeting, admittedly, but there nonetheless—had crossed the other man’s face. “How many, huh?” he asked.

  Paul thought quickly. One should not be too boastful. “How many bodies?” he asked. “Seven. Or at least those are the ones they’re charging me with.” Then he added, “Huh.”

  Occhidilupo’s eyes widened. This, Paul thought, was a good sign, and precisely the effect that he had sought to create. If Occhidilupo were impressed, then that would mean that he would be unlikely to start anything.

  Now Paul decided to affect a yawn. “I’m dead tired,” he said. “I need to get some rest.” He paused before continuing, “It was a long chase, you see.”

  Occhidilupo said nothing as Paul lay down on the grubby blanket of his cot. From his prone position, he was able to watch—from under half-closed eyelids—the other man. He was staring at him, the eyes reflecting the weak glow from the small ceiling light. He was not moving, though, which afforded Paul some measure of reassurance. And he was tired, after all the stress he had experienced, and his eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy. He struggled to keep awake, but his eyes now closed completely and there was a distant buzzing sound in his head, like the sound of bees in summer.

  —

  “Dottore!”

  The voice broke through his dream—a confused, strange narrative in which he was pursuing Becky down a colonnade, being jeered at in Italian by small, lively boys.

  “Dottore!”

  He opened his eyes. The policeman who had admitted him to the cell was bending over him, his hand shaking his shoulder. Behind him stood Silvio Rossi, peering at him with palpable anxiety.

  Paul sat up sharply, trying to make sense, in his confusion, of his whereabouts.

  “My dear friend,” said the Professor. “What a terrible occurrence.”

  Paul rose to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “The Cavaliere will take care of you now,” said the policeman. “I telephoned him immediately.”

  “You have been of great assistance,” said the Professor to the policeman, glancing as he spoke at Occhidilupo on the other side of the cell. “My friend the Commissario will hear of your helpfulness.”

  The policeman gestured towards the door. “There’s no need to linger here,” he said. “We can complete the paperwork once we’re outside. The official discharge, you see…”

  They left the cell, the policeman locking the door behind him. A short way down the corridor there was a small, well-lit office, and they were now led into this and invited, with elaborate politeness, to sit down.

  “All I need is a signature,” said the policeman, pointing to a form on the desk. “This is merely to confirm that you have been unharmed during your…your unfortunate spell in police custody.”

  “It has been a major mistake,” said the Professor.

  “We’re very sorry,” said the policeman. “I have already sent somebody to arrest that man in the car rental office. He’s probably already in custody.”

  “Good,” said the Professor.

  Paul took the pen proffered him and signed the form.

  “That concludes the whole affair,” said the policeman. “And may I repeat, Cavaliere, how much we regret this administrative error.”

  The Professor nodded. “We shall speak no more of it,” he said.

  Outside, the Professor led Paul to a smart grey car parked beside a number of police vehicles. “We can have a coffee at a place I know near here,” he said. “You can tell me how it all happened.”

  They parked and went into a roadside café. A waiter, who greeted the Professor as Cavaliere, took their order and appeared almost immediately thereafter with steaming cups of milky coffee. Paul sipped his appreciatively and began his account of events. When he finished, the Professor shook his head in astonishment. “Most, most unfortunate,” he said. “But the important thing is that you are now free to proceed with your trip.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  The Professor waved a careless hand. “My role was very small. A single telephone call to my good friend the Questore. That was all. I simply told him that I could vouch for you and that you couldn’t possibly have stolen a car because you were with me on the plane and you would not have had the time. He accepted everything.”

  “Thank you. I’m extremely grateful.”

  “It was nothing. But, look, what are your plans now? Will you be leaving directly for Montalcino?”

  “If I can find a car to rent,” said Paul. “I’ll need one there—it’s off the beaten track.”

  “Of course,” said the Professor.

  “Perhaps I could try another car rental place,” said Paul. “I assume there are others.”

  The Professor frowned. “You know what the problem is?” he said. “It’s a holiday weekend. That’s why all the rental cars are out.”

  “So I won’t find anything?”

  The Professor scratched his head. “I fear that you won’t find one through any of the main companies, but I have a contact, as it happens.”

  Paul was hardly surprised. He knew about Italian networks, about their insidious ubiquity and their power. To be a cavaliere of the Republic, one would be bound to have a particularly good network, and that seemed to be the case with Silvio Rossi.

  “There’s somebody I know who rents out commercial vehicles,” continued the Professor. “That’s his business, you see. He may well have a small van or something like that.”

  “I’m not fussy,” said Paul. “Anything that’s capable of getting from A to B.”

  The Professor laughed. “From A to B? Well, that demonstrates great flexibility on your part.” He finished his coffee. “Shall we go? I can take you right there.”

  In the car on the way, the Professor raised the subject of Paul’s cellmate.

  “They should never have put you in with a man like that,” said the Professor, disapprovingly. “I’ll raise the issue with the Commissario, and possibly with the Questore himself.”

  Paul was keen to make little of it. He had already caused his friend enough inconvenience and was unwilling to add to it.

  “Please don’t,” he said. “It was no hardship.”

  “Did you speak to him?” asked the Professor.

  “A few words,” said Paul. “
He wanted to know why I had been arrested. Not much more than that.”

  The Professor nodded. “Did you notice his forehead?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was a bit…recessive.”

  The Professor laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. And his hands—all that hair on the top of his hands. Did you see that?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Did you get his name?” asked the Professor. “Something southern, I suspect.”

  “He was called Occhidilupo,” said Paul. “Calogero Occhidilupo.”

  The Professor let out a whoop of laughter. “Perfect!” he exclaimed. And then, half-turning to Paul, he asked, “Have you heard of Cesare Lombroso by any chance?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Paul shook his head.

  “Lombroso was a very great Italian criminologist,” said the Professor. “He published his major works in the nineteenth century. He was very interested in criminal types.”

  Paul listened attentively.

  “He believed that criminality was reflected in the physical features,” said the Professor. “He illustrated this with beautiful sketches of the heads and faces of various scoundrels. Typical Sicilan murderer, Neapolitan thief, Puglian degenerate, and so on. They all looked the part, with their scowling expressions and close-set eyes. Lombroso could take one look at them and predict what sort of crimes they were likely to commit.”

  Paul said nothing.

  “That Occhidilupo of yours,” went on the Professor. “He was a good illustration of the proposition that Lombroso was right. You could hardly mistake him for a choirboy, could you?”

  “I suppose not,” said Paul.

  “I’d be very interested to see his brain,” said the Professor. “In a specimen jar, of course. One wouldn’t want to get too close to somebody like that when he still had his brain in situ, so to speak.”

  “Biological determinism,” observed Paul.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said the Professor. “Lombroso was fundamentally right: had DNA been known about in his day, he would merely have put it all down to the individual genome. Some people just have a bad genome, you see.”