The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  What had really saddened Canessa was the devastating realisation of his farewell to arms. The war was over, the future uncertain. He’d spent his youth on the front line, turned thirty, and ridden like a Horseman of the Apocalypse during the period of terror. That all-consuming battle had taken it out of him. And now the warrior was left with no enemies. Some wise person would’ve pointed out to him that a Carabiniere always has enemies, not just terrorists, but Repetto – the only one who knew him closely – knew this was about something else.

  The men who’d given that war their all, on either side, knew only how to fight. How to fight that war. Find another enemy? Come up with a new way of life? Those were luxuries reserved to people who hadn’t lived through those times in the way Annibale and Pino had. They, along with everyone else who’d taken it personally, would always be war veterans.

  But for me, it’s time to retire. I’m just a public servant who has served his duty, was Repetto’s thought on that suffocating July afternoon at the dirty table of a services restaurant. He pondered the best way to take Annibale aside and tell him about his decision. But Canessa kept on acting impatient, as if facing off against Petri in front of the judge were a matter of life and death. Canessa unbuttoned his uniform jacket and stroked his side.

  ‘That hole is hurting.’

  ‘It’s the humidity,’ Repetto replied.

  ‘No. It’s a bad feeling.’

  They reached Corso Europa at 6 p.m. They’d run into traffic and when they finally drove into the car park at the barracks, Canessa once again exited the car before it came to a halt. Repetto did his best to reassure the young driver, who had no idea how to deal with the situation. The major ran into the building and plunged down the stairs leading to the cells in the basement. He couldn’t see any of the four Carabinieri from the morning shift. The door to Petri’s cell was ajar. He kicked it open and proceeded to check the other five. Two were occupied but not by the man he’d arrested. No one. Petri had disappeared. His world collapsed around him. Repetto, now coming downstairs himself, had to move to one side to avoid being trampled by Canessa on his way back up to the entrance and the guards.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where the fuck is Petri? What about the men I ordered to guard him?’

  The two men looked at him, then at each other, uncertain which one of them should speak.

  ‘Spit it out. Now!’

  One of them, a brigadier, plucked up his courage.

  ‘They moved him, sir, at around noon today.’

  ‘I left specific orders. Who made that decision?’

  ‘Sir, we arrived after the fact. They told us the magistrates had come in with high-ranking officers, including a general. He’s still here, upstairs with the colonel.’

  Canessa stopped listening to them. Repetto couldn’t stop the man. Ignoring the lift, he leapt upstairs and burst into the commander’s fifth-floor office without knocking.

  ‘Where is Petri?!’

  At his heels, a breathless Repetto arrived to witness a scene he’d never forget. Sitting in Colonel Botti’s study were three colonels and General Verde, deputy commander general of the force. They sat staring, somewhat baffled by Major Canessa, his shirt untucked and sweat-stained, his tie loose and his jacket unbuttoned. Canessa planted himself in the middle of the room. If not for his tight fists and a complete absence of shame, he might have been standing to attention. One of the colonels, the usual self-important kid who’d never been on the front line (as Canessa would say), put his coffee down on the table and addressed Canessa’s direct superior, Colonel Botti, with more than his fair share of attitude.

  ‘You should probably do a bit more to discipline your subordinates.’

  Colonel Botti stood up, moving closer to Canessa.

  ‘Major, care to explain?’

  ‘Colonel, sir,’ he replied, the word dripping with sarcasm. The two had never had such a formal exchange. ‘Where is Petri?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I had an agreement with the prosecutor’s office.’

  ‘Enough!’

  General Verde stood up, moving Botti aside and pushing his own face into Canessa’s.

  ‘Your behaviour is unacceptable, Major. The case is no longer under your jurisdiction.’

  ‘Not my jurisdiction? I hunt him down for years, I snag him, and I can’t interrogate him or even witness the interrogation? I demand an explanation.’

  ‘Demand? How dare you, Major! I’ll have you court-martialled!’

  Repetto could see Canessa inching closer. Their faces were almost touching. The marshal was about to intervene to prevent his friend from doing something incredibly stupid, but Canessa held his hands at his sides. It would’ve been better if he’d hit the general. But his words, spoken softly and straight into Verde’s ear, were worse than a punch to the gut followed by a hook to the chin. Fortunately, Repetto was the only one who heard them, or the situation would’ve spiralled out of control.

  ‘Yes, General, demand, because your ass is mine. Because if you’re able to fuck your wife once a year, it’s thanks to me; because if you’ve been able to walk your daughter to the altar for a “good marriage” to that fancy boy from the Guardia di Finanza, it’s thanks to me; because if one of these cologne-drenched fuckers you’ve surrounded yourself with had been on the Appia Antica at the time, you’d be court-martialling worms today.’

  Everyone knew the story. Verde had been targeted by a hit squad from the Rome chapter of the Red Brigades. Unfortunately for them, they hadn’t counted on Annibale Canessa’s involvement. Their car cut him off, but he’d already spotted them. He’d noticed someone following them, and when the trap was sprung, he was ready. He left the car and opened fire first, using the guns he always carried: a standard issue Beretta and a Walther PKK his father had given him. His subordinates called him ‘Tex Willer’, ‘dual wielder’; his superiors sent him reproachful memos about the use of non-authorised weapons. Canessa didn’t care and, after 13 July 1978, no one had had anything more to say about his guns. Two terrorists had fallen; one had managed to survive but ended up in prison in a wheelchair. So Verde owed him his life. True, a Carabiniere doesn’t say what he’d just said to a general, but there was truth in every word. Including the bit about his superior officer’s son-in-law, an official dimwit from a good family.

  Nonetheless, Repetto broke out in a cold sweat. It felt as though someone had wheeled a humongous iceberg into the room.

  No one breathed a word. Canessa and Verde stood locked in a staring match.

  It was the general who broke the silence, not once lowering his gaze.

  ‘Gentlemen, could you leave us alone for a minute?’ Repetto vanished, followed by the other officers. Botti closed the door behind him.

  ‘You’re mad, Annibale,’ Verde exclaimed. He threw himself into an armchair and undid a few buttons on his shirt. ‘I have to report you now. Do you realise what kind of scene you just made?’

  ‘Bollocks. Those officers are worthless, just like all the rest of them you surround yourself with, you and the commander general. They’ll keep grovelling. You just need to bark at them. Where’s Petri?’

  General Verde brought his hands to his face. ‘Annibale, Annibale… Calm down a minute. Come here, sit down.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’

  Verde shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry, and not just because Canessa had saved his life.

  He remembered it well. The difficult period after Aldo Moro’s kidnapping. The State was still unprepared in the face of armed threats. It acted slowly and predictably; it was muddled. Despite the increase in attacks, Carabinieri, police, and magistrates inhabited a sort of limbo, with a suicidal self-confidence: it won’t happen to me. With Annibale Canessa, it was a different story.
He was born suspicious – it was in his DNA – and wherever he went he was on high-alert, trusting no one. Day or night, his Beretta was in its holster and the Walther behind his back, with its stock to the left. Even the way he stored them had become legend.

  Verde and young Lieutenant Canessa had ended up in an ambush in Rome. There was never any traffic then, which is why Canessa had noticed two cars appearing from side streets. The first one had overtaken them but the second had not, and that was suspicious. The driver had died immediately. Canessa had told him to stay down, but he’d hesitated, and ended up riddled by the hit squad’s bullets. Canessa, on the other hand, had saved Verde’s life and his own. When the car in front of them had screeched to a halt – almost a rerun of the attack on Moro and his escort – gun-wielding terrorists had appeared from behind the cars parked nearby. Canessa had already thrown open the car door. He pushed Verde out and started shooting in every direction, convinced that they were surrounded. Witnesses described him standing against the car, the Beretta in his right hand aimed at the men who’d cut them off, while he discharged the Walther at the men behind them with his left. He reloaded and kept firing from behind a bench, where he was sheltering with Verde. Of the five people involved in the ambush, only two escaped. But they were identified, and ended up on Canessa’s list; he hunted them down for three years and finally caught them. It was one their rare failures before the raid in via Gaeta, an event that changed the history of Italian terrorism.

  ‘Look, Annibale,’ Verde continued. ‘The magistrates in charge of Petri’s case came from Turin today and took him away. That’s it.’

  ‘I’ll catch up with them.’

  ‘No, you won’t. That’s an order. The Petri chapter is closed as far as you’re concerned.’

  ‘What’s your game, General?’

  ‘There is no game, Major. It’s over. You’re the only one still playing. The war is over. This country has had enough of terrorism, the Years of Lead. Look around. Can’t you see what the people want? They want to forget. They want to go shopping in town on Saturday mornings. The season of direct conflict is over. The State won. The other side – not all of them mind you – are in prison. We let some off, and some escaped. Look at the stuff on TV, the adverts, and you’ll see which way the wind is blowing. No one wants to see guns and rifles! They want swimming costumes in the summer and ski suits in the winter. Pretty girls with their tits out. You were the only mad dog left, and with Petri’s arrest, your mission is over.’

  Canessa went quiet for a moment, letting the general’s words sink in before he said wearily, ‘The victims’ families don’t want to forget.’

  ‘Bollocks, as you’d say. They’re a minority, a sideline. This has been a war and there have been deaths, most of them innocent. Some will pay, many will not. But this country is focused on other things now. We won the World Cup, we have a new Prime Minister, a socialist. It’s a new season, who’s to say if it’ll be better or worse, but it’s a new one.’

  Annibale was pacing.

  ‘You’re making me feel like an old tool, General.’

  ‘You are, even if you’re only just past thirty. You’re still chasing fugitives when we have special departments for the task. You have no friends, except for that marshal who’s about to retire.’

  Canessa stopped in his tracks. He looked at his superior in disbelief, his arms limp at his sides.

  Verde spread his arms, shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t told you? I’m sorry. He hasn’t officially sent in his notice. Maybe he wanted to talk to you first. He has a family and it’s time you got one too. I like you, Annibale, but I can’t protect you any longer. You’re a hero, but your temper, your behaviour, your crusades… they belong to wartime, not today. History repeats itself. It’s happened to others before you, in other circumstances. The city needed a gunslinger – and then they didn’t. I’ll come clean with you: we’ve had some pressure from above. They wanted to stop you sooner, but I convinced them to keep you on because you were this close to catching one of the worst terrorists in Italian history. You got him! Applause, speeches, another medal. You must have lost count by now. You want more? You want another war? Go to Sicily. There’s a great group of mafiosi there who can’t wait to meet you.’

  ‘You think I haven’t considered it? My transfer request for Palermo is in my desk drawer. But I’ll decide when. First I need to—’

  ‘—tie up loose ends. Sure, Canessa tying something up. Good. You’re done.’

  Annibale headed for the door without looking back.

  ‘I’m going to find those magistrates.’

  ‘You won’t. You’re on paid leave, effective immediately.’

  The words sent him reeling. He turned around, but before he could say anything, General Verde explained.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this morning your brother was arrested in Reggio Emilia, in an alleged hideout. I said “alleged”. We still don’t know how involved he is in criminal deeds, but these are the rules, and you know it. You’ll have to stay benched until the situation has been cleared up. That’s the reason I’m here. I came for you, not Petri. No one’s questioning your integrity, but with a brother accused of terrorism you can’t waltz around like a vigilante. While you’re waiting for your next duty, go and have a nice holiday. You’ve got years of unspent leave. Go see your father, hit the beach, run after women without the risk of being shot by a jealous colleague. Come back once this thing with your brother has blown over. I’ll say it again: if you still want to be a soldier, they’re waiting for you with open arms in Sicily. Their war is still raging. It’ll be raging when you get back, and unfortunately it will still be going once you leave.’

  It had been a difficult trip, with dense fog from Busalla to Bologna, dead slow traffic. There were only a few days left to Christmas and Lieutenant Colonel Annibale Canessa (his new title – Verde had called him to Rome for his promotion, first time for someone that young) had put his uniform back on after three months. It was the second time since the day they’d taken Pino Petri away from him and given him a tower and two stars on his epaulette instead. To be honest, he’d also worn his uniform a month earlier, in November, when he’d buried his father in the Staglieno cemetery. It had been a short, emotional service, especially for the handful of old soldiers, veterans of actual wars – great ones, but almost all of them lost. They’d come to say their goodbyes to a friend, with ribbons, medals and flags as proud and threadbare as they were themselves. The old Genoese military chaplain had spoken a few words at Annibale’s mother’s grave. She’d belonged to one of the city’s historic families. The Bisagno Valley knew how to be cruel to humans, and on winter days the north wind would whistle down the mountains. On that bitterly cold Thursday, the sky over Genoa – dark, grey – matched the Carabiniere’s own mood.

  Verde had come especially from Rome, but they hadn’t spoken. He stood to one side, surrounded by his escort and only paid his respects with a handshake after the service, queueing up with the other fifty or so people attending.

  The old man died one morning in the cool hours of dawn.

  ‘A fighter, your father, a real soldier. Anyone else would’ve surrendered much sooner,’ the doctor had said, trying in vain to console him.

  Annibale Canessa was now taking a leisurely drive in his Porsche 911. He’d bought the car on a whim a couple of years earlier, in a flurry of regret for the youth he never had, and there was something sentimental about this trip. He was setting out to burn bridges with his past, and he wanted to exert control by doing the driving, rather than trusting a pilot or a train conductor. His first stop was the restaurant in the train station in Modena. There, in that foggy, anonymous, distracted place, his brother Napoleone sat waiting for him.

  He smiled at the thought of their names. An officer obsessed by military history had given his sons the names of two great leaders, both remarkable
strategists.

  ‘Both beaten, in the end,’ Annibale had said, during one of his rare rebellions with the general.

  His father didn’t get angry at his impertinence. ‘True, but no one won battles the way they did. Everybody knows their names, but not those of the victors. And anyway, everyone loses at some point.’

  His father wasn’t militaristic, or a warmonger. He didn’t look like one either. He looked more like an academic than a general: a little too thin, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses eternally perched on the tip of his nose, a penchant for sleeveless cardigans. Over time, Annibale had formed the idea that the reason he’d joined the army was that it allowed him to reenact his true passion: playing with toy soldiers.

  In the big house in via Caffaro (to be honest, it was his mother’s), the largest room was called ‘the diorama room’. The general had recreated some of the biggest war scenes from history with wood and papier-mâché: Cannae, Pavia, Lepanto, Austerlitz, Gettysburg, Stalingrad, D-Day. The two brothers were admitted to that giant wonderland and allowed to play, touch, move, make-believe, but never to change the course of history. When they’d finish playing, everything had to go back as it was; no changes were allowed on the field. History was not a game.

  One day, just as Marshal Soult’s corps were surprising the Austro-Russian army on the Platzen at the climax of the battle of Austerlitz, Annibale had asked his father, ‘Why isn’t there a Waterloo diorama?’

  Kids know how to be mean, but the general had simply smiled. He’d appreciated the question.

  ‘Because Austerlitz is the triumph of human genius and strategy, while Waterloo was decided by external factors. Starting with the weather. There was no trace of intelligence or cleverness, only good and bad luck.’ Annibale had never bothered to find out whether that was the truth, or simply his father’s opinion.