Big Italy (32 page)

“The same Dr. Quarenghi whose brother-in-law is our ex-mayor. Quarenghi’s the brother-in-law of Sindaco Viscontini. And—unless I’m mistaken—you’ve done several favors in the past for our ex-mayor.”

“Piero, Piero …” the Questore said wearily, still smiling.

“Quarenghi and Viscontini—both good Socialists.” Trotti stood up. He took Simona Scola by the arm of her fur coat. “Socialists like yourself, Signor Questore.”

“D
ON
’
T ASSUME FOR
one minute children tell you everything.” She pulled at the collar of her coat. “They always hold back on the worst part.”

“We’ll take the car.”

Surprise in her voice. “You’re not going to see Tenente Pisanelli?”

“Not yet,” Trotti replied tersely. “Sitting and holding his hand while he’s in a coma isn’t going to help him.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Then Anna can hold his hand.”

“Anna?”

“His girlfriend’s coming up from Rome on the Pendolino.”

“There are times when you can be very unfeeling, Piero.”

“You surprise me.”

“An act, of course.”

They re-entered the hospital grounds. The shoulder of her coat touched Trotti’s.

“All an act. Like the Ciuffi woman. You choose to pretend you’ve forgotten about her.” A snort of amusement. “Any woman can see that’s not the truth.”

“There’s somebody I’ve got to see.”

No clouds and the sky was clear. The air remained cold, and underfoot the snow was turning to ice. It was nearly four o’clock. “And you’d like to use my car, Piero?”

“I’d like you to come with me.” He added, “I’d appreciate that a lot, Simona.”

“You always call me Simona when you want something.”

“That’s a good sign. There are times when I think I’m past wanting anything. I would like you to come with me.”

“For my car?”

“For your feminine intuition.” He smiled wryly. Then, on an impulse, added, “As for Brigadiere Ciuffi, I never give her a second thought. Not now.”

“She’s dead, Piero. She’s been dead a long time.”

“I don’t want Pisanelli to die like her.”

“Then perhaps you should go and hold his hand.” A sidelong glance. “And, just for once, show that you care about other people. About their feelings.”

They found the Fiat Seicento, parked between the expensive cars of the doctors from Pediatria and the neighboring wards of Ostetrica and Psichiatria.

She unlocked the doors. “I’m not happy about leaving little Priscilla.”

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“My God, Piero. Sometimes you sound just like the ignorant policeman you pretend to be.”

“Thanks.”

“The whole point of an abuse section is to protect the child. To protect the children. That’s what it’s all about.”

“I’ll drive.”

“No, Piero.”

They got into the low seats, Signora Scola sitting behind the steering wheel. “We now have Priscilla’s words on tape and, with a bit of luck, the grandmother’s going to be taken out of her life. But that’s not what we’re fighting for. At least, that’s not what I’m fighting for.”

“Take the Vigevano road.”

“A child molester—it’s not as simple as catching a murderer or a thief, Piero. Is that little girl going to be able to return to the semblance of a normal life? Is she going to forget the pain of what happened? Is she going to forget the terrible shame?”

“She seems resilient enough.”

“What happens to these kids—it’s going to influence the rest of their lives. That’s what’s important, Piero.”

“Turn left once we get out of the main gate and take the direction for Vigevano.” Trotti gestured. “I know, Simona. Abused women carry their prison with them—they’re like snails.”

She was about to put the key in the ignition but her hand stopped in mid-action and Signora Scola turned and looked coldly at Trotti. She had put on her sunglasses. “You’re laughing at me?”

“About snails?”

Trotti could not see her eyes behind the dark lenses. “A friend of mine says that.”

“A woman friend?”

“It’s her theory about prostitutes and all the other women who end up in prison. Snails carrying a prison on their backs. Carrying it through life.”

Simona Scola bit her lip. “What do you expect? Children are supposed to be happy. Childhood’s a time of innocence—the moment when you can play and laugh before you take flight on your own wings. The age of innocence; and, instead, some adult’s making use of you. Making use of your fragile body in the vilest and cheapest way. You who deserve everything—your anal sphincter’s being dilated in pain and humiliation for the sake of someone else’s easy pleasure, physical gratification.”

“And you end up a whore?”

“Not necessarily.” She seemed to blush behind the glasses. “You end up like some Mother Teresa of Calcutta?”

She turned on the engine that came to life as happily as the day the Seicento had left the factory in Mirafiori. “You end up trying to cope with the lack of self-esteem that dogs you for the rest of your life.”

“You never told me why you got involved in this work, Simona.” She retorted hotly, “You never told me why you did.”

“That’s easy,” Trotti replied. “The Questore and his friends don’t want Commissario Trotti poking his peasant’s nose where it’s not wanted. A nose that is not, never has been a Socialist nose. So they send me where I’m out of the way—and where they can earn points for political correctness.”

“That’s not what you told me eighteen months ago when you asked me to collaborate.”

“That was eighteen months ago, Simona. I needed your help with the Barnardi child.”

“Very flattering, I’m sure.”

Signora Scola’s face was like a mask behind the dark glasses as she took the car slowly through the gates of the hospital and over the Milan-Genoa rail bridge.

There was hardly any traffic. It could have been a day of summer except for the iced snow and the gaunt leafless trees. And the subzero temperature within the car.

“Un bel dì di maggio.”

“Thanks,” Trotti said softly.

She glanced at him. “For what, commissario?”

“For Priscilla, for everything—I appreciate it, Simona.”

“You appreciate my work?”

“I’m having more and more difficulty with the whole idea of a sexual abuse center.”

“You’re the right person for the job.”

“It’s not easy for a man.”

Her eyes were on the Iveco van ahead. “What?”

“A little thing like Priscilla.”

Signora Scola sighed.

“Priscilla’s innocence worries me.”

“Worries you, Piero?”

“It’s not as if she’s a woman. Just a little girl—and as you say, she deserves our protection. A little bundle of hope and promise. She deserves our protection because eventually she’ll be a mother herself and will have children of her own. Children to whom she must bring all her affection.”

Signora Scola smiled. Her gloved hand touched his. “Piero, you must stay on. Even if it means satisfying the Questore. But he’s right. You’re not a phallocrat. You care about women and children because you care about justice. You really must take on this Sezione Violenza Sessuale. For all the other Priscillas.”

“I want to believe that only a maniac—only a sick person can do what was done to that child—to that child who could have been my daughter. Or my little granddaughter, Francesca.”

“A sick old woman. With luck, the Carabinieri will have a case against her. You can understand why the mother tried to protect her. In all probability, the grandmother had done exactly the same thing to the mother when she was a little girl. Thanks to you, the caserma in Lovere should be able to send the nonna away.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She shook her head, “Of course I’m right.” They were heading for the Tangenziale.

“There are times, Simona …”

“Yes?”

“There are times when I can’t help wondering whether we’re not all maniacs. Times when I wonder whether there isn’t a demon in us all.”

“In who?”

“A demon in all of us. Not just the maniacs—but in us all. The reliable men, the good men. And just occasionally that demon will break loose. Not, I hope, with an innocent little girl. But the older I get—and I hope, the wiser, the more I’m aware of the demons. Lingering, waiting in the belly. Waiting for our moment of weakness.”

T
HE CHAPEL STOOD
on a small hill. It was about ten kilometers upstream from the city, overlooking the river and the regional park. The trees that followed the gentle curve of the river fifteen meters below were bare and gaunt. The slow-running river was shallow.

Legend had it that it was here Charlemagne had crossed the Po and set up camp.

Legend also had it that on crossing the river his officers had erected the small Roman chapel within a day.

What was certain was that the residents’ association of Podere CarloMagno had paid a local architect to renovate the chapel. It now had a new roof and the brick walls had been painted a deep carmine. The sundial on the wall gave a sharp shadow beneath a Latin motto:
VOL OMNIBUS LUCET
.

Signora Scola parked the car facing the chapel and together they climbed out of the Seicento.

“I’ve never been here before.” A wind blew across the plain, and her light brown hair, escaping from the collar of her coat, was flung backwards. She had removed her sunglasses and her eyes were watering with the cold.

“The place was derelict for years.”

There had been a large farmhouse, dating back to the Austrians, surrounded by two rows of stables. The previous year the whole complex had been completely renovated and refurbished. The old farmyard was divided into separate gardens that were now individually fenced. Pushing bravely through the thin snow were saplings that would soon grow into plane trees. A series of garages had
been built underground for the four-wheel drives and the children’s bicycles.

A couple of children, in bright woolen caps and gloves, were playing in the shallow snow. One had a toy rifle, the other a Red Indian headdress.

“The only way the residents could get permission to rebuild the place was by promising to restore the chapel. And now everybody’s happy. Fifteen luxury apartments in the middle of a national park and the mayor can boast of a chapel that’s been restored after centuries of dereliction.”

“You’re cynical, Piero.”

“I’d rather see this place inhabited than being left to rot.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. You hate everything that’s modern.”

Trotti took her by the arm and following the newly paved surface of a path led her to a gate.

A dog barked playfully at the children, undecided in his allegiance to redskin or cowboy.

There were several names. Trotti rung the button beside the nameplate announcing Famiglia Viscontini.

“Somebody’s expecting you?”

Before Trotti could answer, there was a buzz and the heavy wooden door opened. They entered the building, glad to be out of the wind.

It was suddenly dark.

It was now Signora Scola who guided Trotti. “Trouble with you, Piero, is that your eyesight’s going.”

“I’m a sixty-five year old man,” he retorted.

“Sixty-four.”

A door was opened on the first landing.

“Signora Viscontini?”

Her features were scarcely visible. The lighting on the landing was poor and her silhouette was back-lit by the large windows of the apartment behind her. “Yes?”

“Commissario Trotti.”

“Ah,” Signora Viscontini said. “Then you’d better come in.” She spoke well. If Trotti had not been told that she was from Zagreb, he would have taken her for a local woman.

S
HE SMILED TENTATIVELY
. “Police?”

“I’m Commissario Trotti and this lady is a close collaborator. Your husband’s not at home?”

“Signor Viscontini’s in Portugal.”

“Why?”

“For a conference of European Socialists.” Again she smiled. She had led them into a large room that looked out onto the Po. At a distance of a couple of hundred meters, the waters seemed almost white. “You wanted to speak to him?”

Trotti glanced at the vast photographs on the wall. A picture of Pietro Nenni. Another of Bettino Craxi. “Probably better we’re alone.” Trotti showed her his identification. “I believe you knew Signor Fabrizio Bassi.”

There was a spontaneous movement of her hand that Trotti noticed, although the woman tried to repress her reaction.

It was warm in the house and she was wearing fashionable trousers and a V-necked sweater that revealed the very white skin of her neck. She wore grey socks that were rolled over at her ankles. She was young, less than thirty, and her features were delicate. Yet the frame was large, like that of a sturdy peasant woman.

Trotti noticed that her fingernails were carefully painted.

She spoke flatly. “Yes, I know Signor Bassi.”

“You know he’s dead?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment.

“How?”

“From the radio.”

“I’d like to know when you last saw him.”

She sat back in her chair. “Why?”

Signora Viscontini had not offered them drinks. She now looked quizzically at Trotti and Signora Scola sitting beside each other on the settee.

“Signor Bassi was murdered. A bullet through his brain. We would like to know who killed him. And why.”

“You think I killed him?” It was in her question that Trotti could hear the foreign intonation. She had mastered the Italian language almost to perfection—but in the question, the intonation was foreign, different. There were some accents that Trotti liked. Despite his general disapproval of those French people he had met, he liked the way they transformed Italian. There was something both attractive and flattering in the way they changed the rolled r. He even liked the slow, amusing Anglo-Saxon deformation of the Americans.

Although scarcely perceptible, Signora Viscontini’s Slavonic accent was unpleasant. It gave the impression of arrogance. An irrational impression, of course, but Trotti found that because of it he felt little sympathy for the young woman sitting opposite him. At the same time, he could admit that she was beautiful. Delicate, fragile features and a sturdy body. Trotti had no difficulty in understanding how Bassi had been attracted to her. Undoubtedly, Bassi had been attracted by anything that wore a skirt—or so at least the rumor went in the Questura. Bassi the womanizer. “Il donnaiolo di Brooklyn,” as colleagues used to call him.