Converging Parallels (26 page)

T
HEY HAD THE
best seats and Trotti felt like a child awaiting Christmas.

The lights dimmed. The plush red curtain was silently drawn back and the spotlight caught the two singers, neatly delineated on the stage. The soprano was a large woman but she had fine features and Trotti soon found himself being caught up in the unreal world of Verdi.

The dismembered corpse, the gypsies, Leonardelli—he forgot about them all. His wife, too, seemed happy. She let him hold her hand and her green eyes followed the movement on the stage. From time to time, along with the appreciative audience, she clapped and on two separate occasions, she turned towards her husband and smiled.

“I like your tie,” she whispered. The thin fingers ran along the silk while her eyes sparkled.

There was a long interval and people—friends of Agnese’s—came to speak with them in the opulent bar. The chandelier appeared to hold flickering candles, the carpet was deep red and the barmen wore mauve epaulettes to their white jackets. Agnese laughed often.

“La Scala of Milan,” a woman said to Trotti. “The best.” She raised her plucked eyebrows and took a large sip from her drink. “And this is the first time they have ever come here since the end of the war.” She lowered her glass. “And who are you?”

“Commissario Trotti.”

“Ah, you have a beautiful wife.” She had green eye shadow and her white hair formed blue-tinted profiteroles. “The Scala—we have to thank the mayor.”

“Of course.”

Agnese was nearby, talking to two tall men; from where he was, Trotti could not see their faces. They wore elegant dark suits, had broad shoulders and neatly cut hair that was greying at the nape of the neck.

“Not that I have any time for Communists.” The old woman fiddled at a silver crucifix hanging in the wrinkled pleats of her powdered throat. “Horrible people. I remember that awful man, Togliatti, and look what they’ve done to Aldo Moro—a good man, even though he is from the south.” Her fingernails were deep red; her knuckles grey. “Communist or not, this Mariani has saved our theater.” She looked at Trotti with the bright, inquisitive eye of a bird. “The other people wanted to pull it down.”

He heard the light laugh of his wife.

“Close it down. Friends of mine, friends for fifty years, respectable people from the best families—they wanted to pull down this wonderful building.” A gesture towards the bar, the rows of bottles faithfully reflected in the mirror, the serious-faced waiters and the old brass water heater. “They wanted to knock it down and put a supermarket in its place.”

“Terrible.”

“He’s a southerner, you know. The mayor—he’s not one of us.” The lines running from her thin nose to her lips were lengthened with disapproval. “But at least he has kept it alive. I suppose we will have to pay for everything on our taxes—but as my dear husband used to say, we are the people who have to pay for everything.” They were standing near a staircase and her claw-like hand touched the gilded, baroque rail.

“Communist or not, he has kept it alive. La Scala? In our city? It is a great honor—the last time was in ’37 when they were collecting money for our poor soldiers in Spain.”

The bell rang and excusing himself—“A nice man,” he heard
her say as he moved away—he approached his wife. She was still talking with the men. They gave him tight, small smiles. He slipped his arm through hers and he sensed the tension in her body.

“Time to take our seats.”

Later, as they were walking along the carpeted corridor and he could feel her body beside him—he looked at the movement of her silver slippers on the dark carpet—he asked her, “Who were those men?”

She stopped, shrugging off his arm; the distant reflection of a chandelier was caught in her green eyes. She looked at him and Trotti did not know whether it was pity or anger that hardened her face.

“You are a policeman.” She spoke in harsh sibilants. “A policeman and even at the opera, with your own wife, you can’t stop asking your stupid, prying, flatfoot questions.”

They returned to their seats in silence.

Trotti did not enjoy the music. He was angry with himself and felt that with his stupid question he had ruined the relaxed atmosphere of the evening. In recent years, it was rare that they went out for an evening together. Agnese had her own friends and her own interests.

Trotti felt wretched, then halfway through the last act, at the end of a rather moving aria, his wife had whispered to him, “Let’s go,” and he had felt her soft breath on his cheek.

The taxis were already waiting outside in the street. Yellow Fiats, their drivers smoking quietly in the gloom of the front seat, while overhead, the street lights swayed gently. The evening air was warm. They got into a taxi and Agnese held his hand in the back seat. They reached via Milano; the road was dark. The last customers were coming out of the pizzeria and from the fields came the sound of the crickets’ night chorus. Trotti paid the driver while Agnese let herself into the house. He then went up the stairs and as he entered the house, he saw her bent over Pioppi, who lay asleep. Agnese’s hand brushed at their daughter’s dark hair and Trotti recalled the same silhouette and the same motherly gesture when Pioppi was still a little girl.

More than fifteen years earlier.

They went into the bedroom.

“Your tie,” she murmured, smiling, and undid the knot. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled at the long shirttails. He had no time to undress. She began pulling at his clothes and threw them hurriedly to the floor. Then she clung to him. She raised her thigh, rubbed it against his body and her mouth kissed his face.

Agnese’s skin was soft and silky and her slender body was reassuringly familiar beneath his hands. She whispered words that he did not understand.

T
HERE WERE POPPIES
, Trotti noticed, that formed a bright red line along the edge of the cornfield. Magagna turned off the Piacenza road; in the distance, the contours of the Apennines were clearly visible like ridges seen beneath a microscope. He took the track following the line of poppies towards the trees.

Then Magagna turned off the engine and the car rolled a few more meters with just the sound of the rubble beneath the tires. It came to a halt, having lost all momentum. Through the high corn—there was a slight breeze causing ripples along the green surface—they could see a couple of tiled roofs. Old farmhouses. A chicken cackled and then another; the air had the pungent yet pleasant smell of manure. A smell that almost hid the synthetic odor of the textile plant. The two brick stacks, like long black fingers, belched their grey translucent smoke into the sky.

Beyond the smoke stacks, dull and almost insignificant, partially hidden by the trees of a thicket, the dome of the cathedral.

Trotti looked again at his watch; not yet midday.

“They’re over there.” Magagna had opened the door. He ran a finger along his mustache and pointed towards the trees where a reflection of sunlight sparkled through the narrow trunks.

Magagna lit a cigarette.

“Put that out.” Trotti’s whisper was angry. “He’ll smell the smoke.” He held out a packet of sweets. “Take one of these. Aniseed.”

Magagna stubbed the cigarette into the dashboard ashtray, but unlike Trotti, he did not take a sweet. “Thanks.”

They got out of the car. Magagna closed the doors silently and they set off towards the trees. They followed the grass verge between the blazing white of the rubble track and the cool of the ditch. A frog jumped away in surprise and with an indiscreet plop fell into the stagnant water.

Pisanelli waved. He was lying on his belly. He lay on the river bank and his feet dangled out beyond the hard red earth and only a meter beneath his shoes, the Po hurried by. The shoes, Trotti noticed, were well polished and without a hint of dust. Beneath them, the river followed its own swirling logic.

They clambered down beside him. In the shade, the air was much cooler. Trotti lowered his head onto his arm and he had to resist the temptation of closing his eyes. He had slept little that night.

“Di Bono?” Trotti lifted his head.

Pisanelli’s voice was hoarse. He tried to smile. “He’ll be back later. He’s gone to get something to eat.” There was sleep in Pisanelli’s eyes. His young face was haggard. “The bike’s over there.”

In one hand, Pisanelli held the small two-way radio. In the other hand there was a pair of battered binoculars, which he handed to Trotti.

“We brought you a sandwich.”

Magagna now had an unlit cigarette in his mouth; he was chewing at the filter as he gave the small plastic bag to Pisanelli. Pisanelli took it and propped it among the roots of an oak tree.

The motorcycle was a Laverda. It had a deep petrol tank and handlebars that sloped downwards like the ears of a cow. 1000 cc and powerful, sloping lines, glinting disc brakes. It leaned heavily to one side, pushing against the stand; the earth was creased with the flattened tracks of heavy-duty tires.

Still smiling, Pisanelli whispered, “And on the other side of the river there’s a fisherman. With a long rod. He’s been there since early morning and he hasn’t yet cast a line.”

“Perhaps he prefers to buy fish fingers,” Magagna said.

Trotti did not turn to look. His eyes went from the dappled light dancing on the exhaust pipe to the hut. Overlapping slats of creosoted wood that formed the dark walls. No windows and the door appeared padlocked from the outside. A roof of corrugated iron.

Nothing stirred other than the tall weeds and the yellow dandelions, rubbing against the harsh planking. Bees, flies, insects droning through the air and the sound of grasshoppers. And the soft hiss of the river.

“I’m not hungry,” Pisanelli said. He was still wearing his leather jacket but the suede elbows were now scuffed. He had not shaved; the growing stubble was pale and gave his face a haggard look. “But I could do with some sleep.”

The dredger floated almost motionless on the water, pulling at the rusting hawser. The river formed minute swirling pools along the bulwarks. Rusting scoops, tilting downwards, hung from the overhead conveyor belt. They moved with the breeze. There was a small, natural beach where the white sand glistened, unrelieved by any shadow. Sloping pyramids of sand, higher than two men, that had been bitten into by the dredger. Now that the scoops had stopped, the piles looked like half-eaten apples.

Pisanelli pointed. “It’s where they get the sand for cement; they pick it up along the river and stockpile it here. Or they did until the mayor put a stop to it. When this”—a nod indicating the river and its banks—“became a natural park, they had to stop. Of course, they’re taking the mayor to court—as you can imagine, the local building trade and their architects are no friends of the mayor. They’ll probably lose their case—and a lot of money, too.”

“What’s in the hut?”

“Dynamite.” Pisanelli smiled and then the small radio—a woman’s voice—emitted scratching sounds; a voice that Trotti recognized. Pisanelli answered softly, “He’s with me now. Yes.” A pause. “Am ceasing contact,” and he switched off the radio, closing the aerial with a snap.

Magagna was sitting on the riverbank, staring across the water. “You’re right. He doesn’t seem to be very interested in his fishing.” He moved the unlit cigarette across his mouth. “He’s got a pair of binoculars.”

“Maybe they’re small fish.”

“Long time since I’ve done any fishing,” Magagna mused. “Long time since I’ve had a holiday.” He pushed at the rim of his glasses.

“He’s an NP man,” Trotti said simply, without taking his eyes off the hut. “We’ll have to act fast before they move in.”

Pisanelli was wearing a gun beneath his jacket; he undid the two buttons and the yellow leather holster was visible against his shirt. Large damp patches at the armpit. “We flush him out?” The gun, like Pisanelli’s grin, was unmenacing.

Magagna turned round. “What if he’s armed? You say there’s dynamite. We can’t afford to play at cowboys and Indians.”

It was Trotti who noticed the door open; immediately he recognized Gracchi from the photographs—but he was taller than he had imagined. He carried a bag under his arm and he looked around carefully before stepping out onto the hard earth. There was a keyring attached to his belt—he was wearing long blue jeans and a yellow tennis shirt—and he turned to close the padlock.

Trotti had to make a decision.

Adidas running shoes and scruffy long hair. There was a helmet on the saddle of the motorbike; he attached the bag—made of plastic and advertising a boutique in the city center—to the saddle and put on the helmet. Then he lifted his leg and sat easily on the machine.

Magagna had drawn his gun.

Pisanelli glanced at him but before he could undo the holster catch Trotti said, “Pick him up.”

The two policemen scrambled up the riverbank and immediately Trotti knew that he had not been thinking; he was tired and he was allowing Leonardelli’s obsessions to get the better of him. He had no right to risk their young lives—young men whom he liked and for whom he felt responsibility.

The engine of the motorbike coughed and came alive; blue exhaust erupted from the chrome pipes.

Magagna was running and Pisanelli was behind him, both shouting. Magagna held the gun, Pisanelli fumbled at his shoulder. Trotti came up after them.

Perhaps it was the noise of the engine or the muffling effect of his helmet—he looked like a medieval knight—that had prevented Gracchi from hearing them immediately. For that, Trotti knew he should be grateful; a question of a fraction of a second and Gracchi could have drawn a gun.

He did—but slowly. A P38. Trotti shouted to his two men, but of course, they had seen. Trotti watched—it was like a film, the individual frames moving slowly before him and yet he was confused.

Trotti was about twenty meters behind them.

Magagna veered to the left and moved in front of the Laverda. He stopped, facing the rider. Gracchi was clumsily trying to kick away the side prop; he had let the gun fall.

Magagna stood, his legs bent at the knee and the gun pointing towards the rider.