Converging Parallels (31 page)

“Ah,” she said, a hand going to her mouth.

Splinters of glass on the cold floor.

Trotti picked up the photograph. A photograph of Angellini, taken several years previously, when the hair was lower on his forehead. He looked healthier. He wore the long, peaked cap of Italian students. On one arm, he held a girl; the other arm went over the shoulder of a young man. All three were smiling into the camera.

Trotti set the photograph back on the desk.

He had seen the girl somewhere.

Angellini took the photograph and put it away in the wardrobe. “Zia, get a broom.” To Trotti, “Coffee?”

“Who informed you, Angellini?”

Angellini poured black coffee into the two cups. “Sugar?”

“Who informed you—if it wasn’t you who set everything up, tell me who told you.”

The aunt had returned with a broom and now she brushed at the broken glass with quick jabs; she looked at neither Trotti nor her nephew. She bent over, swept the glass into a yellow pan and left silently, her dark stockings, rolled about her ankles, scraping softly as she walked.

Angellini sipped some coffee. “You forget that I am a journalist.” He paused, looked at Trotti. “The son-in-law.”

“Who?”

“Rossi’s son-in-law, Ermagni. I suppose it was him—I don’t know him personally, but if it was somebody else, he was a good actor.”

“What did he say?” Trotti held a cup of coffee in his hand but he did not drink.

“They were trying to take his daughter from him.”

“Anna?”

“Yes.” Angellini nodded. “That’s why she was kidnapped. The old man wanted to discredit him. Discredit him as a father.”

“And he phoned you?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he get your phone number from?”

Angellini shrugged, drank some more coffee. “He said that he had seen you and that you had let him down. You couldn’t be bothered with him. So he phoned me. Of course, I told him he was crazy. And he was.”

“What did he say?”

“That you didn’t care, that you were just like the rest of them—whoever they may be. He seemed to think there was a plan to take Anna from him. Rossi had gotten some students to come into the gardens and take her. The real reason was to show that he couldn’t look after his own daughter, not even in public gardens, and that she’d be safer with her grandparents.” Another sip of coffee. “A lot of what he was saying was close to gibberish. He was speaking fast and I had difficulty following.”

“I saw him last night. I didn’t realize that he had worked out his own theory.” Trotti looked at Angellini. “He’s mad.”

“He said you used to be his friend.” Again he laughed. “He called you a questurino.”

Trotti raised his voice. “I almost lost my job over his daughter—and now I probably have lost it. He told you about the San Siro?”

“He told me that he had contacted the police.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“Why should I?”

“And my wife?”

“How was I to know that she was there? And even when the Carabinieri came, I didn’t recognize her. I’ve only seen her a couple of times. And anyway, she appeared to be with a man; why should I think it was your wife? It was my photographer who recognized her. And as soon as he told me I phoned you.”

“Thanks,” Trotti said, almost mechanically. And then to himself, “With another man.”

Angellini nodded.

Trotti placed the cup back on the tray. He had not touched the coffee. He now stood up and went to the window. The sun had moved, but its blinding reflection was still caught on a windowpane opposite.

The old man in black had returned. He was sitting on an upright stone, part of the ancient doorway, and was staring at the carcass of the wheelless bicycle. He propped his hands and chin on an old stick that he held between his legs. He seemed to be nodding, as though in conversation with himself.

A chicken crossed the courtyard, followed by four adventurous chicks, walking in a line.

An early bee buzzed against the windowpane.

“I knew she had men friends—I knew that. But I thought she went dancing—or to restaurants. But gambling—I had no idea. Where did she get the money from?”

“She didn’t necessarily play for money. Perhaps she just watched.”

Trotti turned round and faced Angellini. “You realize what this means?”

Angellini did not reply and Trotti turned again to look out of the window. The old man caught sight of him and raised the stick in a wave. A toothless smile.

Trotti said, “You’re right, of course.” He smiled. “I’m a fool.”

Noisily, Angellini finished his coffee.

T
ROTTI CROSSED THE
piazza and entered the Bar Duomo. It was early and Signora Allegra, standing behind the long, spotless counter, was shouting at a couple of men. They wore blue singlets and baggy cotton overalls. Their snub-nosed truck was parked in the empty piazza alongside the potted plants that formed a barrier to the open terrace. They were ferrying crates—yellow plastic containing Coca-Cola and Birra Peroni—from the truck to the cellar of the bar.

She smiled, a large, spontaneous smile. “Commissario—how nice to see you.” She approached him and placed a hand on his sleeve. “You look tired, Commissario. You must have something to eat.”

Even this early, she was well-groomed; her lipstick was perfect, she wore a beige cardigan and a scarf of red, white and green—Italian colors. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. “Please sit down.” She moved a table away from the long, leather bench. She brushed at imaginary crumbs on the spotless blue tablecloth—and from the next table, she took an ashtray. “Coffee, Commissario?”

Trotti nodded.

She went behind the bar, scooped a couple of spoonfuls of coffee—a reassuring, familiar odor—into the steel receptacle and then inserted it into the hissing Gaggia machine. She pulled at the black handle. A jet of steam escaped into the air.

Two papers lay on the table, the
Corriere
and the
Provincia
. He looked at the
Corriere
. The front page spoke of Moro, there was a photograph of his wife, and there were long black columns of print reporting on the political debate. A conflict of values; the integrity of the state versus the physical integrity of a destroyed man.

No real news of Moro; no communiqué from the Red Brigades. But as Trotti read, trying to concentrate on the dancing lines of print, he was aware of a sense of disaster. Inevitable disaster.

“Ecco, Dottore.”

She brought him the coffee and a glass of grappa. She set the tray on the table then, stepping back, placed a hand on her hip. She wore a blue skirt with a box pleat running down the front. “You haven’t slept, have you?” She scolded him like a loving mother with a wayward son.

Trotti shook his head.

“You look a wreck. And with your permission.” She bent over and straightened his tie. She placed a hand on his lapel; it brushed lightly against his chin. A soft hand. “That’s better.” She moved backwards, her head to one side, appreciating the improvement.

The muscles in his cheek were stiff. Trotti tried to smile. He poured the grappa into the coffee. The small cup advertised the local coffee roasters:
CAFFÉ MESSICANO
and a little man in an outsize sombrero.

The two men emerged from the cellar, each whistling a different tune. They returned to the truck; one of them laughed.

“I can see you’ve been up all night, Commissario. I can make you something to eat, if you want. Some eggs? I have some fresh eggs from the country. And some ham?”

Trotti shook his head. “Just a brioche.”

Signora Allegra took the large jar from the counter and placed it before Trotti; inside, the sugary doughnuts were deformed by the walls of bulging glass. She handed him a paper serviette.

“There is no news?”

He tapped the
Provincia
. “The Carabinieri have discovered a gambling den.”

“But they can’t find Moro.” She shook her head. “You’d think
that at this moment they’d have more important things to do than go looking for gamblers.”

He could feel the grappa warming the lining of his stomach. “No,” he said, “they haven’t found Moro.”

T
ROTTI CAUGHT A
bus.

It was full of early morning commuters. Girls in pretty dresses and no brassieres; dark hair, dark eyes and smooth, olive complexions. Businessmen, their narrow shoes well polished and their hair carefully groomed. They carried attaché cases as tangible proof of their social standing and success. And one or two housewives, holding empty shopping bags to their ample bodies.

The bus trundled through the old city center. Pedestrians along the Corso Mazzini edged towards the pavement as the bus went past and then swelled back into the middle of the road like waves in the wake of a ship.

Trotti stood on the back platform of the bus, staring through the window.

Outside the Casa di Risparmio delle Provincie Settentrionali, a blue Fiat was parked on the mosaic of the portico. And beside it, in front of the door of the bank, stood the Security Officer. He looked like a New York policeman; his belly bulged over a leather belt and his peaked cap had the sharp edges of a polygon. His left hand on his hip; the right hand fiddled with the wooden butt of his hand pistol.

Teenagers stood outside the cinema pointing at the new posters of a film with Laura Antonelli. Her flesh, painted a hyperrealist pink, strained against a tight bodice.

There was a newsstand and from the cover of the displayed magazines Moro’s tragic features stared mournfully. Behind his grey head, the star of the Red Brigades.

Trotti felt less tired; the coffee and the warm grappa had revived him. And less worried. There was a solution, he told himself. The
Provincia
had been deliberately discreet. And at this time, there were other things more important to worry over than the peccadilloes of the wife of a policeman. An insignificant, provincial policeman … There was a crisis, a crisis
of identity. The worst crisis in the thirty years of scandal and corruption of the Italian Republic.

A gambling den at San Siro. Not important. Common knowledge; a secret of Pulcinella.

The headmistress was engaged and for five minutes Trotti had to wait. He sat on a plastic chair and stared at the green paint of the wall in the waiting room. There was only one window, high in the wall. The air was heavy and Trotti had the impression that soon the good weather would break and there would be rain. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

“Ah, Commissario.”

Signorina Belloni opened the door. He had to turn round; he stood up and shook the cool white hand. Her smile was warm and friendly.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. A phone call—another—from the town hall.” She smiled while her hand smoothed the newspaper on the desk before her. “They still can’t make up their minds when they want to disinfect.” She paused. “And on Sunday we vote.”

“Administrative problems.” He smiled. “I know them well.”

Signorina Belloni moved back in her chair. She folded her arms; the blue cardigan about her shoulders was unbuttoned. “The last time you came”—she frowned slightly, as though recalling the event with difficulty—“it was raining.” She turned to look at the sky; beyond the rooftops, clouds were forming. “It is going to rain again.”

“I can assure you that it is not my fault.” Trotti smiled.

“Cause and effect, Commissario.” She did not return his smile. “That is perhaps our problem in Italy. We know that something is wrong but find the cause, that is the problem.” She seemed to have aged since he had last seen her. The cheeks seemed greyer and more hollow. The eyes stared at Trotti without blinking. Dye the hair, Trotti thought, and she would appear a younger, healthier woman.

“Anna came back yesterday. Quite unaffected, it would seem, by her ordeal. Signora Perbene assures me that she has fitted into
the classroom routine as though she had never been away. We are all very proud of her.”

“It’s about Anna that I’m here.”

The face stiffened; the wrinkles about the eyes grew deeper as she narrowed the lids. “Yes?”

“I wish to speak with her.”

She smiled before saying, “The child has already lost enough time. I’m afraid—you understand, I’m sure—I’m afraid I can’t let you speak with her during class hours.” There was a day-to-day calendar on her desk. May 8. “In a couple of days we’ll have to close the school for the elections. I only hope that they’ll send those awful disinfectant men in time.” She shuddered slightly. “With their vile language and their dirty fingernails. The last referendum—abortion or divorce? I can’t remember—one of them made a highly unpleasant remark. Yes—abortion. The remark was tasteless and offensive.” She ran a finger through the pages of the diary. “These elections are giving me ulcers.” A tight smile. “Having too much responsibility in a country where responsibility is a bad word has turned my hair grey prematurely.”

“Your hair suits you.”

“You flatter me, Commissario.” She smiled again, this time unguardedly. “But no.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t let you speak with the child. I’m sure you understand.” She sighed. “These children lose so much time.” Her hands went over the newspaper again. “Too much politics and not enough teaching. I’m afraid you find me in a bad mood. Angry, frustrated with their incompetence at the town hall, and in a bad mood. I have to put up with it all. Elections, strikes—a week doesn’t go by without the children losing a day of work. And when they do come, I often wonder what they can possibly learn.” Again the tight smile. “You know, sometimes I am surprised that they ever learn to read and write.” She stood up and went to the window and looked out towards the rising bank of clouds. She lowered her glance towards the courtyard. “Fascism was an evil thing. It did a lot of harm and in the end, it brought about the downfall of this country.” A pleasant memory pulled at the corner of her lips. “You remember the American soldiers that used to give us sweets? And for four
years our parents had scarcely found enough polenta to keep us alive. Suddenly those young men produced Christmas from out of their khaki bags. We had starved—and for years the Fascists had told us it was necessary—the hardships, the sacrifices—if we were to win the fight against the foreign invader.” She ran the back of her hand across her flat belly, as though recalling the hunger of thirty-three years before. “I have reason to hate Fascism, Commissario. The man—the only man—I have ever loved was killed. I was just a girl but I knew I was going to marry him when he returned from Albania. I wrote to him every day.” She stared at the floor. “He didn’t return.”