Numero Zero (11 page)

“Waits for what?”

“I'll tell you that later. For the moment, my theory ends here.”

“But to develop a theory you need evidence.”

“I'll have that in a few days, once I've finished work on various archives and newspapers of the period. Tomorrow is April 25, a fateful date. I'm going to meet someone who knows a great deal about those days. I'll be able to demonstrate that the corpse in Piazzale Loreto was not that of Mussolini.”

“But aren't you supposed to be writing the article on the old brothels?”

“Brothels I know from memory, I can dash it off in an hour on Sunday evening. Thanks for listening. I needed to talk to someone.”

Once again he let me pay the bill, though this time he'd earned it. We walked out, and he looked around and set off, sticking close to the walls, as though worried about being tailed.

10

B
RAGGADOCIO WAS CRAZY
. Perhaps he'd made the whole thing up, though it had a good ring to it. But the best part was still to come and I'd just have to wait.

From one madness to another: I hadn't forgotten Maia's alleged autism. I had told myself I wanted to study her mind more closely, but I now knew I wanted something else. That evening I walked her home once again and didn't stop at the main entrance but crossed the courtyard with her. Under a small shelter was a red Fiat 500 in rather poor condition. “It's my Jaguar,” said Maia. “It's nearly twenty years old but still runs, it has to be checked over once a year, and there's a local mechanic who has spare parts. I'd need a lot of money to do it up properly, but then it becomes a vintage car and sells at collectors' prices. I use it just to get to Lake Orta. I haven't told you—I'm an heiress. My grandmother left me a small house up in the hills, little more than a hut, I wouldn't get much if I sold it. I've furnished it a little at a time, there's a fireplace, an old black-and-white TV, and from the window you can see the lake and the island of San Giulio. It's my
buen retiro
, I'm there almost every weekend. In fact, do you want to come on Sunday? We'll set off early, I'll prepare a light lunch at midday—I'm not a bad cook—and we'll be back in Milan by suppertime.”

On Sunday morning, after we'd been in the car for a while, Maia, who was driving, said, “You see? It's falling to pieces now, but years ago it used to be beautiful red brick.”

“What?”

“The road repairman's house, the one we just passed on the left.”

“If it was on the left, then only you could have seen it. All I can see from here is what's on the right. This sarcophagus would hardly fit a newborn baby, and to see anything on your left I'd have to lean over you and stick my head out the window. Don't you realize? There's no way I could see that house.”

“If you say so,” she said, as if I had acted oddly.

At that point I had to explain to her what her problem was.

“Really,” she replied with a laugh. “It's just that, well, I now see you as my lord protector and assume you're always thinking what I'm thinking.”

I was taken by surprise. I certainly didn't want her to think that I was thinking what she was thinking. That was too intimate.

At the same time I was overcome by a sort of tenderness. I could feel Maia's vulnerability, she took refuge in an inner world of her own, not wanting to see what was going on in the world of other people, the world that had perhaps hurt her. And yet I was the one in whom she placed her trust, and, unable or unwilling to enter my world, she imagined I could enter hers.

I felt embarrassed when we walked into the house. Pretty, though spartan. It was early May and still cool. She lit a fire, and as soon as it got going, she stood up and looked at me brightly, her face reddened by the first flames: “I'm . . . happy,” she said, and that happiness of hers won me over.

“I'm . . . happy too,” I said. I took her by the shoulders and kissed her, and felt her take hold of me, thin as a mite. But Braggadocio was wrong: she had breasts, and I could feel them, small but firm. The Song of Songs: like two young fawns.

“I'm happy,” she repeated.

I tried to resist: “But I'm old enough to be your father.”

“What beautiful incest,” she said.

She sat on the bed, and with a flick of a heel and toe, she tossed her shoes across the room. Braggadocio was perhaps right, she was mad, but that gesture forced me to submit.

We skipped lunch. We stayed there in her nest until evening; it didn't occur to us to return to Milan. I was trapped. I felt as if I were twenty or perhaps a mere thirty like her.

“Maia,” I said to her the next morning on the way back, “we have to go on working with Simei until I've scraped a little money together, then I'll take you away from that den of vermin. But hold out a little longer. Then, who knows, maybe we'll go off to the South Seas.”

“I don't believe it, but it's nice to imagine: Tusitala. For now, if you stay close, I'll even put up with Simei and do the horoscopes.”

11

O
N THE MORNING OF MAY
5, Simei seemed excited. “I have a job for one of you—perhaps Palatino, since he's free at the moment. You've read over the past few months—the news was fresh in February—about an examining magistrate who started investigating the state of old people's homes. A real scoop after the case of the Pio Albergo Trivulzio. None of these places belongs to our proprietor, but you know that he owns rest homes, also on the Adriatic coast. It remains to be seen whether sooner or later this magistrate is going to stick his nose into the Commendatore's affairs. Our proprietor would therefore be pleased to see how we might raise a shadow of suspicion over a busybody magistrate. These days, you know, to answer an accusation you don't have to prove it's wrong, all you have to do is undermine the authority of the accuser. So, Palatino, here's the fellow's name. Take a trip down to Rimini with a tape recorder and a camera, and tail this honest and upright servant of the state. No one is one hundred percent upright—he may not be a pedophile, he may not have killed his grandmother or pocketed bribes, but surely there will be something strange about him. Or else, if you'll pardon the expression, you can strangify whatever he does each day. And Palatino, use your imagination. Get it?”

Three days later Palatino came back with some tasty nuggets. He had photographed the magistrate sitting on a park bench, nervously chain-smoking, with ten or so butts at his feet. Palatino wasn't sure whether this could be of any interest, but Simei said yes, a man from whom we expect careful consideration and objectivity was showing signs of being neurotic, and above all a shirker who rather than sweating over files was wandering around in parks. Palatino had also photographed him through the window of a Chinese restaurant while he was eating—and with chopsticks.

“Splendid,” said Simei. “Our readers don't go to Chinese restaurants, perhaps there aren't any where they live, and they'd never dream of eating with chopsticks like savages. So why, our readers will ask, is this man hanging around in Chinese restaurants? If he's a serious magistrate, why isn't he eating minestrone or spaghetti like everybody else?”

“Not only that,” added Palatino, “he was also wearing colored socks, a sort of emerald or pea green . . . and sneakers.”

“Nooo! Sneakers . . . and emerald socks . . . well!” exclaimed Simei jubilantly. “This man's a dandy, or a flower child, as they used to say. And it doesn't take much to picture him smoking joints. Not that you will say this, readers will figure it out for themselves. So, Palatino, work up these details to create a portrait full of dark innuendo, and that will take care of him. Out of a nonstory we've created a story. And without lying. I'm sure the Commendatore will be pleased with you—I mean, with all of us.”

“A serious newspaper has to keep files,” Lucidi said.

“In what sense?” asked Simei.

“Like pre-obituaries. A newspaper must never find itself unprepared when news of a major death arrives at ten at night and no one's around to piece together a proper obituary in half an hour. That's why most obituaries are written in advance—pre-obits—so when someone dies without warning, you have a ready-made obituary and all you have to do is bring it up to date.”

“But our dummy issues aren't being produced one day for the next,” I pointed out. “If we are working on one for such-and-such a date, all we have to do is look at the newspapers for that day and we've got our pre-obit.”

“Even then, we'll only run it if, let's say, it's the death of a government minister or a big industrialist,” explained Simei, “and not some minor poetaster our readers have never heard of. Their only purpose is to take up space in culture sections that major newspapers fill each day with worthless news and comment.”

“Pre-obits were just an example,” said Lucidi, “but files are important for background information on a particular person in articles of all kinds. They save us last-minute research.”

“I understand,” said Simei, “but these are luxuries only large newspapers can afford. Keeping files involves tons of research, and I can't let any of you spend all day doing research.”

“But you don't have to,” Lucidi said, smiling. “All you need is a student, you pay him a few lire to go around to the newspaper libraries. Don't think files contain anything new, anything that hasn't already been published, and I'm not just talking about newspapers but the secret services as well. Not even the secret services can afford to waste time that way. A file contains press clippings, newspaper articles that say what everyone knows—everyone, that is, except for the minister or opposition leader for whom it's intended, who's never had time to read the newspapers and treats these things like state secrets. Files contain pieces of information that have to be recycled so that suspicions and innuendoes surface. One clipping says so-and-so was fined years ago for speeding, another that last month he visited a Boy Scout camp, and yet another that he was spotted the previous night in a discotheque. From there, you can easily go on to imply that this is someone who recklessly flouts the traffic laws to get to places where alcohol is consumed, and that he probably—I say probably, though it's perfectly apparent—likes young boys. Enough to discredit him, all done by sticking to the simple truth. What's more, the advantage of a file is that it doesn't have to be seen: it's enough for people to know it exists, and that it contains, let us say, interesting information. So-and-so learns that you have information on him, he doesn't know what information, but everyone has some skeleton in the closet, and he is caught in a trap: the minute you put a question to him, he'll see reason.”

“I like this idea of files,” observed Simei. “Our proprietor would be pleased to have ways of keeping tabs on people who don't much like him, or on those he doesn't much like. Colonna, be so kind as to compile a list of people with whom our proprietor might have dealings, find a hard-up perpetual student, and get him to prepare a dozen or so files. That should do for the moment. An excellent idea, and cheap at the price.”

“That's how it's done in politics,” concluded Lucidi with a knowing air.

“And you needn't look quite so shocked, Signorina Fresia,” snorted Simei. “You mean to say your gossip magazines didn't have their own files? Maybe they sent you off to photograph a pair of actors, or a TV showgirl and a footballer, who'd agreed to pose hand in hand, but to get them there without complaint, your editor would have told them that he would hold back more intimate revelations: perhaps the girl had been caught years earlier in a high-class brothel.”

On seeing Maia's face, Lucidi decided to change the subject—perhaps he had a heart after all.

“I've brought other news today, from my own files, of course. On June 5, 1990, Marchese Alessandro Gerini leaves a large fortune to the Fondazione Gerini, an ecclesiastical body under the control of the Salesian Congregation. To this day, no one knows what happened to the money. Some suggest the Salesians received it but are keeping it under wraps for tax reasons. Most likely they haven't yet received it, and it's rumored that the transfer is being handled by a mysterious mediator, perhaps a lawyer, who's claiming a commission that looks very much like a bribe. But other rumors suggest this operation is also being helped along by certain sections of the Salesian Society, so that we're up against an illegal share-out of the cash. For the moment they're only rumors, but I could try to get someone else to talk.”

“Try, by all means try,” said Simei, “but don't create any bad feeling with the Salesians and the Vatican. Perhaps we could run the headline “Salesians Victims of Fraud?”—with a question mark. That way, we won't cause any problems.”

“And if we put ‘Salesians in the Eye of the Storm'?” asked Cambria, inept as usual.

“I thought I'd made myself clear,” I butted in. “For our readers, ‘in the eye of the storm' means someone is in trouble, and some also bring trouble on themselves.”

“Right,” said Simei. “Let's just stick to spreading suspicion. Someone is involved in fishy business, and though we don't know who it is, we can give him a scare. That's enough for our purposes. Then we'll cash in, or our proprietor can cash in, when the time is right. Well done, Lucidi, carry on. Maximum respect for the Salesians, don't forget, but let them get a little worried, won't do any harm.”

“Excuse me,” asked Maia timidly, “but does our proprietor . . . or will he be approving this policy, if we can call it that, of files and innuendo? Just so we understand each other.”

“We're not accountable to the proprietor for any of our journalistic policies,” Simei replied scornfully. “The Commendatore has never sought to influence me in any way. So to work, to work!”