The Italian Divide (7 page)

The woman flushed with delight. She could hardly believe her luck, Elizabeth imagined. Two wealthy clients in one evening. “Lead the way,” she told Elizabeth.

When they were in Elizabeth’s room, she asked the woman, “How much an hour?”

“One thousand euros.”

Elizabeth reached into her bag, pulled out a thousand euros, and handed the bills to her. The woman began to unzip her dress.

“It’s not for sex,” Elizabeth said.

The woman looked frightened. She sat down. “What then, Signora?”

“I’m a French journalist.” She pulled out her identification card, in French and English, from her wallet and showed it to the woman.

She probably didn’t read French or English, Elizabeth thought, but still, she nodded. It must have seemed genuine to her.

“I want to talk to you,” Elizabeth said.

“Talk about what?”

They were seated in armchairs facing each other. “What’s your name?”

“Estelle,” she replied easily. Elizabeth doubted that was her real name.

“How do you know Roberto Parelli?”

Estelle hesitated and bolted up straight. Elizabeth pulled out another pile of euros and held them up. “I promise I’ll never use your name in any article.”

Elizabeth handed her the money.

“I don’t know Signor Parelli. The woman I work with called me early this evening. She said he was a very important client. That he will pay plenty. And that a young man, Nene, would come to my house and pick me up.”

“When you left, Parelli’s suite, were there any foreign men there?”

“Foreign men?”

“Chinese.”

“Nothing like that. Only Nene and an old, gray haired man who was very angry.”

“Did you like Parelli?”

She blushed. “He’s a powerful man. Amazing in bed for someone his age.”

Elizabeth decided she couldn’t learn anything else from Estelle. She told the woman to go home. Then she sat down at her computer.

Before beginning to type her article, she decided to do some research on the Internet to test Parelli’s claim that until 1848 southern Italy was part of a different political entity from the north.

She learned from the
Oxford Illustrated History of Italy
that the split began in 568 when the Lombards conquered the north and the Byzantines held onto much of the south, beginning the Italian divide. In the ninth century, the Arabs conquered all of Sicily and much of the south. Two and a half centuries later the Norman conquerors arrive and placed southern Italy under their banner.

In the south, the Normans gradually built up a strong state. However, over time the northern part of Italy became much more powerful than the south, which was relegated to being a provider of food and materials for the northern population and industries. This endured until Garibaldi mobilized his forces and the movement for unification in the nineteenth century.

So the basic premise of Parelli’s platform was at least correct historically, Elizabeth decided. But that didn’t mean it made sense to divide the country again.

As she continued her Internet research, Elizabeth discovered a startling fact. In early 2014 following the vote in Crimea to secede from Ukraine, residents in Veneto, the region of Italy with Venice as its capital, held online a referendum on secession from Italy. She couldn’t find the result, but the mere fact they held the referendum lent some support to Parelli’s platform.

And then she found something else striking. Recently in the northern area that included Milan, a political party received about 5 percent of the vote with a platform calling not precisely for secession, but for increased regionalization, which was a more subtle way of breaking down the unity of Italy. Supporters of the policy were upset that too much of the north’s tax dollars were going to the south. So Parelli wasn’t writing on a clean slate.

With her research completed, Elizabeth turned to writing the article.

She decided to write only about Parelli’s speech and the crowd’s reaction. She decided to leave out everything she had seen after leaving San Marco Square—the Chinese man, the prostitute, and Luciano’s anger. Those would need more illumination before she could write about them.

Still, they influenced her in selecting the title for her article:
R
OBERTO
P
ARELLI
—S
AVIOR OR
S
INNER
.

After finishing the article, she thought some more about the Chinese man in Parelli’s suite. She had no idea why he’d be secretly meeting with Parelli, but both she and Craig had been so involved with Chinese threats in the past, she had to let him know.

When he answered his phone, she said in a brusque business like tone, “Listen, Craig, after Parelli’s speech in Venice, I tried to interview him in his hotel. I couldn’t get past his advisors, but I saw something strange.”

“What’s that?”

“A Chinese man was coming out of Parelli’s bedroom.”

“Did you get his name?”

“That was impossible, but I took his photograph on my phone.”

“Smart move. Send it to me.”

“Right now.”

She forwarded it. A few second later, Craig said, “Got the picture.”

“Ever seen him before?”

“Negative, but it gives us something for the future.”

“I’ll let you know if I get anything else.”

“I’d appreciate it. Any news about Federico?”

“Nothing yet.”

She clicked off.

Milan

F
ederico’s funeral was Tuesday in the Duomo di Milano, the magnificent, spired gothic cathedral in the heart of Milan. Approaching the Duomo on foot, Craig was awestruck as he always was by the splendor of its gothic architecture.

Construction had begun in the late 14th century and extended over a five-hundred-year period. The Duomo is one of the world’s largest churches, second in size within Italy to St. Peters in Rome. But far more than size is the artistry and workmanship of the structure.

Constructed with brick and faced with Italian marble, its exterior with pinnacles, gables, belfries, and statues has no equal. Above the roof, a spire shoots into the air to the dizzying height of 108.5 meters. On its top is a polychrome statue of the Madonna.

This marble floored structure, built in the shape of a cross, is divided by soaring cathedrals into five wide naves divided by forty pillars. The interior contains a vast quantity of art and monuments in addition to beautiful stained glass windows. Craig couldn’t even imagine the cost of the Duomo or the number of people who had worked on it over the centuries.

Walking into the cathedral, Craig reflected that over the last several decades very few people were permitted to have funerals in the Duomo. They had to be either a pivotal part of Milan’s religious hierarchy, very wealthy, or exceedingly philanthropic. Federico satisfied the last two criteria.

The Duomo was mobbed with people. About 3000, Craig estimated. As he took a seat near the front, Craig recognized many of the top echelon of Milan’s social elite. And since Milan was the heart and pulse of Italy, he saw so many leaders from Rome and elsewhere in the country. He also spotted some top international figures from England, France, and even the United States.

Waiting for the service to begin, Craig thought about how he’d been fortunate to meet Federico. Craig’s racing coach, Paolo, had, without telling Craig, invited Federico to the track one day where Craig was training. Craig had achieved a personal-best speed that day, and when he had climbed out of the light blue Jag, Paolo had said, “We’re going for coffee. I want you to meet someone who loves car racing.”

When they sat down, the first words out of Federico’s mouth were, “You’re a helluva driver… . How old are you?”

Paolo had brushed aside the question, telling Federico, “In this sport, you don’t win based on your age. It’s how you drive. And I’m telling you that you’d be smart to make an investment in Enrico Marino. He’s a natural behind the wheel.”

For Federico and others who followed the sport, Paolo had almost a god-like status. Paolo’s words were enough for Federico to take out his checkbook. He followed that by obtaining checks from two of his close friends in Milan who were also anxious to sponsor a driver whom Paolo was pushing.

That was more than a year ago. Since then, Craig and Federico had spent evenings together and gone to sporting events. Craig was a frequent guest for dinner at Federico’s house before Bonita died of an aneurism, and again during the last few months with Federico and Amelie. Craig liked her and felt sorry for her coming into a hostile environment as Federico’s second wife—and a French woman at that. Craig had attended Bonita’s funeral and Federico’s wedding to Amelie. He couldn’t believe he was now at Federico’s funeral.

The newspapers had carried the story that Elizabeth told Craig in Stresa. Federico had been shot and killed in a jewelry robbery in his summerhouse in Biarritz.

Craig realized he should have been listening more closely to the several speakers who were eloquently praising the many philanthropic causes to which Federico had committed his time and money. “Beloved” was a word Craig heard frequently.

To Craig, that word had a hollow ring. Federico may have been beloved by many, but not by everyone. Somebody wanted him dead. For all he knew, that person was here today.

Craig’s eyes roamed around the immense cathedral. He had no way of determining who was Federico’s friend and who was his enemy.

But he was determined to find out who had killed Federico. He thought about his schedule. He and Luigi were planning to race in Munich next week. He’d call Luigi and cancel.

Nothing was more important than this. He had to start with Amelie. He had tried calling her twice on Monday, in the morning and in the afternoon. Both times a servant had said she wasn’t taking any calls. He would try to talk to her today after the funeral.

At last, Craig saw people rising and the casket being wheeled out. Craig followed the procession outside on a gloomy day with light rain falling. Black cars were lined up on the square in front of the Duomo under the watchful eye of King Victor Emmanuel II, the onetime king of Sardinia, and then of Italy in 1861, on his horse on a statue in the center of the square. Scores of pigeons fluttered around apparently indifferent to the sanctity of the proceedings. Crowds of tourists near the arch that marked the entrance to Galleria Vittorio Emanuelle II stopped to gawk.

Craig followed the procession. After Federico had been laid to rest, he waited a few minutes, letting most of the crowd drift away before he approached Amelie, her eyes red, her face tear stained.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Federico was a wonderful man.”

“He was very fond of you. Proud of what you did.”

“I’d like to come by the house to talk to you.”

“Today will be a mess. Come tomorrow at two.”

Craig turned and walked toward his car. As he prepared to open the door, he felt a tapping on his back. He whirled around to see Lorenzo Sapienza, Federico’s lawyer standing there.

“Can you come to my office tomorrow morning at ten?”

“Of course,” Craig said wondering what this was about.

Lorenzo pulled a card from his pocket. “It has my address.”

The lawyer walked away without saying another word.

*     *     *

Lorenzo’s law firm, which he had founded twenty years ago and ran, had twelve lawyers; it was located on via Brera in the heart of Milan’s financial district. Craig felt a sense of history as he walked through the tile courtyard of what had once been the residence of a famous Milan family seeped in the arts and was now the offices of a law firm.

Craig took the elevator to the fourth floor, announced himself to the receptionist and sat down in a plush leather chair. He took out his BlackBerry and began reading Elizabeth’s article about Parelli—“Savior or Sinner.”

Engrossed in reading, he didn’t notice Lorenzo approaching. When he heard a man coughing to clear his throat, he looked up.

Patrician and dignified were words that came into Craig’s mind to describe Lorenzo. The Milan lawyer was 6′2. Around age seventy, Craig guessed; still he had a full head of thick gray hair. He was suntanned and had a dimple on his right cheek. His clothes exuded wealth and success—the carefully pressed double breasted, gray pinstriped suit, the red Hermes tie with sailboats against the background of a powder blue silk shirt, and gold cufflinks with sapphires in the center.

Craig had met Lorenzo only once before at Boeucc Antico restaurant in Milan. Craig was having dinner with Federico and Amelie when Lorenzo, who had been with three other men across the room, came over to say hello to Federico and his wife. After introducing them, Federico said to Craig, “If you ever need a lawyer in Milan, and I hope you never do, then Lorenzo’s the man to see. He’s the best lawyer in all of Milan.”

Lorenzo led the way back to his office with a twenty-foot ceiling adorned with gold decorations from the original mansion.

“Would you like a coffee, water, or something else to drink?”

“No thanks,” Craig answered. He was anxious to hear what Lorenzo wanted.

“Federico liked you and had great admiration for your driving,” the lawyer said.

“I liked him as well, and I feel a great deal of gratitude to Federico. He not only sponsored me, but arranged for two of his friends to become sponsors as well.”

“It meant a lot to Federico. He was reliving his dream through you. As a boy, all he wanted to do was racecars. He had a knack for it, too. But his father leaned on him to go into banking. You know how that it is.”

Craig nodded. I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

Amelie called me from Biarritz an hour after it happened. I’m still shaken from that call.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”