Big Italy (22 page)

“Moka Sirs coffee.”

“Of course, there are exceptions.”

With Signora Scola holding on to his arm, Trotti went through
the metal detector. The policewoman on duty was talking to a foreigner, possibly an Albanian or a Yugoslav, and she failed to salute as Trotti and the young woman stepped out into Strada Nuova.

The fog had lifted and the sun had come out. The sky was now quite clear.

Trotti breathed deeply, taking in the morning air and the odor of Signora Scola’s fur coat.

“I was hoping you’d stay this morning for little Priscilla.”

Trotti said flatly, “I was called away by Merenda.”

“I thought I was almost there.”

“There?”

“You don’t seem particularly interested in Priscilla’s case.”

“Forgive me, signora. There are other things on my mind at the moment. And now the Questore wants me to go to Venezuela.”

“I told you he liked you.”

“He wants me out of the way.”

She pulled at his arm. “Can you run me home, commissario?”

“I’m seeing somebody, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t take me home first?”

“Somebody I’ve got to interview.”

“I’ll leave my car here.”

“A long interview.”

“I’m going to try again with Priscilla. Tomorrow morning I can drive out to the hospital in a taxi.”

Trotti looked up at the ancient clock above the entrance to the university. It was nearly eleven.

The industrious northern city quietly went about its business. In Strada Nuova or along Corso Cavour there were no signs of the profound changes Italy was going through. The end of the First Republic. The biggest political upheaval since the Allies—with bombs and guns and the blood of young men—had overthrown the lost years of Fascist folly and bombast.

With Signora Scola holding his arm, Trotti walked along Strada Nuova. It was good to be out of the Questura and Trotti was acutely sensitive to the smells emanating from the shops; from the chemists and from the cake shop. And the perfume of a young woman who passed by him.

The things he would miss in retirement.

“I don’t have my car,” Trotti said.

“Then if you wish—and if you don’t mind my accompanying
you—I can wait for you while you interview this person. You can run me home later. I’m in no hurry.”

He stopped walking. He came to a halt in the middle of the pavement. He moved away slightly to look at her. “Signora Scola,” he said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “I have the impression you always get your way.”

“Call me Simona.”

“You always have your own way?”

“Always.” Glumly she shrugged the collar of her ample fur coat without returning his smile. “Except when it’s really important.”

Her car was in the Piazza Leonardo. An old Fiat Seicento, it was parked near one of the medieval towers. The Fiat was at least twenty-five years old and apparently in excellent condition.

“Can you drive, Piero?”

“Only if you’ve got a headache.”

With a weary smile she handed over the key. “I’ve got a headache.”

Trotti opened the passenger door for her. He then opened the driver’s seat door and climbed in beside her. The car was ludicrously small and their shoulders were touching.

Sitting beside him wrapped up in her fur coat, Signora Scola was almost as tall as Trotti. “Where are you going?” she asked. She did not look at him.

“To interview Signora Quarenghi.”

“I really don’t understand you.” She was peering through the misted windshield, staring at the corrugated metal billboards at the tower’s base. “It was you, Piero, who called me in to help with the Barnardi child. You wanted me in the Questura working for you.”

“Of course I wanted you.”

“It was you who was so interested in the setting up of a team. But now that it looks as if you’ve finally created something viable, you no longer care.”

“Of course I care.”

“The Questore’s offering you what you always wanted, Piero.”

“I think it’s time for me to retire gracefully. Don’t you?”

“You show no interest at all in Priscilla.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You were interested in earlier cases.”

“You’ve done good work, signora.”

“You were genuinely interested. That was before.”

“I’m busy.”

“Now I never see you.” Her face softened. “Priscilla’s a lovely child and she needs help. Your help, Piero, just as much as mine.” She turned to face him. “The help of a man.”

“T
HE BEST COME
from Alba in Piemonte. They’re worth their weight in gold.”

“How much, Piero?”

“Nearly five million lire for a kilo.”

“That’s why you’re going to keep pigs?”

“And like gold you’ve got to know where to look. Even with the best pig, you can spend your time looking and end up finding absolutely nothing.”

“Why don’t you grow your own truffles?”

“The life cycle is twelve years at least. I can start now and be a rich man in my coffin.”

Signora Scola clicked her tongue angrily. “I really don’t understand why you talk about death all the time.” She had not removed her sunglasses and she had to raise her voice over the noise of the straining Fiat engine. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Piero. You look wonderful for your age.”

“A balding dinosaur.”

“You’ve been watching too many American films. A bit of exercise and perhaps a change in wardrobe—you’d look very good. You just need a woman to look after you.”

“Change in wardrobe? My daughter bought this coat for me. It cost a fortune.”

Signora Scola turned away. They had reached the edge of the city. The sun was shining out of a blue sky, on to the brown flatness of the rice fields. “You look marvelous and there are a lot of
women who’d like to spend time with you.” She added, still staring out of the car window, “You never told me about that woman at your house.”

“Two kinds of truffle. What we normally eat is tuber borchii which is a lot less expensive than tuber magnatum. There’s a difference in price but it’s not always possible to identify the difference just by taste. There are researchers in the university who’ve been working on a fast genetic identification for some time. Precisely what Anti Sofisticazione need.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Piero.”

“Restaurants charge exorbitant prices for tuber borchii. And there are people gullible enough to pay. It’s like baccalà. North Sea cod, food of the poor. And now Italians think it’s five-star food and are willing to pay absurd prices.” Trotti smiled to himself. “What’s really needed’s a way of identifying the mycorrhizae before you spend twelve years growing them. At the moment, you’ve got to wait ten years.”

“Who was the woman, Piero?”

“Woman?”

“When I phoned the other day?”

“You mean my cousin?”

Signora Scola gave a cold, unbelieving laugh. “I really don’t understand you, Piero.”

He took his eyes from the road. “Did I ever ask you to understand me?”

“There was a time when you were desperate for my help. Now you don’t care.”

Piero Trotti frowned. “I don’t understand why you say that.”

“It was you that called me in on your child abuse undertaking. And now you don’t care—either about the children or about me. I thought we were friends.”

“There never was any child abuse undertaking. The rape of a fourteen year old. Later a couple of other cases turned up. So I called in the help of the professionals. People like you.”

“You’re not even interested in Priscilla, are you?”

“I know you’re doing good work, Signora Scola. I have a lot of faith in you.”

Beyond the fields they could see the new extension to the university, rising like a modern cathedral from above the leafless plane trees.

Trotti spoke softly—as softly as the whining motor allowed. “Tell me about Priscilla.”

“Not much to say.”

“Then tell me.”

A quick, uncertain look at Trotti.

“Please, Simona.” His hand touched her elbow.

“One day the mother went out and when she got back into the house, the poor child was screaming. There was blood round the anus.”

“Why did the mother go out, leaving the child unattended?”

“The grandmother was there.” Signora Scola added, “They live in an old building where there are two or three different families under the same roof—or at least around the inner courtyard. The hospital thinks the brother-in-law’d been touching Priscilla even before that. But there’s no proof. No proof—other than the child hates to be anywhere near him. He’s a truck driver—like the husband—and sometimes he sleeps next door. In the grandmother’s part of the house.”

“There are other possible molesters?”

“They live in Esine.”

“Where?”

“It’s a small village in the Val Camonica. Province of Brescia. About twenty kilometers north of Lake Iseo, with virtually everybody working in the steel industry. A lot of family businesses, but, like everybody else, they’ve been hit by the recession. A lot of the time the father and the uncle are out of work.”

“There are other possible molesters?”

“Hard to say. Initially the mother didn’t want to lodge any complaint at all—which implies she knew what was going on. But the people at the hospital in Lovere contacted the Carabinieri.” Signora Scola caught her breath. “The mother had come home and found the child covered in feces and blood. She managed to get the brother-in-law to drive her, Priscilla and the grandmother to the hospital. Of course, he’s not really the brother-in-law because the woman isn’t married.” Again she breathed deeply. “There’s even some doubt whether her boyfriend is Priscilla’s real father.”

“What do the doctors think?”

“Priscilla was in a terrible state—a torn rectum, gaping sphincter.”

“The grandmother had heard nothing?”

Signora Scola shook her head solemnly. “Once inside the hospital, Priscilla didn’t stop screaming for hours.”

“No semen on the child’s bed?”

Signora Scola did not reply.

Trotti repeated his question. “Didn’t the rapist leave anything? Even fingerprints?”

“The mother cleaned everything. And burned the bedsheets. By the time the Carabinieri were called in—it was the doctor at Lovere who lodged the complaint—the mother had managed to get back to Esine.”

“Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Piero.”

“You think you can get the child to tell you the truth?”

“Brescia’s sent the little girl to San Matteo. Both mother and daughter are staying at the hospital. Problem is, there’s nowhere for them to sleep. There’s a small room in Pediatria but it’s not adequate, little better than a cubbyhole.” She tapped his arm lightly. “Piero, there are a lot of people who know about the work we’ve been doing.”

“What makes you think Priscilla will tell you who touched her?”

“It’s happened before. You saw that with the Alda child.”

“Alda was a lot older.”

“Eventually it has to come out.”

“Then why hasn’t Priscilla told her mother?”

“I don’t think Priscilla really trusts her mother.”

“Why not?”

“The hospital at Lovere started the official inquiry. Not the mother.”

“The mother brought her child to the hospital.”

“Not much choice. The poor thing was bleeding badly. But the mother didn’t want to press charges. Children are sensitive. They’re sensitive to affection, they know whether they’re being protected or not. Perhaps Priscilla can feel her mother is trying to protect somebody else.”

“Why would the mother want to save the brother-in-law’s skin?”

“It seems incredible—but then I’ve never had a child of my own.”

“Why not, Simona?”

“I find it hard to understand how a mother can put anything above the interests of her child.”

“Time you had a child of your own.” Trotti took his hand from the steering wheel and fleetingly touched her arm. “Your husband would be only too delighted.”

Signora Scola took a deep breath. “You really should accept the Questore’s offer.”

“A trip to Venezuela?”

“If you took on the child abuse center the Questore’s trying to start up, Piero, there’s just so much we could do.” She held her hand up preemptively. “I know, I know. You must worry about your pigs and your truffles.”

Trotti hushed her, putting a finger to his smiling lips. “Don’t mention truffles to anybody.”

“But perhaps you could do both.”

“I don’t want to work for the Questore.”

He turned left and the car came to a halt outside an iron gate that opened on to a small estate of expensive, low houses hidden among the plane and cypress trees.

“Why not?”

“It’s not with a child abuse center and with Piero Trotti that the Questore’s going to buy himself a clean slate now that the Socialists are out of power.”

“You don’t care about the children?”

“I don’t care about the Questore.”

“And the little Priscilla? You don’t care about her?”

“Time I started thinking about myself.”

“You don’t care about me, Piero?”

“I don’t want to stay on in the Questura. It’s as simple as that, Simona.”

“C
OMMISSARIO
T
ROTTI OF
the Polizia di Stato.”

A young maid answered the door. She was black and spoke with a French accent. “The signora’s expecting you.” She beckoned Trotti and Signora Scola to follow her and took them into the house. The maid was very small and the tight waist of her blue work-blouse accentuated her ample hips. The shining skin of her calves was marked with dark blemishes.

Signora Quarenghi was waiting in the large lounge.

The maid said something in French and then vanished.

Signora Quarenghi stood up and held out her hand. “I was expecting you.” A hint of dramatic resignation in her voice. She wore a short skirt.

“Commissario Trotti,” Trotti said and gesturing to Signora Scola, added, “My assistant.”

“Very attractive young women in the Polizia di Stato nowadays.”

“We like to keep up with the times.”

“Of course, of course.” The eyes watched Simona Scola coldly. “A commissario—well, that does make a change.”