Big Italy (30 page)

His cousin gave him a perfunctory kiss—a Dutch habit, no doubt. “Your man Magagna rang half an hour ago. Said he’d be picking up a young woman at Centrale. He said he’d drive her down. He also asked if you could ring him back in Milan.”

“And Tenente Pisanelli?”

“No developments,” Anna Maria said in a firm voice, implying that Pisanelli’s problems were all Trotti’s fault. She rose from the table. She seemed to have now given up wearing slacks, opting instead for the shapeless, somber clothes of an old woman from the hills. “Would you care for some coffee?”

Trotti nodded, noticing at the same time a conspiratorial glance passing between the two women.

“I was expecting the worst.” There was a forced joviality in Simona Scola’s tone. “I heard about the accident on the radio this morning but I didn’t realize it was you until your cousin told me.”

“All his own fault. But then even as a little boy Piero Trotti was stubborn.”

“Really, Piero, apart from that nasty bruise, you look fine. In fact, for once you don’t even look tired.”

“Thanks to the dislocated shoulder. And the three stitches in my arm.”

“I was going to the hospital. I dropped by thinking you might want a lift.”

“A lift?”

“I’m seeing the little Priscilla this afternoon.” She added, “For the last time. I realize you may have other things to do. Anna Maria told me you’d be spending the day in bed.”

“Not much chance of that.”

“Priscilla’s mother’s insisting on going home to the Val Camonica. Fed up with the cramped room in Pediatria. She says there’s nothing wrong with her daughter and she wants to get back to Esine.” Today Signora Scola was wearing a red woolen dress that showed off her flat belly and the narrowness of her hips. She folded
her arms beneath the swell of her small breasts. She gestured with the outstretched fingers of her right hand. “Your Commissario Maiocchi said he’d help me this afternoon.”

“Maiocchi?” Trotti placed three lumps of sugar into the bowl of coffee.

“A nice man,” she said warmly.

“Don’t see how he can help you,” Trotti said, wondering whether it was jealousy altering the naturalness of his voice. “There are times when I wonder if Maiocchi can help himself.”

“He’s been very kind. On a couple of occasions I’ve come looking for you in the Questura and he’s managed to locate you. Not always so easy.” She nodded towards the clock. “I’m seeing Commissario Maiocchi at two. You want to see your Tenente Pisanelli but I was hoping perhaps you could come down to Pediatria and have a look in.”

“You need both Maiocchi and me?”

Signora Scola tapped the inert body of the rag doll on the table as she let out a sigh. “One last attempt before Priscilla returns to Esine and the maniac the mother’s trying to protect.”

T
HE LITTLE GIRL
, her upper lip wet with running mucus, opened the door and hurried to the middle of the room where she flopped down onto the floor.

She gazed thoughtfully at the box of toys.

Signora Scola, cross-legged with the rag doll on her lap, raised her head. “Ciao, tesoro.”

Priscilla’s hair had been brushed back into two short bunches, held in place with Mickey Mouse clips.

“You want to play with me today, tesoro?” Signora Scola held up the doll. “I’m playing with a little Priscilla.”

Less reticent than in the past, Priscilla edged forward on her small behind and began to rummage distractedly through the box’s contents of animals, balls, skipping ropes, puppets. Her attention, however, was held by the rag doll in Simona Scola’s lap.

After a while, she asked, “That’s Priscilla?”

“You want her?” Signora Scola was caressing the woolen hair. The rag doll had the same color hair as Priscilla, brushed back the same way into bunches. Like Priscilla, the rag doll wore denim overalls and a thick sweater.

“It’s hard,” Priscilla said and shook her head.

(Trotti, sitting behind the observation mirror, while beside him the tape recorder slowly uncoiled from one bobbin to the other, was surprised by the maturity of the child’s voice.)

“Done a pipi again?”

“Who?”

Priscilla slid towards the woman and took the doll from her lap. “She’s naughty, isn’t she?”

“Sometimes my Priscilla’s naughty.”

“She’s yours?”

“You can have her, tesoro.”

“She’s a very silly Priscilla,” the child said, and taking the doll from Signora Scola’s hands, began to sing softly. A strange nursery rhyme in an incomprehensible dialect.

Signora Scola looked with lingering regret at the doll.

(Like a mother on her child’s first day at school, Trotti thought. He smiled privately as he adjusted the headphones against his ears.)

Signora Scola sorted through the banana box. In consolation she pulled out a moth-eaten Topo Gigio.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Signora Scola agreed, and by the movement of her shoulders Trotti could see she was addressing the mother.

The woman was sitting on a straight-backed chair. She nodded without removing a cigarette from her mouth.

“D’you remember when your little girl was hurt?”

“Yes.”

“You got back to the house, didn’t you, Mamma?”

“I remember?”

“You went upstairs and your little girl was crying?”

The cigarette moved with her lips. “Yes.”

“Was the little Priscilla crying because she was unhappy?”

“She was crying a lot.”

“Was your little Priscilla hurt?”

“I think so. There was a lot of blood.”

“Where was your little girl hurt?” Signora Scola was rubbing noses with Topo Gigio. The cloth animal in front of her mouth deformed her voice.

“In her bottom.”

“There was blood, Mamma?”

“A lot of blood.”

“Where?”

“In Priscilla’s bottom. There was some blood in her crack, too.”

“The poor sweetie. You must’ve been terribly worried for her.”

“Of course,” the mother said, finally bringing emotion to her voice. “Priscilla’s my precious angel.”

“With all that blood in her bottom, what on earth did you think? Who on earth could’ve done that to your little tesoro?”

The mother inhaled deeply before shaking her head.

Priscilla had found a comb in the banana box. The comb was made of blue plastic and several teeth were missing. It was grubby. With the last three teeth, Priscilla had started to comb the rag doll’s hair.

“You rang for the ambulance, Mamma?”

“Immediately.”

For a moment Priscilla stopped to look at her mother.

“I was out of my wits.”

“You think someone very naughty tried to hurt your girl?” Again a deep inhalation of a cigarette. “Perhaps.”

“If someone hurt your little Priscilla, would you be angry?”

“I’d be very angry.”

“Would you be cross with your Priscilla?”

“Of course not. How could I be angry with my daughter?”

“D’you think we must try to find this naughty person?” Suddenly, Priscilla ceased all movement, her hand and the blue comb held above the yellow halo of the doll’s hair.

Neither Signora Scola nor the mother spoke as the little girl dropped her hands to the carpet and pushed her backside into the air. Priscilla got on to her feet. In a determined pace, going almost faster than her legs would carry her, she hurried to the small sink. There was a large crucifix.

She stood on tiptoe to look at herself in the mirror.

Then the little girl hurried over to where Signora Scola was sitting. She went behind Signora Scola, while above Trotti’s head the same movement was projected on to the small television screen.

With a clenched fist the child pushed against the woman’s back. Trotti could see that the child was smiling.

Signora Scola asked, “What do you think, Mamma?”

Priscilla’s mother had stubbed out the cigarette. “I love my daughter.”

“I think we should catch this bad person who does naughty things to Priscilla’s bottom?”

The mother was silent.

“Perhaps a policeman could catch him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps a very strong and very brave and very kind policeman could help us, Mamma?”

“Perhaps.”

“Shall I call a policeman?”

“You think he could help?”

“There’s a very nice policeman I know. A policeman who likes children.”

“Call him if you think it can help.”

“You won’t go away?” Without waiting for an answer, Signora Scola picked up a toy telephone. Putting the yellow receiver to her ear, she spoke. “Pronto, pronto. 113? Is that the Carabinieri. Ah, better still, it’s the police. Pronto.” She gave a little laugh, “Yes, it’s Simona speaking. Could you please help us?” She nodded, speaking into the mouthpiece. “I’m with Priscilla’s mamma and we think there’s a naughty man who does some very silly things to little girls’ bottoms and we really do need a strong policeman because this man is so naughty and we’re afraid he might get angry. What we want’s a very kind and a very good and a very, very big”—she was nodding as she reiterated the words—“a very big policeman. Do you think you can help us?”

A scratching sound and the little girl looked up. She had returned to her place beside the banana box and resumed her job of combing the doll’s hair.

“Very big and brave? Oh, that’s lovely. But there’s another thing … Does he like little girls?”

More scratching.

“He likes girls and he has three daughters at home that he takes to the lake and they paddle in the water? Oh, that’s excellent. He has a little girl who plays with dolls? Marvelous, marvelous. Well, could you please send us this nice and brave policeman? We need him here because there’s a very bad man who does naughty things to good little girls and we must stop him as soon as possible.”

Scratch.

“Precisely. We must stop him before he ever does it again. We must put him in prison because he can make a little girl bleed. It’s not fair. I know this lovely girl who’s her mummy’s angel but she’s very unhappy. This bad man hurts girls’ bottoms and their cracks and that’s not what bottoms are for. Of course,” Signora Scola nodded, “bottoms are for cacca, cracks are for pipi.” A brief giggle. “This is a very silly man because he does other things and he’s naughty because he can hurt Mamma’s tesoro.”

Priscilla seemed to have temporarily lost interest in the telephone conversation just as she had lost interest in the rag doll, her alter
ego. She was staring vaguely at the far wall. From time to time she rubbed the legs of her denim trousers.

Signora Scola hung up, placing the bulbous receiver back in its cradle.

Priscilla came out of her reverie. She started to undress another doll, a pink plastic princess, in order to use the stiff tutu and the satinette body sock.

“You can play with me if you want,” she said magnanimously.

Signora Scola played.

Priscilla played and after a while her forehead touched Simona Scola’s.

The mother smoked.

There was a loud knock on the door.

Signora Scola lightly got to her feet, glanced for an instant at the long mirror and went to the door.

“My goodness!” She opened the door very slightly before letting the man into the room. “You’re a very big policeman, aren’t you? I can see you’re strong. And I can see you’re very brave.”

Heaven knows where Maiocchi had found the uniform.

He stood, framed in the door, his long hair tucked beneath the flat cap of an agente and hanging from the white webbing at his waist was a service pistol in its holster.

“Do you like children, Signor Agente?”

T
ROTTI RECOGNIZED
F
ULVIO
Bruni from
Sociologia
. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater and he entered the observation room with his eternal cigarette held between gnarled fingers. He was accompanied by the Questore.

“Ciao!”

Trotti nodded perfunctorily, his attention on what was happening on the far side of the mirror.

“Are you the strongest policeman in the world?”

“No, of course not. I’m just very strong.”

“Very strong?”

“Very, very strong.” Maiocchi’s face broke into a smile. “Hello young lady.” Bending down, he touched her forehead. “What’s your name?”

Priscilla looked at him in awed silence.

The mother spoke from where she was sitting, “Tell the nice policeman your name, stella.”

“Priscilla,” the girl blurted. It was only now that Trotti noticed she had difficulty in pronouncing the R.

“Priscilla? Isn’t that a nice name?”

For a moment Priscilla returned Maiocchi’s glance. Then she hurried to the protection of her mother’s side.

Simona Scola said, “I rang for a strong policeman. Have you come to help us?”

“I was told there was a little girl who needed some help.”

“Do you like children?”

“I like children. I have three lovely daughters at home.” He gave a warm laugh.

“You’re strong, Signor Agente?”

“Of course,” Maiocchi replied, slightly taken aback, slightly offended.

“I bet you can’t lift that.” Signora Scola gestured to the box of toys.

In peevish silence, Commissario Maiocchi picked up the box of toys and balanced it on the flat of his hand.

Priscilla stared at him, her mouth agape, the lines of mucus going from her nose to her mouth.

“You’re very strong.”

“I eat broccoli and spinach.”

“I’ll make a mental note of that,” Simona Scola said. “Are you afraid of bad men?”

He tapped the handcuffs hanging from his belt. “I’m afraid of nobody, signora. I’m a policeman.”

“Do you like bad men?”

“It’s my job to put them in prison.” Maiocchi now folded his arms complacently against a broad chest.

“What do you do when you catch a bad man? I bet you don’t get angry.”

“I get very angry. I’m famous for getting angry.”

“Why do you get angry?”

“Grown-ups must look after little children. Little children are a very special gift from God.”

“Do you shout at bad men, Signor Agente?”

Maiocchi nodded and winked simultaneously.

“You shout very loud?”

Again he nodded. “It’s the only language these people understand.”