Converging Parallels (11 page)

He placed the gun inside the washing machine.

The coffee was ready. He poured two cups and added a lot of sugar. Ermagni was still sprawled across the doorway, his head on his arm and his feet pointing over the edge of the outside staircase. The body heaved spasmodically. Trotti set the two cups on the floor and tried to pull him into a sitting position. The head lolled like a puppet’s.

“Her godfather,” he mumbled through bruised lips. “I trusted you, damn you.”

“Drink your coffee.”

“A policeman like all the rest.” A red angry eye squinted up at Trotti. “I thought you were my friend.”

Trotti squatted and pushed the cup into Ermagni’s large hand; within the cup, the coffee formed a heavy swell of dark sea. Yet he managed to drink it in one gulp without spilling a drop.

“Now tell me why I deserve to die.”

Ermagni moved and managed to prop his back against the jamb of the door. “A bastard of the worst kind. A sbirro.”

Trotti shrugged.

“It was a secret. Between you and me—for her sake. You promised.”

“I promised nothing. I simply said I’d help you.”

“Help me? You’re a bastard.” He laughed, a cold grating in the thick throat. “You couldn’t care whether my child lives—it’s all the same to you. And to think that I trusted you—trusted you because you were her godfather, because I thought you cared. My daughter, Anna.” He began to sob again, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Then he let his head fall against the doorpost.
And as he cried, he took the newspaper from his pocket and let it fall onto his crumpled trousers.

Trotti read the headline:

T
ROTTI TOOK THE
car.

There was an old packet of chewing gum—yogurt flavor—in the glove compartment. Perhaps Pioppi had left it there. He unwrapped a stick and chewed at it mechanically. He should have eaten something before leaving the house. He could feel the coffee lying on the emptiness of his stomach.

He saw Angela, the transvestite who stood beneath the arc of neon light by the railway station, touting for one last customer. But the streets were empty. When Trotti reached the viale Libertà, a large bus trundled past him in the opposite direction, brightly lit inside, taking a couple of workers to the sewing machine factory and the early-morning shift.

At the lights—they were against him and there was no other traffic—he lowered the window. The air was cold but it did not stop a bird from singing noisily. It was somewhere in the lime trees along the pavement and he envied the cheerfulness of its monotony.

He drove the car into the pedestrian area—a specially printed windscreen sticker had been supplied by the town hall to public officers and doctors—and parked in Corso Cavour. The lamps, suspended from wires above the old cobbled street, swayed gently in the first breeze of the morning, their electric glow paling against the dawn light.

He crossed the road, the sound of his shoes echoing against the wall and went into the offices of the
Provincia Padana
. The iron grilles that protected the windows were still down and the lights had been turned off, but the glass door was open. He could hear a faint murmur of talking. He stepped past empty desks towards the light at the far end of the office. On one desk, a telephone console blinked into the unheeding gloom.

“Who’s in charge here?”

A couple of men—ruffled hair and fingers black with ink—turned
round to look at Trotti. “Who are you?” They wore unbuttoned overalls and one of them held a pornographic magazine in his hand.

“Pubblica Sicurezza.”

They returned to their conversation, turning their backs to him. One, speaking over his shoulder, said, “The deputy editor is in the office,” and gestured towards a clutter of printing presses.

Trotti thanked him.

The deputy editor was a fat man and he had not shaved for some time. But there was a kind of elegance to his scruffiness, as though he deliberately chose to appear worn out and crumpled—an unbuttoned shirt collar, a greasy tie, a bulging dark waistcoat. He was smoking and leaning back in a functional metal armchair; his small feet placed on the edge of the desk, he watched the blue rings of smoke rising towards the single electric light. An old-fashioned upright typewriter stood on the desk, pushed backwards with a sheet of unsullied paper in the carriage.

“Ciao,” he said, without taking his eyes off the wisps of smoke. “Ciao, ciao, ciao.”

“Buongiorno.”

Close-set eyes turned towards Trotti. “Already?” The head and thick neck remained motionless.

“I am a police officer.”

“We all have our cross to bear.”

The cage was a cluttered cubicle with windows on three sides that gave onto the indistinct shadows of printing machines. On the fourth wall there was a large map of the province. Superimposed upon that, a pin-up calendar. Drawing pins had been pushed into the nipples of the girl of the month.

“You wrote this article?” Trotti threw the paper onto the desk.

“Don’t shout.” The eyes had returned to the scrutiny of the tobacco smoke; with a slow gesture, he moved the cigarette to the corner of his mouth. His lips were red like a woman’s.

“A child’s life may be in danger.”

The editor shrugged.

“Did you write it?”

“It is rather well-written. Simple, precise and to the point.”

“Where did you get your information from?”

The eyes returned to Trotti. “In ten minutes’ time—after a last cigarette—I’m going to remove my feet from the table, I’m going to spit into the waste-paper basket and I’m going to go home.”

“In ten minutes you may find yourself in the basement of the Questura.”

“You frighten me, Commissario Trotti.” Very slightly the head had moved backwards. The clouds of smoke jostled round the lamp bulb and the single flex covered with dead flies.

“I see you know my name.”

“I know most things about this town.”

“Then you can tell me who told you about Anna Ermagni.”

“She’s not your daughter, Commissario.” The tone was ironic.

“She’s the daughter of a friend.”

The feet came off the desk with a clutter. The deputy editor was a small man and very fat. He had to push with his plump arms against the sides of the chair to stand up. He faced Trotti, only a few centimeters away, looking up. The cigarette was now no more than a smoldering stub in the corner of his red lips. “You’re not a very stupid man, Commissario, and you have the reputation for being honest. But …” He pointed with his thumb towards Trotti’s chest. “I am afraid you are a cop—and that is a terminal disease.”

“You wrote this article?”

The small man shook his head slowly; his eyes remaining fixed upon Trotti as though upon a well-loved animal that was in pain and would soon die.

“But you checked it?”

“I read it.”

“But you didn’t check?”

“Commissario, if I had to check the work of all my colleagues, I wouldn’t be a journalist. I’d be a cop.”

“Who wrote it?”

He sighed theatrically. Then he said, “Stefano Angellini.”

“Where is he?”

“If he’s got any sense, he’s at home in bed.” He added, “Via Lugano, seventeen.”

Trotti turned and walked out of the cubicle.

Mockingly, the man called after him, “Ciao, ciao, ciao.”

T
ROTTI LEFT HIS
car outside the offices of the
Provincia Padana
. Via Lugano was one of the narrow streets at the back of the town hall.

Although the air was already warming—there was a slight mist, but above it, the sky was blue and cloudless—the ground was still damp with dew. Trotti walked along one of the lines of parallel stone slabs of via Petrarca. The slabs had been placed there three hundred years previously by the local aristocracy so that their carriages should run smoothly between the cobbles. These quiet, leafy streets had once been privately owned; the high walls hid ornate baroque palaces. Every inch of brickwork seemed to be caught in the grasp of ivy and climbing plants. There was a smell of spring flowers and of fresh-baked bread.

An old woman was sitting outside a café. She was wearing a black dress and above her head there was the yellow enamel sign advertising a public telephone. A broad ray of early sunshine came from between two neighboring roofs and lay across the metal table where she was slicing runner beans.

“Buondì,” she said and Trotti, who was lost in his own thoughts, looked up and smiled.

“Buongiorno,” he said.

To get to via Lugano, he went under a small, private bridge between two houses. Flowerpots at every window with bright
red flowers and green damp leaves. Already the fretful lizards were darting between the crevices.

There was no gate to number 17. Trotti went through a porch into a courtyard that smelled of drains; a rusting bicycle, deprived of the rear wheel, leaned against the wall and a serried double rack of zinc letterboxes had been nailed into the plasterwork of the entrance.

“Can I help you?” An old man appeared from the shadow; he spoke in strange sibilants because he had no teeth.

“Angellini.”

The man appeared both upset and surprised. He stepped backwards and then came forwards and, taking Trotti by the arm, almost whispered, “Over there.”

Trotti thanked him and walked across the open courtyard; washing hung from a couple of rope clotheslines. White sheets, bleached overalls and the intimate garments of an outsized woman. Beyond the lines, a stairway ran upwards to a wooden door. A cat was weaving between the bars of the rusting iron banisters; it darted away at the sound of Trotti’s shoes on the stairway.

Trotti looked back. The old man was staring after him. He stood in the middle of the courtyard, his old legs slightly apart and bent at the knees. He wore a loose black jacket and woolen striped trousers that had once been elegant. He nodded emphatically and with his gnarled hand made a knocking movement in the air. Then he pointed at the door.

Trotti knocked and waited; the cat returned and sniffed diffidently at his shoes.

“Yes?” A thin woman stood before him. Her hair was grey with pink tinting that matched the color of her skin. She looked at Trotti, hesitating between indignation and fear. Her eyes were a dirty grey and her face was wrinkled with the wrinkles of a life that was clearly fast approaching its end. The cheeks were hollow and the bones of her shoulders pushed through the thin cotton of her dress.

“Pubblica Sicurezza. I wish to speak with Stefano Angellini.”

“He’s asleep,” she replied in a shrill voice and tried to close the door.

“Please wake him.”

Trotti had placed his foot in the door. She looked down fearfully as though it were some beast that could do her irreparable damage. “He’s tired,” she said. “I suggest you come back later.”

Trotti pushed the door open and went past her. She did not resist but merely uttered a strange squeak.

Trotti went down a dark corridor; the carpet, once oriental, was now worn thin and the wallpaper had darkened with age. There were one or two photographs with the gloomy, unsmiling faces of relatives long dead.

The woman trotted after him. “Stefano’s asleep. You mustn’t disturb him.” A claw-like hand grasped his sleeve but he pushed it away. “My nephew’s not well.”

“You had better make him some breakfast, signora.”

“Signorina,” she corrected him and straightened her back beneath the insult. She turned away.

Trotti went into the bedroom.

The bottom of the door scratched against the floor as he opened it. It was of ground glass with an ornate engraving of cherubim and the coat of arms of the house of Savoy. The air was stale and Trotti was met by the unpleasant odor of human sweat and unwashed bed linen. A few strokes of light filtered through the closed blinds. Trotti went to the window, opened it and unlatched the wooden shutters.

The old man was still out in the courtyard. He was staring up as though he had expected Trotti to come to the window. His curved arms hung at his side and he nodded. “Ecco, ecco,” he said in his toothless voice and smiled with satisfaction.

Trotti turned around; a small table cluttered with a typewriter, a large angular lamp stand and a lot of books, many of them left open and piled up. The walls were lined with oak bookcases.
The Cambridge History of the World, The Complete Works of Gramsci
. And a lot of books about the Mafia. A deckchair, low beside the table, sagged with the weight of a portable television. The set had not been turned off and the screen trembled with the bright image of the test card. Swiss television.

Stefano Angellini was snoring. White plump shoulders
appeared from beneath a grubby sheet. Trotti approached the bed and prodded at the body with the tip of his shoe.

“Wake up.”

“It’s early.”

“Not early enough.” Trotti grasped the shoulder—it was warm and damp with sweat—and shook it. “Pubblica Sicurezza.”

The eyes came open. “I want to sleep.”

“Later.”

Trotti switched off the television set and put it on the floor beside a pile of books.
The Honored Society, The Mafia Republic
, and several collections of poetry—Leopardi and Montale. Trotti sat down in the deep lap of the chair and set a cushion behind his head. He placed his feet on the edge of the bed. “We had better talk.”

“It’s about the car license?” Angellini was like a stirring leviathan. He lifted his head, propped himself up with his elbows and pulled himself into a lopsided sitting position. His two white feet touched the floor. He pushed the sheet away and was quite naked. He was large and he had the breasts of a woman; a few dark hairs ran down the central ridge of his chest and joined the bushier region of his groin. The outer side of his thigh was scarred.

“Put something on.”

He grunted and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Then looking about him as though he had no idea of where he was, he screwed up his eyes. He found a dressing gown—a moth-eaten kimono—where it had slipped off the edge of the bed.