Converging Parallels (15 page)

“Here, in this city, the Socialists, by giving their support to the Communists and to the mayor, Signor Mariani, have shown that the Italian people are capable of discipline, good government and social justice. Capable of throwing off the secular blackmail of the ruling classes.”

There were several bars around the edge of the piazza and people were sitting on the terraces in the cool air, listening to the First Secretary or talking quietly among themselves. Heedless of the affairs of State, waiters darted to and fro, carrying their trays high above their heads or fishing for small change in their black waistcoat pockets.

Trotti looked for familiar faces; he recognized a few shopkeepers who owned premises around the piazza.

“Let us defend the Republic, let us defend its institutions with the same power of democracy that has made this city a model and an example. We shall not allow this country to be ensnared in the murderous plots of the terrorists—or in the evil machinations of the hidden interests that support them.”

Trotti pushed his way through the crowd. Despite the oratory, despite the news of Communiqué Number Nine and the possibility that Moro was dead, there was an almost festive air about the public meeting.

One or two policemen stood around and there were several groups of Carabinieri. Hands behind their backs, they tapped nervously at the old-fashioned leather pouches of their belts. They watched the crowd and from time to time, looked up at the people sitting at the balconies of private houses. He recognized a civetta and, at the far end of the piazza, another unmarked dark blue Alfa Romeo with two expressionless passengers. A whipcord pointed upwards from the gleaming, dark roof. Only official cars were allowed onto the piazza.

He reached the far colonnades and walked down the lit arcade towards the Bar Duomo. A few children, taking no notice of the political speech and excited by the freedom of being up so late, zigzagged their tricycles along the paving. A little boy almost went straight into Trotti but braked in time and looked up at him with surprised, wide eyes.

Trotti went into the bar.

“Commissario!”

He turned, and looked at the tables in front of the café.

“Commissario Trotti.”

The woman stood up. She had been seated at a small table and on the clean cloth in front of her there was a teapot and three cups.

“Signorina Belloni,” Trotti said, smiling, and shook her cool hand. “A pleasant surprise.”

She introduced him to a small, old woman who sat staring straight ahead of her, gnarled hands resting on a walking stick. “My mother.”

“Pleased to meet you, signora.”

The woman did not react. “I am afraid my mother is quite deaf. She is eighty-six years old.”

The other person at the table was a plump, middle-aged woman with unnaturally red hair. Several gold rings were embedded in the soft flesh of her fingers. Her lipstick matched her hair and when she smiled, she revealed teeth stained with the glossy lipstick. “Signora Quaranta,” she said rising with difficulty. The sides of the chair caught at her large hips. “I write poetry.”

Trotti smiled.

The headmistress tapped at her bun. “Perhaps you could join us for a few minutes.”

“I’m afraid I’m meeting somebody.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “Please sit down—just for a few minutes. Something has happened.”

He took a chair from a neighboring table and placed it between Signorina Belloni and her mother. The old lady smelled faintly of lavender water.

There was more applause from the audience and the First Secretary looked up from his notes and gave a slightly embarrassed smile, as though he did not realize that so many people had been listening to him.

“More an intellectual than a politician. Would you care for something to drink, Commissario? Some tea, perhaps?”

“Thank you, I can’t stay.”

The poetess smiled at him and then with an unexpectedly sharp movement, slapped her own, firm arm. “Mosquitoes.”

Attached to a column there was an electric apparatus that gave off a bluish glow; mosquitoes, attracted by the light, were incinerated noisily on the electric grille.

Other mosquitoes stung his ankles.

“They breed in the rice fields,” the fat lady said, “and then they come into the city to suck our blood.”

Her red teeth reminded him of Dracula.

Again Signorina Belloni touched his arm. “I just wanted to tell you, Commissario, that Ermagni was at the school today. He was very noisy and he insisted upon seeing Signora Perbene. I told him that if he wanted to see her, it would have to be out
of school hours.” She lowered her voice. “I think he had been drinking.”

“What time was this?”

“About eleven o’clock. He said some very strange things. He seems to think that it is all a plot—that his daughter has been kidnapped to spite him. And he obviously feels very guilty.” She paused, “I saw the article in the paper. I must admit I was rather surprised. You had said …”

“I knew nothing about the article. The kidnapper telephoned the
Provincia
and then Ermagni came round in the middle of the night and woke me up.”

“Strange that Anna should be so unlike her father. She is quiet and very shy whereas I am afraid he is rather excitable.”

“It is a difficult time for him.”

“He is a strange man—but I like him. There is about him …” She paused, moving her head slightly. The bright lights from the piazza were caught in her neat, white hair. “There is warmth. And I feel that he needs affection.” Her hand went to her bun. “Is there any news about Anna?”

“Just that we think she is alive.”

The poetess slapped at another mosquito and in doing so, nudged the table. Cold tea slopped into the saucers.

Trotti stood up. “Thank you, headmistress.” He nodded towards the other two women. The poetess held out her hand, the old lady continued to stare. “And if anything else happens—anything strange—please contact me.”

Signorina Belloni held his hand. “Of course, Commissario, of course.”

He left her and went into the Bar Duomo.

“Buona sera, Commissario.”

The widow was talking to some men; they were retired shopkeepers and local businessmen who wore neat, lightweight suits, cotton shirts and tasteful ties. They looked at Trotti as he entered and some nodded. They could not afford to be on bad terms with an officer of the PS, but Trotti knew that they did not like him. Or trust him.

The widow came towards him, placing her hand—it was slightly moist from washing the glasses—on his wrist.

“Buona sera, signora. Is there anybody in the back room?”

The customers sat on plastic chairs or along the leather bench and they talked softly. The buzz of their voices dulled the noise of the microphones in the piazza. They were playing scopone and occasionally raised their voices as they placed the brightly colored cards on the tablecloth. They were men who had no time for the Socialists and even less for the Communists who now ran the city. Thirty-five years earlier—when they were still fairly young men—they had been Fascists. They had believed in the New Roman Empire and in Mussolini’s promises. Now they sat playing cards or talking about football or reading the evening paper. They had worked hard and they had made their money. Now, in the last years of their lives, they ignored the doctor’s orders and drank coffee or grappa or bitter digestivi and remembered the good days that were gone forever.

“The room is free.”

“Thank you. Bring me some herb tea please.”

He was greeted by the image of the television reflected in the mirror—an old American film with Tyrone Power. The television set was perched on a shelf high on the wall. He stretched up and turned it off; the image dwindled into a bright, disappearing spot.

He sat down and waited.

Several minutes later, the widow brought him a pot of chamomile. Without asking, she poured the amber liquid into a cup.

“Thank you.”

“You know her, don’t you?”

Trotti looked up. The woman’s regular features were troubled; the corners of her lips had edged downwards, revealing a genuine concern.

“Know who?”

“The child—the one they kidnapped. Her father used to work for you—before you left.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“What else have I got to do?”

“He is a taxi driver now. Do you ever see him?”

The widow bit her lip. “Once or twice. Sometimes he takes
tourists from the station to the fur shop.” With a gesture, she indicated the far side of the piazza. “Then he comes in here. But he never talks to me. He just takes his drink and then goes. I think he is shy.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Is there any news of the child?” She held her hands to her body and for some reason that Trotti could not explain, he found her concern moving.

“We know that she’s alive.”

“I hope so. He can’t be very rich, the father. The paper spoke of a ransom.”

“If all goes well, he won’t have anything to pay. We’ll have found the kidnappers.”

“The poor man.”

She shook her head slowly and then left to return to her clients. Five minutes later, while Trotti was sipping at the bitter chamomile, di Bono arrived. He came through the side door.

“You’re late,” Trotti said.

Di Bono did not reply but sat down on the chair opposite him. He had blond, curly hair that he had allowed to grow. He wore a T-shirt beneath a windbreaker advertising American cigarettes; the logo of a camel on the breast, beside the white plastic zip. A gold St. Christopher and chain about the neck.

“Pisanelli’s outside with a crowd of kids.”

Kids, Trotti thought with irritation. Di Bono was a kid himself, scarcely into his twenties.

“Gracchi and Guerra are with a group of students—Left-Wing extremists, long hair, dirty. Some of them have been heckling, but so far nothing from our two friends.”

“Is Pisanelli watching them?”

“Yes—unless he’s fallen asleep.” He paused and with his finger—he wore a steel identity bracelet about his wrist—di Bono wrote invisible letters on the table. “He thinks other people are watching Gracchi.”

“Other people?”

Di Bono shrugged. “The Nucleo Politico.”

“It’s possible. Whatever happens, I don’t want them realizing
you’re there. I don’t think two of you are enough. I’ll see if I can get help from the Squadra.”

“Good. It’s tiresome.” Di Bono smiled and Trotti could not help thinking that he looked more like a criminal—a petty criminal, a thief of old women’s handbags, or a shoplifter—than a policeman. He had the narrow face of an animal, cunning and stupid at the same time.

Di Bono pulled out a notebook. “Here’s a rundown on Gracchi for today. He spent most of the morning at the university. In the main courtyard, there’s a flight of steps up to the main library. He was sitting there, talking. Some friends put up a long, handwritten poster, signed Autonomia Studentesca.”

“What was it about?”

“University exams or something. Then in the afternoon, he was at his place—with Guerra.”

“Doing what?”

“I can guess.” Di Bono gave a vulpine grin. “Pisanelli quite fancies her—in his own way. He’s got a soft spot for intellectuals.” He added, “Especially when they’ve got big tits.”

“What’s her background?”

“Guerra? According to the dossier, she’s been involved with quite a lot of political movements—on the left, of course. Once was a card-carrying Communist. More recently has moved further left—Lotta Continua, Prima Linea and a few specifically local things. Mainly feminists. There was a time when she claimed to be a lesbian.” He laughed, the young face breaking into easy wrinkles. “She’s obviously grown out of that.”

“You had better be getting back. Phone in at midnight—I’ll have fixed up a replacement for both of you. Check back tomorrow morning. And you can tell Pisanelli …”

The side door came open and Pisanelli appeared. “Thank God you’re there.” He was wearing his suede jacket but had put a red partisan scarf about his neck. “Just got a message through on the radio.” He was slightly out of breath and his stooping shoulders heaved as he spoke. “The Ermagni child …”

“What about her?” Trotti rose to his feet.

“They’ve found her—at the bus station.”

O
NLY A FEW
electric lights had been left on and they illuminated the silent forms of the stationary buses. The air was warm and heavy with the smell of oil. The man pulled the sliding door shut—it folded like a concertina—and Trotti approached the small crowd.

Anna was hidden by a group of people standing in a pool of light. A man was crouching; a woman held a glass of water in her hand.

The man stood up. “Commissario.” It was Magagna; he looked tired but gave a thin smile.

“I thought you were at home.”

“I was sleeping,” he said and shrugged. He looked strange out of uniform. “So they phone me.” He took Trotti’s arm and directed him towards Anna. The crowd—employees of the bus company—men in blue shirts and matching trousers—drew aside.

Anna was sitting on a chair. Her head lolled forward and her eyes were hidden by the fringe of dark hair; her feet only just touched the concrete floor.

“She came in on the bus from Genoa.”

A large woman detached herself from the crowd; while speaking with Trotti, she tried to force the glass of water into Anna’s hand. “On the nine o’clock bus.”

“When did she arrive here?”

The woman looked surprised. “At nine o’clock.”

“It’s almost midnight, signora.”

Her voice was truculent. “The poor child was sleeping.”

“You should’ve woken her.”

“We tried to, of course we tried to.” She turned about, looking for support from the men. “Giovanni, we tried to wake her, didn’t we?”

Giovanni was a narrow man with drooping shoulders and a drooping mustache. He wore neatly pressed trousers and there were large damp patches at the armpits of his shirt. He held a leather satchel.

“Yes,” he said. “We tried to wake her but she was sleeping.”

“You called a doctor?”

“Not at first.” The woman raised her broad shoulders. “We thought she was tired so we let her sleep. There are a couple of beds in the office. There was no harm in that.” Her hair had been dyed an unnatural golden yellow; the roots were black.