Converging Parallels (17 page)

“No, Papa.”

An awkward silence.

“Please come, Papa. It’s tonight at six o’clock. And you’ve never been to Our Lady of Guadalupe—not since they’ve rebuilt it.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I am very busy.”

“I want you to come, Papa.”

In the ensuing silence, Trotti placed his hand over the mouthpiece and told Magagna to get a roadmap. “Of this province,” he whispered, “and the neighboring provinces, too.”

“Are you there, Papa?”

“I am busy, Pioppi my love. Something has come up. But you know I love you. I’ll try to be home at six.”

“Earlier. You will have to change, you will have to get ready.”

“I’ll be on time.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Softly his daughter said, “All right, Papa,” and she hung up before he could say anything else.

“Have you got those maps, Magagna? Look over there, in the filing cabinet—it’s not locked.”

The light on the telephone began to flicker and again the bell rang.

It was Gino.

“Spadano phoned twice yesterday, Commissario. He says he wants to see you, that it’s important. He wanted to know whether you were conducting enquiries into the disappearance of the Ermagni girl.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I know nothing about what you are doing. That it is not my job.”

“Good.”

“And,” Gino resumed (and Trotti could hear his real voice, not the metallic reproduction of the telephone, coming through the sliding panel of wood that separated Trotti from the reception desk), “he said that Pronto Intervento know nothing about the gypsy.”

Trotti was surprised. Slowly he said, “I see.”

“He insists on seeing you, Commissario. He said something about collaboration.”

Trotti gave a dry laugh. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks, Gino,” and he hung up.

Magagna had pushed aside the tray and the newspapers and had opened a road map on the desk.

“Albana’s here—on the edge of the Province, just in Alessandria. A man and a girl at the bus stop—it’s not much of a lead.”

Trotti no longer felt tired. He poured himself a bowl of black coffee—it was now almost cold—and drank quickly. He felt well, almost excited.

“Angels and bells, Magagna.” He smiled. “Singing and a bell tower. Let’s go into the hills and see if we can find a church and a choir.”

T
ROTTI DROVE
.

Along the city streets he noticed the new posters: V
OTE FOR
G
AETANO
M
ARIANI—YOUR MAYOR
. The photograph, repeated along the walls and billboard in a grainy black and white, flattered the mayor. He looked younger and healthier, Trotti thought, and a lot thinner. The smile was reassuring, the eyes intelligent and wise, the face kind. On some of the posters, the red hammer and sickle had been overprinted and the accompanying letters, PCI.

“The Communists must have paid a lot for that,” Trotti said over his shoulder as they reached the traffic lights in viale Cremona. There was no reply. Magagna was already asleep; his unshaven chin had sunk to his chest and he looked, with his dark sunglasses, like a crumpled locust.

Trotti could have taken the autostrada but he was afraid that, like Magagna, he might fall asleep on the fast highway. It was Saturday morning: there would be the normal convoy of articulated trucks, panting on the uphill sections and lethal as they came downhill, carried forward by the momentum of the Apennines.

He took the small, provincial road and headed south. There was hardly any traffic. A few fishermen, returning on their motorcycles from an early morning at the river; they held their rods like aerials and their legs appeared deformed by the protruding wader boots.

They came to the Po and the Alfetta shook as the front wheels hit the planks of the wooden bridge. An old Bailey bridge, built by the Americans in 1945, it had never been replaced. The planks rattled angrily and then the car was back on the soft tarmac. It was a clear, hot day and already the hills could be seen standing out against the mist of the horizon. The distant patchwork of vineyards and then, above them, the dark mantle of pine forest. Trotti whistled softly; a tune that he could not place. Donizetti, perhaps.

It was another half hour before they started to climb, winding between the vineyards, green and neatly terraced. Perhaps because of the fresh air coming through the open window or perhaps because of a feeling that he was returning to his home territory, Trotti felt less tired. His eyes no longer ached.

The cherry trees were still in blossom, as though they had been caught in a freak snow storm. Forgotten smells that brought back his childhood came through the window and Trotti felt an uncharacteristic sense of nostalgia. Over thirty years earlier he had left these hills and, as he drove, he told himself that one day he would return forever. He would keep bees, he would make his own wine, perhaps keep a few chickens and some cattle. Pioppi would be married by then; she would come at the weekends, bringing the grandchildren.

Pioppi. Her real name was Lucia and neither he nor Agnese could remember where she got her nickname from. Somehow it seemed to suit her; when she was seven years old and plump and she wore ribbons in her hair. But now she was growing up. She did not have any boyfriends—or so Trotti believed—but he knew that quite soon the time would come when she would leave him. Trotti had always wanted children; but after Pioppi, Agnese had said no. She criticized him, she said that he was a man and that he did not know how a woman suffered in childbirth. She even refused his suggestion of adopting a child. “I have my career to think about.”

Trotti would have liked a son.

His ears were beginning to pop as the car came to the top of the pass and beneath him, to his left, stretching away from
the smooth black ribbon of the road, there was a pine forest. A flat, red-brick building was the university research center. To his right, just perceptible on the misty horizon, nearly ninety kilometers away, he saw the grey glitter of the Mediterranean. The wind whistled against the car and he turned, following the green signs indicating the autostrada. The smell of pine was sharp and clean.

Twenty minutes later he was back in the valley on the outskirts of Albana. He went under the cement bridge of the motorway with its graffiti in praise of Juventus or some local team. When he was a boy, Albana had been a village—a few houses along either side of the main road, stables, some dusty shops and a busy market every Tuesday.

Sometimes he used to come with his mother in the brown train; that was before the war, before the Germans blew up the line. There was no longer any train, only a blue bus for those who did not have their own car. Now the old church was hidden by new blocks of apartments, painted red and pastel green. The narrow, dusty streets were cluttered with cars and, in the early afternoon, teenagers were scurrying backwards and forwards, deliberately skidding on their Vespas and “Ciao” mopeds.

The mountain river had dried up; along the stony bed, with on one side the open countryside and on the other the squalid backs of the old, stone houses, the water trickled in a silvery snake. Everywhere there was the litter of old prams and rusting, upturned cars. A few young children were playing cowboys and Indians.

Magagna yawned noisily.

“Where are we?”

Without answering, Trotti took the map from the glove compartment and got out of the car. He crossed the dusty square. Earth and stones rasped at his shoes. The wreaths at the foot of the war memorial had withered. The air was still and hot.

At the corner of the square, there was a petrol station; two pumps stood like forgotten aliens beneath a stout pillar and a yellow and black sign; the six-legged, fire breathing animal advertised AGIP
PETROL
. In a uniform of the same yellow and black, sitting
at a distance from his pumps, a peaked cap pushed back on his head and a comic between his hands, was a young man.

“A good restaurant?”

The man had been watching Trotti since the dark blue Alfetta had parked on the edge of the square. Now he just sat with his mouth open.

“Is there a good restaurant in Albana?”

The young man’s mouth continued to gape. He raised an oil-smeared hand from the comic and pointed down the street, his own eyes following the indicated direction with interest, as though the pointing hand belonged to someone else.

“Thanks.”

The dull staring eyes followed Trotti until he was lost to sight round the corner of a house.

Magagna caught up with Trotti. “Lively place.”

Together they walked along the main street.

A dog barked somewhere and the sound of a radio being played came from behind closed wooden blinds. A car went past—a dilapidated Fiat 600, gnawed by rust and followed by an eddy of dust.

“We”ll have something to eat first.”

Magagna said, “We’ve only just had breakfast.”

“Time flies when you’re sleeping.”

The restaurant, La Campagnola, was at the next corner.

They went in. It was cool inside after the dusty heat of the street. The air was heavy with the smell of rancid wine and yesterday’s cigarettes. Two young men were playing billiards at a large table in the middle of the room. They watched the newcomers while chalking their cues. One placed a cigarette in an ashtray and returned to the game with frowning concentration.

In the corner, beneath a tank filled with a stuffed fish, a bulbous jukebox glowed with orange and mauve lights; the glass was smeared and the titles hardly visible beneath the surface.

Trotti and Magagna sat down at a table and the Commissario opened the map out on the green baize. He stared at the map without speaking. Magagna sat opposite him and yawned, revealing his tongue and gold fillings. He then lit a cigarette and
inhaled, letting the blue-grey smoke curl from his nostrils. He stroked his mustache.

Not looking up, Trotti said, “You could give up smoking.”

A girl approached the table. Her hands behind her back, she said, “Signori?”

“We would like some ham—local ham. Some olives, some cheese and some wine—all local.”

The girl nodded.

“Red wine, that is.”

She nodded again, her face expressionless and walked away.

Magagna’s eyes followed her and the gentle movement of her hips.

“Very young—and no ankles. But a nice little body.”

Trotti took no notice. He was using a small pencil to make rings on the map.

“Of course we can’t be sure of the radius. It’s quite likely that they brought Anna here deliberately to confuse us. But it is something to go on. It doesn’t make sense. According to Clerice they’ve got a car. Why should they want to run the risk of being recognized by putting Anna on the bus here? They could just as well have dropped her off somewhere in the city. During the night, nobody would’ve seen them.”

“Exactly,” Magagna said, his eyes now watching the girl as she returned from the kitchen. She walked in small, rapid steps, her rubber sandals flip-flopping on the floor. She set a large sheet of paper over the green baize and placed a knife and fork in front of each man.

“The raw material is there but it could do with dressing up.”

Trotti said, “She can’t be much older than seventeen.”

“A good age. It’s then that they start getting interested in the good things of life.”

The girl returned with a large dish of prosciutto, which she set on the table. The bottle of wine she put between her legs and with a gleaming steel bottle opener expertly removed the cork. She did not smile; her face was motionless. Her features were pale but regular; her mousy hair was parted in the middle and pulled into two plastic clips.

“Thank you,” Trotti said.

He no longer felt tired. He ate hungrily while Magagna prodded at the small plate of olives. The wine was sweet and dark; there was something reassuring about the full red color. Trotti filled the glasses to the brim.

“Good ham.”

Magagna did not agree. “One day, Commissario, I will take you to a little restaurant in the Abruzzi, not far from l’Aquila, and there you will eat ham …” He did not finish the sentence; instead he kissed his fingers in appreciation.

Trotti smiled and helped himself to a slice of cheese.

Around the walls, interspersed between calendars and posters advertising films that were to be—or had been—shown at the town’s cinema, there were several fish. Stuffed trophies in waterless green tanks.

Magagna followed Trotti’s glance. “And I’ll take you to a stream—I used to go there as a boy—where you can catch trout. This long.” With his hands, he made an exaggerated claim.

“Only of course,” Magagna went on, “there’s no fish there now. Ten years ago they built a fertilizer factory upstream and now all the fish are dead.”

“I hope she’s all right.”

“Who?” Magagna asked, his fork poised in mid-air.

“Anna Ermagni.”

“Of course she’s all right.” He placed an olive in his mouth and chewed. “They didn’t touch her.”

“But her relationship with her father is strange. On the tape, it’s quite clear she doesn’t like her father. It’s not normal.”

“Her age.” Magagna rubbed his mustache, put down his fork and took his cigarette from a battered ashtray that had once advertised
Fernet Branca Liquore
. “A difficult age—and her mother’s just died. But she’ll grow out of it.”

Trotti laughed. “What do you know about children? You’re not even married.”

“Don’t have to be married to have children.”

Trotti raised an eyebrow.

“Seven brothers and sisters. You forget that I grew up in
Pescara. Seven brothers and sisters and probably as many more that my father wouldn’t admit to.” A vaguely obscene gesture. “We have hot blood where I come from.” He turned away and as though to prove his point, he stared at the girl who now stood idle behind the counter, propping herself on the zinc bar and staring in front of her.

“The same age as Pioppi,” Trotti remarked.

“I haven’t seen her for some time. How is she?”

Trotti smiled. “Still too young for you.” But there was a glint of hardness in his eye. “I must get back in time to take her to church.”