Converging Parallels (32 page)

Trotti felt embarrassed.

“Fascism, Commissario, was an evil thing—but at least it was an ideal. Italy, Il Duce, the mother country, the battle for corn—we believed in those things. Empty, false ideals—but we believed in them. Others—the cunning and the dishonest—made use of our gullibility. They became Fascists just as today they become Communists. They look after themselves and they change their ideals just as they change their shirts. But you and me—we believed in those things. We believed that Il Duce was good, that he was infallible, that he kept the lights burning late into the night for our sake. We believed that Italy deserved a place in the sun. You remember how at school they taught us that the Abyssinian had a heart as black as his face? And we believed it all. Because throughout history, the poor and the humble have always believed what they’ve been told by the rich, the powerful and the church. Because Italians have never had any choice. Stupid, naive and deliberately misled. You remember the uniforms, those fezzes, the guns? But for all its failings, Fascism offered an ideal. What ideal do they have today? My children, what values can they have when they see their teachers who tell them to distrust everything?” She sighed. “I have always wanted my children to learn and to understand. I have always wanted them to be excited by the adventure of life, its possibilities—by the gift that life is. So the Provincial authority sends me teachers who know nothing and who understand even less. They have their university diplomas and degrees but they are ignorant.”

She returned to her seat. “You find me in a bitter mood, Commissario, and in my bitterness, I am unfair perhaps. Of course the situation that we all find ourselves in doesn’t have much to do with schools or teachers. School is always the reflection of the society it is called upon to serve. Perhaps I, too, have failed. I have always tried to do my job well—but we are all caught up in the corruption and petty dishonesties of our lives. We all carry within us the contradictions of Italy.” She sighed. “Yesterday, I was walking down by the river. There is a path that runs along the water’s edge. It was a nice day and I wanted to get away from here, from this place with its smell of chalk. I was walking near the boat sheds that belong to the university and I was nearly knocked off my feet. A big motorbike went past. Young men go down there with their big machines, noisy and with poisonous fumes, with their goggles and their helmets. Yesterday, I was knocked off my feet and I hurt myself. I could have broken a leg. And the motorbike didn’t even stop.”

“You are all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Commissario.” She looked at him. “But the strange thing is this. The motorcyclist turned round and I am sure I recognized him. He was one of my pupils—a nice boy with blond hair and lovely eyes. I know his parents. He used to be a very pleasant child and very affectionate. Now he knocks over old ladies.”

“It wasn’t deliberate.”

“That is not the point. The point is, Commissario, that we live in a country that makes monsters out of human beings. A nice child transformed into an egotistical, selfish motorcyclist. But of course, it is quite normal. We live in a state that doesn’t really exist—at least, not for the individual. So in order to survive, the individual must look after himself—because if he doesn’t, he knows he will go under. Italy is not a nation—it is a land of fifty-five million individuals struggling to keep alive … where there is only one law: might is right.”

She paused, tapped lightly at her bun. “We’ve lost a leader. Moro, whether he’s been killed or not—his career is over, poor soul. We all have long faces, we think we have lost the one man
who could save this country—because we like to believe in the man of providence, the man who is above the melee of corruption.” She shook her head, “We’ve never had leaders. Not even Mussolini. We didn’t understand, you and I, we were too young at the time. Mussolini—like Moro—was a puppet. He danced, he strutted, he gave the Roman salute and he led his country to destruction. But he was a puppet—the strings were held in Milan and Turin. You look at France and England. A ruling class—they’ve always had it. A self-perpetuating ruling class that has always gradually assimilated the emergent bourgeoisie, assimilated it and imposed upon it its own patrician values. We’ve never had that. Just rich peasants—rich, grasping peasants.”

Trotti said nothing.

The headmistress continued, “When I was a child I used to read the novels of Rudyard Kipling … and I could never really understand them. The British Empire—it seemed so organized, so civilized. But of course, I now realize that Kipling’s India was like England. They went out there, the pink-faced Englishmen, and they imposed their values—the values of a Protestant middle class. They had no right to be there and they were trying to give a moral justification for the depredations they made. The raw materials they sent back to England. But they gave a system, they united India into one country. They created a state and they created in people a respect for that state. We Italians have been invaded and conquered by everybody, but nobody has ever given us a state. And now that we are free, we allow the peasants and the Mafia to govern us, to usurp the true Republic.” A sad smile. “It is not India, Commissario, that is the third world; it is Italy. For us, state is a hollow, meaningless word—corrupted by the people who govern us. It means nothing. When a policeman or Carabiniere is shot down by terrorists in the street and his young blood pours into the gutter, our President sends a telegram to the parents. He speaks of the grief of the state. Meaningless. There is no state, our grief is individual. And now as the politicians in Rome squabble over Moro and evoke the reason of state to justify their own immobility, they are talking rubbish. They are trying to dress
in the clothes of integrity; they have never had any other consideration than their own self-advancement.”

“Perhaps it is our fault, signorina. It is we who vote.”

“We had a chance, Commissario. After the war, we all believed things would get better. We were united—we’d all fought against the common enemy of Fascism. Catholic and Communist, we had been united by a common enemy. But we allowed our chance to slip away. The chance of a real Italy—a real Republic. Excuse me.” Her eyes were slightly damp. “I lived through those years, I remember our optimism. And still for me, Republic is a beautiful word. But we have let it fall into the grasp of our politicians. In our search for creature comforts, for consumer durables, we have lost sight of our Republic. We have no self-respect. We have been corrupted; the corrupters have made us like them. The Mafia, the men in Rome, the political parties, they have degraded us—and they have assimilated us.” She turned to look at him. “At least with Mussolini we had ideals. There was no cynicism. We had false ideals—but we believed in them; many even died for them. Now we have nothing. We have become a godless, valueless nation. We run after our easy luxuries, our daily piece of beefsteak and our motor cars and our fine clothes. The men talk about football and the women read photo-romance magazines. And we pretend not to understand why the young are angry.”

More tears appeared at the corner of her eyes.

“I believe in the Republic,” Trotti said quietly. Signorina Belloni wiped at her tears. “I believe in the Republic and I try to do my duty.”

“Then perhaps, Commissario Trotti, you are like me. You are a fool.” A hesitant, friendly smile. “A good man—a very good man—but a fool.”

“I must do my duty.”

Somewhere a bell rang, muffled behind several doors.

“I must speak with the child.”

“I cannot allow that, Commissario.”

“It is my duty.”

“And it is my duty to protect the child.”

“Do not compel me to use the force of the law.”

“The law?” She raised an eyebrow; she appeared slightly amused. “The law?”

“I must speak with Anna.”

“Commissario, her parents—or rather, her grandparents—told me explicitly that they did not want Anna to be disturbed—not by journalists nor by anyone else. They insisted, Commissario, and I must respect their wishes.”

“They are not Anna’s guardians.”

“The father is incompetent. A good man—I don’t doubt it; but not very intelligent and not reliable enough. The child lives with her grandparents—and it was when he should have been looking after her that she was taken from the gardens in via Darsena.”

Trotti waited before replying. “I have reason to believe that it was Anna’s grandparents who engineered the kidnapping. And they did it precisely with the aim to discredit Ermagni. They want to bring the child up as their own.”

“Absurd.”

“Absurd or not, signorina, at this moment, Signor Rossi is in a cell of the Caserma Bixio. Under arrest.”

She stared at Trotti while a hand went to her throat. She pressed the bell. “You put me in an awkward position.” Her voice caught in her throat.

“I am sorry. I, too, find myself in an awkward position.” Trotti allowed himself smile. “The truth can be very awkward.”

They then sat in silence until Trotti heard the fall of Nino’s steps outside. He knocked and put his round face through the door.

“Signorina Direttrice?”

“Bring me Anna Ermagni, please.”

He nodded. The door closed silently.

A few minutes later, Trotti said, “I should have looked after her more—I should have taken more interest in her. It is not as though I’ve got other godchildren. But I was in the South. And since I’ve been back, I’ve been busy.” He played with the wedding ring on his finger, turning it against the taut skin. “I hope it is not too late.”

“She is a shy child,” the headmistress replied and then was silent. It was as though she had lost all interest in talking. She
sat with her hands on the paper in front of her. Her face was still slightly flushed.

Trotti had the impression that it was rare for her to open her heart and talk freely. He felt flattered and slightly surprised that she should have spoken with him at such length. Once or twice she turned to look at Trotti but when their eyes met, hers turned away.

It started to rain. She rose to close the window and Trotti, looking down, noticed that there was just a trace of blue lines along her calves beneath the dark mesh of her stockings. She wore blue shoes with squat heels.

When he had first seen her, Trotti had found her attractive. She was still attractive but there was something else as well. Something that Trotti had difficulty in defining. A kind of just anger, perhaps. A woman who had her own ideas, her own convictions but who was physically frail. The kind of woman who deserved respect, but who also needed affection. A woman who needed a man to protect her.

She was staring out of the window—the darkening sky threw light onto her profile and she appeared less agitated—when the porter knocked on the door.

He entered, holding Anna by the hand.

The girl was unhappy. She looked at Signorina Belloni and then at Trotti with her large, dark eyes. The fringe of dark hair came down almost to her brow. She hesitated and only reluctantly allowed herself to be prodded, one shoulder before the other, into the center of the room.

“Come, Anna.” The headmistress stepped round her desk and brushing past Trotti—the feel of the weave of her dress against his hand—she took the child by the elbow.

“Anna,” she said. She bent over, lowering herself to the level of Anna’s eyes. She stroked the girl’s lustrous black hair. “Don’t be afraid.” The long fingers were pale against the darkness of Anna’s hair.

Anna said nothing. A tentative smile flickered across the small, pale lips and then as quickly as it had come, it vanished. The eyes remained worried.

“This gentleman is Signor Trotti …”

“Piero.” Trotti smiled. He too crouched and, reaching out, took Anna’s right hand. A small hand. Soft, cool, very slightly damp. He remembered the time when Pioppi was that age. “You don’t remember me but I knew you when you were very little. Your papa used to work for me.”

At the mention of her father, the eyes seemed to darken.

“I am your godfather.”

The child nodded.

“Your godfather wants to ask you a few questions, Anna.” The headmistress glanced at Trotti. “He is a policeman. You have nothing to worry about.”

Again Anna nodded.

“Come,” Trotti said. “Give me your other hand.” He pulled the child around until she was standing between his knees. She was wearing a white blouse beneath the black overalls and the plastic white collar with its loose red cravat; on her feet, white socks and neat, good quality sandals. Clean nails, well brushed hair and a healthy although slightly pale complexion. A couple of scars on her knees, and beneath the eyes the trace of dark lines. The eyes stared at Trotti while the narrow chest heaved under the dark overalls.

“Don’t be afraid, Anna.” He gave her a reassuring tug.

Again the flicker of a smile.

“You see, I’m here to help you. It’s very important. What happened to you—the way you were taken away—we don’t want it happening to other children. You understand?”

Anna nodded; then catching her breath, said, “But I have already answered the questions. In the hospital. I answered them. You were there, I remember. You were with my father.”

“You were tired and that was several days ago. Perhaps you can remember more clearly now. Perhaps there are things that you forgot to tell us. It is so easy to forget things.” He smiled. “I know I’m always forgetting things.”

“I said everything.”

“Are you sure, Anna? Absolutely everything?”

She nodded. Her mouth had grown smaller. Firm wrinkles at the edge of her lips.

Trotti looked at her and she lowered her head.

“Are you hiding something?”

“No.”

Trotti stroked the back of her hand. “You mustn’t be afraid of us,” he said gently. “We won’t be angry. But you see, we must think about the other children. For their sake you must help us.”

“I’ve said everything.”

On the ceiling, the fan blade rotated.

“You don’t like your papa, do you, Anna?”

Anna did not move; yet he could feel the hands tensing.

“He is a good man—and a very kind one.”