Converging Parallels (33 page)

“Anna,” Signorina Belloni’s voice was kind, motherly. “He loves you a great deal. More than anything else in the world. He often tells me that without you, he has got nothing.”

Anna turned to look at the headmistress.

Trotti said, “But you don’t like him, do you?”

Anna raised her shoulders and then let them fall. Her head was to one side. She continued to look at her sandals.

Nino was leaning against the door. He held an unlit cigarette between his lips.
La Gazzetta dello Sport
bulged in his pocket. He coughed and, looking up, Signorina Belloni frowned and gestured for him to leave. He went slowly out of the room. Anna’s eyes followed him. Then she returned to looking at her shoes.

“Why don’t you like your papa?”

There was no reaction from the child.

“Is it because of your grandparents?” Trotti let her hand drop and, with his index finger, he pulled up her chin. Her eyes refused to meet his. “Look at me and tell me the truth. Is it because of your grandfather?”

The eyes came up slowly. They had their own depth. In that moment, she looked a lot older than her age. She moved backwards, pushing Trotti’s hand away from her chin. She lowered her head.

“Grandfather tells you that your father is a bad man? That he doesn’t love you? You mustn’t believe those things, Anna.”

The headmistress said, “Your father loves you.”

Anna remained silent.

“Your father loves you very much and now that your mama is … now that your mama has gone, he needs you to look after him. A man always needs a woman, Anna.”

She mumbled inaudibly.

“You know you shouldn’t have left him in the garden. It wasn’t a kind thing to do. You shouldn’t have run away.”

She looked up. “I didn’t run away.”

Trotti gave her a disbelieving smile. “You ran away.”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.” She was now looking at him.

“You remember?”

“Yes.” Then vehemently she shook her head. “No.”

“Where did you go?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You can tell us, Anna. You mustn’t be afraid.” Trotti turned to the headmistress. Without any expression, she looked back at him. Between them there was a tacit tie of collusion.

“Would you like something to eat, Anna?” Signorina Belloni asked.

Anna shook her head and, like the skirt of a dancer, her hair rose, lifted by centrifugal force, and then fell against her forehead.

“Your grandfather tells you bad things. You mustn’t believe him, Anna. He has never liked your father. He is jealous of him.”

By now the sky was dark. The clouds had come over the city, giving a leaden light to the sky. Suddenly the room was brightened by lightning beyond the roofs of the houses. A few seconds later, the rumble of thunder caused the windowpanes to rattle.

Anna shivered.

“Your father loved your mother very much.” Signorina Belloni lowered her voice. “She was a very beautiful woman.”

Anna looked at the headmistress.

Trotti said, “I was at their wedding.” He smiled. “I was the best man. I can remember your mother in her wedding gown. She was like a princess.”

The child smiled, then, embarrassed, looked downwards. She mumbled something.

For Trotti, it was a spontaneous movement. He put his hands
to the sides of her head. Her skin was cool against his palms. He pulled her face upwards, bringing her eyes into line with his own. There was something in her features that reminded him of the father. Perhaps a hint of stubbornness.

“What did you say, Anna?”

She tried to shake her head.

“Your mother was very beautiful and he loved her. And she loved your father.”

“He killed her.”

There was silence. The thunder was moving away, moving north across the Po valley towards Milan. “And he wants to kill me.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
eleven o’clock when the taxi dropped Trotti off outside the Questura. The rain was pouring down, the pavement shiny.

An appuntato caught sight of him and came running over to offer the protection of his black umbrella. “Dirty weather, Commissario,” he said. Trotti nodded.

He got into the lift and stepped out on the third floor.

Principessa raised her head, sniffed the air, looked through the damp windowpane and then returned to her dreams.

“Magagna?”

“He was here half an hour ago.” The blind man added, amused at his own joke, “I haven’t seen him since.” He took an envelope from where he had tucked it under the large telephone console. “He left you this.”

“Thanks.” Trotti said, taking the white envelope. “Any messages?”

“Avvocato Romano phoned.” The pale eyes screwed up behind the thick glasses.

Trotti went into his office. Rain battered at the window and rattled at the handle. He sat down to look at the envelope.

In scrawled handwriting, Magagna had written,
Milan Central has checked. Voice on tape recording from provincia is not voice of Gracchi
.

Trotti thought for a while; it took him several minutes to
realize that the office was strangely quiet. And it took him several more minutes to realize why. The pigeons had ceased to coo.

Through the runnels of rain on the window, it was difficult to make out the forms of the terracotta roofs. The sky was dark.

The phone rang. It was Gino. “Leonardelli. He wants you. Now.”

“Thanks.”

Trotti left his office and went along the corridor, past the coffee machine. He was worried; a strange, heavy feeling in his stomach.

He knocked on the door.

“Of course, of course,” Leonardelli was on the phone and his smile disappeared as he saw Trotti. With his eyes returning to the telephone, he beckoned to enter. He pointed at a chair; between the fingers of his hand, a cigarette was burning. Leonardelli continued his conversation. “There’s not much that I can do at this end.”

Trotti heard the scratching voice and Leonardelli nodded emphatically. As though he had been expecting a change in the weather, Leonardelli was wearing a dark suit; and lying across the desk, slightly speckled with rain, a beige raincoat. The inside label was visible.

Burberry.

While he spoke, Leonardelli gestured with his free hand and the glowing tip of the cigarette described short circles in the air.

“D’accordo, d’accordo.” Leonardelli nodded, smiling. “Si, grazie. Si. Arrivederci.”

He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver.

There followed a long silence. Leonardelli pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and held his long hands to his face, as though lost in prayer.

“Trotti.”

“Yes.”

The hands came away from the tired eyes that looked at Trotti with evident disapproval. “I’m afraid, Commissario, that you are causing me difficulties.”

Trotti nodded. “I was at Caserma Bixio this morning.”

“So I hear.” The cigarette had now burned down to its filter. The Questore squashed it into the porcelain ashtray that was already full of similar, black-ended filters. Against the background of Leonardelli’s eau de cologne, Trotti could smell the bitter ashes.

Leonardelli sat back, his hands together and his thumbs hitting at each other. “A very awkward time, Trotti. A very awkward time indeed.”

“The
Provincia
has mentioned nothing.”

“I don’t see why you had to go to Bixio.”

“I received a phone call,” Trotti said simply.

“Ah.” He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t spend your time with the Carabinieri.”

“An anonymous phone call in the early morning telling me to go to Bixio.” He shrugged. “So I went.”

“It is best if we have as little as possible to do with the Carabinieri. I don’t consider them as being able to help us in any way.”

“They have my wife,” Trotti replied.

“Of course.” Leonardelli’s smile lacked compassion. “I understand.”

Trotti did not speak; he could feel the anger rising within his chest. He stared at the turning movement of Leonardelli’s thumbs.

“The trouble is that with the Carabinieri, these things can’t be kept quiet. And at this time, we have other things to worry about. Furthermore—and I say this not as a criticism—I don’t understand why it is at this hour, Trotti, that you arrive here. I hope you haven’t spent your morning drinking coffee with Spadano and smoking his filthy cigars.”

“I don’t smoke, Signor Questore.”

“There’s enough work here with Guerra and Gracchi for you to look into.” He stopped. “You realize that it’s serious.”

“What?”

“Outside the recognized casinos in Italy, gambling is illegal. You must know that and certainly your wife does. Also—and it is this I fail to understand—why did you allow her to go to San Siro?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Come, Trotti. I am not stupid. You did not know, you say. She’s your wife—how long have you been married? Twenty years now? And you don’t know her tastes. You must have known she frequented these places—because if you really didn’t, then what sort of husband are you? Come, Trotti.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I find that very hard to believe.” The lashless eyes did not blink behind his glasses. “A commissario of the Pubblica Sicurezza—someone whose job is to see through the petty lies of criminals—who doesn’t know what his own wife is doing.”

“My wife has always been very independent.”

“You realize”—the voice now hardened—“that I can ask for your resignation.”

“You can have it.” Trotti allowed himself a brief smile.

“But I have to take into consideration other and more pressing points.” The Questore chose to overlook Trotti’s offer. “There is the crisis the country is going through, the shortage—the drastic shortage of trained manpower. Despite rising unemployment, it is hard to get recruits, young men don’t want to join the PS. And there is the fact that I know you, Trotti, and”—a magnanimous shrug—“I know that you are honest and reliable. Perhaps you are too honest, as I’ve told you before.” In a more optimistic tone, “I have friends in the Carabinieri,” he added.

“Friends?”

“To help your wife.”

“There are no charges. Spadano told me. He said he would keep Agnese—that he would keep my wife until this evening. For her sake, he said. To serve as a lesson.”

“You’re a good policeman, Trotti, and I don’t want to lose you—if it is possible to keep you, that is. The other officers like you, you’ve got a team that I am satisfied with. You are a valuable element. If I manage to get your wife released, I want a firm undertaking from you that you will keep a tighter control of her. I don’t want this kind of thing being repeated. It is embarrassing for me—and it forces me to make use of favors that I have given in the past, favors that I could make much better use of.”

“She’s not under arrest, Signor Questore. She will be released this evening. Spadano and I came to an agreement.”

“It is all very well to tell me she has her independence. If her independence is detrimental to the good name of the force in the city, I’m afraid I will have to get rid of her and you.” He smiled, allowing himself to relax. “She’ll have to change her ways.” He sat back and took the cigarette case from his pocket. He held out the tipped cigarettes to Trotti.

Trotti shook his head.

“I may be able to make an arrangement with Bixio.” He put the cigarette in his mouth.

“Spadano said he’d release my wife this evening; there is no need for any arrangement.”

Leonardelli laughed, allowing air to escape from his nose and blow at the glowing tip of the cigarette. “I think, Trotti, you are being naive. You don’t seem to understand the Carabinieri. They are southerners; Levantines, if you like. They drive a hard bargain.” He laughed again. “They certainly don’t give any presents. I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.”

“I beg your pardon.”

A dismissive wave of Leonardelli’s hand. “They owe me favors. It is possible I can get them to drop charges. I will look into it. But while I’m doing all this for you, I’d be grateful if you’d get on with your work. Your place is here in the Questura. I don’t want you wandering about—not now, not with elections here next Sunday. I want you to get to the bottom of the Guerra affair. Get a confession. And leave politicking with the Carabinieri to me.”

Outside in Strada Nuova, the Italian flag, drenched and bedraggled, hung limply from the flagstaff.

M
AGAGNA WAS WAITING
for him in the corridor. He was smoking and he looked worried.

“You’re wearing uniform,” Trotti remarked, surprised.

Magagna shrugged. “I received orders.”

“From him?” With his thumb, Trotti gestured over his shoulder to Leonardelli’s office. They went past the Faema machine.

“Indirectly.” Magagna pulled at Trotti’s sleeve. “But come quickly. There’s someone I think you should talk to.”

Trotti quickened his step. “You’ve heard about my wife?”

Again Magagna shrugged. A matter of no importance. “Come,” he said.

They went into Trotti’s office.

“He’s waiting outside with Gino.”

Trotti sat down at his desk, opened the bottom drawer and quickly poured a few drops of grappa into the screw-top. He drank and hurriedly put the bottle back in its place. Magagna came back, ushering in the visitor.

“This way, please. Commissario Trotti can now talk to you.”

An old man entered. He was well-dressed in a slightly outdated fashion; beneath the open-necked shirt, a white singlet. Over one arm, a raincoat and hanging from his forearm, a black umbrella. Pale cotton trousers, light blue except at the bottoms where the material had been splashed by the rain. White socks and woven leather shoes.

“Avvocato Romano.” He held out his hand. In the other hand, he held a leather leash. A small Pekinese dog trotted dutifully behind him.

“I think we’ve met.”

“Yes, I think so.” Trotti smiled and they shook hands.

He had a tanned, intelligent face, a high forehead speckled with dark freckles. The eyes, too, were intelligent; cunning even. His thin hair was sandy in color and formed a widow’s peak. A thin, peppery mustache—of the type that had been popular before the war in the old telefoni bianchi films—ran along the upper lip.