Converging Parallels (37 page)

“A daughter.”

“Then you know how a father feels—the feeling between father and daughter. It is something special, something exciting. But it is also dangerous ground—there are strange and conflicting emotions. Love—but there is also jealousy. Jealousy, sexual jealousy. How old is your daughter, Commissario?”

“Sixteen.”

“It is early, perhaps, but you will know the jealousy that a father feels. When your daughter leaves you to live with another man—even the nicest of men—it is not easy. You must pretend to be happy, but you are losing something—seventeen, eighteen years of a shared past—and you lose it all to a complete stranger.” He paused. “Perhaps I was too hard on Lella—I couldn’t understand why she wanted to leave us—and certainly I couldn’t understand why she wanted to go and live with him. Renzo Perbene. Her attitude hurt me in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever been hurt before—and perhaps it was a sense of revenge that made me cruel. I could feel that she began to hate me because
I told her she was making a mistake. She hated me—and I was pleased. Because it is better to be hated than to be ignored—and I couldn’t accept the idea that she was leaving me—leaving me for good. If she had gone with Stefano, I think I would have understood. But Renzo? A spoiled, wealthy brat? Wealthy, doting parents and Renzo who has never lifted his finger to help anyone?” He shook his head. “For two years we didn’t speak to each other. I went to the wedding but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her. And she ignored me. I never phoned—and neither did she.”

He stopped to look at the telephone, hoping, perhaps, that it would ring. “She despised me—everything I stood for—my job, my politics, the ideas that I tried to share with her when she was a little girl.” He tapped at the photograph of Gramsci. “Everything, Commissario, I would sacrifice everything for Lella. My daughter. I had carried her in my arms. I used to wash her in the bath. I used to answer all her questions, I used to hold her hand when we walked in the Apennines. And when she cried, it was always to me that she came with her problems.” He waited, then added, “A beautiful child.”

The two men stared at each other in silence. Then slowly the mayor rose to his feet and went to the window. He raised the cat by its neck and held it in his arms. He stared downwards into the Corso.

“A Communist city. A city that works. A place to live in.” He shook his head. “No, it’s not just me. I don’t run this city alone, a latter-day Mussolini burning the light until late into the night. There is a lot of teamwork, a lot of working together. Behind me, I have a lot of dedicated men and women who sacrifice their time and their family—everything for the sake of this city. Because they know what Italy is like and because they know that here there is a real chance of making things better. Not through demagogy, not with the idle words of the Christian Democrats—but in work, democratically shared and undertaken. Admittedly, ours is a democracy on a very small scale—but then all of us, we live our daily lives on a small scale. Here,” he tapped the desk, “in this town hall, in this city, we try to answer the citizen’s rightful
aspiration to freedom and to democracy. Freedom from the new capitalists and the old mafia, freedom from unemployment, freedom from nepotism, freedom from the network of exchanged favors and silent blackmail. Freedom from the secular blackmail of poverty and unemployment that throughout the centuries have held the Italian people back and have prevented them from living their lives as they would like to live them.”

He was now stroking the cat in his arms; the green eyes closed with sensuous pleasure as he scratched at the animal’s ears. “I could say that it was for the sake of this city that I decided to help my daughter. It was certainly not for myself—I have held power here for too long to find any pleasure in the responsibilities of being mayor. Believe me, if I could, if it were possible, I would cease being mayor tomorrow.” He turned to Trotti as though he expected Trotti not to believe him. “I would earn four times as much as a doctor—with none of the responsibility.” The smile died slowly. “I could say it was for this city—but it would not be true. Even this city, Commissario, I would throw it to the wind. I did it for her. For Lella. She didn’t want to come to me for help, she didn’t ask me for help—when she knew I could give it—and would give it. It was you who made me suspect that she was in trouble—and it wouldn’t have been the first time that Renzo had made life difficult for her. You see, I wanted to show her that I cared. She thought that she didn’t need me—but I wanted to make her see that I am her father and that I still love her. And that if only she were willing to let me, I could still help her.”

“It was you who gave her away.”

The hand ceased to scratch at the cat’s ear. “I don’t understand.”

“By finding new culprits. The old man with his false confession, Gracchi and the letters sent to the
Provincia
.”

“Gracchi?”

“You don’t remember, Signor Sindaco?”

“There’s nothing to remember. I wanted to help my daughter. It was wrong—I knew that at the time—but for once I felt she really needed me, even if she was too proud herself to ask for my help. I fully understand that by using the powers vested in me
by the city for my own ends I am no better than the Christian Democrats and all the other venal politicians who sit in Rome. I am no better than they, Commissario. Perhaps I am worse—because I, a Communist, I should be above reproach. But Lella, Commissario, is my daughter. I love her.”

“I, too, have a daughter, Signor Sindaco,” Trotti replied, his voice calm. “But if I were to put her interests—or my love for her—before those of the Republic that I have sworn to serve, then I wouldn’t be worthy of the Republic. I wouldn’t be worthy of my job.”

“You are a hard man, Commissario.”

“An honest one.”

“And a naive one.” The mayor’s laugh was cold. He was no longer looking at Trotti. “I am afraid that you are very naive. Perhaps I have betrayed the city—or at least the trust of those citizens who believe me to be above all reproach. But at least my city exists, Commissario. It is no pipe dream, it is no myth. But your Republic … I am afraid—for both your sake and mine—that there is no Republic. It doesn’t exist. It is a bad joke. There is no Republic—and there is no reason of State. This is Italy, Commissario, and there is only the reason of vested interest. The reason is survival. That is the only reason of fifty-five million corrupt Italians.”

Trotti corrected him: “Fifty-five million minus one, Signor Sindaco.”

“A
VIGILE URBANO
.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“A vigile urbano,” Magagna repeated, nudging at his sunglasses. He held a small plastic cup between the fingers of the other hand. Instant coffee from the Faema machine in the hall. “The gypsy who was arrested. It wasn’t the PS and it wasn’t the Carabinieri. He was breaking into a car in Borgo Genovese when a patrol car of vigili urbani saw him. They kept him for the afternoon.”

“How did you find out?” Trotti was smiling. The bottle of grappa stood on the desk; Trotti leaned forward and poured more of the colorless liquid into the lid.

“I have friends,” Magagna said enigmatically. “You’re sure you don’t want a cup of coffee?”

Trotti laughed. “Nescafé?” and shook his head. He put the lid filled with grappa to his lips and drank. A few drops trickled from the side of his mouth and ran down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There’s no choice,” Magagna said apologetically. “All the bars closed down at the news of Moro’s death.” He quickly glanced at the window; it was still raining. “And everything will remain closed tomorrow. A day of national mourning.”

Trotti returned the lid to the top of the bottle and screwed it into place.

The door of the office was open; outside the hall was empty. There was nobody on the third floor of the Questura other than Trotti and Magagna. Leonardelli had disappeared. Gino and the Principessa had disappeared.

Magagna now leaned forward, his arms on the thighs of his blue uniform trousers. “Perbene,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “How did you know it was her who took Anna?”

“I didn’t.”

Magagna frowned, the plastic cup held halfway towards his mouth.

“You guessed?”

“I knew nothing. It was Mariani who gave her away. When I went to see him he was relaxed, arrogant. By the time I left he was worried. He then contacted his son-in-law who must have told him what had happened. The accidental death of Irina Pirvic and the futile kidnapping of the little girl. Mariani was frightened—he wanted to protect his daughter, but he also wanted to protect himself. As a successful Communist mayor, he’s in a highly sensitive position. So he tried to cover up.” Trotti gave a short laugh. “Unfortunately, there were too many cover-ups. Too many guilty parties.”

“Like the old man who claimed he’d murdered the whore? I wonder where the mayor conjured him up from.”

This time, Trotti’s laugh was cold. “You think Mariani knows where to dig up old men with criminal records who are willing to be a scapegoat? Probably the old man missed the company and the security of a prison cell.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t Mariani who found him.”

“Then who was it?” Magagna took a cigarette from a packet of Marlboro.

“It wasn’t the mayor who organized that manoeuvre. He doesn’t have the knowledge or the contacts. It was somebody who wanted to help Mariani.”

“Leonardelli?”

Trotti nodded.

“Why?”

“Why?” Again the same laugh. “The interest of the city.
‘The actual political situation—who is in power and who is in opposition—in this town concerns neither you nor me. Unthinking, flatfooted questurini, we carry out our orders.’ ” As Trotti quoted Leonardelli, his mouth was narrow with distaste. “Leonardelli helped Mariani for the same reason that he wanted to finger Gracchi and Guerra. Of course, Gracchi sees himself as a café revolutionary—but he never kidnapped Anna. I’m pretty certain that was Leonardelli’s idea—and you know,” he looked at Magagna, “it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that it was di Bono who typed the letter for him. While Pisanelli was elsewhere, it was probably di Bono who got into the apartment and typed out that letter on Gracchi’s typewriter. But the letter was too clever, too good, too convincing to be di Bono’s idea—or anyone else’s. Leonardelli wrote it—of that, I am sure.”

“Why?” Magagna had set the paper cup down on the floor beside a pile of dusty newspapers. He lit his cigarette.

“Power.”

Magagna shook his head.

“Power,” Trotti repeated. “Like the American, Edgar Hoover, who ran the FBI. Of course Leonardelli doesn’t want a scandal in this city. He wants to keep his own nose clean. It suits him that there is a Communist mayor and administration running an ideal city. It’s all the more glory to him—and it saves him embarrassing work. But it’s not because of this marriage of interest that you must think that Leonardelli loves Mariani. If there’s a way of the Questore’s controlling Mariani without any fuss, then he’s interested. But I suspect that there is something that interests Leonardelli more than mere political manipulation.” Trotti stopped and shook his head as though even he had difficulty in understanding the truth. “Blackmail—petty blackmail,” Trotti said softly. “The Italian disease.”

Magagna breathed on his cigarette.

“Power through knowledge—through knowledge that can be incriminating, that can ruin a career—or a life. Power over the mayor, over the parents of Gracchi and Guerra—over anybody who has a skeleton in the cupboard, a piece of murky history that needs to be covered up and overlooked.”

Magagna did not speak.

“If you have knowledge, you have power.” He smiled. “And Leonardelli would love to have the same power over me. A wife who fools around with other men, who gambles, who gets caught.” The smile was bitter, as though the grappa had left an unpleasant taste. “Unfortunately that piece of knowledge is not his copyright. He must share it with Spadano and with the
Provincia Padana
.”

It had stopped raining; the raindrops had disappeared from the windowpane.

“Leonardelli can’t blackmail me.”

“Why would he want to?”

“Because he would blackmail his own mother if he could—if there was something in it for him. With me, he has got good reasons to be afraid; he needs a lever that he can use against me. Because I have knowledge. Knowledge that could be very damaging to him.”

“No.” Magagna shook his head and stood up. He took the cigarette from his mouth. “No.” He went to the window and opened it onto the damp afternoon.

A Vespa went past in the narrow street below; the engine sounded hollow and angry beneath the old brick walls of the Questura. Several birds darted upwards, touched at the gutter of the roof opposite and then flew away.

“No, Commissario, Leonardelli can destroy you. He is more powerful than you are—he has more friends. And he can count on the support of all those people he controls.”

Trotti unscrewed the bottle; again he filled the lid.

“He will destroy you, Commissario.”

Trotti smiled. “I am already destroyed.” He drank.

Magagna snorted and smoke, escaping from his nose, was caught by the breeze from the window. “Scarcely.”

“Destroyed. As a policeman, as a father, as a husband—as a human being.” He turned to look at Magagna but could not make out the younger man’s features, the backlight of the grey sky being too bright. He blinked. “I have nothing to fear, Magagna. I am already destroyed—I have destroyed myself.
The victim of my own myths. Victim of my own naive belief that, in the Republic, there is something more important than individual self-interest. It is my fault. I have allowed myself to be destroyed—with my foolish faith in the Republic. I have destroyed myself. Half an hour ago, I was arguing with the mayor, our good, Communist mayor. He’s understood something that I am only beginning to understand—but then, he is from the South, perhaps he has the advantage of an age-old cynicism.” Trotti stopped and for a moment stared at the bottle. He reached out to pull it towards him; his hand stopped in mid-air. “I have destroyed myself and I deserve everything that happens to me. I have been equally arrogant. I can see it all now—now that it is too late. My beliefs have been equally selfish. I have believed in the Republic. I have believed against all the evidence of twenty years spent in Questuras, twenty years working among policemen and lawyers, judges and Carabinieri—I have believed in the probity of the State. And for the State, I have sacrificed my own interests. I could have been Questore by now if I had really wanted. All I had to do was behave as they wanted me to behave. A political game, keeping a low profile, saying yes when they asked me to say yes, no when they wanted me to say no. And the rest of the time keeping quiet. Questore in some quiet city, a respected member of the community with a German car and a bespoke suit for every day of the week, a wife and a daughter who would spend their holidays in Baltimore or the Côte d’Azur. Somewhere in the Marche or the Alto Adige. But instead, I have chosen to be proud. For twenty years, I have been proud, believing that I was right, believing that I alone was in possession of justice and morality and fighting my single-handed battle against all the armies of corrupt policemen and administrators.”