Converging Parallels (6 page)

Leonardelli raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve put out a general ID, but until we get the medical report, there’s not much that we can do.”

“I understand.”

The rain clouds were scudding away towards the east and the sky presented large patches of blue; an unexpected shaft of light came through the window, casting a square of warm, afternoon sunlight on to the white carpet. At the same time Trotti noticed the portrait on the wall. The president of the Republic, rotund and Neapolitan, smiled with avuncular goodwill from behind a dull, steel frame. Apart from the portrait, the wall was white and quite bare.

Leonardelli sipped again at his cup; by now the coffee was cold. “And the others?”

“What others?”

“There are ten men attached to the Mobile. Normally I wouldn’t request …” His voice died; he nudged at the black frame of his glasses.

“Eight men,” Trotti corrected. “Since the Moro kidnapping, I have lost two men to general duties.”

“And what are they doing, these eight men?”

“Routine matters.”

“Such as?”

Trotti hesitated, glanced sharply at Leonardelli. “Benedetto and Galli are involved with stolen cars—probably a gang, probably based in Milan and working out in the surrounding provincial cities. There’s been a forty percent increase in car theft since March. And a sixty percent increase in the number of cars broken into—radios, cassette recorders. It’s possible that we’re
dealing with an organization that uses children—but as yet we have no definite lead. Several other cities—Vercelli, Novara, Brescia, Alessandria and up on the lakes as well—seem to be having a similar increase. That’s in fact what I should be working on but these last few days I’ve been involved with the gypsy camp.”

“On the far side of the river?”

“They arrived there a couple of weeks ago. Yugoslavs. There’s been a series of complaints about shoplifting in the Rione San Carlo and in Borgo Genovese. Magagna was helping me until the leg turned up.”

“I’d be grateful if you could put somebody else on it. Pisanelli, perhaps.”

“It’s sensitive. Very sensitive.”

“Something has come up and I’ll be needing you and Magagna.”

Trotti hesitated. Then he said, “Dealing with the gypsies is not easy. Everybody knows that they steal, everybody knows that they send their children into the shops to take anything they can lay their hands on. But particularly at election times we have to be careful. This town is not made up of shopkeepers alone. Nobody wants to be accused of racism.”

“I understand, I understand, Trotti, but I need your talents elsewhere. In the normal run of things, I’m only too happy to let you get on with it.”

“Yes.”

Leonardelli stood up and went to the window; from where he was sitting, Trotti could not see what Leonardelli was looking at. The window gave on to Strada Nuova and all Trotti could see was the top of the war memorial; and on the other side of the street, the roof of the university.

“As though Moro wasn’t enough. I’ve got my men stretched to breaking point and all I can do is keep on stretching them. We’re undermanned, undertrained and underpaid.” Leonardelli spoke with unexpected vehemence. “I’m supposed to scratch up men from nowhere and to send them on thankless tasks—an entire army of men to do soulless policing duties. At the railway station, at the bus garages and outside all the public offices. Walk
down the streets, Trotti, and you’d think Italy was under a state of siege. An explosion of terrorism and of course we’re the first to be accused of incompetence—or worse still, of connivance. The fact that we’ve never had the first hint of terrorism in this town is without importance. People need to be reassured; they want to see uniforms. Thank God the Carabinieri do most of the bodyguard work—we’ve got one minister and three onoroveli living here. But I still have to find men to do the other jobs. We’ve now got three men on permanent duty outside; and all the doors and windows have been barricaded with anti-bomb grilles.” He sighed. “As if that wasn’t enough, we’ve now got the wretched municipal elections. Believe me, Trotti, they couldn’t have come at a worse time.” He opened a low drawer in the desk and, taking from it a white envelope, said, “Have a look at these, Commissario.”

The envelope bore the seal of the Carabinieri.

“If they can’t find subversives,” Leonardelli said as Trotti removed half a dozen photographs from the envelope, “the Carabinieri have to invent them.”

“Subversives?”

The photographs were not from any judicial file; they were professional pictures that had been taken at street demonstrations; some of the prints had been blown up considerably until the grain had become almost blurred.

“Anybody you recognize?”

The six photos were postcard size, in black and white with a high gloss finish. Five were of men; one showed the boyish form of a young woman, a scarf about her neck and in a loose shirt. She was shouting and her arm was pulled back as though she were about to hurl an object.

“Some faces seem familiar.”

“Who?”

“They are students.” Trotti tapped a photograph. “I think I know this one.”

“Antonio Schipisi.”

“That’s right—he’s a nephew of the commercial lawyer.”

Leonardelli corrected, “His son.”

Trotti placed the photographs and the envelope on the desk. Leonardelli lit another cigarette and returned to the window. He did not look at Trotti. “Students, left-wing ideas and flirting with Marx. Middle-class kids, as much as anything, they do it to shock their parents. Not subversives.”

“Who calls them subversives?”

“The Carabinieri, Commissario.”

“It seems rather unlikely.”

“It’s patently absurd. We’ve never had any real political militancy from the university. This is a quiet, middle-class town with a quiet, efficient university. And a wealthy one. Have you ever been through the university courtyards in winter, Commissario? Most of the girls wear fur coats and pearl necklaces. Of course there are a few hot-heads, a few young people going through a difficult age. They reject traditional values—which is quite normal when you’re twenty. Long hair, shouting in the street, dirty fingernails and writing on the walls. But it’s something they grow out of. Their revolt is a fashion, a lip service to short-lived ideals. These young people know where their real interests lie and they know about the unemployment that awaits them if they don’t get their diplomas. This is not Naples, Trotti, where you get doctors sweeping the streets because they can’t get jobs in the hospitals. There’s work for those who want to work. And our students work.” He nodded towards the photographs. “You know the others?”

“I don’t know their names.”

“Trentini, Alvarez, Guerra, Gracchi, Petterle—do those names mean anything?”

Trotti laughed.

“You see the problem now. This could be very embarrassing.”

“Leave it to the Carabinieri.”

“You are joking, Trotti.” He gave Trotti an uncertain glance. “You know as well as I do what the Carabinieri are like. Hardworking, reliable and honest. But also unimaginative and stupid. And worst of all, outsiders. They are probably a bit more intelligent than the appuntato in the street—who knows, perhaps they can even read and write—but they are still Carabinieri with
all the limitations of Carabinieri. With the kidnapping of Moro, virtually all political work has been taken out of my hands and given over to the Nucleo Politico. Fortunately, I’ve got a couple of contacts.” Leonardelli moved away from the window; his face was taut behind the glasses. “This is a sensitive matter, it has to be handled with care. It’s not hard to dig up scandal and perhaps one or two of these young people have broken the law—in theory. But they are not subversives, they don’t plant bombs, they are not a cell of the Red Brigades.”

He moved round the desk and stood behind Trotti; he spoke in a softer voice, one hand on the back of Trotti’s chair. “The actual political situation—who is in power and who is in opposition—concerns neither you nor me professionally. As citizens we vote; but as functionaries of the state—unthinking, flatfooted questurini—we carry out our orders. Perhaps at a human level our sympathies are towards the right—but our sympathies cannot and must not interfere in our work. What must concern us, however, is irrational, unthinking change. We have a quiet city, a law-abiding city. The mayor is a Communist and whether he stays or goes is no business of mine. But I do know that we can work with him—that the entire Questura can work with him. There is an understanding. He is a Communist, sure, but he works within a framework that we’re used to. Let those photographs get into the wrong hands and the whole damn boat is going to go down. Alvarez and Guerra are well-placed lawyers. Gracchi is the chief city architect and his brother is one of the town planners responsible for the new city bypass. Let the press see these photographs, let them know the sons of powerful local notables are being investigated for sedition and the overthrow of the Republic.” He shook his head. “And the shit hits the fan.”

Trotti smiled.

“It’s not funny—it’s frightening. Since I’ve been Questore, I’ve succeeded in placing men like you in positions of authority. You are from the area, you understand the people of this province, the people of this city. That’s why I was happy to get you back from Bari. You were wasted in the South. You are a Northerner; you behave and think like a Northerner. You can understand that this
is a very delicate matter. A scandal here would be playing into the hands of the extremists, the real revolutionaries—not here but in Rome—the same people who would be only too happy for this city—a model of Communist administration—to flounder and sink. It happened last year in Bologna. I don’t want it to happen here, I don’t want the same anti-Communist fanatics to cause trouble here.” He paused. “The same people, Commissario, you can believe me, who were frightened by Moro’s overtures to the Communists, by his ‘converging parallels,’ and who had to have him destroyed at any cost. Politically destroyed.”

Leonardelli had returned to his seat and he now stared at Trotti. He lowered his voice. “I’m not making any apology for the status quo—but at least this town works. No violence, no kidnapping, jobs for those who want to work. It’s not a question of left or right, of Communists and Christian Democrats. It’s a question of whether we want this city to stay as it is, to develop properly, to evolve. Or whether everything we have built up—all of it, our provincial peace—we want to throw to the dogs. Because believe me, that’s what’ll happen once the Carabinieri poke their noses into our affairs.”

“The Nucleo Politico must do its duty.”

“Duty!” Leonardelli slammed his fist hard against the desk; the coffee cups rattled. “The Carabinieri and their damned NP don’t understand anything. Somebody in Rome tells them that there’s a Red Brigade cell here—what do they know? Outsiders, Calabrians and Sicilians? They’re dull, honest men. Not even clever enough to get a decent job with their local Mafia. What the hell do they know about us, about the North? What do they understand about our careful balancing act of provincial freedom?” He snorted. “Pig-ignorant peasants.”

Somewhere in the street below there was the screech of brakes.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve made a few phone calls, Trotti.” With an outstretched arm he turned four photographs over. “We needn’t bother about these. The family will take charge; they will get their revolutionary sons out of the way for a couple of weeks—until after the elections.” He pushed aside the four white rectangles.
Only the girl and a man remained. The man had long hair and a narrow, beak nose, an unshaven, dark skin and a strange glint in his small eyes.

“That just leaves us these two.” The Questore tapped the remaining photographs. “Valerio Gracchi and his girlfriend, Lia Guerra.”

C
ORSO
G
ARIBALDI HAD
not been closed to traffic; the wide tarmac was now busy with cars returning to afternoon work. The surface was still wet from the morning’s rain. Trotti pedaled carefully; stationary cars littered the pavement, their noses touching the shop fronts and the damp electoral posters. As they overtook him, cars and vans edged his bicycle into the parked vehicles. Small, noisy motorcycles roared past.

It was nearly four o’clock; the town was coming alive again after the midday break.

He turned right into vicolo Lotario. The bumpy, cobbled surface shook the wheels of his bicycle and as his wrists, absorbing the vibration, began to ache, he dismounted. Trotti was proud of his bicycle—a pre-war Ganna with wooden wheels. It was a present to himself for his forty-fifth birthday.

This was a part of the town where he rarely came, off the main thoroughfares, and it now seemed unnaturally quiet after the noise and energy of Corso Garibaldi.

In the Middle Ages, via Darsena was where the docks used to be. In time, the docks had silted up, the river had drawn back and the city had ceased to be an inland port. This stretch of arable land had become private orchards and then, when the Fascists had built the new Lungofiume in the early thirties, the entire zone had become an encircled oasis of trees and meadows.

In via Darsena, the air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and wet bricks.

The public gardens backed onto a large, whitewashed edifice, reluctantly Liberty in style, with sloping terracotta tiles and bas-relief ornamentation that had been flattened by many coats of white paint. 1891—the date stood out against the wall; and from behind the ground glass windows, there came the muted sound of children singing. The Mother of Mercy Institute for Deaf and Dumb Children. All the windows were closed. The sun was warming the puddles between the cobblestones as Trotti propped his bicycle against the wall of the gardens. A sign, neatly hammered into the dusty brickwork, exhorted the citizens to respect the public gardens and not to harm the plants and trees. Similarly they were asked not to introduce perambulators or bicycles into the gardens and not to leave litter. The city arms, a white cross on a red escutcheon, gave civic authority to the enamel sign.

Trotti pushed open the gates and entered the gardens. The grass had been allowed to grow and needed cutting except near the swings—painted an unexpected green and yellow—where the earth was worn bare. There was a water pump—again with the city arms in rusting bas-relief and the accompanying lictor’s fasces, emblem of the Fascist regime. A few empty benches and here and there scattered litter, wet sweet papers and cigarette packets slowly disintegrating. Playing desultorily near the wall of the Institute were three boys.