Converging Parallels (7 page)

There was no one else in the gardens.

Trotti approached the boys. “Ciao,” he said and smiled. They were about eight years old, perhaps slightly older. They moved away. One held a branch; it was wet with fresh sap and had clearly just been pulled from a tree.

“We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I want to talk with you.”

They edged further away, their dark eyes looking at him. Only the smallest hesitated; his body wanted to follow his companions while his feet remained motionless on the ground.

“Ciao,” Trotti said, looking directly at him. He was blond
and had large, brown eyes the color of chocolate. His clear skin was smeared with dirt and his fingers were grubby.

The child replied, “Ciao,” unsurely.

“I’m a friend and I need some help. Perhaps you can help me.”

The others had stopped and the tallest now looked distrustfully at Trotti. “What do you want?” His hair was cut in a mop that fell across his eyes; across his T-shirt, an advertisement for San Pellegrino mineral water. He held the stick in both hands. “You can’t do anything to us.”

Trotti kept his eyes on the small boy. “We can play a game and you can earn some money. I want to ask you a few questions.”

The child spoke with a lisp, “We’re not supposed to speak to strangers.”

The third boy had a black eye, mud in his hair and his lips were bruised; his jeans were ripped at the knee. “We don’t know you.” He had cunning eyes.

“I am a detective, a police detective.” He held out his identification and let them touch the wallet, their dirty small fingers touching inquisitively at the perspex. “I work for the government.”

The small boy spoke solemnly, “Papa says there is no government in Italy.”

“I know you all have a good memory—and here.” He took a thousand lire from his pocket. “You can share this if you help me. I’m looking for a girl.”

“We don’t like girls,” one said and the others nodded.

“I know how you feel. But she is very nice—I think she is a bit younger than you. Anna—her name is Anna.”

They shook their heads; the boy with the bruised lips stared at the note in Trotti’s hand.

Trotti waited without speaking; he watched the youngest boy and saw the doubt clouding his brown eyes.

“Has something happened to her?” He lisped slowly; his smooth forehead was puckered. “Something bad?”

“I don’t know—that’s why I need your help.”

“Is she safe?”

“She may be. I hope so. You see, I don’t know what’s happened
to her. I want to know where she could have gotten to. Did any of you see her?”

The tall boy folded his arms. “We don’t play with girls.”

“Has she got black hair?” the youngest asked hesitantly. “And bangs, like this?” He put his hand to his forehead.

Trotti felt a surge of excitement. “You saw her?”

“She was playing over there. By the pump on the bench. She always plays there with her friends.” With false scorn, he added, “They think they are nurses.”

“She was playing with them yesterday?”

The two other boys nodded.

“We were playing commandos. Then there was a big noise outside.” His outstretched arm indicated Corso Garibaldi, beyond the Institute. “And the others went off. I’m not allowed to leave. Mama says I must not. Then I saw her go off.”

“Who?”

“The little girl. I saw her go away. Normally there’s an old lady who comes to fetch her. She sits over there knitting. She gets angry if we throw stones and she tells us off.”

The other boys giggled.

“I don’t like the old woman.”

“What happened yesterday?” Trotti was confused.

“There was the man. He’s very big and he’s got funny eyes that look at you. I think he’s her father because he comes when the old woman is not here. Often he just sits there staring. But when he heard the noise, he went outside. When he came back, she was gone.”

“Gone?”

“We didn’t see anything,” the tallest interrupted.

“I did.” The youngest turned on him. “I didn’t go out and I saw. I saw what happened.” He had lost his lisp.

“What did you see?”

“There was a man,” he said defiantly.

“What sort of man?”

“A man.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I heard him calling. Her name is Anna, isn’t it?” The small child blushed slightly.

“How old was he, this man? What did he look like?”

He hesitated. “He was really old, I think. Like you.”

“And Anna went with him?”

“I think so.” He bowed his head.

“Did you tell the father this? He was worried. You should have told him.”

“Mama came and I had to leave.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know.”

Trotti handed the boy the banknote but he clenched his fist and would not take it. He shook his head.

Trotti spoke softly, “This man who was calling Anna—where was he standing?”

The child stared at his shoes. “By the gate,” he mumbled.

“And what’s your name? You’re being very helpful, you know. Take the money.”

He shook his head.

The boy with the bruised lips answered, his voice jeering. “His name is Antonio Bennetti and he lives in via Varese, thirty-two, and he is in love with a stupid girl.”

A deep crimson blush crept over Antonio’s face, tinting even the small ears. “I’m not in love, I’m not in love! So shut up!”

“Don’t worry, Toni,” Trotti said quietly and placed a hand on the blond head. “Don’t worry, Anna will be all right.” The narrow shoulders had begun to heave beneath the T-shirt. Two tears, one after the other, fell onto the grass.

“She’s safe, isn’t she?”

“Of course,” Trotti said, “of course,” trying to convince the little boy.

And himself.

L
EAVING THE GARDENS
, Trotti looked up. Open blinds, like eyes, peered down from the high wall opposite. The plaster surface had been recently painted a dark brown and the woodwork of the windows was newly restored. As he came out of the gates, Trotti was surprised to see that the lower parts of the wall had not yet been defaced with the habitual slogans in scrawling paint. Clearly this was a quiet part of the town.

The sky had darkened again and the old man who pedaled past held an opened umbrella in one hand while he steered his bicycle carefully over the irregular cobbles. A pessimist, Trotti thought, until a cold drop of rain fell onto his neck.

At some of the windows above, lace curtains billowed in the breeze.

A heavy marble stone freshly engraved and polished had been embedded into the wall at eye-level.
Collegio Sant’Antonio di Padova
in flowing italic letters and a coat of arms. In smaller letters:
SEZIONE LAUREATI
.

Trotti was standing before a large wooden gateway; the dark varnish looked so new and its smell was so fresh that Trotti was afraid to smear his fingers. The doorbell was to one side, a row of individual buttons and neat iron slats hiding a mouthpiece. He rang one of the bells at random; a scratching voice called angrily through the mouthpiece, a click and a door—part of
the larger doorway and cut into it—swung open. Trotti had to bend to step through.

He found himself in a large hall. The floor was of gleaming marble with deep veins running through it like gorgonzola. The surface reflected the grey afternoon light. The far wall was a series of parallel jute blinds partially hiding a vast floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the window, Trotti could make out an enclosed courtyard.

“A nice place.”

“Can I help you?” A woman approached him. She was short and large and as she waddled across the brilliant floor, her legs seemed to be pulled by her flat cloth slippers.

“Dottor Trotti.”

He held out his hand. The woman hesitated, glancing distrustfully at his face. She put her hand to the back of her squat neck and then rubbed the same hand on the floral pattern of her apron. Then they shook hands—hers was hot and damp—and she nodded, her eyes not leaving his. She had a large face, rather pale. Two parallel lines, old white scars, ran down either side of her chin; the bulging skin graft gave her the appearance of an ageing ventriloquist’s dummy. Her hair formed an unkempt halo about her head.

“You are looking for someone, Dottore?”

“Perhaps. I have never been here before.”

“It used to be a convent.” She had a rasping voice. “But it has been converted—to the tune of three hundred million lire.” She pointed upwards and Trotti looked at the ceiling. Ancient wooden rafters, newly conditioned and varnished, held up the criss-crossing timbers. “This is the annex to the Sant’Antonio.” Her eyes returned to his. “Nothing but the best for the young gentlemen.”

“Which young gentlemen?”

“The doctors and the lawyers—the young graduates.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nowadays everybody is in a hurry.” She crossed her arms. “Give me time to explain.”

Trotti smiled. “Please explain, signora.”

“This is where they come, the young men. After they have
finished their studies at the university and they are embarking upon their new careers. Young doctors doing their internship—or lawyers looking for their first job. For the most part they are old students of Sant’Antonio—the main college is across the fields,” and with a wave of her hand, she indicated vaguely beyond the quiet courtyard.

“It’s a Catholic college, isn’t it? With scholarships for gifted boys?”

“That’s right.”

“There was an inauguration in March? I remember reading about it in the paper.”

“By the Bishop of Milan—he’s an old boy of the college.” When she smiled, she revealed a straight line of false teeth. Her face was softly wrinkled with the lines of a lifetime’s work. “And my son, too.”

“He’s a bishop?”

She put a hand to her mouth to hide the silent laughter. “Of course not, Dottore. My son is a student at the Sant’Antonio and he’s only got three more exams to sit and his thesis before he graduates. He’s on a scholarship, of course—for we are poor people. But he’s a clever boy—though I say it myself—and I think the dean of the college has taken a shine to him.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how I got the job.”

“What job?”

“For seventeen years I was in a school canteen.” She gestured towards the marble floor, the dark wooden fittings and the jute blinds. “It’s a lot nicer here and I’m my own boss. My husband is already beyond retirement age.” She tapped her ample chest. “I’m the concierge.”

Trotti tried not to smile; she pronounced the word according to Italian orthography, con-cherdge.

“Of course he has to help me with the housework—making the young gentlemen’s beds and the sweeping. I’m not as young as I once used to be and I’ve got my troubles. I have to go to the hospital, you know. Dr. Gallese—he’s very good.” She added, somewhat ominously, “Women’s troubles.”

Trotti nodded sympathetically.

“You’d care to sit down?” She nodded towards a couple of low armchairs isolated in the empty hall; their reflection was caught by the polished marble. “You lecture at the university, Dottore?”

“No.”

There was an awkward silence. The woman looked at him expectantly but her smile, deformed by the double scar on her chin, was nervous. She was slightly ill at ease, Trotti thought, as though she expected him to break bad news—as though she expected all strangers to break bad news.

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s in the garden—Giovanni’s in the garden with the lettuces. We have a little patch for ourselves, radishes and salad and runner beans. Sometimes I think Giovanni would be happier married to a lettuce patch and then”—the pale skin blushed—“I don’t think he would.” She smiled. “We had four children but only one is still alive. Giovanni is a good husband.” She stopped short and gave Trotti a searching look. “Has Giovanni done … Has he …?”

Trotti laughed. “Nothing, signora, nothing.”

“Sometimes he likes the ladies too much—even at his age.”

Trotti placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He spoke in the dialect: “You are from the hills?”

“O, dio mio!” The false teeth slipped out of place. “How can you tell?”

“An accent you can cut with a knife, signora. San Michele in Collina?”

“Santa Maria,” she said and gave him a proud smile.

Trotti laughed.

“You know it?” Her eyebrows were raised in astonishment.

“Do you know my Aunt Anastasia? And Uncle Vincenzo?”

“Vincenzo Trotti—Tino—who worked in the post office until he won the football pools?”

“He now lives in a large villa on the edge of the town and plays dominoes with all the old men while he waits for his own contemporaries to retire.”

“And a wife, Anastasia, who spends all her time in church
lighting candles and then spreads scandal behind your back—a pious old hypocrite.” The mouth snapped shut. “Oh, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. It’s quite true.”

They both laughed; then, brusquely, she took him by the arm and saying, “Come, come,” she pulled him into her little apartment.

It was a couple of small rooms off the luxurious hall; by comparison, everything was tawdry. Something was cooking on the gas stove and the windows were steamed up. The floor was of bare concrete and the furnishings were old and inelegant.

She pushed him into the kitchen and set him down on a stool before a plastic-topped table. “Here.” From under the table, she hauled up a demijohn in a wicker flask. “Pinot—from the hills.” She poured red wine into two glasses and they drank—she noisily.

“Do you go home?” she asked, wiping her lips.

“I’m originally from Acquanera—five kilometers down the road from Santa Maria.” He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You have a family?”

“I married a girl from the city.”

“Pretty?”

“Very.” He lifted his glass. “Salute.” He finished the wine and placed the glass on the table.

“And what,” the woman asked, about to pour more wine into his glass, “brings you here?” She was not looking at him.

“A thousand thanks.” He placed a hand across the top. “I am on duty.”

“Duty?”

“I am Commissario Trotti of the Pubblica Sicurezza.”

A few drops of wine fell from the neck of the demijohn on to the table.