Converging Parallels (8 page)

“Pubblica Sicurezza?”

Trotti recognized the weary look of resignation.

“Squadra Mobile.”

“If it’s about Giovanni—well, there are explanations.” She lowered the large flask to the floor.

“Enough.” He held up his hand. “Signora, I have not come
to spy on you. We are friends, we are from the same part of the world.” He smiled. “I need your help.”

She visibly relaxed. “What help?”

“I am looking for a child.”

“Your own child?”

“The daughter of a friend. She may have been kidnapped.” He took a photograph from his wallet. Ermagni had given it to him; the white edges were dog-eared. Anna—it had been taken the year before at San Remo—sat cross-legged on the beach. One hand was placed on an inflatable plastic beach ball, red, white and green. She stared unsmiling into the camera; in the background, on the deep blue of the Mediterranean, a couple of pedalo boats approached the beach. Anna stared seriously. She wore a minute green bikini.

“When, Commissario?”

“Yesterday afternoon, at about half past four. From the public gardens opposite.”

“O dio mio.”

“Outside I noticed all the blinds and windows are open. I was wondering whether perhaps anybody here might’ve seen something.”

“How old?”

“About six. She is my goddaughter.”

The large woman was shaking her head. “We live in an evil age, Commissario, in an evil age. You know, the young, they say many bad things about Mussolini. And there were bad things—like when they made Andrea Pozzon drink castor oil and he was only a poor half-wit and wouldn’t have hurt a lizard. But I don’t think Mussolini knew about these things—there were so many things they hid from him. The Duce was a good man and in those days—you can remember—in those days you could leave your door open and nobody would take anything. There were no crimes then.”

“Not among the poor people.”

“We are Italians, we are poor people. With the Duce, there was none of this crime. The robbery, the violence, the kidnapping.” She made a clicking noise with her false teeth. “Look at poor Moro, look what they do to him and he is a good man. A
pious man, a wise man and close to the Church. May God help him”—she crossed herself, the chapped hands lightly touching her pendulous chest—“because the politicians won’t. What we need is another Duce, Commissario.”

“Perhaps.”

They stood for a few seconds, looking at each other in silence. Then the woman sighed. “The poor little baby girl. And her mother?”

“Her mother is dead.”

“In this world and in this life, there are some people who suffer always.” And she screwed up her eyes. “While there are others who never suffer, who live only too well. They do no work and they always have money.” She filled her glass with pinot. “Another Duce, Commissario, we need another Duce.” She emptied the contents of the glass.

She put the two glasses in a shallow sink. “Talk with Dottor Clerice. He lives upstairs on the second floor—on the street side. He is normally in during the afternoon. A nice young man.” With her hand, she pushed Trotti gently aside and looked at the bank of name plates and electronic buttons, all in stainless steel and out of keeping with the drabness of the kitchen. A single red light was on, opposite a large number 37. “Dr. Clerice is in his room now. Why not go up and speak with him?”

“A good idea.”

She led him out of the kitchen. “The third floor.” She pointed towards a flight of steps at the further end of the hall. Her outstretched arm was laced with the pale lines of veins.

He thanked her, crossed the hall and went up the stairs. A green carpet, thick with pile, covered the cold marble of the stairs. The walls had been plastered. He went up three flights of stairs and found himself on a landing.

“Over here, Commissario.”

A man beckoned to him; he was standing by the wooden balustrade. He was not very tall and rather stocky. Dark hair fell across the forehead. Black eyebrows, long dark lashes and a hint of expensive eau de cologne. A fresh face of a young man just out of adolescence.

“Dottor Clerice.” He held out his hand.

Taking it—the grip was firm, friendly—Trotti enquired, “How do you know my name?”

“Your name?” Clerice’s face opened into a smile. “Because the concierge told me.”

“Told you?”

“Over the internal telephone.” He directed Trotti through an open door and pointed to a telephone attached to the wall. “That connects with the concierge’s office.”

The room was small, tidy, with the same thick carpet of the stairway. The fittings were of dark mahogany. A bed with a spotless counterpane and above it, on the wall, a wooden crucifix. A reading lamp, standing on the desk, threw its circle of light on to an opened text book. Human anatomy; Trotti caught sight of a couple of flesh-colored photographs.

“This is where I study and sleep.”

“And pray?”

Several devotional paintings, somber and in the style of the nineteenth century, hung from the far wall. And on the desk, another crucifix. The bare steel cross glinted in the light of the reading lamp.

Clerice was wearing a beige, sleeveless sweater over his open-necked shirt. “I am a Communist, Commissario. Certain compromises are necessary—indeed, they can be very sensible. This is a postgraduate college for Catholic gentlemen. And rooms for Catholic gentlemen are a lot cheaper than any private lodging I can find in town. The beds are made, the rooms are swept and we can eat for a very reasonable cost in the refectory of the undergraduate section of Sant’Antonio.” He raised his shoulders, still smiling. “If Paris was worth a Mass …”

Trotti frowned.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? I have some Earl Grey that my mother brought back from London.”

“I have already drunk too much. The lady downstairs has some interesting homemade wine.”

“She is a good woman.” Clerice’s lips were thick and of a dark red. “She works hard.”

Trotti nodded.

“How can I help you then, Commissario?” He gestured towards a couple of straight-backed armchairs. “Please be seated.”

Trotti lowered himself onto the side of the bed and let his hands hang slightly between his legs. His head felt like putty. “Perhaps coffee if you’ve got some.”

There was a little kitchen built into the corner of the room. Clerice spent the next few minutes screwing and unscrewing a tiny espresso machine. He poured in water from a sink and added several heaped spoonfuls of coffee.

The window was open but not much daylight entered the room. The lace curtain fluttered outwards into the air.

“Sugar?”

“No thanks.” The coffee was good; black, strong and slightly bitter. Trotti placed the cup on the carpet and offered a sweet to Clerice, who shook his head. “I prefer to keep the taste of coffee in my mouth.”

They smiled at each other. The doctor—he was twenty-four, twenty-five—was young enough to be Trotti’s son. It was the smile that Trotti liked.

“I find that good coffee is necessary after a night in the emergency ward.”

“You are working nights at the moment?”

“You could say that, I suppose. More like standing in. As an observer. I haven’t got enough confidence in my skills yet. I don’t trust myself with a scalpel.”

“You’ve been trained?”

“I spent seven years at university—if that’s what you mean—but I wouldn’t say that I’ve been trained. Oh, I know about the circulation of the blood and the basics. But this is Italy, Commissario. Big classes at the university—sometimes four hundred students in an amphitheater built for fifty. And if there are four hundred students present, that means there are a thousand doing the course. University lecturers who haven’t got the time—or the inclination—to dedicate much time to teaching. You see, the best people want to be at the university because
that’s good for their brass nameplates. Then—they can ask more for private consultation. Private practice, Commissario—that’s where the real money is.”

“And what’s your specialty?”

“Surgeon.”

“And you had no practical training in seven years?” Trotti was puzzled. “On night duty—who does your work?”

“What work?”

“The cutting and the sawing and the sewing.”

“Oh, that!” There was something sad about his smile. “The nurses.”

“They’re not qualified.”

“As I said, this is Italy. Do you want the casualties to die? Because that’s what’d happen if I got my hands on them. For the time being, at least. You see, I’m getting my first practical training now. And I’m one of the lucky ones—the professor seemed to like me and he managed to get me a place in the hospital. All students want to get into the hospital to get a real training. About one student in twenty is accepted. There just aren’t the places.”

“I’ll make a point of not coming to the hospital for treatment.”

“You’re better off at our Policlinico than in most Italian hospitals. In most places you can go in with a broken arm and come out with glandular fever.” He shrugged modestly. “And I’m not all that bad. I’ve done a few things—a few childbirths, even a caesarean. And …” He opened a bedside drawer and fumbled around. “I can’t find it but there should be an appendix around somewhere. All my own work.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m sure I left it here. Perhaps Tania took it.”

“Tania?”

“A friend.”

“She has strange tastes.”

“She wasn’t going to eat it. She likes to tidy up.”

They looked at each other without speaking. The corner of Clerice’s mouth twitched as though he wanted to laugh. “Commissario, how can I help you?” He paused. “Don’t tell me it’s
about somebody I’ve slaughtered. The old lady with cystitis? Or the Neapolitan with piles? Terminal hemorrhoids.”

“I’m looking into the disappearance of a child.” He produced the photograph and while the young doctor looked at the picture, Trotti moved past him and went to the window. It looked down onto the intersection of via Darsena and vicolo Lotario. The three boys were still in the public gardens; the two older ones were striking the trunk of a tree. The small boy stood slightly apart, his head bowed. “Yesterday afternoon,” Trotti said, “at about this time, the girl you’re looking at disappeared from the gardens opposite. Were you at home?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?” Trotti turned round, his hand still holding the billowing edge of the curtain.

“Sleeping. Or at least, I think so. I normally get back at about one. Then by the time I’ve eaten, I feel tired. I need to sleep.” He scratched at the side of his head where the dark hair met his cheek. “At this time yesterday I was sleeping.”

“You’re not sleeping now and the bed is still made up.”

“I’m waiting for you to go, Commissario.”

The atmosphere had changed. It had suddenly grown a lot colder and Trotti knew it was his fault. A young man—an innocent, law-abiding doctor—and he was treating him like a criminal. He could hear the professional disbelief in his own voice, the flat, untrusting monotonous questions of a questurino.

“You didn’t get up at any time to go to the window? You didn’t look out onto the public gardens?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t notice anything suspicious?”

“I was asleep, Commissario.” The smile had lost its friendliness, the corner of the red lips remained still. “And with your permission, I’d like to sleep now.” Even as he spoke Clerice pulled back the bed sheets and started closing the blinds.

“I shall go then,” Trotti said emptily.

They shook hands. No smile. As the door closed behind him, Trotti heard the key turning in the lock.

He went down the stairs slowly. In the main hall, the door to
the concierge’s apartment was open but she was nowhere to be seen. The smell of boiled vegetables was strong.

Trotti was about to leave when he noticed the telephone call box in a shallow alcove. He took a token from his wallet, dialed. The phone was picked up immediately.

“Gino?”

“Questura.”

“It’s Trotti.”

Gino laughed. “Where are you?”

“Never you mind.”

“The Avvocato Romano phoned again for you.”

“Is Magagna back?”

“No.”

“Well, who is there?”

“Pisanelli. He came back half an hour ago.”

“Okay.” Trotti clicked his tongue. “Tell him I want him. Tell him to take the yellow folder from my desk and to come in a car. I’ll be at the gypsy camp in twenty minutes and I don’t want him to be late. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Trotti hung up.

He found another token in his hip pocket. He dialed and as the phone was picked up at the other end of the line, the token clattered noisily within the machine.

“Pronto.”

Pioppi.

“Papa here. Is mother back yet?”

“Where are you calling from, Papa? Are you coming home for supper?”

“If I’m late, eat by yourself. Take something from the freezer.”

Pioppi’s voice was lower. “Mother’s not here.” There was a note of reproach and Trotti did not know who it was directed at. “Please hurry back, Papa. You know I don’t like being alone.”

“Do your homework. And if you want, you can watch television.”

“I’m lonely.”

“I’ll be back later, Pioppi. Ciao, ciao.”

He lowered the telephone gently and moved out of the alcove.

“Commissario!”

With heavy splayed movements of her legs, the concierge was coming towards him. She brushed the hair from out of her eyes. She was smiling and in her hand she held a bulging plastic bag. “For you, Commissario.”

“What?”

She handed him the bag. “Freshly cut from the garden. Giovanni’s best—no insecticides and no fertilizers.”

He looked into the bag; it was full of green lettuce.

“It is for your wife. I’m sure she must be very beautiful, being married to a nice man like you. And a good man. Get her to make you a nice salad—with fresh eggs and olive oil.”

Trotti took the bag, thanked her and left the college.

T
HE WOMEN OF
Borgo Genovese wore black dresses and they used to come down to the river to wash their dirty linen. Now everybody had a washing machine and the women had disappeared. However, there were still the old photographs. They stood, their backs to the camera, beating the sheets against the pebbles of the Po; in the background, the city rising up from the river and on the horizon, the majestic dome of the cathedral. Now an enterprising baker used one of the ancient photographs as decoration on his packages. He had a smart shop in Strada Nuova and around Easter time, his sponge cakes—liberally dusted with icing sugar—could be bought in boxes and on the lid, a sepia tinted reproduction of the old women.