Converging Parallels (9 page)

Trotti could remember seeing them before the war.

On leaving the college, he cycled along the Lungo Po. The road was flat, there was a slight wind behind him and the white tires hissed on the surface of the road. It was nearly half past five. The air was warmer, the threatening grey clouds had disappeared. The sky was cloudless. Tomorrow it would be hot.

On the far side of the bridge, he stopped outside a tobacconist’s and leaned his bicycle against a lamppost. He went into the shop. A bell rang above his head as he was greeted by the dusty smell of black tobacco and licorice. The man behind the counter had a round head and hair the color of straw. He
was out of sweets, he said without looking up. “And I can’t give you any change.”

“I don’t want change.” Trotti placed a five hundred lire note on the dish which advertised—incongruously, he thought—fodder for cattle and fowl. “I want five packets of sweets.”

The man looked up and was apologetic. “They come in here, you see, and they all want change. They think I’ve got change because I’ve got a public telephone. But believe me, coins are hard to come by and I can’t keep running backwards and forwards to the banks. And anyway, the banks won’t give you coins any more. They’ve all been taken, the fifty lire pieces and the hundred lire pieces. Gone to Japan to make watches.” From under the counter he produced a carton of pineapple-flavored sweets. “In France and Germany they’ve got change. It’s only us, the Italians, who have to put up with this absurdity. The tourists laugh at us, you know. ‘No small change?’ they say.
‘Nix gut.’
 ”

“I don’t really like pineapple.”

“I can’t give you any change,” the man said unhelpfully as he shook his head.

“Give me two packets.” Trotti moved towards a rack of postcards. “And I’ll take a couple of these.” He took two views of the Sforzesco castle.

The man put the sweets in a bag—which advertised the same brand of animal fodder. “Four hundred and fifty lire. But I haven’t got cash. Another packet perhaps.”

“Keep the change.” Trotti left, the doorbell ringing after him.

The people of Borgo Genovese had the reputation of being tight-fisted.

Trotti put a sweet in his mouth and, taking his bicycle, he went along the path that led down between the shops to the river’s edge. The wheels slipped on the fresh mud of the incline. The rims were too wet for the brakes to function well. Trotti got off and, holding his bicycle by the saddle, he let it run down to the flat. Occasionally, the front wheel jumped as it hit a large pebble.

In the last two years, the banks of the river—and the river itself—had been made a natural park. It was the mayor’s idea.
All building projects had been halted and now waste water and sewage from the city went through purifiers before being recycled into the grey water of the Po.

He followed the edge of the river; from time to time he lifted the bicycle to step over the rails that ran from several boathouses down to the water’s edge. There were a few floating jetties, too, their grey wood bleached by the sun. As Trotti walked, a swarm of kayaks nosing upstream moved past him, the faint sound of people calling to each other.

The gypsy camp was partially hidden by a copse; the path moved away from the river towards the trees. Beneath Trotti’s shoes, the ground squelched and the bicycle left deep, overlapping tracks. For twenty meters the trees cut out much of the afternoon light; then he stepped out onto the grass field and into the sunshine.

There were a few caravans. Forming a loose square, they stood alone, deserted by the vehicles that once pulled them. The triangular trailer attachments rested against the grass.

It was a large, open field with trees on two sides and to the south, the high embankment of the Milan-Genoa motorway. The ceaseless hum of traffic was partly drowned by a cassette recorder; it stood on the top of a pile of tires and emitted a strange, harmonic music. Two young girls in dark red dresses that came down to their bare feet were dancing. They stopped suddenly when they saw Trotti. They stood as though petrified, their dark eyes following him distrustfully.

On up-ended boxes seven men were sitting round an open fire. Sparks jumped upwards towards the sky; the men sat forward, their forearms resting on their thighs. Several of them held glasses; they stopped talking and turned to watch Trotti approach.

Their clothes were worn. Shabby jackets that came no lower than the waist, felt hats pushed back on the head and boots without laces. Grey trousers, black trousers—they were shiny with wear and mud-stained where the edges rubbed against the boots.

Two Mercedes Benz Saloons stood apart. Gleaming, spotless, with their gunmetal finish, they looked like an advertisement
against the damp grass. They had oval German registration plates.

As though pulled by hidden strings, the two girls suddenly came alive again; they darted into a caravan, closing the battered door behind them. Trotti noticed the edge of a curtain move behind the caravan’s misted window.

Here and there across the grass there were bits of paper, car tools, a few plastic utensils and a broken doll.

He leaned his bicycle against a tree. “Dimitri.”

A man stood up. He had a narrow, worn face—a curve of thin wrinkles formed an arch above his mouth. He wore a felt hat; beneath the battered brim, the man’s hair was quite white and it hung in loose lanks down to the shoulders of his jacket.

They stood facing each other, a couple of meters apart.

“We had an agreement,” Trotti said.

The man opened a mouth full of gold teeth; he did not speak.

“I don’t want any of you going into the town, stealing from the shops.”

“They know.” He moved a pace closer. Trotti could smell his odor of wood smoke and old dirt. “They are young.”

“Don’t steal and you can stay—as long as you like. That was the agreement. You must keep your young people under control.”

The eyes were the same color as the band around the hat; they now sparkled. “We harm nobody.”

“In a half hour I can have you cleared out.”

“The young ones want”—he shrugged—“some pocket money.”

“They could work for it,” Trotti said. “All of you could work. You could settle down, buy houses—not cars.”

The man seemed amused. “That is not our way of life.”

“It is the way of other people.”

“We travel,” he said simply. “We know no other way.” He turned and nodded towards the caravans. “We are together, we are happy.”

“Other people have to work.”

“We work.” He folded his arms.

The cassette player wailed. No one was listening.

Trotti took the photograph from his pocket. “This girl—do you know her?”

With his arm stretched out as far as possible, Dimitri took the photograph. The hands were slightly greasy and he smeared it with his shapeless fingers. “Your daughter?”

“My goddaughter.”

The man nodded; a small bridge of compassion.

“I need information.”

Dimitri did not appear to understand. He moved back to his companions and, speaking in the strange language, handed them the photograph. The men stood round, some rising to their feet, each turning his neck. They spoke excitedly, they pointed. They shook their heads.

“They haven’t seen her.”

“If you see her, you must tell me.”

A woman appeared from beyond the caravans. She wore a satin floral bodice and a dark turquoise skirt down to her feet. High upon her chest, she held a child; dark hair, dark inquisitive eyes and tearstains down his sunburned face. The woman ran nimbly across the grass towards Trotti and began shouting at him. Her voice was harsh, her tongue grating against the palate. She gestured with her free hand towards the child she held; then she prodded at Trotti. Her dark finger touched his shirt.

“What does she want?”

Dimitri clicked his tongue and moved away.

“Tell her to be quiet.”

The woman continued shouting.

“Tell her to be quiet. What’s wrong with her, what does she want?”

A crowd of children was forming. They appeared from out of nowhere; smiling faces, dark lustrous hair, they were enjoying the entertainment. They held their hands against the sun and watched Trotti and the screaming woman.

“Tell her to go away. It was you that I wanted to speak to.” Trotti raised his voice. The men were watching him without any apparent emotion. He became aware of his own vulnerability.
In the distance the kayaks had now reached the bend in the river, the paddles hitting the water’s surface in silent unison.

“She wants her husband,” Dimitri said; he had now rejoined his companions. He put the stub of an old cigar in his mouth and took a cigarette lighter—Dupont or a very good imitation—from his pocket.

The girl was still prodding.

“I haven’t got her husband.”

Perhaps she understood Italian. She raised her voice yet louder and, hitching the child higher on her chest, she began to scream,
“Sotsul meu, sotsul meu.”
Her mouth was large with several teeth missing. She had a kind of prettiness but she was prematurely old.

The children clapped their hands in delight; the men, sitting round the campfire, stared with blank faces. They had rounded features and skin of a soft, oily texture.

“Her husband has done nothing wrong.”

“I know nothing about her husband.” Trotti was beginning to feel angry. And absurd, and perhaps even slightly ill at ease. He could not fend off the jabbing dark hand for fear of hurting the woman. The cars hummed past on the motorway; it was another world. He was alone, he was among strange people. He could have been in a foreign country.

“Sotsul meu.”

A foolish dog barked angrily from the end of its short chain.

Dimitri spoke with the woman, who answered him in the same high scream.

“She says your friend took him.”

“Which friend?”

Dimitri asked the woman and then translated, “The man with the car. He came an hour ago; over there.” He pointed towards Borgo Genovese.

“I know absolutely nothing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dimitri shrugged.

“In uniform?”

Again Dimitri translated, “Yes.”

The woman was now wailing; a keening cry of lamentation.
The children ceased to smile. She fell slowly to her knees, still holding the little boy.

The other men stood up. They moved towards Trotti. Their arms hung loose at their sides. One—he had a cold face and a drooping nose—wore a corduroy jacket. The men looked at Trotti. Blank faces, dark eyes and a cold, concealed anger. The woman was screaming on a single, high-pitched note. Trotti looked about. The kayaks had moved out of sight. The traffic continued to rumble with distant indifference.

It was then that Pisanelli arrived.

He came in an Alfetta and skidded on the muddy track that ran down from the road. He parked the car alongside the two Mercedes and got out. He smiled sheepishly and raised his hand in a vague salute towards Trotti.

L
ATER THEY SAT
in the car while over the radio the woman’s voice scratched unnecessarily. From time to time, Pisanelli picked up the microphone and spoke softly, almost apologetically, into the black wire mesh.

“He’s a fool,” Trotti said.

“Who?”

“Spadano. He’s a fool.”

Pisanelli was wearing an expensive hide jacket over a blue shirt. Well dressed; dark blue trousers and polished shoes. But his shoulders sloped and his long hair needed combing. It was generally believed that Pisanelli had once studied to become a doctor. The hands which now held the steering wheel were certainly long; and the fingers were delicate. A bright young man and—this was Trotti’s opinion—someone who would go far once he made up his mind that he wanted to be a policeman. Pisanelli had the reputation of being intelligent—but also of being absent-minded, of being a dreamer.

The sun was sinking to the west beyond the river and the row of gaunt cypress trees on the far bank. The sky was quite clear and of an unreal blue.

Trotti was staring at the caravans. “We can’t afford to arrest anybody. Spadano knows that.”

“The Carabinieri see things differently.” There was a light powder of dandruff his shoulders.

“The Carabinieri think that brute honesty and the book of rules are a substitute for common sense.” Trotti bit his lip. Through the windscreen he watched the two girls who had come out of the caravan and now stood hand in hand looking at the police car.

“Is that what you wanted me for?”

Trotti turned sharply.

“About the gypsies, I mean,” Pisanelli said and smiled feebly. He had a small chin and a half-hearted mustache the color of twigs. “I brought the file.”

“And you didn’t look at it?”

“I wasn’t told to.” He took the file from the back seat and handed it to Trotti. Trotti untied the string and opened the beige cardboard cover. He held out the photographs.

“You know them?”

Pisanelli shook his head and behind him, against the sky, a sheet of metal on the dome of the cathedral caught a ray of the sun’s light. The distant square shone brightly, like a dazzling headlamp. Trotti blinked. “Because you soon will. I want you to do a twenty-four hour surveillance. You and di Bono.”

“Who are they?”

“The Red Brigades.”

Pisanelli smiled foolishly. “And who have they assassinated?”

“No one.”

“What have they done wrong?”

“That doesn’t concern you.” Trotti was terse and immediately he regretted it. “In my opinion, they have done nothing.”

Pisanelli coughed politely. “I see.”

“You don’t see anything—and neither do I. This is all Leonardelli’s idea. He wants no scandal that could possibly harm the smooth running of the city.”

Pisanelli was leaning back, looking at the padded roof of the car. “Or his personal prestige.” He spoke quite flatly.

“Keep them under surveillance round the clock. And you must be quite invisible. Apparently the NP are on to them, and I don’t want the NP watching you, too—and then complaining to the Prefetto about the deliberate lack of coordination between
PS and Carabinieri. And they’d be justified, too, because we shouldn’t be wasting our time with political surveillance.”