Persona Non Grata (21 page)

There was a folded blanket in the wardrobe. He took the blanket and, opening it, placed it on the smooth bedsheets.

“Afraid I’m going to be cold?”

“I sleep with the window open.”

“You think this is all a trick, don’t you? You think I just want to sleep with you.”

“An old man with a broken rib?”

“I don’t like that room—and I don’t like being alone.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“There was a man—of that I am certain.” She pulled the shawl to her throat. “I saw him in the Roman arena. He had a program in front of his face but he was watching us. It was
like a gimlet in my back. And when we left, I am certain he followed us.”

“Nobody knows we’re here.”

She climbed into bed.

Trotti waited until she had pulled the blanket up over her shoulders before turning out the bedside lamp.

Outside the occasional car and the permanent, lulling rush of the Adige, swollen with the first autumnal rains, running towards the sea.

Signora Bianchini spoke. She had turned in the opposite direction and her voice was muffled.

“Please try to sleep, signora.”

“I’m not scared here.” She moved her head on the pillow. “Not here with you.”

Trotti stared at the ceiling, at the reflected lights of the city moving towards the lightbulb.

“It is kind of you to put up with me like this.” A light laugh. “There are times when you are almost human.”

“Thanks.”

“And then there are times when you are worse than a monster.”

“I should like to sleep, signora.”

“That’s what you need …” Her voice part muffled by the pillow. “You need someone to look after you.”

“Signora …”

“You’ve never thought of getting married again, Commissario?”

“There will be time enough in the morning for matrimonial counselling.”

“Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are interested in me as a woman but—”

“Interested in getting some rest.”

“You really don’t like me?”

He turned his head.

“You don’t like me, do you, Commissario?”

He could see the whiteness of her face and the shadows of her eyes.

“That’s not what Brigadiere Ciuffi thought.”

“The dead girl?”

“Ciuffi didn’t like the way I ate your truffles.” He propped himself up on an elbow and switched on the bedside lamp. It threw its pink glow over the neat hotel room.

Signora Bianchini was smiling.

“Please, signora, let me get some sleep.”

“You talk like an old man.”

“If it is necessary, I will go and sleep in your bedroom.”

“Stay with me, Commissario. I am scared.”

“You must keep quiet.” He switched off the lamp. “Goodnight, signora.”

“I am cold.”

A sigh of exasperation. “I will close the window.”

“You don’t understand.”

“It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

“You see people as enigmas—or as numbers. But you don’t see them as human beings. A woman is not a machine—a woman is a human being who needs affection.”

“Goodnight, Signora Bianchini.”

“Why did you bring me here, Commissario? Two days in your company—and I still don’t know what you want.”

“I want to sleep.”

“A stubborn man.” Signora Bianchini sat up in her bed. “You are not making things any easier for me. Can’t I—”

There was a light knocking on the hotel door.

Signora Bianchini held the bedsheet to her throat.

A man’s voice. “Are you there, Trotti?”

“A
TURD
.”

“Why?”

Soldati laughed. Not a pleasant laugh but a laugh that turned down the corners of the small, bruised mouth. Short lips, dark stubble and furtive eyes whose glance, behind the smudged glass, darted from Trotti’s face to the continual flow of customers.

“Why is Galandra a turd?” Trotti glanced down. The digital readout registered two units.

“Haven’t seen him in more than three years.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“At first he was all right—but that was when he was new in Santa Cecilia.” A grim smile behind the glass. “That was before I found out what he was really like.”

“What sort of person is he?”

“A turd.”

Trotti tightened his hold on the mouthpiece. “Why didn’t you like him?”

“I just told you that at first he was okay.”

“Then what happened?”

A pause.

Trotti repeated his question. “What happened?”

“The English journalist said you were going to pay me.”

“Of course.”

“Three hundred and fifty.”

“Tell me about Galandra, Soldati.”

“You’re going to pay me?”

“If you don’t give the information, I won’t pay anything.”

“I can tell you all that you need to know.”

“Hurry up, Soldati,” Trotti said tersely. “I’m paying for this call.”

A harsh, rasping laugh. “The Pubblica Sicurezza can afford that, I think.”

From the other side of the glass, Trotti saw the man’s eyes wrinkle in amusement. A face that was neither cunning nor stupid. A face that was pale from a life spent indoors.

Trotti waited, but there was just the crackle over the line.

“You shared a cell with him, Soldati?”

“Too damned cramped.”

“How long were you together?”

“Together?”

“You and Galandra?”

“We got on well—until the fight.”

“How long were you in the same cell?”

“On and off for over two years.”

“What was the fight about?”

“I cut him a bit.”

Three units and the colons blinked with each second.

“What for?”

“Nothing serious. But he deserved it.” The same laugh. “I didn’t even leave a scar.”

“Why did you fight with Galandra, Soldati?”

“My name is Signor Soldati.”

Although the two cabins were less than five meters apart, the line was far from good and it was only by looking at Soldati and seeing the movement of his lips that Trotti could understand what the man was saying.

“Signor Soldati, why did you fight with Galandra?”

“At least he wasn’t a queer.” A derisive gesture of the free hand to his ear. “Then I’d’ve cut his balls off.”

“Why did you fight?”

“Because he was a two-faced bastard, that’s why.”

“What did he do to you?”

“No more than what he did to everybody else.” A spitting sound. “A bastard, a sly bastard.”

“Did Galandra tell you about the plasma—about how he’d been watering down blood at the Policlinico?”

“He said it was a frame-up.”

“And you believed him?”

“I told you—Galandra was a turd.”

Four units, in a blinking quartz green.

“Did Galandra ever mention Vardin?”

“Who?”

“Vardin? The porter at the AVIS institute?”

“You mean the plasma thing?”

Trotti nodded.

People—young men in their uniform tight jeans and several tourists in bright summer clothes—were forming a queue at the cash counter. Trotti’s view of the other man was blocked. “Yes, the plasma thing.”

“He said it was a frame-up.”

“What was a frame-up?”

“He was going to get his revenge.”

The queue at the counter moved forward, letting Trotti catch sight of Soldati again. The pale face was looking at Trotti.

“Galandra told you he was going to get his revenge?”

“After the riot, I didn’t believe anything he said.” A pause. “A turd and a liar.”

“But he told you about Vardin?”

“After the riot there were a lot of people who wanted to get even with your friend.”

Trotti said, “Galandra is not my friend.”

“Policemen are turds.”

“A different class of turd, Signor Soldati.”

“But still turds.”

“You want the money?”

A cough.

“The choice is yours—three hundred and fifty or else I put this telephone down.”

“The journalist said you would pay me.” He added lamely, “I need that money.”

“You must tell me the truth.”

“Not my fault if I hate the bastard. He would use anybody if there was something in it for him. He’d sell his own mother.” A click of the tongue. “Galandra’s a turd.”

“What did Galandra say about Vardin?”

“You’ve got the three hundred and fifty thousand lire?” The voice was ingratiating.

“Of course.”

“The journalist didn’t say you were with the Pubblica Sicurezza. Not that I care, of course—but it’s just that—”

“You’ll be paid. Just tell me what you know.”

“He always lied.”

“Galandra?”

A nod from the other side of the glass. “We thought that he was with us. When there was first talk of a demonstration—you ever been inside, you know what the food is like? But I keep forgetting you’re a turd of a cop.”

“A turd with money in his pocket.”

“Things were getting impossible at Santa Cecilia, people were falling ill because they weren’t getting a decent meal. And when there was talk of taking action, Galandra was in the front line.” A dry laugh. “Oh, yes—he was all for doing something. He was good at talking. And after talking to us, he talked to the warders. Galandra was the one who kept the warders informed.” He placed his hand on the glass window—pale, outspread fingers. “If you see Signor Galandra, you can tell him from me that he’d better keep out of my way. My way and the way of thirty or forty other old friends from Santa Cecilia.”

“He rioted?”

“Of course not—it was just part of his plan. What better way to get remission than by spying on his fellow prisoners?”

“And it worked?”

“He made a lot of enemies.”

“When did Galandra leave?”

“I was given an extra six months. You realize that? And you think it’s easy for a man to find a job after that?”

“When did Galandra get out?”

“He was hoping for remission—but I don’t know if he got it. After the riot, they sent him to Modena—he wasn’t safe at Santa Cecilia. The last I saw of him was about three years ago. And the extra six months—it was his fault.”

“Before you quarreled, what did he tell you about himself?”

“We didn’t quarrel—I didn’t see him after the riot. Because if I did, I would have perforated his rectum.”

“Did Galandra ever say what he was going to do once he got out?”

“A divorce.” The man had turned his back and was now speaking into the phone, with his shoulders hunched. The shoulders moved with amusement.

“But he didn’t say where he was going?”

“He’s got a sister, hasn’t he?”

“Where?”

“Get even on the bastard that had put him away. And then hole up with his sister in Bergamo. That’s what he said he would do. Get back some of the money he was owed.”

“Money he was owed?”

“They’d been working together. It was a business arrangement.”

“Who?”

“You knew that, didn’t you? They’d been working together.”

“Who was working with Galandra?”

“Working together and then the porter got greedy—or perhaps just plain scared. Either way, Galandra was set up. The bastard handed Galandra over, hook, line and sinker.” A laugh and a movement of the shoulders. “Unreliable—a liar and a spy, Galandra, and he would use anybody—but when the porter at the AVIS did the same thing to him, then he was furious. His so-called business associate.” More laughter. “God knows why you want to see Galandra.” A sound of spitting into the telephone. “One of the Creator’s mistakes.”

“Worse even than a cop?”

“A turd. A real turd.”

“V
ERMOUTH
?”

Trotti shook his head.

MacSmith shrugged his narrow shoulders, poured two glasses, then returned the cap to the sugar-encrusted bottle-top.

He drank. “So what are you going to do?”

“See Vardin.”

“Go back and you’ll be out of action. The Questore will see to that. He’ll make sure you stay put.” It was Spadano who spoke. He sat back in the leather armchair. He held his glass of vermouth in one hand. A cloud of smoke rose from the stub of his cigar. “The Questore’s not overjoyed by the way you’ve disappeared, Trotti.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Spadano laughed.

“Vardin lied,” Trotti said.

“So what?”

“All along Vardin knew who was behind the attack on his daughter.”

“Why does it bother you, Trotti?”

“It bothered Ciuffi.”

“Ciuffi’s dead.”

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“You’re not going to bring Ciuffi back to life.”

“Vardin is responsible for Ciuffi’s death. Because of his lies.”

Spadano shrugged.

“If I had had just the slightest inkling of what was happening, Ciuffi would be alive today.” Trotti turned from Spadano to MacSmith. “You can understand that?”

“You expect Vardin to tell you that he had collaborated with Galandra? Collaborated with a man who had just spent more than seven years in jail?”

“Vardin knew who attacked his child. He knew it was Galandra.”

“You’re not being realistic.”

“Ciuffi would still be alive.”

“Not realistic and enjoying wallowing in your guilt.”

“Ciuffi was killed because she was working for me.”

“How could you have known that Galandra was going to take a shot at Vardin?”

“I should’ve guessed.”

Spadano took the cigar from his mouth, blew smoke from his lips and then swallowed the remaining vermouth. His eyes remained on Trotti. “How were you supposed to know that Galandra would start shooting the minute you and Ciuffi turned up?”

Trotti stood up and went to the window, breathing in the fresh air.

MacSmith’s apartment was at the top of an old building and the small attic window gave on to the red roofs of Verona, a network of nearly deserted streets and the hurrying, muddy Adige.

It was mid-morning, but already the atmosphere in the room was thick with the smoke of MacSmith’s Marlboro and Spadano’s Toscani cigars. A small room, almost claustrophobic with its stacked, sagging bookshelves and the dusty, engraved prints on the walls. Old Piranesi prints and maps in Latin of the Americas. Everything in the room appeared old—even antique—except for the red telephone on the desk, and next to it, the portable computer.