Vita Nuova (6 page)

‘So: I leave here with you in your car, having been sent for by you to give you some background information on Paoletti. And you ought to give those two on the gates a bollocking for not noticing me coming in, to make it more convincing. That’s the first problem solved.’

‘And what’s the next problem?’

‘I told you: something for the crime page for tomorrow. I give you the goods on Paoletti and you give it back to me and I write it up. Everybody’s happy. Only, if you don’t mind, we’ll do that over lunch because I’m starving and I haven’t a bean.’

‘You shouldn’t spend it all on clothes.’

‘You’re right. And now I’m going to have to buy another pair of these shoes. We’ll eat at Paszkowski. I need cigarettes and, besides, everything else decent is closed in August.’

‘You’ve given up giving up smoking, then?’

‘Not at all. I never give up giving up. Just giving it a rest for a bit.’

‘Well, we’re not going anywhere for lunch—I haven’t time to stop for lunch.’

Not for more than a couple of sandwiches, anyway. But in the end he agreed to have supper with Nesti. He might really have something useful to say, but the truth was that the marshal would have supped with the devil himself to avoid eating alone at home.

It had been like that when he was a lad. They never went on holiday, but his school friends did, and he’d hang around the house, not knowing what to do, morose and lonely. His mother was too busy to have any patience with him.

‘Don’t stand in the middle of the kitchen, I’ve the floor to
mop. Go and play with Nunziata or else help your father with
the hens.’

But his sister was two years older and didn’t want him around. His father was quiet and patient, but it was easy to see that he got on better on his own.

Before long, he’d be back in the kitchen.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Here. Have a slice of bread.’

She’d cut a thick crust and put a slice from a big tomato on it with salt and a drop of oil.

‘Here. Now, get out from under my feet. Why don’t you go
and call for little Beppe. He’ll play with you.’

‘He’s only eight!’

But he would go, in the end, and an instant friendship would be improvised and last through the long, lonely month of August until everybody was back.

He dropped Nesti further down the road where his car was parked.

‘Eight o’clock at Paszkowski, then. In the meantime, I think I’ll go and take the waters. Good for my liver.’

‘What . . . ?’

At five in the afternoon, the marshal was in his office. He’d looked in on the two lads in the duty room, one of whom was at the console talking to the motorbike patrol.

‘Everything all right?’

‘All quiet, Marshal.’

‘All right. Look up this name, will you? See if there’s anything on our records.’

‘Right . . . isn’t this the name—’

‘Yes. Bring me anything you find right away—and if there are any reports of incidents involving gypsies, tell me. The captain wants to avoid whipping up hysteria— especially in the press.’

‘Right. You know another child died?’

‘No. What happened?’

‘It’s just come through. The little brother of the girl who died in the fire. He was badly burned. Died about an hour ago, poor kid. Let’s hope that’ll shame the anti-gypsy campaigners into shutting up.’

The marshal doubted it. Two gypsies less would be their only thought. He sat down behind his desk and sighed. It was an intractable problem around which emotions ran high, interest in facts low. Each time a small incident occurred, trouble would flare up— literally this time—and now it was a political football.

As a child, he had never really believed his parents’ warnings about the gypsies, even though they made him shiver under the bedclothes on windy nights. Why should they steal children? It was just one of those fairy stories they tell to keep you frightened into not wandering off or staying out in the dark. But gypsies do steal children, though not usually in Italy, and teach them to beg and steal. And even to stab people in the leg if they don’t cough up, apparently. . . .

He took out his notebook and opened it. Talk about intractable problems.

Costanza Donati, a good sort of woman you’d be glad to have as a neighbour, hadn’t been able to help much as far as Daniela Paoletti’s death, or even life, was concerned. She had been more than helpful, though, on another problem. Her husband was a doctor, a consultant, and she had promised to talk to him about getting Nunziata’s therapy done in Florence if she needed it.

‘It’s not his field but, don’t worry, he’ll make the arrangements
as soon as you give the word.’

‘I’d really appreciate it. I’ve heard it makes people ill. She
shouldn’t be alone when she can be here with us. You’re very
kind.’

‘Not at all. It’s nothing compared to what you did for us.’

‘How’s your son doing now?’

They had talked for a while, sitting on a bench in the shade. The Donatis’ garden was set high up, a good four metres higher than the road. There was a pretty good view of the top two floors of the tower from here.

‘Too far to hear anything, though, I imagine.’

‘I couldn’t say. I might have heard something if that wretched
bulldozer hadn’t been going. I can’t see what they’re up to over
there, but I’m willing to bet they’re wrecking that beautiful old
place.’

A very good sort of woman.

‘I must say, though, Marshal, to be honest, I don’t know if
I’d have noticed or recognized gunshots, anyway. I’ve only ever
heard them on television or at the cinema. I enjoy a good crime
story, if it’s not too violent. Would it have been very loud?’

‘No. Not like on television at all. Still, it’s not really the time
of the shooting that’s a problem, it’s whether you saw anybody,
and you’ve already said not. Had you been out here some time,
by the way? Perhaps the carabiniere who came over yesterday
asked you that?’

‘Yes, he did, and I told him I was out here by nine-ish. It’s
a long job, that and the dead-heading. It’s my husband’s job,
really. He’s the gardener. It’s just that there was a bit of an
emergency that morning and he left much earlier than usual.
I saw the young woman’s car going back in, and then she came
running out screaming.’

She had gone inside and then come out through the French windows with a tray. Something cool to drink. The sound of pouring liquid, the clink of ice cubes, birdsong, and the smell of grass. It must be nice to have a garden. Lot of work, though.

‘How is the family taking it, Marshal? It must have been
such a shock. I can’t say I see much of them, but they all go off
to church together on Sunday mornings—I rarely go myself, I
must confess, and my husband’s a regular Florentine priest-hater.
She was so young . . . the little boy always sits on her
knee in the car. That’s really the only time I see them. Elio and
I have breakfast out here in good weather. How’s the sister coping?
My goodness, she was in a state.’

‘She’s calmer today.’

‘Even so, it’s a worry. That little boy will need her. . . .’

‘Yes. I just wish I knew who the father was.’

‘That I don’t know. And I’ve never seen her with a man.
I’m sorry.’

The marshal was sorry too. He closed his notebook now and sat staring at the map of his quarter on the opposite wall. There was precious little to add to his case notes from that interview, other than that they all went to church together. Not entirely a waste of time, though, if her husband would help out with Nunziata. The family should all be together, especially in times of trouble. He’d telephoned Teresa right away to tell her.

‘But what if she doesn’t want to? We all like to be in our
own homes. You, of all people, should understand that.’

‘But not alone. And not when we’re ill. She’s bound to feel
upset and to need looking after.’

‘She’s perfectly calm and organized. She’s here now and
she’s shaking her head.’

‘Let me talk to her.’

And Nunziata had taken the receiver and laughed at him.

‘That’s you all over. The Tyrant of Syracuse!’

‘What?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’

‘Dionigi! The Tyrant of Syracuse! That story they told us at
school—what was that teacher’s name? I forget—anyway, the
one who used the throw the chalk at you because you could
never remember your subjunctives. Surely you remember the
story—the old woman who prayed for Dionigi when he was
dying, when everybody else wanted to see the back of him!’

‘I don’t—you’re not dying—’

‘And when they asked her why, she said she wanted him to
stay alive because whoever came after him was likely to be
worse—and she was right, too!’
Roars of laughter.
‘I called
you the Tyrant of Syracuse for months afterwards! Don’t pretend
you’ve forgotten. From the minute you were half an inch
taller than me, you always had to be the boss.’

‘Mmph.’

‘Well, you’re still bigger than me, but you can play the
tyrant all you like. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got everything
organized here, and I’ve no intention of dragging my carcass
to somebody else’s house to be ill. Teresa’s got her work cut out
as it is, with you and the children. Now get off the line. We
have to go out. ’Bye, Tyrant of Syracuse!’

‘Well, it’s not right,’ declared the marshal to the map on the wall. He remembered once having a really bad bout of flu years ago when he was here by himself, tormented by fever, embroiled in nightmares, unable to keep anything down except water and sometimes not even that. His head spinning each time he had to get up and drag the sweat-soaked sheets off yet again.

‘No, no. . . .’

A carabiniere tapped and put his head round the door. ‘Did you call?’

‘What? No.’

‘Oh. I thought . . . I was just going to tell you: There’s nothing on Paoletti. No criminal record.’

‘All right.’

The carabiniere retreated, and the marshal remembered that he hadn’t called the bank about that mortgage. Just as well Teresa hadn’t asked him. Tomorrow. But tomorrow was Saturday and the bank would be closed. Damn! He decided to do the daily orders and switched on That Thing. Something to focus his ill humour on.

Piazza della Repubblica had a dark, deserted air despite a couple of bars and a restaurant that remained open for tourists. The colonnade running in front of the central post office was empty of its usual newspaper kiosks, and almost all the shops had their metal shutters down. Paszkowski’s outside tables were surrounded by potted hedges hung with fairy lights, which should have been cheerful but somehow looked a bit sad. A band was playing wearily.

‘Christ, this clammy weather,’ was Nesti’s greeting. ‘Unless you want to sit sweating out here, let’s get inside to the air-conditioning.’

A waiter in cream jacket and dark gold tie passed them, holding high a tray full of huge, brightly coloured drinks with flags and fruit bobbing about on sticks.

One of the barmen greeted Nesti.

‘A quiet table. We need to talk.’

‘Mario! A table.’

They were led to a quiet area where only one couple sat eating. The man had a gigantic, elegant white dog on a leash. It raised its long head and showed a set of perfectly white teeth and a lolling pink tongue, then slumped down again.

‘What can I bring you?’

‘Two of your aperitifs and a menu—and, Mario, a pack of cigarettes.’

They both ordered pasta and when he’d tasted his, the marshal said, ‘It’s really good. . . .’

‘It’s always good. You sound surprised. Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten here.’

‘Of course not; why would I?’

Nesti shrugged. He had put his fork down to light up. ‘There’s nowhere else to go when it’s late at night and you need something decent to eat and you’ve run out of fags.’

‘Do they allow smoking in here?’

‘No. Listen: this Paoletti chap.’

‘I’ve run a check. He has no record.’

‘Maybe not, but he has a history.’

‘Of what?’

‘Pimping.’

‘Pimping?’

Nesti stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and took up his fork again. His face was perfectly serious. ‘Down the Cascine Park. He was arrested for beating a prostitute to within an inch of her life. Can’t find out why. Probably trying to cheat him—or, even more likely, trying to get away from him. She was very young.’

‘But there was obviously no conviction.’

‘No. That’s why it’s interesting. She was found by punters driving through the park, lying in the road covered in blood, and one of the other prostitutes named him as her pimp. But there was no proof, and the victim couldn’t testify against him, so he got off.’

‘You mean she died? Or was she just too scared?’

‘Neither. She couldn’t testify against him because she was his wife. It took them a while to find him, and when they did he’d married her
and
convinced the priest who did the job that he was saving her from the streets. Saved himself from a good stretch, more like—pimping, grievous bodily harm. The minute she came out of hospital, he snatched her up and by the time they arrested him, he’d married her. If she hadn’t been a prostitute, she might have been given some protection as a witness, but . . . and the priest made a statement as a character witness. I’ll send you a copy of the articles about it tomorrow, if you like.’

‘Thanks. Where did she end up, I wonder. . . .’

‘I can tell you that. Drop more wine?’

‘Yes . . . thanks. That’s a very fine wine you ordered.’

‘You don’t want to be drinking cheap wine, it’s bad for your liver. I’m sorry I’m broke, but it’ll be my treat next time. Anyway, so she ended up a princess in a fairytale castle, where you found her. What did you think of her?’