by JJ Partridge
In the silence that followed, my curiosity surged. Was this recording the suicide note Benno sought? I nodded acceptance and he placed the device on the table. The recording continued.
… my dear friend, how often have you instructed me as to the sacrament of confession. How it could wipe away my sins. And how often have I disputed you, saying that confession is an artifice designed to make one subservient to those to whom you confess, and that some sins cannot be forgiven.
The priest lifted his eyes to mine in a suggestion that he remembered this colloquy.
We will never agree on the power of the sacrament. You are a good man, Pietro, and I know that there are not many good men. Most of us are selfish, maybe not evil, but at least sinful, as you would say.
There was a long pause before Palagi continued.
If you are listening to this recording, my death was not witnessed and I ask you to share my words with Alger Temple. He is an honorable man from a distinguished family, a lawyer. I leave it to you and him to make such judgments as are appropriate with respect to these matters. And what, if anything, should be done. Importantly, whatever appearances might be, I tell you that I did not die by my own hand.
There was another pause, perhaps a sip of liquid before he resumed.
You know me, my family, my circumstances, Pietro. For Alger, I must explain. My father was a professional naval officer, a hero who died of wounds while saving dozens of lives during a British air attack on the Italian fleet at Taranto in 1943. Mussolini awarded him Italy’s highest military award for valor. My mother was from the local aristocracy of Romanga. Both confused their patriotism with Fascism.
Even after Mussolini’s death in 1945, there were those in Italy who faulted him only because of his weakness in joining Hitler. They styled themselves nationalists. One of those was my uncle, my mother’s brother, who managed to become respectable as a supporter of the early Christian Democrat government.
As a young man, I was in Rome, a graduate student, poor, struggling, with a mother not reconciled to her lost status, and shunned by many as the son of a Fascist hero. I was restless and unfocused and I yearned for what I could not afford.
My uncle, by then an important politician, invited me to a meeting of these nationalists. They needed a writer to take their scattered memories and lies, turn them into something readable, although very far from the truth, defending, justifying, pleading. I was apolitical, a patient listener, and a passable writer, and soon came into demand as their ghost writer, someone to whom they confessed their truths even as they tried to change history. For this, I was richly rewarded. No longer did I worry about money, or my studies, even my thesis; all I had to do was write for them, and everything was arranged for me. In truth, I began my life in academia as a fraud.
Father Pietro eyes found mine, his face in a sorrowful frown. He was clearly affected by Palagi’s story.
Soon, I had a Fiat, an apartment on the Via Veneto, money to spend, to gamble. I was introduced to the illicit, to your mind, pleasure of the affection of other young men. And parties. It is difficult to remember any one as they were all the same—drinks, drugs, sex of all kinds—but on such an occasion, Claudia Cioffi was introduced to me. She was from Modena, from a wealthy family, attractive, a degree in literature, she smoked and drank and drove an Alfa Romeo. After we became lovers, I foolishly shared with her my role with the nationalists. Like me, she didn’t care.
My knowledge of post-war Italy was from Fellini and De Sica films. I found his depiction of la dolce vita compelling.
This was during an era of civil unrest, Red Brigade bombings, political assassinations, the rule of law and Parliament jokes, the South ruled by criminals, the government corrupt, and even worse, lazy. People were living in despair, a propitious time for conspiracy among those still believing the fiction of a prosperous, strong, united Italy under Il Duce. One evening, I was invited to the home of a rightist senator from the Piedmont. I expected little more than a dinner, some reminiscing, a request for my services. But, it was more than that. Even now, when they are all dead, I would not identify those in attendance because I fear retribution. They were conspirators in a conspiracy or the beginning of a conspiracy or the hope of a conspiracy to overthrow the Republic. The cabal had a name, La Lega dell’ Amici d‘Italia, or La Lega. All present assumed that I was one of them in mind and heart, with no idea that I loathed them for their disloyalty to Italy, their arrogance, for the ruin they had brought our country. But for their money, I became a center of communication among the cells of their traitorous organization.
The hierarchy of La Lega included a ranking Army general, a senior commander of the Carabinari, an industrialist from Torino, a banker from Milan, a columnist with a national newspaper, a priest with vague connections to the Vatican, an important land owner in Calabria, and lastly, its leader, a minister of state, the conspirator-in-chief, a ruthless politician, unscrupulous, with criminal ties, and who, to my certain knowledge, ordered at least one political murder. He was to find a face from among the military to be our new Duce. He was to foster national disunity, blame and crack down on the Socialists and Communists, incite violence, and finally lead a coup d’etat.
I began a life of clandestine meetings with the cells of La Lega and those in sympathy or in their pay, including elements of the Mafia in Sicily, the Camorra in Naples, and particularly, the ‘Ndrangheta who controlled Calabria and Basilicata. The worst, the most vicious of them, was the ‘Ndrangheta. As I could pay for a secretary, Claudia came into my employ.
For two years, as the conspiracy ate into our crumbling state, I travelled throughout Italy, and, I say now with pride, I succeeded in causing confusion among the traitors. Then, the conspiracy was uncovered by the SDI. The minister, about to be arrested for treason, destroyed all records and committed suicide. Only powerful influences, of which such a cabal had many, kept the conspiracy from becoming a national scandal.
My income immediately stopped. Claudia disappeared. I used my fraudulent degree, with assistance from sympathizers, to secure a position on the philosophy faculty at Bologna. Once again, I was desperately poor, in debt from my gambling, miserable, more so since I had tasted the good life. It was then that I created Caesare Forza and sold the idea to a publisher. The nonsense I authored in only a few weeks became my fortune. My identity was concealed by the publisher because of his fear of our past associations, and my anonymity worked well in terms of media attention. My new wealth was explained to friends and colleagues as an inheritance. After two decades of serious scholarship and writings, I left Bologna, coming to Carter. I believed I was far away from my former illicit associations.
Again a pause. Perhaps getting his thoughts together. Did he have notes in front of him?
Chance brought us together, Claudia and I, in New York at the Italian Consulate. We had dinner and she revealed a meticulous memory of La Lega. She mentioned that she needed employment to stay in America. Fearful, I wanted her close by and she became my secretary at the Institute. When my identity as Forza’s creator was later revealed, and I suffered notoriety in Italy and here, I felt compelled to do certain things for Claudia to protect myself from her implicit threats of exposure. A sordid bargain. I made provision for her in my will, did other things for her silence, never explicitly saying why, although she knew.
And she was not alone. Shortly thereafter, the New York cell of the ‘Ndrangheta threatened me with exposure, forced me to open an investment account in my name for their use at a brokerage in New York. It remains to this day. I know nothing about the account except that I have been told it has done exceedingly well. It is handled by a manager who invests their money and pays any taxes. I make no claim to that account. Just know, my name was used because of duress.
I raised my hand and Father Pietro stopped the recording. The coerced investment account he referred to must be Palagi’s ‘other account’ at Ravensford Capital. “Are you alright?” the priest asked solicitously. Right then, I s
hould have called in Pine, but, in deference to Father Pietro, I did not.
Claudia early on came to despise me for my forbidden affection, adding another dimension to the rasp that is our relationship. Recently, her mania has become more manifest, her condemnations louder, always with her face in her Dante, reading aloud the cantos from the Inferno, making allusions to me as a conspirator and my sins of avarice, cupidity, and pederasty. She gains financially from my death. I am afraid what she might do in her hatred of me, in her lust for money. I ask you to judge if she had a hand, a gnarled, Harpy’s claw, in my death.
The priest abruptly snapped off the recorder. He removed his glasses and rubbed tired eyes with his thumbs. “I find it difficult to listen to this … a second time. Never did he speak to me of these issues.” In the silence, I attempted to absorb what I had heard. The back of my neck tingled with the thought of Palagi’s accusations. Then, Father Pietro replaced his glasses and clicked on the device.
I want you to know why I do not change my will as to my son.
Last April, I received a letter from a lawyer in Rome on behalf of Vittorio Ruggieri. It said his mother was Maria Ruggieri, a woman I lived with in Rome for a short time. A nurse, older than me, from the South, a strange woman, dark eyed, beautiful, very emotional, very independent, stubborn, wild in her own way, like a … gypsy? One day, she disappeared. I didn’t know she was pregnant.
Palagi’s voice lowered, perhaps in regret?
Enclosed with his letter were copies of a birth certificate, which stated his client’s birth date as being nine months from our liaison and contained his mother’s name, her birth place in Basilicata, a village called Gianosa d’Acri, a certificate from an orphanage attached to a Catholic hospital in Rome where the baby was left to be cared for, his baptismal certificate. I was not named as the father, but the boy was given my father’s first name by the mother. According to the lawyer, Maria had long since emigrated to New York and had recently died there. My name as the father was revealed by Maria only shortly before her death.
Within weeks, we met at the lawyer’s office in Rome. It was worse than I could have anticipated. Vittorio was ungroomed, a face like a hawk ready to peck apart his prey. He said no more than a few words, did not embrace me or shake my hand when offered, stared straight ahead as his lawyer talked, not a spark of love or even curiosity in his eyes. I became numb, unable to answer the lawyer’s questions as to what I would do for my son. Despite the rough encounter, I knew in my heart it was not a hoax. There was something about Vittorio, his face, that engendered a memory of Maria, maybe even of myself. I considered a medical test to verify paternity but I dared not mention it in that surrounding.
The day after, coming to the conclusion that I had expected too much at our meeting, I hired a car and we were driven into the Tiburtina hills for lunch at a small restaurant in Tivoli where we could shake off the dust of Rome and perhaps have a real conversation. We sat in a leafy arbor, ordered wine and antipasti, and I tried to engage his interest but elicited only dark smirks and cynicism. It was then that he spoke about his reluctance to let the world know of his abandonment by his famous father. Abandonment? As Claudia’s extortion victim, I was acutely aware that I should take those words as a threat. Still, my guilt at his orphan’s life overcame my common sense and I promised that I would make amends. He pressed me for cash, and weakly, I gave him what euros I had with me and promised a modest monthly stipend. Even then, he was unsatisfied.
Palagi’s voice, which had been strong, now wavered.
It was then I decided to investigate Vittorio. It was not difficult to arrange through old contacts. Within days, I learned Vittorio had a criminal record going back to his teenage years, petty crimes, an imprisonment for stolen cars, arrests for selling stolen goods, extortion, suspicion of running with cells of the ‘Ndrangheta. I was aghast. One morning, I met him in a gloomy, smelly bar near his apartment, a place where men of his kind seemed to congregate. He was hungover, I’m sure, hadn’t bothered to shave in disrespect to me. He doused his espresso with grappa, and was soon drunk. I asked him questions about his mother, which he shrugged off, and he complained I was demanding, which was true since I wasn’t tactful. Then, he told me that he had recently visited Maria’s family’s village in Basilicata, and through a cousin still living there, had learned of a blood oath taken against me by her father, a capo in the local ‘Ndrangheta, to avenge Maria’s disgrace. He said I would not long survive unless I made peace with the family.
I was, at first, incredulous. This oath was from fifty years ago. He laughed, saying in the South, such things have no age. Then, he said that for two hundred thousand euros he would arrange for the debt of honor to be paid to the family, sparing my life. I was shaken. How could a son participate in such a scheme? Before I left Italy, I wrote his lawyer, telling him I recanted the monthly stipend.
Shortly after my return, I received a plain envelope mailed from New York City, my name typed on it, no return address, and inside a copy of both sides of a prayer card. Alger, for your benefit, a prayer card is a card of remembrance, provided by funeral homes and found at entry ways to Catholic wakes. On one side was a sentimental image of the Blessed Virgin of Loreto, on the other, “In loving memory of” on one line, the name “Maria Ruggieri” on the next, and a prayer.
The ‘Ndrangheta cell in New York, of course, sent it to me, only it would know that Vittorio made me aware of the threat to my life.
Knowing how vicious the ‘Ndrangheta could be, I then undertook measures to protect myself. First, I satisfied myself through an investigation that Maria had indeed died before I informed Vittorio that I would pay the family. Then, I used my bargaining chip so I would not be threatened again. I let it be known to the New York ‘Ndrangheta that harm to me would disrupt their investment scheme. Confident of my protection, in July, I negotiated and paid this debt of honor to the New York ‘Ndrangheta who in turn would pay the family in Basilicata. Then, just a week ago, as I was leaving Rome, Vittorio contacted me, pleaded with me that he would be harmed if payment was not immediately made to the family in Basilicata. I was shaken. Had it not been paid? Had the New York ‘Ndrangheta siphoned off the funds, leaving nothing for the family? Would the family harm Vittorio, would it hunt me down as twice offended?
The recording was silent for a few seconds and then a bitter, angry voice startled me.
Listen a few more moments, please. I’m scandalized by Cosimo Brunotti’s mediocrity and personal corruption. I accuse him of fraud on the Institute, a gross misuse of funds for his own enjoyment, to spend on mistresses, lavish parties. He knows of my investigation, that I remain at the Institute to irritate him. He hates me, fears I will bring him down. If death intervenes and I cannot complete my investigation, I will leave that to you, Alger. The task will be yours, without harming the Institute.
There, you have it all. If my death is not witnessed, is suspicious, each of them, Claudia, the ‘Ndrangheta, Brunotti, has motive. One is responsible.
I have made many mistakes during my life. Sins have been abundant. I have, however, kept my bargain with the University and hold my head high that my gift to the Institute from years ago, that which is in my trust, has risen greatly in value. That is my legacy. On this one thing, I have done well. I leave the Institute fiscally sound despite Brunotti’s fraud.
Pietro, as I record my … confession, I wish your promise of forgiveness could be mine. But, it cannot be. Your ‘salvation’ eludes me. You never did convince me.
12
STATIC SIGNALED THE END of the recording. Father Pietro snapped off the recorder, his face pale, his eyes moist. “I am affected, Mr. Temple, by his despair and his accusations.”
“I’m not sure what to make of it, to be truthful.”
“You may ask why a recording? I believe I know. While in his late sixties, Italo was a victim of Guillain-Barré Syndrome, a rare disease which attacks the body’s immune system by producing antibodies that attack nerves in
the extremities, the hands, the feet, leaving him impaired. Hence, his difficulty in walking and extreme weakness in his hands and fingers. He could barely hold a pen. For his work, his correspondence, he dictated to Claudia Cioffi or used voice recognition software. I suggest he used the software to create his draft which would have been imperfect and then read it into this device. He could not have used a keyboard or written out so long a piece without correction or collaboration with someone else. And who did he have? Certainly not Claudia who he accuses!”
I recalled the virtually illegible handwriting in Palagi’s letter and that his handshake was a mere touch of fingers and my mother saying something years ago about Palagi’s ailment.
Before leaving the conference room, we agreed that I would secure the recorder in my office safe and that we would discuss our obligations, legal and moral, if any, after Friday’s memorial service.
Then, the priest shook my hand, holding it seconds more than necessary. “Death,” the priest continued, “is the most expected thing that can happen, yet most of us can’t quite believe it will happen to us. Apparently, Italo did. From the grave, he presents his views of himself, asks questions, points his finger.” His apt comment resonated with me. “You now understand why I could never be his executor.” He sighed, “Italo’s personal life was never … transparent.”
It was near to eight when I unlocked the door to our home halfway up College Hill on Congdon Street, a classic neo-Grecian house from the 1830s that I had completely renovated and redesigned and made its interior functional. The recorder was in my office safe and I had dictated a memo to Marcie as to its importance. A quickening wind accompanied me during my five block walk; the downtown was bathed in a smudgy orange light fading into a stark, Prussian blue horizon. I remained conflicted as to Palagi’s motives. To persuade Father Pietro, or me, as to his basic decency? To excuse a life of duplicity? To accuse all who failed him with crime?