Scratched

by JJ Partridge

  Nadie was walking home from her office on Meeting Street when I reached her on her cell phone. “I’m right on schedule,” I proclaimed, described my accommodations in Rome, and asked, “Everything okay?”

  “I’m staying at your mother’s tonight and tomorrow. It is more convenient and I need company!”

  I didn’t take the bait.

  “You will love Rome,” I said. “It’s magical. Love is expected to happen here, like in the movies.”

  “I miss you,” she said. “Be here on Thursday.”

  In the comfortable bed, I quickly gave into sleep. I dreamt of lovemaking, Nadie naked, her breath warm, flowing over me. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, she leaned forward over me and I am drenched with her scent. I lost myself in her, melting away, face on fire, feeling exhilaration and exhaustion, more and more active, faster and further …

  45 Tuesday

  THE ROMAN DAWN ARRIVED with the best of intentions in a rosy light filtered by high wispy clouds.

  I had slept soundly and found, as I opened the slatted shutters fully, that my suite had a view of both the dun colored roof of the Pantheon and Santa Maria sopra Minerva, one of the great Roman basilicas. In the thick comfort of a complimentary bathrobe, I tapped out a memo on my laptop as to our visit to Gianosa d’Acri.

  Enzo, my host, had the Lancia outside the hotel at ten o’clock and we were driven—the uniformed driver, no surprise, was Enzo’s cousin—across the Tiber to the Institute’s Roman campus on the Janiculum Hill abutting the Palazzi Corsini and the Botanical Gardens. In very stop-and-go traffic, I was delivered to an imposing four story, Baroque building of pale yellow masonry, displaying American, Italian, and Carter flags. An elaborately decorated portico led into a high ceiling central hall capped by a plaster fluted dome, its marble floor was inlaid with colored circles and triangles of stone. Corridors on either side led to two semi-attached smaller, less imposing buildings which, according to my limited information, housed apartments and a library for visiting scholars.

  An attractive, lustrous haired woman in her early forties, in a black business suit accented by silver crescent moon pin, looked up from the reception desk and smiled. “Ah, Signor Temple,” she said in a husky voice, flashing a practiced smile, “Buon giorno! Direttore Brunotti is in his office. Due piano. I will escort you.”

  She told me, rather officiously, that she had made an appointment on Thursday morning with Avvocato Maurizio Musumeci, Vittorio Ruggieri’s lawyer in Rome, and led me through a mauve sitting room with a grand piano, scattered sofas, soft chairs, tables, and shelves of books to an antique elevator with accordion metal gates. As it silently lifted us, I wondered if she was another ‘friend’ of Brunotti. “Permisso,” she said, opening the elevator gate, and I followed her down a hall painted maroon, with a row of landscape paintings in gold frames under discrete lighting. She knocked smartly at a door at the end of the hall, opened it, and I crossed in front of her as she announced my arrival.

  Brunotti, in shirt sleeves, sat behind a huge desk at the far side of the large room. His informality I took as reflecting irritation and disrespect. Behind him, two large windows were heavily draped, allowing only slivers of light that cut through to files and newspapers on his desk; the elaborate ceiling light fixture was on dim. Brunotti did not rise from his chair nor offer his hand as I sat in the hard-back chair opposite him. His fingers trembled as he portentously raised a shirt cuff to glance at his watch.

  “I have deferred an interview with Corriere Della Sera. An important opportunity to tell our story to Italy’s largest newspaper. Already, a critical editorial.” He picked up a newspaper and dropped it on the desk. “Damage is done every minute the President hesitates to criticize, condemn.”

  Not a promising start. I glanced around the room, as though disinterested or calculating what its elegant period furnishings cost, and removed a Moleskine notebook and pen from my jacket pocket. That was purposeful, meant to be disconcerting and I had annoyance in my voice when I said, “You have been told to refer the media to the Public Information Office.”

  “Public … Information … Office?” He stood abruptly, hands on hips, his chin thrust forward, striking a pose of indignation. “In Italy, they care nothing for the Public … Information … Office. I must speak. I am the Direttore. You have no idea what trouble we’re in here, how we are being vilified in the press, that our friends, donors, are horrified by this calculated insult.”

  I recognized an honest concern escaping his ego. He spread his hands to the width of his desk and leaned forward to me. “I … the Institute … have been dealt an assassin’s blow. The Institute is reeling. Don’t you care?”

  “We all care, Cosimo. Do you care enough to return the Provost’s e-mails, the President’s call?”

  “So, you are here to reprimand me?” He shook his head and turned his reddened face to a profile. “Because I travel, with events crashing around me, my … our … prestige plummeting, donors upset, government furious? It is I who bears this disgrace, I who must deal with the media while Danby equivocates!”

  “The President understands your predicament but your comments must be guided by him.”

  “Is he afraid to take on those idiots? Why was I not informed that the Institute was to be insulted?” He stood and came around his desk.

  “We were surprised, and embarrassed, like you, Cosimo.”

  “This idiocy will cost the Institute millions in support and donations. Passions have been unleashed!” And he went on in like vein, reciting his efforts to pacify angry donors and politicians as he paced back and forth, then to the window to grip the drapes in his anger. He finished his tirade standing no more than two feet in front of me, his eyes boring into mine. “It is intolerable!”

  We had reached the moment of his greatest belligerence, when I had to deflate him, and not gently. Coolly, I informed him of the loss of Palagi’s funds at Ravensford Capital. His face was sucked of anger, fell into disbelief, and then dismay. His right hand slapped his forehead; his left hand went to the desk to steady him. “The old fool,” he moaned, “the old, stupid fool!” Then he sat, fitting his chin on laced fingers, staring at me. “How much did we lose?”

  “Over six million dollars.”

  His right hand returned to his forehead. “Is it possible? Dio, is it possible? How are we to survive if we lose our donors and Palagi’s money?” His bravado, his self-importance were gone; he was, certainly for the first time in my experience, crestfallen.

  “Cosimo, I’m here because the Institute hasn’t received a euro from Italy under the royalty agreement since Palagi’s death. I have an appointment at Banco di San Paolo this afternoon to find out why. It could be that Palagi’s son has obtained a court order against the bank doling out funds. With that and the loss of Palagi’s trust, the Provost has ordered a budget review of the Institute, including an audit to be conducted here and in Providence.”

  His eyes widened. “What, you do not trust our accounts? My management? You do this now, while we face a crisis? You insult me ? I …”

  “Not so intended. Just good business. And one last matter. Before you left, you fired Claudia Cioffi.”

  He took his time to respond but he was ready. “A strega, a crone. Abusive. Deaf. A useless burden. There was no place for her.”

  “Not because she refused to serve as Palagi’s executor?” My index finger went to my pursed lips as though I expected further explanation.

  “Absurd!” he shouted, his hands shooting upward in exasperation as he regained his seat.

  His reinflation to belligerence led me to test Benno’s theory that the notebook found in Palagi’s valise was an account of Brunotti’s fraud against the Institute. A better investigative technique would be to let the forensic auditors use the notebook as a guide to malfeasance, and then question him, but I could not resist. “Did Palagi ever mention an entity called Montecristo’?”

  “Monte … cristo?” he repeated, reacting as though
I had begun to speak in tongues. His line of sight moved from me, his louder breaths were not disguised, and he rubbed his hands together as though the gesture would help him decide his response. “I do not recall any Monte … cristo,” he said slowly, after allowing a hand to glide over his mouth as though in reflection.

  Recall is a word of art from a practiced witness. I waited for more but he was silent.

  I changed the subject back to immediate issues, “I suggest you call Danby, not e-mail him, today.”

  “I must be able to speak … to Italy,” he said slowly, without emotion, to no one in particular.

  I took my leave. “Arrivederci,” I said and I did not expect or receive a response.

  46

  LUNCH WITH ENZO AND his cousin was at Da Lucia in nearby Trastevere, a family operated trattoria off a moss-covered alley, offering alici al limone—anchovies in lemon sauce—marinated sea bass served with pasta, and a delicious white wine drained from a barrel into our carafe. My companions’ conversation strayed to former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. The Italian media had reported breathlessly that he still hosted bunga-bunga parties at his various palazzi with his velines, buxom, big-haired showgirls, who, whatever else they did with him at sleepovers, kept the party going with pole dancing and petting in lascivious soft porn settings. The velines had become national celebrities, known everywhere by their first names and nicknames, Monica, Bianca, Cheri, Naomi, Rozanna …

  The cousin defended him with frequent shrugs and an amused smile. “Silvio enjoys life, women, soccer, parties,” the cousin said. “He adores his kids, loves his mamma, breaks some rules. Good for him. He’s what we’d do if we had his money. Ah, if Bianca threw herself at me …” He pursed his lips for a kiss and put two fingers there. “What’s wrong with that? At least, he’s no hypocrite like all the others.”

  This defense had a familiar ring; he’s a rascal but he’s our rascal. “Womanizing when the country’s an economic basket case?” retorted Enzo who obviously despised Berlusconi. “He embarrasses Italy.”

  “Enzo, come on, you’d love to be him,” the cousin rejoined.

  At the sleekly modern offices of Banco di San Paolo on the Via Nazionale, I was greeted by an embodiment of an Italian banker, a man of slight stature in a dark suit that whispered discretion, gleaming shoes, and whose pale complexion, keen expression, and intelligent eyes reminded me of likenesses captured in museum portraits of sixteenth century cardinals. Direttore Lorenzo Carvo spoke English with a charming accent as he escorted me into a gilt-edged paneled office with a chandelier of dangling crystals. His large desk was clear of bothersome papers, a computer on a matching credenza at one side. I explained my purpose, gave him copies of Palagi’s will, trust and royalty agreement, and watched his serious demeanor as he made notes with a slim silver pen on a lined pad.

  He was very courteous but very firm. “I am very sorry, Signor Temple, but there can be no access to the account you refer or any remittance until every judicial requirement is met. Signor Palagi was a co-owner of the account and upon his death the bank requires instructions from both the Institute, which you clearly represent, and his legal representative.

  “Legi è lege,” he said, “the law is the law. I assure you, as soon as this small difficulty is satisfied, the Bank will promptly remit whatever is due.”

  He further explained that while all governmental contributions and private donations to the Institute were, upon receipt, immediately placed into a collection account and remitted to the University’s account at Citibank, all funds attributable to Signor Palagi’s licenses and royalties were placed in a separate account from which, after deduction of the monthly administrative fee, one-half was sent to Signor Palagi’s personal account at Bank of America and the balance to the University’s account at Citibank.

  My interest was pricked by monthly administrative fee. ‘For what? To whom?’ I asked if it was a charge of his bank. He responded, “Some years ago, Signor Palagi gave written instructions to pay a fee to a third party that assisted him with his accounts.”

  That was news, troublesome news. I asked for a copy of the instructions but was refused for the reasons already given. Disappointed, I very pointedly told him so, but he remained resolute. I prepared to leave empty handed when with a discrete knock at the door, a young man, also in banker’s attire, entered, and passed a note to his senior who read it carefully before placing it on the desk.

  “I am relieved, and pleased, that a determination has been made by my superiors, after consultation with the Ministry of Finance, that since Signor Palagi was the director of an institute which is part of your university, you should be permitted to review the accounts we have faithfully managed.” Did this abrupt change come through from brother Nick’s efforts? “This would, of course, include our instructions from Signor Palagi as to the administrative fee. It will take some time, however, to retrieve the records. How long will you be in Rome?”

  When I said until Thursday morning, he indicated the impossibility of providing all the information on such short notice but agreed to promptly send copies of the records to Providence. He added, “I should tell you that I, personally, received his instructions as to the administrative fee.”

  To nudge him to take the next step of divulging the circumstances, I praised his memory, his integrity, and discretion, which flattered him. “Grazie,” he said proudly. “I have been fortunate to be of service to Signor Palagi, such a distinguished man. In my youth, I was a reader of Signor Palagi’s Caesare Forza novels. All of my generation were Caesare Forza fans.” His face reddened. “On one occasion, Signor Palagi was pleased to autograph one of his books. Let me show you.” He left his desk to take two steps to a bookcase and pulled out a slender volume, its dust cover portraying a hairy hand clutching a revolver aimed at a blood-red bull’s eye with the silhouette of a man in its center. He opened the book to the title page and a barely legible signature similar to that I had briefly seen on Palagi’s letter of affirmation and the estate documents. I smiled appreciatively, and with a stroke of intuition, leaned forward in a confidential manner. “The administrative fee is paid to Montecristo, is it not?”

  His eyes lightened perceptively and his face became as cherubic and as knowing as a Roman putti, suggesting we shared in Palagi’s confidence. In Providence, under similar circumstances, there would have been a shrug or a nudge.

  “I’m curious how much had been wired to Montecristo’s account.”

  He turned to the computer on a credenza, punched keys, and his eyes flitted through columns. “The fee is ten percent of the amount we collect. Through last month, approximately ninety thousand euros. Over a many year period, of course, and, unfortunately, much diminished in recent months. The funds were wired on the tenth of each month to a correspondent bank in Genoa.”

  “Seems all is correct,” I said to relieve his concern.

  “After the funds are remitted of course, I have no further information. We are under no duty of inquiry nor do we undertake to ensure anything other than that the funds have been transmitted in accordance with our client’s instructions.”

  “Of course,” I said smoothly.

  “The bank would appreciate it if it was known to the appropriate officials at the Ministry that we cooperated with you in this matter …”

  “You have been very courteous and very helpful and I shall make that known appropriately.”

  “That would be most satisfactory.”

  I thought of a final question. “Do you recall anyone from the Institute ever inquiring about the administrative fee?”

  His head went back in remembrance. “Yes, just once. Last April. An inquiry from Signor Brunotti, the present director of the Institute. I am embarrassed to say that was as a result of our error. Signor Palagi was in Rome and requested an advance of funds that were collected and about to be paid over. A clerk mistakenly sent a check to the Institute instead of to Signor Palagi’s hotel with an accounting showing the administrativ
e fee as a deduction from the account. This brought a call from Signor Brunotti to me. I examined the situation, apologized for our error, and explained our instructions.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Signor Brunotti seemed unaware of the fee arrangement, but he was very understanding for which I was appreciative, given our long relationship to the Institute and Signor Palagi.”

  So smooth, so calculating, so … Brunotti.

  Later, I took a flight of stairs to the hotel’s rooftop terrace restaurant, crowded with early dining tourists, mostly fellow Americans. In the day’s lingering warmth and the afterglow of a sunset below purple clouds, service was prompt, and the antipasto, prima patti of spinach pasta, and the veal piccata entree were well-prepared, and served efficiently.

  My table had a view over tile roofs toward Castello Sant’Angelo and St. Peter’s. As I ordered espresso, dusk rolled over the city and I remembered an aphorism about Rome told by my mother: when the evening hid cracks in facades, patches, holes, and missing pavers, Rome, like a woman of a certain age, used the dark to hide her blemishes, to discredit any thought of age.

  I stayed longer than I expected over an aged grappa and considered Palagi and Brunotti, the former, deceitful on a grand scale, the latter, grimy came to mind. Both operated in the refined world of unsuspecting academia. How was the University, the Institute, to come to grips with these frauds?

  My return to my suite was greeted by harsh buzzes from the room’s phone. I answered, “Pronto.”

  “Pronto yourself,” Benno shouted at me.

  Laughter and a woman’s high pitched voice were in the background, placing Benno in a bar or restaurant which was confirmed as he acknowledged a greeting in Italian from a woman, and I heard a clatter of dishes, a woman’s high pitched peal of laughter.