by JJ Partridge
“What a day. Checking on things. Getting things straight. I see it now. How it all works.” He lowered his voice slightly. “We’re in a restaurant in that stone fortress you saw at the harbor. Having cena with Gianmarco and the family. Never knew how many relatives I had.” Then, “Looks like I can’t get back to Rome until tomorrow. Not sure of the time yet. No problem?”
“No problem,” I answered, realizing Benno was likely having the time of his life.
I answered e-mails including a short one from Nadie that I was still very much missed and was expected on Thursday. I undressed, and lay on the bed to continue The Leopard. More than ever, I appreciated di Lampedusa’s insights on his homeland, a land of shifting arrangements among people where nothing really changes, not only in a village like Gianosa d’Agri where its inhabitants standing in their doorways would refuse to admit they lived there to a stranger, but in a cynical city like Rome where merit was often equated with how much you could get away with.
Fatigue suddenly numbs my mind and my dreaded claustrophobia nudges away other concerns. It is as if a spider web is across my mind, sticky, clinging. My chest tightening becomes worse, a cold sweat wets my forehead, I feel the pressure of blackness and tight space. I am not helped when my cell phone runs out of juice, leaving me with only the pencil flashlight and that eye of light also becomes dimmer and will soon be gone.
I concentrate on pain. My stomach hurts, my ribs don’t enjoy breathing. I must be one big bruise. My calves and hamstrings are afflicted with muscle spasms.
Despite my efforts, the black hole deepens, my breathing becomes constrained, ragged, and I feel my heartbeat, my pulse, gain momentum. I am at the brink of a mental battle I fear to confront.
I squirm to keep circulation in my legs, only the aches keep me focused, away from the tightening closeness.
Then, I concentrate on the opening to the back seat, barely visible in the blackness. I am not entombed. There is hope.
Come on, Benno!
47 Wednesday
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I awaited Father Pietro in the Antico Caffé della Pace near the Piazza Navona with cornetti and an espresso. I was five minutes early, not wanting to risk being without a table.
The day was clear, cooler, the café’s Cinzano umbrellas were furled at outside tables. I sipped the superb espresso at a window to watch a parade of backpackers and obvious tourists, nuns in flowing robes and wimples, matrons clutching purses or being led by their tiny dogs, cell phone–engaged students, fashionistas in stiletto heels somehow avoiding the crevices between St. Peter’s stones—the blackened squares of the piazza—begging gypsies, women in tight skirts with sublime behinds, slim men in sunglasses and in the dark suits of government and business. Romans dashed into the elegant bar area of blue tile floors and gilded formal mirrors to down quick espressos; tourists struggled to place orders for ‘Italian toast,’ cappuccinos, lattes, and bagels with distracted waiters.
I spotted the priest as he made his way across the piazza, his shoulders covered by a black cappa. He acknowledged my wave as he made his way to my tiny table, releasing a catch on his cloak which he placed on a chair, revealing a white habit. A diminutive waiter in black waistcoat took the priest’s order for espresso.
Father Pietro handed me a large square envelope of heavy white paper with an embossed gold seal, from which I extracted two white cards printed in an elaborate Latin script. “These are confirmation of your admission to the Vatican on Thursday of your visit. We will be accompanied by an old friend, a museum curator, who speaks excellent English, and knows the Vatican as few do. He promises you shall view treasures that tourists rarely see.”
“Molto grazie,” I replied as the waiter delivered his espresso. Then, I saw that the priest’s face had collapsed into melancholy.
“I welcome the opportunity to speak to you. Something has been on my mind. The letter which affirms Palagi’s will and trust? Neither you nor Mr. Pine asked me to confirm the handwriting’s authenticity …”
He saw the apprehension that splashed on my face. “The handwriting may not be that of Italo Palagi. Likely, it is that of Claudia Cioffi …”
“Father …!”
“You remember that I told you Italo suffered from the result of Guillain–Barré Syndrome. That his illness cost Italo his once vigorous stride and the fluid use of his fingers. The permanent weakness meant he could no longer drive. He could not button his shirts or walk steadily, thus the collarless shirts he wore, the suspenders, slip-on-shoes and his walking stick. His handwriting, always poor, became nearly impossible to read, and he gave up. For anything that was written by hand, Claudia Cioffi became his amanuensis, she even signed his checks.” He raised his eyes to mine. “For something as lengthy as his letter …”
He sipped his coffee, and continued. “But, whether in his own hand or not, in every way, the letter is his. He appeared before a notary and told the notary it was his own. That’s what the document says. Strictly speaking, I cannot and could not affirm or disaffirm that he wrote or signed the letter. Perhaps, by the grace of a merciful God, he recovered. Who is to say anything different?”
Me! If the letter was not handwritten by Palagi, Judge Cremasoli would refuse to admit it as evidence of Palagi’s intent. The University’s case to sustain Palagi’s estate plan would suffer a staggering blow. Since Pine had submitted the letter to the Court as written by Palagi, doubt as to the letter’s authenticity also weighed on my responsibility as an officer of the court. Non-disclosure risked Court sanction and humiliation.
“I am sorry to burden you. I see the letter, now, as Palagi’s corrupted streak of irony. He … perhaps … used Claudia to write a letter that she believed would protect her legacy from the claim of the son. Consider the subtleness of Palagi to use her in his scheme. She was led to believe she had bested the son. Yet, her action, her involvement, would perhaps lose her legacy. Until the letter was challenged in court, she would not realize how he used her.”
“But …!”
His right hand rose as though he was about to bestow a blessing, his voice was low and reflective, as though speaking to himself. “He exploited me, by accusing everyone and leaving me … us … to cast his stones at sinners.”
I wondered if Palagi did the same to me, got me involved not just because he would be using my skills, my natural inquisitiveness but to punish my antipathy toward him.
He finished his coffee in a swallow, pushed his cup and saucer away, and allowed his voice to harden. “What is the recording but excuses for his many imperfections, and accusations against those who have wounded him, in his saying, a faithless companion, a son who is a criminal, those sworn to a vendetta against his life, an untrustworthy successor. At his end, facing a godless future, he determined to make us all pay. May God have mercy on him.”
“Are you suggesting that his allegations are false? I …”
He looked over my shoulder to the busy piazza, his face empty of emotion. “Some people tell lies as gracefully as they tell the truth. Look at our politicians …”
I told him that I knew of witnesses, albeit not very reliable witnesses, who saw Palagi go inside and leave a car, followed by someone into the fog to where he likely entered the river. And of the Beretta in his pocket. And what Benno and I had learned in Basilicata as to the vendetta and the ‘Ndrangheta. He listened impassively, only the Beretta seemed to surprise him.
“Father, under the circumstances, one cannot discount murder …”
I saw a wary disquiet rise in his face.
“Murder?” he mused. “Physical murder?”
“There’s an expression in the United States: ‘Follow the money.’”
“Italians have a similar phrase. Cui bono? ‘Who will gain?’ But is it that simple? Everyone he accused profited from his death?”
“I feel it is our duty to examine all possibilities. Claudia, for instance, hated him, perhaps extorted the insurance, a legacy.”
“I am sorry,” th
e priest replied, a palm raised to me. “If you are to investigate, you must proceed alone. I have done my duty.” He signaled to a passing waiter for a fresh espresso. “I will not allow Italo to further his spite against me. Perhaps he could not resist the dismal call of a final resolution. I suggest we will never know, for sure. I have decided that I do not need to know.”
I recognized that the priest had a different, likely better, moral center than my own. His coffee arrived, and he finished it in a gulp, and found a wallet from inside his habit. I reminded him that he was my guest. “Grazie, my friend,” he said. “And I have some information for you. I told you last week that Claudia would be in Rome. What I did not know then is that she is at a private clinic. She suffers from a malady which I suspect is cancer. She contacted our priory here two days ago and I was called.”
“For confession?”
“An interesting question. I have spoken to my spiritual director and conclude it was not confession in a sacramental way but nevertheless a confidence. Despite her sickness, her brain burns brightly. And angrily. She felt the need to tell me what she plans to do with her legacy, with her insurance policy proceeds. And why. She seemed compelled to denounce Palagi to someone who knew him, detailing his many sins. We say in Italy come era, dove era. ‘As it was, where it was.’ I listened until she tired. Suffice to say her hatred is not satiated. She plans to vent it on his son if a lawsuit delays or prevents prompt payment of her legacy. So long as her health holds out, she will press her claims, here and in Providence. It may be that her obstinacy might help you.”
“How, Father?”
“Faced with such opposition, would not Vittorio, or the ‘Ndrangheta who surely back him, seek compromise, with her, with you. These people lust for money. They are impatient at delay.”
I mentioned my planned visit to Vittorio’s lawyer. He said, “In Rome, it is not only in the courts where arrangements are made. For better or for worse, over the centuries, Romans have learned that the organs of government are designed primarily to frustrate purpose. They have little faith in a justice system that is chaotic and are steeped in a culture of the practical, in resignation as to how things actually are. Thus, in private situations, they find it is easier to act directly. Claudia is related to the Guilias, an old family here. With a phone call here, a message there, an arrangement can be made. Given the influence of such people …”
His comments echoed passages in the early chapters of The Leopard. Italians, di Lampedusa made clear, have developed a highly sophisticated sense of contacts and power, a keen understanding of whom you should say ‘yes’ to and to whom you can get away with saying ‘no’ to, and when to compromise. All the deep currents of Italian society—family, nostalgia, distrust of government, and style—reflect this truth.
The waiter arrived with our bill. Father Sacchi’s eyes went to it. “An espresso at two euros? Rome is so expensive. It shouldn’t be, should it?” He stood, wrapped his cappa over his shoulders, and closed its clasp. “Are we not both caught in Palagi’s web of deception? Neither of us can wish it away nor wield a saber through it. We must let it wither away, as all spider webs eventually do.” He took my hand and smiled a shy smile. “I look forward to your return to Rome and meeting your wife. Perhaps by then, all of Italo’s machinations will be history.”
He threaded his way among the tables into the piazza and disappeared into the crowd. Father Pietro would not have to live with a misjudgment on my part. Or any unforeseen consequences. Que sera, sera.
48
I DECIDED TO WALK the core of the city, giving myself the opportunity to consider Father Pietro’s advice to compromise, to perhaps leave Palagi, and his murderer—if there was one—to God.
I soon came upon the stalls of Campo de’Fiori and its mountains of vegetables, hanging cured meats, tables of cheeses, varied fish on beds of ice, hawked by hoarse-voiced vendors whose hands and mouths moved with an auctioneer’s rapidity. I continued and it seemed only appropriate to enter the cool precincts of the wonderfully restored San’Isidoro Basilica. Its interior’s stillness was a relief from the bustle of the city; in a rear pew under a frescoed vault of ceiling, in meager lighting and the smell of old incense and candles, I realized I was in stasis, conflicted by opposing emotions and motives. Palagi was a deceiver, a fraud. He had lost a fortune that should have gone to the Institute. Did it matter if he was a good person or not if he was murdered? Wasn’t the existence of a crime enough to be worth resolution and penalty for the perpetrator? What, if anything, weighed heavy in the scale of things so that I should continue? And would it amount to anything?
I left the church and found my way through a dense network of alleys, borgos, largos, and viales, stopping for espresso at an unpretentious bar along the Via Gulia crowded with locals, when something attracted my eye in a dusty shop window displaying vintage military uniforms, antique swords, muskets, and replicas of more modern weapons and ammunition. The shop’s sign read Antiquario Replica Arma da Fuoco.
I stood at the window and suddenly, I had an intuition that I dismissed as absurd until my fingers rolled in the lingering memory of a tube of metal in plush carpet. The shopkeeper, a matronly woman, was surprised at my request and grumbled at the tiny sale she made after handing me a cartridge for a Beretta and answering my time-consuming questions. I left with my purchase in a plastic envelope. I felt a little silly: would it end up being a souvenir?
I returned to the hotel through throngs of tourists, many of whom were led by guides holding aloft wands draped with flags or ribbons. When I arrived at my suite, I opened the windows and shutters and stretched out on a sofa and got comfortable with The Leopard when a brisk rap at the door interrupted me. Benno Bacigalupi, sporting a day’s beard, a straw fedora, a floral casual shirt, and pleated gray slacks, smiled jauntily and sauntered in; the dour Benno had seemingly been transformed into the relaxed Benno. He told me he liked our hotel, of his excursion into the Piazza Navona for pranzo; we moved to the lounge area facing the balcony, stopping for a bucket of ice, tall glasses, a San Pellegrino for me, and a premixed limoncello from the mini bar for him.
“What you got here is a frittata, a … pasticcio, a mess. First, more on family background, what’s going on. Most of this I got from Gianmarco, some of which we guessed at before, some I now can confirm. Gotta tell you, without him, we’d have gotten nada.”
With that comment, he took a handwritten statement from his shirt pocket, an Italian version of ‘For Services Rendered,’ for a thousand euros from Gianmarco.
“Cheap,” Benno said firmly. “He prefers cash. Can you arrange it?”
I said I supposed it could be managed.
Benno, relieved by my quick acceptance, took a long sip of limoncello and continued. “Maria Ruggieri’s family were farmers, shopkeepers and minor politicians with a modest local prominence because their relatives in Matera, that’s the provincial capital—where that guy Gibson filmed that movie The Passion of the Christ—and not far from the village, ran a cell of the ‘Ndrangheta. In Basilicata, no matter who thought they were in charge and tried to make their laws hold sway, Socialists, Fascists, Christian Democrats, back to the time of the monarchy, it has always been run by the ‘Ndrangheta.”
After more limoncello, he continued, “In the countryside where we went, the gang is into small stuff, blackmail, protection, fixes, prostitution, payoffs, and the like, and they take care of families. Times are tough now, with people leaving, so they scratch at anything and everything that looks like it could turn a euro. In the larger towns and cities, they run drug rackets and smuggling, dump toxic waste wherever, and control the unions and they used to have it all until the Albanians and Arabs arrived.” He looked up. “Like Providence, with the Latino and Asian gangs taking over drugs.”
He finished the limoncello and barely stiffled a yawn. “They are opportunistic, take what comes along, process it through ancestry, family, those who are with you and those against. And, pardon my expression, but in
Basilicata, it is ‘fuck you’ unless you’re la famiglia. They speak the truth to no one except family. Their attitude towards Palagi, rich, soft because he was from the North, was to take him down and collect while doing it.”
He was interrupted by a telephone call from the hotel concierge who suggested a prenotazione for cena at the nearby LeCornacchie, celebrated, according to the concierge, for classic Roman cuisine. Benno didn’t disguise a second yawn. “You know, I could use a nap. What say we finish up with dinner?”
Benno, a nap?
He left me and I used the downtime for more notes on my laptop, then continued The Leopard as the serene estate life of the princely class disintegrated after Garibaldi and his cohort landed in Sicily and new men, mean men, corrupt men, replaced it. I came to a passage that I underlined electronically: ‘The change of spots of government in the South was illusory, the concentration of power, the illegalities, and alliances, continue.’
Benno was waiting for me in the lobby, cleanly shaven, in a black, satin finish jacket, white ruffled-front shirt, flaired trousers, and black leather shoes. The clothes, he said, were provided by Gianmarco. We walked the few blocks to the restaurant and found its décor almost too romantic for two straight guys to be having dinner there. Benno asked for a table not within listening distance of other diners, we ordered campari and sodas, and antipasti, and told the waiter we would order later from the menu. When our drinks arrived, I asked, “How could Maria Ruggieri live with the Giambazzis all these years? Disowned? Never mentioning her affair with Palagi?”
Benno took down half of his campari. “You are getting ahead of me,” he said testily. That was more like the old Benno.
“Sorry.”
“Like I said, in Basilicata, things are tough. They fight over a crust of bread, says Gianmarco, and they still avenge wrongs.”