He instantly recognised the unconscious provocation in that “signor questore”. Capuozzo went into a rage if he was not addressed as dottore. The words had slipped out, and now Capuozzo was making an obvious effort to remain calm, though he still looked like a man on the point of exploding.
“In all honesty Soneri, I see no sign of any great progress in this enquiry. I get annoyed when I read in the papers that we’re groping about in the dark. They’re on the telephone every two or three hours, and I don’t know what to say. And you’re never there. Now they’re making up a story that there’s some organised crime gang behind it all. I’m the one who’s responsible for public security. It’s my head that’s on the block if it all goes wrong.” He leaned over towards the commissario, stabbing his index finger three times against his chest with a theatrical flourish.
At this point, Soneri saw a solution flash before his eyes and without thinking he grabbed at it. “I’ll drop the investigation. You can hand it over to one of our colleagues.”
An embarrassed silence fell between the two men. For Soneri this was not just another case. It was not merely an inquiry into Ghitta’s death. The more he delved into it, the more he realised it was an investigation into himself. What was coming up as it developed was anything but pleasing.
“Really,” he said with complete sincerity, “I don’t feel like going on with it.”
Capuozzo put his pen down beside a pile of papers. He clasped his hands, cracked his knuckles and leant forward once more, only this time he appeared preoccupied or deeply concerned. “Enough of this sort of talk. No more nonsense. I spoke that way to goad you on, but I realise . . . when all’s said and done, it’s only been a few days.”
Soneri found the questore’s regret flattering, even if he had no illusions about it. The feeling lasted no more than a moment, because immediately afterwards he understood Capuozzo’s reasoning when the questore said: “They’re all off on leave. Who could I give the case to? We can’t exactly suspend investigations for a fortnight, can we?”
Soneri was one of the very few left in the office during the annual Christmas exodus, and his chief was only interested in ticking boxes. That was all there was to it. Taking advantage of the telephone ringing, the commissario rose to his feet. The questore waved him goodbye and he went out, floating on his own uselessness like fat on boiling water.
Juvara made an effort to stop him in the corridor, but even before he had a chance to open his mouth, Soneri cut him off with a brusque gesture. The commissario needed fresh air. He could not stand the stale atmosphere of the questura, an unmistakeable mixture of sweat, cheap perfume, cleaning products, smoke, dirt and half-full wastepaper baskets. He walked in the direction of Via Saffi, pursued by the stench. He had walked as far as Bettati’s barbershop before he had managed to shake it off.
“Your hair obviously doesn’t grow very quickly. It must be a good ten years since I last trimmed it for you.”
“Unfortunately, it’s longer than that,” the commissario said.
Hardly anything had changed, apart from a few modern chairs among the padded seats where the bottoms of half the city had perched.
“The damp weather makes people want to hold on to their hair,” Soneri said, looking round the empty room.
“The people who come to me don’t have much hair to start with. The rest make their own arrangements. Anyway, I’m not going to be here much longer. Another couple of years until my pension matures and then I’ll close down.”
“I’ve not got much left now . . .”
“You think there’s much left on me?” Bettati said, running his hand through his remaining locks, while at the same time looking in the mirror at his face and that of the commissario behind him. “The only ones of the old guard who held out were Ghitta and me. We don’t see much of you nowadays. Is it true that the Schianchi woman has disappeared?”
The commissario nodded before sitting down in the barber’s chair. For a moment, he had the illusion of being immersed in a scene from his youth, at a time when politics were regularly debated in Bettati’s shop. It was a moment of concentrated pleasure he wished would last.
“Did you use to see much of Ghitta?”
“Not a lot recently. She always seemed to be carrying the world on her shoulders. The only thing that never changed was the Thursday trip to Rigoso – because of her son, among other things.”
“Is he badly disturbed?”
“He’s not quite right, but he’s able to live on his own. She bought him a house in an area where he’s practically the only resident. That way he doesn’t disturb the neighbours.”
“Is there nobody to look after him?”
“There must be somebody. There’s a guy who comes to town from time to time – somebody from the village, judging by the clothes he wears.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“None at all,” the barber said, shaking his head. “I do know he brings her stuff from the villagers, fees for the treatment, mainly salame and home-made products. Ghitta takes her payment in kind, although don’t ask me what she does with all that food now that she doesn’t take in students.”
“She has a different kind of client.”
“I know, but they don’t stop to eat all that often. They use their time in other ways.”
“Do you know who used to hang about the pensione?”
“I hear rumours about important people, some of whom used to go there to study in their university days, but who go there now to get a leg over.”
“Anyone you know?”
“No, there were so many of them. A bunch of long-haired weirdoes who never set foot in here. You were one of the few who ever got his hair cut.”
“Well, I’m one of the better preserved of them,” the commissario congratulated himself as he patted into place his mane of hair, now turning white at the temples.
Bettati took a look at his reflection in the mirror, and Soneri returned his gaze. The barber was getting on in years. As he raised his scissors and comb, his back had a definite stoop.
“You were the most moderate of a gang who would gladly let the world burn. Next to them, you were nearly a Fascist.”
“Never a Fascist!”
“They used to say that about anyone who was different from them. They used to fill this shop with words and words and words. All that talk about the revolution, but when I looked at their hands they were delicate and lily white.”
“They never did achieve the revolution.”
“The problem is that the real proletariat didn’t either. Say what you like but those kids were no proles.”
From the mist which hung over the streets nearby there rang out isolated hammer blows which could be heard during the pauses in the conversation.
“Do you hear that?” Bettati said. “They’re building a monument to the 1922 barricades. It’s being worked on by two stonemasons from Crotone who haven’t the least idea of what they’re taking on. What’s even worse is that the architect who drew up the plans, a young fellow whose speech is laced with English words, has no idea either. I spoke to him and he was convinced that it was something to do with clashes between workers and bosses. I explained to him that the bosses were represented by Balbo’s Fascists and he was astonished that there were Fascists around as early as 1922.”
“I don’t recognise this district anymore,” Soneri said. “What happened to all the people who used to live here?”
“A lot of them are dead, because the poor die young. The others have got rich and have built second homes outside the city. They don’t come back anymore for fear it’d bring back memories of the days when they had patches on their arses. They hate anything to do with their past, because now they see themselves as respectable folk who vote for the right. They look down on the poor for the same reason. It reminds them of what they used to be.”
“You mean the poor bastards who occupy the houses where they used to live?”
“Yes, because the new occupan
ts aren’t just poor – they’re different. They’re foreigners. They keep to themselves. They’re not interested in changing the system. All they want to do is colonise the spaces that have been left empty, they want nothing to do with us. In all these years, not one of them has ever been inside my shop.”
A sort of anguish, an unsettling feeling, seized hold of Soneri, bringing with it the sense of oppression he had experienced shortly before in the questura. Although he normally felt at home in it, the mist was now helping to imprison him. As Bettati’s open razor ran down the back of his neck, he thought of the pork butcher’s knife driven into Ghitta’s heart and of the investigation which was keeping him locked in a cage of painful memories. By the time the barber removed the towel and shook it out, it was already completely dark outside. Bettati kept staring at Soneri’s reflection in the mirror, as did the commissario himself. He seemed old and tired, and the longer he looked, the more the gap widened between what he was now and the image of himself he kept in his memory.
“Do you know the only one who has remained true to his principles?” the barber asked.
Soneri remained silent, inviting Bettati to go on.
“Fadiga. He made his own revolution, all by himself, by setting himself free of a world he no longer cared for.”
“If nothing else, he’s the only one who’s not out for himself, but he has paid a heavy price for his choice of life.”
Bettati nodded in agreement and the two stood silently under the neon light. The more he waited, the more Soneri felt his throat tighten with anxiety. He made to pull out his wallet, but Bettati stretched out his hand to stop him.
“No money. Nowadays I’m not in it for myself either. I stay open to talk to the old survivors, people like myself, or acquaintances who come back to visit. I only do it to keep myself alive a bit longer, and soon, as I said, I’m definitely going to shut down.”
Soneri shook his hand and went out into the chill air. Behind him, he heard the shutters of the barbershop slam down, and the noise gave him the shivers. A few seconds later, the mobile in his duffel coat pocket began to ring.
“Friar Fiorenzo was on the phone just now, sounding very agitated,” Juvara said. “He says some guy called while he was doing catechism lessons, and insisted on meeting him right away. He’s sure it’s something to do with the death of the Tagliavini woman.”
“Did he meet this man?”
“He couldn’t get away from the children, but the man was in a rush and was quite threatening.”
“So he’s afraid?”
“I think so. He was also supposed to pretend that the caller was coming to make his confession. A set-up, in other words.”
Soneri thought it over for a moment, pondering how many things seemed to gravitate around the church where Ghitta used to go to Mass.
“What happened?”
“Friar Fiorenzo was having none of it. The man hung up without making a definite appointment.”
“Did the voice remind him of anyone?”
“No, there was nothing special about the tone of voice, but the friar did say he had the accent of someone from the mountain regions.”
“Every day there’s a new complication,” Soneri said, thinking of that twisted mass of clues he could not untangle. “What about Fernanda? Any developments?”
“We’ve heard from her relatives in Milan, but they know nothing about her. Some of our colleagues went round to the house and confirmed that there has been no trace of the old girl.”
“Ask Friar Fiorenzo to let us know immediately if the man calls back.”
He was now walking down Via Saffi. As he passed No. 35 he glanced into the shisha bar, which was packed with customers. It was the only place which seemed to throb with life, joyful and disorderly, and to emit some enthusiasm for the future. Bettati’s admiration for Fadiga had reminded Soneri of their agreement. When he reached Piazzale dei Servi, he waited for a car to turn into a courtyard through a heavy iron gate before slipping into the murky gloom of the hedges where Fadiga slept. He rummaged through the mound of cardboard, paper and meagre belongings. Fadiga had been as good as his word. Soneri found some pages torn from a newspaper and tucked under a cellophane-covered cushion. He stuck them in his pocket without looking at them and made off before he could be observed.
*
Angela was waiting for him in front of the Duomo. “Ready for lesson two?”
“I got too much from lesson one. I’m withdrawing from the course.”
“Don’t overestimate your intelligence. You’ve still got a lot to learn.”
“Don’t I know it! I was on the verge of abandoning the investigation, but the others are all on leave, so Capuozzo forced me to stay on. Do you think I’ll be more motivated now?”
“You were about to commit an act of gross stupidity, commissario. No question about it. You’re none too popular with your superiors because you’re a kind of anarchist policeman, but if you throw in the towel you’re only playing their game. Do you want to end up in charge of the passport office?”
“This is no ordinary investigation. I’ve had enough of probing into a past which is also my own. Did you know that Ghitta was carrying out abortions on the girls lodging with her? Did you know that on the official medical report on Ada’s death it was stated that the death might have been caused by a prior lesion? All the rest is down to Ghitta, to the ideas that were in the air and to this unrecognisable district of the city. I’m not paid to wallow in my past. All I have to do is find out who killed the old woman.”
Angela looked at him with a mixture of understanding and severity before her expression darkened. “I can’t occupy your attention in the here and now – that’s the real problem.”
Soneri was too weighed down by his own depression to do anything to lighten Angela’s mood, but he had no wish to appear a complete egoist by simply ignoring it, so he stretched out his hand and squeezed hers. It was enough. Emotional displays were not part of their repertoire.
They held on to each other as they began to walk towards San Giovanni Evangelista and the narrow streets of a city which had changed under the skin, where time and its larvae were burrowing into the old, flaccid body, causing it to decompose. They quickened their step, walking arm in arm now, clinging more and more tightly to each other as they recalled a whole catalogue of places associated with episodes in their own relationship, chattering freely with the candour of young people remembering a childhood from which they had only recently emerged. Their conversation was soon tinged with a sense of the cruelty of time passing, taking their dreams with it. The pain that this emotion induced led them to take refuge in adolescent acts. Still holding hands, they started to run, in part out of the illusion of being still young, in part to escape from the spectres that were gathering around them. As they ran, they came together in an embrace, stumbling over each other’s feet as they did so. When they leaned against a wall to get their breath back, they were in a highly emotional state. Soneri heard Angela sniffling a bit in the chill, but he himself was overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions – sadness and happiness, nostalgia and anxiety for the future, a realisation of the naivety of their childish behaviour, a sense of the ridiculous, of the longevity of memory and of the impermanence of the present which coloured it, continually enhancing it.
Soneri took Angela by the hand once again. “Let’s go,” he whispered to her and they headed in silence for the Milord. They asked Alceste for a table in a corner.
“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” she said, still excited. “We shouldn’t let ourselves get carried away by our emotions.”
Soneri made no reply. He knew it was impossible as long as he was tied up with this investigation. “It would be as well to suspend the lessons,” was all he said a few moments later.
“That was no lesson, more like an excercise in mindfulness.”
“Time to order the antidote,” Soneri said, turning to the menu.
He saw that tripe had been added in pencil at
the bottom, ideal for dipping chunks of bread into. He ordered a bottle of Bonarda. He had never understood drinkers so well before, especially those who needed at least two glasses before facing the world and fooling themselves they were dominating it.
Angela had no need of alcohol to recover. Her warlike spirit was sufficient. Tears for her were only a brief retreat while she prepared for a fresh offensive. She gave Alceste, who had never really taken to her, the usual order of grilled vegetables and tap water.
“Do you want me to decant the whole bottle?” Alceste asked Soneri, indicating the Bonarda.
“I’ll be happy to offer you a glass or two.”
“You’ll get cirrhosis of the liver.”
“Either that or depression. I’ve no idea which is preferable. Remember what they used to say at university? Depression takes more prisoners than repression.”
Soneri poured himself half a glass, sniffed the wine at length and took a couple of sips. “Didn’t I tell you we needed an antidote?” he said, taking out the newspaper cuttings Fadiga had left for him.
He spread them out on the table under Angela’s uncomprehending gaze. She quickly read out the headlines until Soneri stopped her. “The articles don’t matter. It’s the pictures that count.”
“Old acquaintances?” Angela said.
“These are the people who used to go to Ghitta’s to get laid.”
She did not reply at once, staring instead at the newsprint faces of Franco Pecorari, Chair of the Council Planning Committee, and Renato Avanzini, C.E.O. of a construction firm. “Well, Pecorari was always well known for frequenting brothels. He used to preach free love, but only so he could enjoy it as often as possible. I’m surprised about Avanzini, always going on about his wife and family and always attending Mass at the Duomo.”
“They’re the worst kind of hypocrite,” Soneri said.
She gave him an inquisitive look. “And now that you’ve found out about these peccadilloes, what do you make of it? There’s a lot of it going on.”
A Woman Much Missed Page 8