Nanetti got up, his hips swaying as he moved, to leave. He always gave the impression of a large locomotive with oversized track rods. Meanwhile the commissario lit a cigar and turned back to the pages of the Dallacasa folder. He read the statements of the people who had seen him get into the car on the evening of his disappearance. It had taken place in Via Montanara, the most southerly district of the city, on the road out to the hills. Everything seemed to point to the countryside where flocks of starlings would congregate when the grapes were ripening, but the bald statement and the arid, legalistic prose of the pages in the folder gave nothing more than a straightforward description of the facts.
It occurred to him that the best way forward was to go and see Bettati in his shop. He found him with a newspaper spread open in front of him, sitting in one of the chairs in the reclining position he preferred for his clients. “I’ve never had such a loyal customer,” Bettati said when he recognised Soneri in the mirror in front of him.
“Hair grows quickly for youngsters like me.”
“Have you seen this?” he said, holding up the newspaper. “Some right-wingers have come out against the monument to the Barricades.”
“What did you expect? It’s still a sore spot for Mussolini’s grandchildren.”
Bettati spun round and looked at him quizzically.
“Do you remember Mario Dallacasa?” the commissario said.
Bettati nodded gravely, as though the question reawakened an unpleasant memory. “There was a man who really did believe in revolution.”
“No half measures with him?”
“He’d have walked through a brick wall to bring it on.”
“Any idea who might have killed him?”
“It was a funny business. I don’t believe the Fascists had anything to do with it. They said at the time there was some woman, or women, involved. He had a lot of female admirers.”
“I’ve met his ex-girlfriend. She’s never got over it. She’s a broken woman even now.”
“The nurse? She disappeared from circulation. She never goes out except for work. And to think that she was once extremely militant.”
“Did Dallacasa have any contact with the terrorist movement?”
Soneri’s question was blurted out and Bettati looked at him with a sort of distrust. “I heard rumours to that effect, but if there was any truth in it, the contact must have been with groups outside the city. The communist party was in total control here.”
“The officers in charge of the investigations at the time believed his own side was responsible for his murder.”
“Not those in his own group,” Bettati said firmly. “I knew nearly all of them and they wouldn’t have been up to it. They were good at using the megaphone and the cyclostyle, but pistols weren’t part of their repertoire.”
“Did you know any of those who did use guns?”
“You only got to know of those ones at a later date. When the police picked them up, you were amazed that so and so, who you thought was an ordinary activist . . . there were whispers about others, but nothing more. Who can say how many people there are who keep their past buried away, and who now maybe live a quiet, respectable life? As you know better than me, the armed struggle was organised in little cells of a maximum of four people, meaning that no-one knew the name of more than three others.”
From time to time, the noise from the yard where the construction of the monument to the Barricades was under way intruded on their conversation. Whenever a particularly loud bang rang out, Bettati threw a glance in the direction it came from.
“Supposing it really was one of his own side who murdered him, why would they have done it?” Soneri said.
“He liked being seen in public. He was also a born leader, somebody who could take others along with him. He never seemed to me the type who could adapt to the solitary life or to staying out of sight, as you have to do if you go underground. You can’t make yourself noticed, and he wanted to stand out. If they’d put him on the stage of the Teatro Regio, he’d have been delighted.”
“Yes, but from there to actually killing him . . .”
“He thought building up the movement was the way forward. Maybe he tried to persuade them they’d got it all wrong. Maybe as a fellow traveller he was starting to get in the way too much. It’s more likely they simply didn’t trust him any more and thought he stank. Who can say?”
“You mean because the police had him in their sights?”
“He pushed himself forward too much. He’d become one of the points of reference for younger activists, and so the police kept an eye on him. If he really did have dealings with the people who had gone underground, he risked compromising them. That lot were pitiless. Their organisation mattered infinitely more to them more than any individual, and they wouldn’t have stopped at any anything to preserve it.”
Soneri smoothed his moustache and lit another cigar. “Maybe you’re right. Did you come across anyone known as ‘Rosso’?”
Bettati thought it over, but could not come up with anything useful.
“It seems he was one of the very few who could put the wind up Ghitta,” Soneri explained.
“He must’ve had some balls.”
“That’s what everyone says about her. An iron lady. The thing is that to all appearances she was quite the opposite.”
“People are like mist. All you see is the grey and then, quite suddenly . . . but by then it’s usually too late.”
Soneri thought of himself. He was in such turmoil because he had trusted appearances too much. As he was pondering these matters, his mobile struck up once more with its excruciating Verdi.
“Commissario, you were right all along. Ghitta was extremely wealthy. I’d never have believed it,” Juvara said.
“We were just talking about appearances,” Soneri said.
The inspector did not understand and for a while made no reply. To get over his awkwardness he began reading a list of possessions that could have belonged to landed aristocracy. Ghitta had apartments in the city, almost all in the zone between the Duomo and Via Saffi. In addition, there were some thirty houses and cottages in the country between Rigoso and Monchio, government bonds, two farmsteads, chestnut woods and shares in the municipal gas company. She even owned the parish house in Corniglio where the priest lived, meaning that the diocese had to pay her rent.
“So she could have evicted the parish priest and all the saints,” Soneri mumbled as he listened to Juvara’s report.
“And I haven’t got to the one hundred thousand euros put away in a pension fund for her son.”
Ghitta had spared a thought for her unfortunate son, semi-abandoned in the mountains, addressing illusory rallies of Fascist troops. She lived in complete security, and there was not a chink in her meticulous planning. Everything had been prepared down to the last detail, except for one thing. Soneri’s thoughts went back to the man known as Rosso, to that disturbing phone call a few weeks before the murder.
Bettati put down his paper. “You didn’t expect her to have squirrelled away quite so much, did you?”
Soneri shook his head, wondering how she had managed it.
“Ghitta saved everything. She wore the same clothes year after year, she emptied out the wardrobes of people who’d died and she sold off furniture thrown out by wealthy folk. She lived to accumulate. She’d have killed a flea to strip off its skin.”
Bettati took off his white jacket and threw it over one of the chairs by the wall. He walked towards the door, followed by Soneri. At the doorway, they said goodbye to each other with a gentle pat on the arm. A silent melancholy had come over both men.
As he walked along the street, Soneri took out his mobile to call Juvara. “Draw me up a list of all the tenants in Ghitta’s properties. Try to find out who they are, how much rent they pay and how long they’ve been there.”
Investigations which did not entail moving a single step but only surfing the web were Juvara’s speciality. “No problem,” t
he inspector said. All I have to do is to check the databank.”
“Alright, but waste no time. I’m in a hurry.”
“It’s lunch time now,” the inspector objected timidly.
“Look, you’re always searching for something to kick-start your diet.”
Nevertheless, Soneri stopped off at a new place near the old San Francesco prison, but walked straight out again the moment he saw the phoney, pretentious décor, the obsequious demeanour of the young owners who wanted to pass themselves off as sommeliers, and the exaggerated flashiness of ordinary dishes which had been given improbable foreign names to impress customers. He felt the need to call into an old-style food store, where he looked fondly at the woman behind the counter, with her overall tied under her ample, matronly breasts, and at that face of hers, as shiny as a ripe apple.
He arrived at the questura with an unfinished piece of his panino al prosciutto, to find Juvara bent over his keyboard with a multi-bulb lamp on his desk.
“I thought you might like this. It’s nearly Christmas,” the inspector said when he met Soneri’s puzzled gaze. The commissario was genuinely moved and offered a grateful smile. He always found it hard to express feelings, which seemed to him to be of their nature beyond speech. All the words which came to him were ponderous and inadequate. He went over to Juvara, put his hand on his shoulder, shook it a bit and murmured grazie, trusting that his tone of voice would communicate his feelings. “Go and get yourself something to eat,” he said.
The inspector shrugged his shoulders and pressed a button on his mouse. The printer began to rumble and some pages emerged. Halfway down the list Soneri noticed the name of Teresa Rodolfi. There were also many students. Ghitta might not have been running a boarding house any longer, but she kept in touch with student life through the apartments she rented out.
“Friar Fiorenzo was on the phone. Ghitta’s funeral is this afternoon.”
Soneri had forgotten that Saltapico had issued clearance for the funeral to go ahead. “What time?”
“Three o’clock.”
He looked at his watch. Half an hour to go. In the last couple of days, the mortuary had been sending impatient messages. The refrigerated vaults were almost all in use and the magistrate had finally given way. Soneri had no objection. Her wizened body had no more information to impart, and so for Ghitta too the time had come to take leave of this world after playing her final part.
He arrived at the church shortly before the beginning of the ceremony. Friar Fiorenzo was already in his vestments.
“Who asked you to say this Mass?” the commissario asked.
“Him,” the friar replied, pointing to Chiastra who was standing near the coffin. “I would have done it in any case. Ghitta attended this church regularly. She found comfort and understanding here. She was the victim of great cruelty. If she sinned grievously, she did it partly to defend herself.”
Soneri moved aside to survey the semi-deserted nave. Elvira arrived and the sound of her heels rang out before she muffled it by shuffling her feet along the ground. She was followed by Mohammed, who took a seat at the back. Finally, silently, Pitti turned up, dressed from head to toe in black, bowler hat in his hand and his remaining hairs arranged on his skull in a way that made it resemble a peeled onion. There was no-one else. Ghitta was saying her farewells in near solitude.
Friar Fiorenzo did not detain her long. He blessed the coffin and gave her the viaticum of eternal rest, then, since there was not even a sacristan to see to the more humble duties, went to open the doors himself. Two of the undertaker’s employees filed in, and the brighter light allowed Soneri to note that the casket was made of cheap, light wood. There was one single bouquet on which Chiastra had written only the modest words, “From your son and those who loved you.” Ghitta had contrived to economise even in death, while her partner had remained in the background even now that he was on his own.
They lifted the coffin and only then did Fadiga and Dirce make their appearance, both dressed in bulky, padded clothing. Standing apart, they watched Ghitta from a distance as she moved off, and perhaps in that desolate funeral service they foresaw their own fate. When they closed the hearse, Chiastra became aware that it would not be possible to follow it on foot. He looked around in dismay, but Elvira, Pitti and Mohammed had already gone and there was no-one else there. He went over to the undertaker and knocked on the window to ask for a lift. There was some animated conversation and he seemed to be pleading. Soneri approached and said, “Come on. I’ll take you.”
The old man clutched at Soneri’s arm with his strong, calloused hands. It was as if his life had been saved.
Theirs was the only car following the hearse. In a corner outside the church, they saw Bettati, who had not gone in because he detested priests. He raised his hand in salute as the hearse passed by. Chiastra sat completely still, his hat on his knees, his face ashen and his hands clutched together as though in prayer. At the graveside everything was businesslike. A gravedigger was standing by, like a great vulture in the mist. Friar Fiorenzo mumbled the final prayers and the coffin was lowered into the grave. Soneri watched it dance on the cords as though it was empty, and it was at that point that Chiastra burst into tearless sobs, a sort of prolonged lament of sheer despair. The commissario took hold of him and dragged him away while the first thuds of earth on the wood could be heard. When they reached the graveyard avenue, Soneri looked back and saw that only the gravedigger remained, working with his spade.
“Did you see how no-one came?” Chiastra said as they drove away. “And those few who did come were there out of a sense of duty.”
“You should never expect gratitude.”
“Nobody knew as many people as she did.”
“Where can I drop you off?”
Chiastra stretched out his arms. “Where can I go now? I’ll catch the last bus for Rigoso. That’s the only place I have.”
When they got to the bus station, Soneri parked his Alfa. The old man put his hat back on and opened the door to get out.
“Do you know if Ghitta made a will?” the commissario asked.
Chiastra stopped halfway out of the car, and it was clear from the expression on his face that it was only at that moment that the question of the inheritance had occurred to him. “I don’t suppose so. Ghitta’s thoughts were all about living. Death never crossed her mind. She had an iron constitution.”
“With all that she owned, she must have occasionally thought about who to leave it to.”
“Maybe,” the old man said, but he sounded doubtful. “All she wanted was to be respected, and the only way to do that was to accumulate cash. As you can see, it didn’t work.”
They had nothing more to say to each other. The car door slammed shut and Chiastra walked with exhausted dignity towards the ticket office.
*
Soneri called Juvara. “Ring round all the lawyers in the city to find out if Ghitta left a will,” he said. He pulled his car over to the side of the road, because he wanted to stretch his legs a bit. The fading afternoon light made the Christmas lights stand out all the more, while the mad scramble of the noisy crowds around the shops showed no sign of letting up and made him think the city was under siege. The familiar Verdian aria rang out in a pocket of his duffel coat, rescuing him from an incipient depression.
“Commissario, I tried to call you back,” Juvara said.
“There’s an appalling racket here, and with so many mobiles going off at once you don’t know whose it is.”
“But yours is unmistakeable.”
“I know. I must get the ringtone changed.”
“I’ve found the will.”
“Where was it deposited?”
“With a lawyer called Zurlini.”
“What does it say?”
“She’s left everything to Fernanda Schianchi.”
Soneri was struck dumb, stunned. His first thoughts were for Chiastra, who had not been able to count on gratitude any more than anyone else. H
e then wondered what had bound Ghitta to Fernanda to the point where she had chosen her as the heir to her fortune.
“What’s the date on the will?”
“Two months ago.”
Soneri stood stock still on the pavement, as though he was lost, but it was his thoughts that were in a tangle. He heard the inspector bawling more and more loudly, “Hello! Hello!” until he hung up. The commissario simply could not understand, and when he failed to grasp something his first reaction was anger, followed by depression. He walked under the dark arcades of Borgo delle Colonne, passing groups of North Africans with wary expressions leaning against the wall, then shops decked out in all the colours of Africa, and hearing unfamiliar tongues with unfamiliar diphthongs. In Via Saffi, he dropped into Mohammed’s bar and took the one free seat. The place was filled with men returning from work, eating Pakistani food. Half a dozen tables had been drawn up to form one long bench where several children were gathered facing a bearded man who was teaching them the Koran and the language of their parents. At the far end, a trading stall had been set up where people were bargaining in loud voices, and not far from them a group was standing in front of a television set tuned to a foreign-language channel. Mohammed seemed entirely at his ease in the general hubbub, attending to the various groups one by one, serving someone at the bar and then dealing with an order from a table.
“There’s a lot of homesickness for our own country,” he said, implying that he too was a sufferer. “In the evening, many of them gather here to listen to their own language. It’s like being at home for a couple of hours.”
Soneri nodded and looked outside. The window was all steamed up, but he could see the doorway to No. 35.
“Any developments?” Mohammed said.
The commissario took the cigar from his mouth and shook his head.
“The tenants who lived next to the Pensione Tagliavini have moved out.”
A Woman Much Missed Page 12