“Oh this is insane.”
“I know it is. But it’s what we have to live with.” She went on to explain all that had happened since Angela’s disappearance, and finished her grim account by saying: “The police have been all over the villa, they’ve arrested Uncle’s students, everyone’s under suspicion. I think they’re trying, but there’s not a single clue yet.”
“How’s your uncle?”
“He’s aged ten years in the past week. He looks like an old man now, but he put on a good face for the funeral. The paparazzi were intolerable, real scum, vampires …”
It was good to open her heart to someone she had no misgivings about. “Where have you been?” she caught herself asking in her mind as he replied. The line went dead again.
This time, he rang back and she listened to more words of comfort. The situation, she realized, was absurdly romantic: stolen phrases in a train corridor with her would-be lover on the other side of the Atlantic. Why wasn’t he there, with her? What was he saying now? That he would spend the night praying for Angela? Ah, sweet fool! Did he really think that would do her any good? Hadn’t her sister’s guardian angel been sleeping when she needed him the most?
His next words had an urgent tone. They brought her back with a start:
“Orsina, I have to tell you this: do you remember when I called you, and asked you about Angela?”
“Yes, but that was a month ago.”
“I know, but I’m afraid I had a premonition. I had the strangest vision of her, and she told me explicitly to look out for you …”
The train was screeching to a halt so loudly that he could hear it in his receiver. Had she heard his last words?
“Leo, I have to go now. We’re at Bolzano. It’s been so good just to hear your voice. God, how I miss you! I’ll call again soon. Bye, Leo.”
“Orsina, please do call me back very soon. Promise me that.” She had already hung up.
****
Nigel was attempting to keep a stiff upper lip. His lawyer had been to see him the day before, and had explained the Italian penal procedure at great length. Seeing that Nigel still protested vehemently that anyone in the free world is innocent until proven guilty, he asked him to write him a check.
“I’ll be in touch with you on a daily basis.”
“I should hope so.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. MacPherson. I’ve got people out of worse cases than this.”
Orsina went directly from the railway station to the prison, and arrived just in time to pay her husband a visit, late in the afternoon. Nigel was delighted to see her. While a guard stood studiously looking the other way, she told him about Angela’s funeral, and that Rupert would be coming to visit him the next day. As for her, she was willing to stay in Bolzano indefinitely.
“Orsina,” said Nigel, “I really can’t inflict that on you. It’s bad enough I have to stay here! That smooth barrister told me that he and the media will be putting so much pressure on the judge for the preliminary investigations that she’ll have to let me go.”
When she demurred, he continued,“Orsina, there’s nothing you can do. Go home and get some rest. You look devastated.”
Orsina smiled at his thoughtfulness, and said: “I don’t think so. Tomorrow, for example, I think I’ll pay a visit to Inspector Ghedina, he seems a decent man.”
“He may be nice to you, but he drilled me like a bad tooth!”
“It’s his job, Nigel. I’m sure he’s already convinced of your innocence. And then, I’d like to meet with the PM, and talk to him too.”
“Well, have it your way. I certainly am very appreciative. Thank you, from the heart.” They kissed lightly on the lips. The guard escorted her out through the dingy corridors.
Back in the stiflingly Tyrolean city centre, Orsina skipped dinner and headed for her room in the hotel. After showering, the thought of another night alone with her grief and her anxiety almost overcame her. But then she remembered: Leo. She had promised to call him.
At first there were some moments of awkwardness, as Orsina updated Leo on the latest developments, which had to do with her husband. Gradually, she began to speak in a more unrestrained way. There must be a limit to grieving and worrying beyond which one is pulled back; perhaps it is one’s own body that does so. Survival kicks in. She was surprised at herself: she could talk. But then, it had always been easy for her to talk to Leo.
“There was something you were going to tell me about that call a month ago, when you asked about Angela.”
“Yes, I haven’t told you about that, but what’s happened to you is so much worse.”
“Worse than what?”
He told her, much as he had told Dr. Elander, about his meditation on the stars and the earth. “And then there was Angela, standing right there. I found myself floating in space beside her, and she led me to an abyss. It wasn’t a comfortable meeting, but her last words were ‘Look out for my sister.’”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I guess because of what happened afterwards.” He spoke briefly about his temporary blindness and the tests he had taken since, in vain, as it remained unexplained.
“But are you all right now?”
“My vision returned of itself. It’s back to normal, thank God.”
“And you didn’t want to worry me by telling me about it?”
“No.”
“You should have told me. I would have worried, but so I should. We’re in this together, don’t you see?”
She described all she had been doing before the tragedy, Emanuele’s visit to the Palazzo and his words to her: “You’re more gifted than I.” She told him also of her own progress in studying The Magical World of the Heroes. In Venice, its metaphors and codes had begun to make some sense, especially after her discovery in the Cave of Mercury. And yet lately, at the villa, she had been resisting it.
“What do you mean, ‘resisting’?”
“I realized that it’s far more natural for me to study it in Venice than in the countryside. It’s as if book and Palazzo went hand in hand. Anyway, I seem to have misplaced the book now, or someone’s tidied it away.”
“Orsina,” Leo said gravely, “I don’t know how much of the book is serious, how much is just Cesare’s pretentious speculation. But Book Two talks about something he calls ‘vaticination,’ the old word for prophesying. Again, mine’s the incomplete edition, and there’s no explanation as to how to go about it, which is very frustrating. Wait, let me go get it.”
He was back within seconds. “Here, I’ve found it. It’s called ‘First Fruit: Transfiguration of Knowledge and Vaticination.’ Here we are:
Let the soul be disposed and prepared by means of the magic Tree of Life; let the senses be purged and made subtle,
“… and so forth, I won’t read it all.
Let it become, as the ancient Magi say, a firm soul, not a falling one: then, contemptuous of every obstacle no matter how strong, in the free enjoyment of its gifts, it can see things to come as well as things present and past.
“In other words, Orsina: vaticination is not only about prophesying; it’s also about seeing things in the present and in the past. I still don’t know how seriously one should take this book, though I suspect much more than you have so far. But if we could actually obtain what it promises, then we could—”
“See who killed Angela?” She choked up again, as he went on:
“And I do mean we. I can’t leave you alone in this. I’m coming to Italy to help you. I made a vow to protect you, and after Angela’s words, there’s no question about it.”
“Leo,” she now sounded calm, “I have to think about this.”
“I can take a daytime flight and be there by late tomorrow.”
“Please, give me an hour, and I’ll call you back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Orsina felt faint, and realized that, appetite or not, she must eat. She ordered some supper from room service. Leo’s offer
to come and rescue her had touched her heart—but she had no place in her heart for him now, or did she?
“Leo,” she told him an hour later, “I’m so grateful to you, and yet we can’t do this. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t. What do you mean? That I can’t be any help to you? Or comfort?”
“All of that! But the complications … What would I tell Nigel? If they release him in a few days, what would you do then? And the media would pester us worse than ever. They’d want to know who you are, what our relationship is, and what they don’t know, they’d make up. The paparazzi would have a feast; our photos would be in all the papers. The family name is compromised enough already. I’m sorry, Leo, but I don’t see how it could work.”
“I’m sorry too, Orsina. I figured it would be complicated. But if you change your mind, at any time, day or night, know that the offer stands.”
“Oh, Leo, I don’t know how to thank you. After the funeral, on my way here, I thought I was going insane. I didn’t know if I could bear it, but you saw me through that. And I’m sure we’ll see each other again—when this is all over.”
She hung up, and wept as she had never wept before. Had Leo wanted her three years before, she said to herself, she would never have married Nigel, and none of this would have happened.
****
The next morning, Orsina felt a new determination. No, she was not a maiden in distress in need of a knight. It was for her to do the rescuing.
She called Ghedina. He said that he could see her only briefly but right away.
At the police headquarters, the Inspector greeted her and asked her to his office.
“May I ask you for a favor, Baronessa?” He handed over to her a list of names. “These are some of the kids from the villa-hopping set that were not on your own list. I’ll be questioning the ones you pointed out shortly. Are there any more you could suggest?”
Orsina looked at the names. She didn’t like these youngsters, but she knew their parents and their older siblings, their villas and skiing chalets. “No, the ones I pointed out are those Angela hung around with. But she always goes to their houses. My uncle won’t have any partying in Villa Riviera.”
“Thank you,” said the Inspector. “I have to go now, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything. You’ll be staying in Bolzano?”
“Yes, I’ll stay at the Hotel Greif for as long as it takes.” They stood up. As they headed toward the door, she added: “Inspector, how long do you think before my husband’s release?”
“I wouldn’t know. It all depends on the investigation. We may well find something soon.”
Something had been found. Some twenty kilometers west of Verona, a peasant was working along the Adige river banks. He noticed a strange color in the water, just barely beneath the surface. As he drew by the water’s edge, he realized it was a turquoise Vespa. He called the police. One of the first to be informed was Ghedina, whose heart leapt on hearing the news. He ordered a thorough inspection of the scooter.
The Baron had already returned to Villa Riviera. In Venice, the pressure of the paparazzi had been unbearable. Many just turned up at the Palazzo demanding to see him. After Bhaskar turned them away, they would lounge at the cafes nearby, cameras at the ready to take the Baron or any of his visitors by surprise. At Villa Riviera, he had Giorgio hire a small army of private guards, and now all the entrances to the property were barred.
****
Leo’s secretary greeted him as he resumed classes the next morning, “I hope you’re feeling better, Professor Kavenaugh,” Mrs. Reed said. Then she handed him a copy of the Corriere. “Have you read this article, ‘The Corpse in the Ferrari’? The victim,” she added, “happens to be the sister of Orsina Riviera della Motta. Remember her? She was our intern a few years ago.”
Leo pretended to be surprised. “Really? Has the murderer been found?”
“No, but our intern’s husband is in a very compromising situation. I hope he had nothing to do with it. We were waiting for you to be back to write to Orsina and offer our sympathy.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Reed. I’ll do it myself.”
The newspapers had initially stuck to the facts. Then they had begun to embroider the story with their own perspectives on the case. La Repubblica, a national paper which leans to the left, had already run two editorials. Leo was now reading the second one.
While the whole of Europe is on the brink of war in what may be described as a tragic attempt to resurrect the Holy League against the Islamic foe, some people still engage in their favorite pastimes. Nigel MacPherson was one of them.
This man seems to thrive on contradiction. Schooled in England’s best centers of learning, long ago he rejected culture, and opted instead for a business career. But never trained for it, relying instead on his instincts and his love of traveling and gambling. By trading commodities, from coffee and bananas to palladium and diamonds with everything in between, he has accumulated millions, and now, it seems, billions. He is good friends with Warren Buffett, and like him distrusts financial gurus and prestigious MBA courses.
Still, he proved susceptible to the allure of ancient blood, and married the Baronessa Orsina Riviera della Motta. The Riviera family is also immensely wealthy, as down the centuries they have acquired real estate all over the Veneto region and, what is more, have been able to hold on to it, expand it, and manage its incomes shrewdly.
So far, so good, at least for the characters involved. But evidently Mr. MacPherson was not content with this. He has the reputation of a Don Giovanni, and his previous marriage failed because of it. With his marriage to the Baronessa he had meant, as the tabloids in England had reported at the time, to mend his ways. For those of you who still have not seen photos of her, the Baronessa is a beautiful woman. The two of them had decided to spend some time in Italy this summer. You are probably all familiar with this. What you could not know, is that we have been conducting an investigation of our own on Mr. MacPherson’s activities prior to his arrest, though technically we should write his fermo, his provisional detention.
Enter Angela, the victim, the Baronessa’s sister. We have discovered that the bubbly and stunningly beautiful seventeen-year-old was often seen in Mr. MacPherson’s company. A lover of wine, he took Angela along on many a search for the best Amarone in the Veronese countryside. Indeed, we have spoken to several eyewitnesses who could have sworn that the two of them were lovers simply by how they behaved together. And the couple never failed to make an impression, as they arrived at the various wineries in the Ferrari 365 GT.
What went wrong between Mr. MacPherson and Angela is a matter of speculation. But there is something suspect, lurid and ultimately tragic about the situation. For the sake of justice, it is hoped that the truth will surface. Yet one cannot help but wonder: if historical minorities such as Mr. MacPherson and the young Baroness had vanished once and for all from the face of the Earth, wouldn’t it be better for us all?
****
If based on genuine information, this editorial from La Repubblica had dealt a minor blow to the investigation in Italy, but a major one to Inspector Ghedina’s self-esteem. How could a reporter from a newspaper dig up such potentially incriminating background information about the chief suspect, and not he? But then, during the long hours of his interrogation Mr. MacPherson had omitted to say anything of his wine-searching jaunts with the victim. Was this a deliberate omission? Or had he just not mentioned anything because he thought it innocent, as perhaps it was? The Inspector scheduled another interrogation: he would get to the bottom of this. Meanwhile, he instructed Gallorini to do exactly what the reporter had done: question every Amarone producer in the Veronese.
The GIP in Verona, the judge in charge of the preliminary investigation, after some arm-wrestling with the PM from the same city, had persuaded him to release the Baron’s students from provisional detention. Days of interrogation and checking had produced no evidence against them. The PM, acti
ng as a mouthpiece for Ghedina, pleaded with the GIP: some students should continue to be detained. “Which ones?” asked the GIP. Those involved with martial arts: Karate, Kung Fu, Tae Kwon Do, Judo, and so on.
The request had seemed absurd to the GIP, so Ghedina was obliged to explain both to him and to the PM about the “sanguineous strangulation,” in his view the cause of the victim’s death. As a result, seven young men continued to be detained, and interrogated about their hobbies.
The media and the public clamored to know the reason for the continued detention. Both the PM and GIP responded with “no comment;” the segreto istruttorio states that it is the duty of a judge to keep all facts pertaining to an inquest secret. Yet somehow the reason leaked, and the public’s morbid curiosity reached a new high.
For all the recent advances in dactyloscopy, no fingerprints had been detected on the Vespa except for Angela’s. The scooter was undamaged, not even dented. The second gear was engaged, suggesting that it had been driven by somebody into the river, whether willfully or accidentally. However, no bodies had been found, and if there had been footprints on the banks, the recent rainstorms had washed them away.
The villa-hopping youth provided no new leads either: most of them had good alibis for that night. Augusto and one other did not, and would continue to be questioned. The registro degli indagati, in which the name and details of every suspect is filed, continued to grow. Yet Inspector Ghedina had to admit to himself that, for all his dogged work, he was clueless.
EIGHTEEN
The manager of Hotel Greif had been honored to enlist the Baronessa Riviera della Motta among his guests. Even under normal circumstances she would have been quite an addition to the roster; now, she was nothing short of a celebrity, with her photo in every newspaper. The hotel had been recently renovated, combining quaintly Tyrolean touches with German technology. It could use some publicity, and the Baronessa had seemed a godsend. But the manager’s mood had gone from elated to worried. He decided that he would wait until eleven in the morning. Then until noon. When the bells from the nearby cathedral announced that it was midday, he took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the police. Having followed the investigation in the press, he knew who to ask for, and when Ghedina came on the line, the manager told him what was worrying him.
The Forbidden Book: A Novel Page 15