The Deliverance of Evil

by Roberto Costantini

  As I was leaving, Vanessa handed me a business card. “In case you have an urgent need, Captain Balistreri.”

  On it was her telephone number.

  . . . .

  The private offices occupied the first and second floors of Building A, underneath the count’s penthouse. We took a car, and we were at the gate within ten minutes. Teodori parked outside, the first sign that he intended to respect the powers-that-be. Gina’s daughter opened the gate and said that the count’s personal secretary was expecting us on the second floor. I looked toward the terrace and saw the usual reflection. I immediately lit a cigarette and made the usual sign of greeting mixed with disrespect.

  “Who are you waving to?” Teodori asked with alarm.

  “The count’s son, Manfredi.”

  He looked startled. “You know Manfredi?”

  “We’ve seen each other a few times from a distance.”

  Teodori’s uncertain look betrayed all his tension. He was being forced to take me there against his will and now things were coming out that he didn’t understand.

  The Count’s personal secretary was what you would have imagined: an elderly man with gray hair, impeccably dressed with the monarchist party’s badge in his buttonhole. He led us into a drawing room, which was furnished with a few items of antique furniture that were clearly valuable. On the walls hung paintings of great land and sea battles. Heavy curtains blotted out the sunlight. A wealth that was very different from the Roman bourgeoisie; this was aristocratic opulence, dark and serious, and in some ways menacing.

  We waited standing, looking at the paintings. Teodori seemed intimidated, as if those painted battles were there to warn him about what was in store for him. The wait was only brief, however; one of the count’s many fixations was punctuality.

  I had already met him, but this time the effect was more striking. His cold black eyes sat above an imposing hooked nose, below which was drawn the subtle lines of his lips, mustache, and a well-groomed goatee. He was half a head taller than I was and towered over someone the size of Teodori. While he was shaking his hand I noticed his restrained repugnance over the head of the investigation’s careless appearance.

  When it was my turn the grip was stronger than before. He stared briefly into my eyes. “If you wish to proceed with this case you will have to do so in a dignified manner. At least in this residential complex.”

  So the little monster with the binoculars had tipped him off about my excesses. Besides, it was his way of giving us confirmation that at any moment he could have chucked us out and blocked the case. I held my tongue.

  A waiter brought coffee and bottled water for the count, who turned to Teodori.

  “I’m somewhat perplexed by this visit. I agreed to meet with you because the minister of the interior explained to me that there’s been pressure from the other side of the Tiber to clear up any possible implications in this sad business of the girl.”

  He said “the other side of the Tiber” with a look of disgust. The minister of the interior had asked the count for a favor. Small favors between the powerful. All for the sake of that girl. In those few words and the way he pronounced them was revealed the count’s vision of the world. A no-account plebeian, probably of loose morals, as those people always were, had gotten herself killed, most certainly by another plebeian, and it had all happened far away from the residential complex on Via della Camilluccia.

  “Thank you,” Teodori said. “We’ll be quick.”

  “I can give you the next half-hour, then I’m off to Parliament for a vote.”

  “Then I’ll get right to it. Did you know the young woman in question, Elisa Sordi?” Teodori began.

  “One of my employees, Valerio Bona, gave me her résumé. I recommended her to the cardinal, but I hadn’t met her. I don’t normally have any contact with these people.”

  He said it exactly like that, these people.

  “You didn’t even know her by sight? She worked here for a pretty long time,” I put in.

  “I may have crossed paths with her in the courtyard, but honestly, I take very little notice of the other building. The two buildings are quite separate, as you can surely see.”

  “Turning to Sunday, July 11,” Teodori said haltingly.

  “Please proceed.” The count knew perfectly well what this was about, but he wanted to make him feel even more ill at ease.

  “We’re trying to reconstruct the movements of all the people present in the residential complex on that day,” Teodori explained.

  “And can I ask what this has to do with a crime that was committed some ways away by people who have nothing to do with us?”

  Teodori explained apologetically, “Well, it would be extremely useful to be able to reconstruct the victim’s whereabouts that day. If anyone saw her—”

  “What time did she arrive on Sunday?” asked the count, cutting him off.

  He wasn’t rude, but emphasized with every gesture that we were wasting his time without any reason and that he would decide when the conversation was over.

  “Her card was punched at 11:00. Before that she went to Mass with her parents. Then she took public transportation to the office.”

  “I had already left. My parliamentary group was meeting at the Hotel Camilluccia, five minutes from here. I got there at half past ten. I returned home a little after fivein the afternoon. I encountered Captain Balistreri below. He was chatting with the concierge. I took a shower, got dressed, and went out again with my wife and son at about a quarter past six. At the time, Captain Balistreri, you were leaving with Cardinal Alessandrini and Mr. Dioguardi.”

  I nodded in agreement and the count continued.

  “I went to the minister of the interior’s office for a short meeting we had scheduled some time ago. I came back here a little before the start of the game—I had invited several party members over for dinner. Coming back, I crossed paths with Cardinal Alessandrini, who was also coming home. My guests had already arrived. We watched the game and later celebrated quietly on the terrace with a toast.”

  Teodori watched me uneasily. He had no idea how to proceed, and if it had been up to him we would have left there and then.

  I spoke as gently as I could. “Did your wife and son come with you to the minister of the interior’s office?”

  The question signaled a new turn in the conversation. The count shot me a quick glance and then turned to Teodori.

  “I understood that you wanted to know whether any of us had seen the girl here.”

  “Or anywhere,” I said, without allowing Teodori to respond.

  This time the count’s eyes met mine and remained there, but I read no embarrassment or fear in them, just a brief glimmer of respect.

  “Do you think a member of my family could have had anything to do with that girl?”

  He was alluding to the vast social gulf between the Banchi di Aglieno family and someone like Elisa Sordi.

  “Perhaps a chance encounter? Assuming they weren’t with you at the minister’s.”

  The count smiled. “No, no matter how often the Minister’s my guest here, this was a brief meeting to discuss some work. I dropped my wife, Ulla, in the city center, near the ministry. The shops were open in the area and she wanted to take a walk. She came home alone by taxi.”

  “And your son?”

  “Manfredi left at the same time we did, on his motorcycle. He went to do a little weight training at his gym, one of the few in Rome that’s open on Sunday afternoon. He came home a few minutes after I did, just before the game started.”

  We had reached a critical moment. “We also need to speak to your wife and your son,” I said.

  There was a long moment of silence. I had the impression that the count was weighing the pros and cons. To prohibit an interview with his family would create embarrassment, with the Minister being leaned on by the Vatican, and this would mean in some way contracting an awkward political debt for him. He decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
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  “Of course, but I must warn you that Ulla is very upset about what happened and my son, Manfredi, as perhaps you know, has issues and must be treated carefully.”

  “Perfectly clear, Count,” said a thankful Teodori. “We’ll be as brief with them as we were with you.”

  “Then I will escort you upstairs—they are both at home.”

  The penthouse was as large as it was gloomy. Dark parquet floors, heavy curtains, antique furniture. A long hallway led to two drawing rooms in succession. The first was covered in tapestries depicting battles in the Italian colonies and big game trophies from Africa and South America. The second was a museum of eighteenth and nineteenth-century furniture interspersed with modern black leather sofas. I was struck by the total absence of mirrors or any reflective surfaces. The count sat us down in another room while his personal secretary went to get the wife.

  Ulla arrived immediately, as if she’d been forewarned. She was wearing a fancy sweatsuit, the expensive kind that’s not made for sweating. Her hair was gathered in a short ponytail, which made her look younger, but the tiny lines etched around her mouth and her stunning blue-green eyes showed that she was over thirty, and that her life wasn’t without stress. She didn’t mention our brief encounter beside the pool, and we introduced ourselves.

  She had little to add. On Sunday morning she left the apartment early to go to Mass. I caught a flash of disapproval on the count’s face. She returned at eleven and noticed Elisa, a beautiful young women she’d seen before, talking to Gina Giansanti..

  “I didn’t leave the house for the rest of the day. I slept a lot, because I was exhausted and guests were coming over to watch the game. When my husband returned at about five thirty, I gave final instructions to the cook and then went out with him to take a walk. He dropped me off on Via del Corso. It would have been six thirty, or maybe a little later.”

  “Did you by any chance see Elisa while you were walking downtown?” asked Teodori.

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Did you buy anything?” I asked.

  She looked at me a little surprised, as if she was making an effort to remember.

  “No, nothing. I hailed a taxi in Piazza Venezia and got here about a quarter past eight, a few minutes after my husband.”

  “Was Manfredi already home?” I asked.

  “Manfredi got here soon after, about eight twenty. He always stays at the gym for at least an hour.”

  I understood why Manfredi didn’t like the company of strangers and mirrors as soon as I saw him enter the room. Apart from that face, he was a normal kid: he was muscular, with powerful but not excessive pectorals and biceps, and almost as tall as me. But from the neck up he was a disaster area, a terrible trick of destiny. A harelip and mauvish birthmark as large as an apricot disfigured his face up to the swollen eyelid of his left eye. He had smooth black hair down to his shoulders and kept it over his face to cover the disfigured part. The only visible eye was very striking, having the same sea-green color as his mother’s.

  “The cop who makes funny faces,” he said. He had the guttural voice of a young man who hadn’t yet learned to control his hormones. He hadn’t yet learned his father’s art of self-control, but certainly displayed a good amount of aggression.

  “Superintendent Teodori and Captain Balistreri want to ask you a few questions, Manfredi,” said the count.

  The young guy said nothing, but waited for us. In the air I picked up on something I knew very well: the apparent calmness of someone who’s making an effort to contain his anger, an exercise in which I was highly specialized.

  I observed this muscular young man with the disfigured face and wondered what thoughts passed through his head every day. It wasn’t enough to get rid of mirrors to accept himself—perhaps he had to eliminate the negative reactions of others. Who could tell? A glance too many, a girl’s giggle. An opinion was forming inside me. For just a second I wondered if it was an opinion or a prejudice. But I was used to trusting my instincts.

  “It would be of great help to us if you could tell us whether you saw Elisa Sordi on Sunday,” Teodori said. I wasn’t happy with this opening shot, but I refrained from making a comment.

  “I saw her from the terrace through my binoculars,” Manfredi replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Binoculars?” exclaimed Teodori, taken somewhat by surprise.

  “They were a gift from my father. The same ones the Italian Royal Navy used.”

  “And on Sunday you saw Elisa Sordi from the terrace through your binoculars?”

  “Yes, three times. I saw her arrive around eleven. She spoke briefly with Gina and waved to my mother. Then I saw her leave about one, and she came back around two.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “She went out alone. She came back with the guy who works on my father’s computer.”

  “Were they arguing?” Teodori asked hopefully.

  For a moment Manfredi brushed aside the lock of hair from the left side of his face. I believed it was so he could better observe the idiot in front of him.

  “I could see, but I couldn’t hear anything. The kid was waving his hands, but I don’t know if they were arguing.”

  “What was she wearing?” I asked all of a sudden.

  I saw a shadow cross the count’s face, but he couldn’t veto that kind of a question.

  Manfredi didn’t even glance my way.

  “Blue jeans, a white sleeveless blouse, and low-heeled casual shoes.”

  “Was she wearing a bra?”

  There was no need to look at the count to feel his hostility. I saw the embarrassed look Ulla gave her son. Manfredi didn’t blink an eye.

  “Yes, I remember seeing a strap fall down her arm.”

  As I had presumed, he was very observant.

  “I truly do not understand what this type of question has to do with the matter,” said the count.

  “We didn’t find the girl’s clothes at the crime scene. Every detail is important, including whether she was wearing underwear.”

  Manfredi gave me a challenging look.

  “Obviously, I couldn’t say whether she was wearing panties or not.”

  There was no trace of irony in his voice; he wanted to get back at me for the way I’d acted in the courtyard.

  “Manfredi!” Ulla said.

  “Manfredi,” the count repeated, “this is no time for jokes.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “I only wanted to help the police.”

  “Think back to Sunday,” Teodori said. “Did you ever see Elisa close up?”

  “No. Right after lunch I went to my room to rest. The air conditioning was on. I was tired and I fell asleep. I only woke up when my father got home, just before six. Then we went out together about half past.”

  “And you went to the gym, and obviously you didn’t see her there,” Teodori suggested helpfully.

  “I didn’t see her. I came home in time for the game, which I watched in my room.”

  “Alone?” Teodori asked.

  “I don’t like crowds. The living room was full of people.”

  “And did you go out after the game to celebrate?” continued Teodori.

  “I just said that I don’t like crowds,” the kid replied testily.

  “Was there anyone in the gym with you?” I asked. Teodori looked nervous, but the count was calm.

  “Just my personal trainer.”

  “Did you have a session scheduled with him?”

  “We always see each other on Sunday afternoon from six forty five to seven forty five, when the gym’s deserted.”

  “Of course, you don’t like crowds,” I said, knowing the remark was cruel.

  The kid said nothing. He stared at me with his tough-guy attitude, rendered grotesque by his deformed lip and the mauve birthmark on the left side of his face covered by his long hair. The moment had arrived. I could feel Teodori champing at the bit, wanting to get away. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing m
ore to ask.

  I turned to the count.

  “I know that your son spoke with Elisa Sordi before Sunday, July 11, and I’d like to ask him some questions that would aid us in our investigation. But these are sensitive matters. I think it would be better if we spoke to Manfredi alone, without his parents present.”

  Teodori turned pale and desperate, as if we were on one of the sinking ships in the pictures on the wall.

  “These are routine questions,” I explained. “But we have to ask them, especially since we believe that your son spoke to the victim alone at least once in her office.”

  The count looked at Manfredi, surprised. His tone was icy.

  “In her office?” he asked his son.

  More than any fear in his tone, it was surprise and disdain that his son, the future Conte dei Banchi di Aglieno, should be gossiping with a little slut from the suburbs. He would have found it more dignified if I’d said Manfredi had taken her to the banks of the Tiber, hit her, knocked her around, suffocated her, and thrown her in the river, rather than wasting time chatting with the worthless girl.

  Manfredi looked at his father, then at his mother. Finally, he stood.

  “Let’s go to my room,” he ordered, never letting down his guard. Teodori, clearly upset followed us hesitatingly down the length of the half-shadowed hall.

  Manfredi’s room was at the end of the hall. It wasn’t particularly large. The ceiling was midnight blue and the walls were completely covered with posters, many of them for heavy-metal bands: Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motörhead, and Venom. The figures in the posters did not show their faces. They wore masks or had their backs turned. Unexpectedly, there was a photograph of his school class on the wall and I could understand why immediately. Manfredi was half hidden behind the teacher; you could see only his muscular body and the unblemished side of his face. There were no reflective surfaces in the room—the glass in the windows was nonreflective. There was a door to his private bathroom. The light outside entered weakly through the single window covered by a thick curtain.

  There were a good many books, a lot for a young kid, and evidently all read. Among works of history, philosophy, and art, and collections of prints of ancient Rome, I recognized Mein Kampf and Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil. The last time I had seen those works I was in my own bedroom in Tripoli. On the wall, scrawled in black felt-tip in an angry adolescent’s hand, was the aphorism I remembered well: The great epochs of our life come when we gain the courage to rechristen our evil as what is the best in us.