The Disappearance of Signora Giulia

by Piero Chiara

  ‘Did you know,’ said the Commissario, ‘that Signora Giulia has fled her home? That she’s deserted her husband?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Fumagalli responded.

  ‘You’re the only one who’s not surprised, because in M—— no one can believe it. And I have trouble swallowing what you’ve said. I’ve known Signora Giulia for ten years. I accept that her husband is not the kind of man most likely to satisfy such a beautiful woman, someone so full of life. But Signora Giulia’s love for her daughter, and above all her upbringing and deep religious conviction, make me discount the idea of this lover you’re telling me about.’

  ‘Well,’ Fumagalli insisted, ‘she definitely had one. Whenever the clock struck four, she’d leave me in the pastry shop and go off on her way. She didn’t even want me to see her to a taxi. One time I watched her get into a taxi and then I asked the driver of a nearby cab whether he’d heard the address she’d given.

  ‘“I think viale Premuda,” he said. “That’s all I know, if it helps.”’

  Sciancalepre returned to M—— disappointed. The situation was more complicated than it had seemed at first.

  Esengrini was waiting for him in his office.

  ‘Unfortunately, my friend, I’ve ascertained nothing that you didn’t know already,’ Sciancalepre told him. ‘Her meetings with Fumagalli were innocent. A few things remain sketchy, but we’ll clear them up.’

  Two days had passed since Signora Giulia’s disappearance. By now word had got round the district and her scandalized friends were all talking about it whenever they met in private. They were very annoyed that Signora Giulia hadn’t confided in one of them; they felt betrayed and started gossiping. Some said the trips to Milan were inexplicable; others accused Esengrini of being too cold.

  The parish priest held Signora Esengrini in the highest regard amongst his patronesses, even though she was the youngest of them. He was brave enough to go to the lawyer’s house to express his sympathy and to assure him that his wife was an exemplary woman, with nothing on her conscience. Perhaps, he suggested, she’d experienced a sudden and inexplicable crisis. ‘Nerves, it’s nerves! These are horrible times!’

  Sciancalepre, who by now knew more about Signora Giulia’s nerves than the priest, settled down patiently to wait for a sign. Wives who run off always provide one after they’ve found their feet in a new situation. They get in touch with someone they trust and try to re-establish a connection so they can follow not only the lives of their children, but also what’s going on where they used to live – somewhere they’re sure to have shocked with their actions.

  The sign Sciancalepre was looking for came from the least expected corner. On the Monday morning following Signora Giulia’s flight, who should appear in his office but the gardener’s wife, Teresa Foletti. She was forty-eight and lived with her husband in a lodge across from the villa Zaccagni-Lamberti.

  The Commissario sat with clasped hands, as if begging for a telling revelation, while the woman made this confession.

  ‘Sir, I’ve not slept for three days, ever since the sudden departure of my employer. I have a secret that may not amount to much, but my conscience tells me it’s time to reveal it. It’s something not even my husband knows.

  ‘About a year ago, Signora Giulia entrusted me with a delicate matter. I’ve been receiving letters from Milan; in each one, there was a letter addressed only to “Giulia”. I’d let her know whenever one arrived, and she’d come to my house to read it hurriedly. After that she’d burn it in my fireplace.’

  ‘How was the address written?’

  ‘By hand – and by Signora Giulia herself.’

  ‘So what are you trying to tell me?’ asked the Commissario, his eyes bulging.

  ‘I’ll explain,’ Teresa responded. ‘Signora Giulia told me that her daughter, Emilia, was sending her these letters from school.’

  ‘But she was seeing Emilia every Thursday!’

  ‘Yes, but at least twice a month, Emilia wrote her a letter. Signora Giulia said that her daughter was letting off steam in the letters, something she hid from her father and from the nuns. The daughter offloaded onto her mother. What can I say? The signora explained to me that every now and then she’d leave her daughter a packet of envelopes addressed to me in her handwriting, and an equal number of smaller envelopes with only “Giulia” written on them, also in her handwriting. I assure you that the handwriting is definitely hers. I’ve always kept this secret, and if I’ve decided to speak now, it’s because the signora’s disappearance has left me with an anxiety that I can’t explain. I would hate for anything to happen to her! You read such awful things in the papers…’

  Sciancalepre had finally scored a point. And the clues were starting to add up.

  Two days later the gardener’s wife returned to his office, again in the morning, while her husband was busy in Esengrini’s office, where he sometimes served as a clerk, sometimes as his right-hand man.

  She’d barely stepped into the office before silently putting a letter down on the table. Sciancalepre grabbed the envelope, read the address and looked at Teresa.

  ‘What’s this! Another letter?’ He looked at it, sniffed it, turned it every which way and read the franking mark: Rome, 22 May 1955, XII-17.

  ‘The twenty-second of the fifth month in the year nineteen fifty-five, twelfth postal district at five o’clock. What a lot of fives!’ he exclaimed. ‘Should have added an eleven – the sign of the cuckold’s horns – and divided it by a double set of three – or rather, one of those and a set of four, because an eleven is needed on both sides!’*

  Teresa didn’t understand this numbers game but she agreed that the Commissario should be authorized to open the letter. Inside was the small envelope addressed to ‘Giulia’.

  ‘As usual!’ she remarked.

  ‘Is it always the same handwriting?’ asked the Commissario.

  ‘Yes,’ said Signora Foletti. ‘The only difference is that the others came from Milan, while this one seems to have come from Rome.’

  At this point the Commissario let Teresa go. He didn’t need her continuing presence or her authorization to open the enclosed letter. But before dismissing her, he warned her with all the severity he could muster: ‘Not a word about this to a single soul, not for any reason in the world! Understood? Not even to your husband. In fact, keep quiet especially with him, or you’ll hinder my inquiry. And then there’ll be trouble! Trouble for you! Because there’s something suspicious here.’

  After she’d left, Sciancalepre made himself comfortable and offered up a special thank-you to Santa Rosalia, to whom he was devoted. Then, filled with an acute sense of professional pleasure, he slit the envelope with his letter-opener. Not even when he was young and in love had he opened a letter with such trepidation. A sheet of business paper appeared, written on in a masculine hand entirely different from the one on the envelopes. He looked at both sides of the paper and read the signature – Luciano – before beginning the letter with forced calm:

  Dear Giulia,

  On Thursday I waited for you until five-thirty. I’m sorry you didn’t come, because at the very least I wanted to say goodbye before leaving. But perhaps it’s better that we didn’t meet. We would have suffered more at our parting. My work has made it necessary for me to move here.

  Like you, I left the little apartment where we passed so many happy hours with great unhappiness. Now, though, the distance between us makes our meetings impossible. If I should happen to come to Milan, I won’t hesitate to write to let you know. We could meet in an inn or a pensione. I still have three envelopes addressed by you, to you, and they’ll be useful in the event of a trip there one Thursday. For now, I don’t have a fixed address because my work is sending me all over central Italy. If I can find a pied-à-terre – not so easy in Rome – I’ll mail you the address.

  With my affection, as ever,

  Your Luciano

  Immersed as he was in the investigation, and realiz
ing that one never knows where an inquiry will end up, Sciancalepre had already begun withholding from Esengrini the second part of Fumagalli’s revelations – the ones about Signora Giulia’s mysterious lover. He continued to keep him in the dark about the letters.

  In fact, he went to Teresa Foletti’s house, ensuring that Demetrio was in Esengrini’s office before showing up, and advised her once more – in no uncertain terms – not to breathe a word to anyone about the letters. It was understood that should any more letters arrive, she would bring them to him immediately.

  An inspector less shrewd than Sciancalepre would have sat back and waited for another letter to arrive. But the Commissario was a born policeman, and he knew that you must never leave holes in investigations as long as there’s the smallest detail to settle. For now, he advised Esengrini to call his daughter home from school.

  As soon as Emilia was back, he went to the house to see her. Skirting around the issue, he asked her if she had ever written to her mother from Milan. Yes, she’d written a few letters. But it was easy to establish that they were normal letters addressed to the family.

  Now that this marginal and almost superficial line of inquiry was exhausted, Sciancalepre went to Milan. There, with the help of two subordinates, he questioned every concierge on viale Premuda. He would have extended this investigation to buildings on the neighbouring streets, but after two days’ work the diligent sleuth’s good fortune enabled him to discover that there’d been three removals in viale Premuda in the last two weeks. One of these involved a certain Luciano Barsanti, who worked as a rep.

  The concierge at the building he’d left confirmed to Sciancalepre that Signor Luciano Barsanti was a young man of about thirty: tall, sporty – and here she made no bones about it – not lacking in women friends. The doorkeeper (a gem in any police investigation) was able to recall from among Signor Luciano’s female visitors a regular one on a Thursday. A beautiful woman, no longer particularly young, would arrive in a taxi at around four in the afternoon and leave again a little before six. Chestnut hair scraped into a bun at the nape of her neck, pale, her figure ample, elegant but not overdone. Obviously a woman of a certain class, since she tried to avoid the doorkeeper’s gaze as she passed. She was clearly embarrassed, a feeling Signor Luciano’s usual friends demonstrated not in the slightest.

  Sciancalepre had no trouble recognizing Signora Giulia from the doorkeeper’s description. It stuck with him in the two rooms, still empty, that Barsanti had lived in. He went in full of curiosity and, looking around, spotted an electric light switch dangling against one wall. He inspected the little bathroom and closed a tap at the sink, which was still running with a trickle of water. He found it difficult to bring the visit to an end, fascinated as he was by the invisible presence of Signora Giulia. He saw her moving around the place, imagined her every gesture, each expression. Signora Giulia! His wife’s friend, Emilia’s mother, esteemed by the priest of M—— for her good works, her kindness and donations… Signora Giulia, with whom he’d danced so many times at friendly get-togethers, appreciating like a good Sicilian her fine, glowing Lombardian health… That sad, sweet face, which the lawyer Esengrini never even looked at, but everyone else admired. In these very rooms!

  And Luciano Barsanti? Maybe one of today’s youth who carelessly, even scornfully collect the affection and the love of women they can’t begin to understand: real ladies, delicate souls seeking a love they fantasized about as girls, and now disappointed by the realities of a bourgeois marriage that’s deadened them, confined them to a small provincial town. A young guy who had lots of affairs, a bit offbeat, someone who went for models and women who scream in bed, who’d maybe accepted this complicated relationship with a woman ten years older for some personal gain. Who could tell? Signora Giulia must have given him gifts of silk shirts or pyjamas. The concierge said she’d seen her go up several times with one of those long boxes wrapped up by shop clerks in the town centre. Shirts, pyjamas, ties, possibly a few 10,000-lire notes…

  What we won’t do to hang on to a relationship that’s slipping away from us, an image of fading love. So sad! Perhaps Sciancalepre had done something similar himself… It didn’t bear thinking about.

  He couldn’t get any more out of the concierge that would help him identify Luciano Barsanti. The building manager didn’t know anything else either. So he went straight to the town registry office. Nothing. Luciano Barsanti was one of those types who don’t register in a new town, but maintain official residence in their native town or city instead. The kind who move from one place to another without leaving a trail in the local records.

  Nevertheless, Sciancalepre could imagine Barsanti, and he felt sure that sooner or later he’d put a hand on his shoulder:

  ‘Police! Come along with me, young man.’

  * The common Italian hand gesture symbolizing cuckoldry involves holding up the index and small fingers in a configuration resembling the number 1 The sets of threes and fours refer to the lottery.

  THREE

  Back in M——, Sciancalepre put the results of his busy days and his trip to Milan on a long list. He added a point to form an uncertain line snaking across Italy – now towards Rome – in search of poor Signora Giulia. He always called her that, poor Signora Giulia, when talking to himself. At home, whenever he put down his fork after consuming his daily serving of spaghetti or tagliatelle, he answered his wife’s questions with the same words: ‘Poor Signora Giulia! What was she thinking about? How could she do it? Oh women, women!’ He shook his arms over the table and glanced intently at his eight-year-old daughter beside him, already fearing for her future. His own wife didn’t worry him; she was close to fifty and extremely secure after ten years of untroubled marriage.

  But he didn’t say ‘Poor Signora Giulia’ to Esengrini when he visited him in his office every few days towards evening. With Esengrini, he spoke only of the undeniably disappointing results of a search conducted throughout the whole of Italy with Signora Giulia’s photo. Esengrini himself had provided the photo, and Sciancalepre had a copy pasted on the cover of the file kept locked in his desk. Each day, when he opened the drawer, those sad eyes looked up at him, as if begging him to persevere. Don’t give up, they said to him, look for me, don’t lose heart. You’ll find me.

  The more the Commissario thought about Signora Giulia’s disappearance and the details his investigation had turned up, the less he understood the matter. With whom had she fled? Not with Fumagalli. Not with Luciano Barsanti, at least not according to the letter. Of course, it could very well be said that Barsanti and Signora Giulia had arranged the letter between them, convinced that the gardener’s wife would give it to Esengrini – as if Signora Giulia had said indirectly to her husband, I’ve got out of there, I’m with a man, and it won’t do for you to look for me or start a scandal. There’s no going back. Have the separation papers prepared with me as the guilty party. Do whatever you want but forget me, and I’ll forget you.

  And yet, it couldn’t have been like that. What about Emilia? Was it possible that her mother was no longer concerned about her? Why didn’t she at least send a few postcards? Why didn’t she write to one or two friends to justify her actions? He closed the drawer angrily, gave the key a twist and got up, restless.

  He’d gone back to Esengrini’s house many times, looked the place over from top to bottom, around the grounds, in the greenhouse and in the abandoned coach house. There was nothing to offer him the faintest lead.

  Meanwhile, the month of July had arrived. By now fifty days had passed since the disappearance of Signora Giulia. One morning, the post brought Sciancalepre a telegram and a large envelope from police headquarters. The telegram couldn’t be anything other than the usual reports that did the rounds.

  He opened the large envelope. It was the poster sent from police headquarters every year at the start of the swimming season:

  ‘The Chief Constable calls attention to the police rules and disciplinary sanctions establishe
d by the penal code for the protection of public decency. Bathers must refrain from entering the water in residential areas and must wear street clothes in bars, restaurants and other public places. The wearing of bathing costumes is prohibited in the streets, etc., etc.’

  He then opened the telegram and sank down on the wooden armchair; the large envelope containing the poster fell to the floor.

  ‘Rome, Police Headquarters. Information concerning the search for Giulia Esengrini and Luciano Barsanti: yesterday Luciano Barsanti applied for a passport, giving his address as via Agamer, n. 15, Rome. Awaiting instructions, etc., etc.’

  ‘Got him!’ cried the Commissario, for once renouncing his own dialect in favour of the local one, as if to address the people of M——, who’d been waiting two months for the diligent Commissario to succeed. After a couple of telephone calls to police headquarters and to Rome, he prepared to strike.

  The following morning found him on the express train to the capital. I’m going to get Signora Giulia, he said to himself. I’m going to get her and bring her home, if everything goes well.

  Before leaving he’d called on Esengrini with some urgency. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve made some headway. I have reason to believe that your wife is in Rome – with another man, unfortunately, a young guy she’s been writing to without your knowledge. I can’t put it any other way.’

  The lawyer tried to find out more, but Sciancalepre wasn’t about to reveal anything. Esengrini took him by the hand and pleaded, ‘Sciancalepre, we’ve known each other for ten years. You know who I am. Tell me what’s going on!’ But to no avail. The Commissario knew his trade. Yet he felt he had to tell Esengrini the name at least: Luciano Barsanti. The lawyer remained indifferent. It was the first time he’d heard it.

  ‘He’s the man your wife’s with,’ the Commissario explained, ‘and if you want to help me get my hands on him, you’ve got to make an accusation – this time, of adultery. Without it I can’t surprise them at home. You know that better than I do.’