‘Not a word. She just cried and cried. She was pretty well hysterical. I should never have gone up there. Whatever was I thinking of? You were the person … when I spotted that the tapes were missing I should have called you right away. I’d no business … I’m no investigator—’
‘You are the investigator on this case, Marshal, and it’s perfectly natural that you should have gone up there. The only thing you did wrong was to speak to the child alone.’
‘Yes. What she was telling me, though … this secret of Sara Hirsch’s … it was something she hadn’t told her mother about so she wouldn’t have talked to me about it.’
‘A carabiniere, then, one of the men from your station—too late now. If two of you show up now, the poor little thing will think she’s about to be arrested for whatever crime she thinks she’s committed. After all, we’re dealing with a homicide here and, however unconnected the child’s little bit of naughtiness might be, her nervousness must be exaggerated by that. Now go on with your investigation. I’ll talk to Signora Rossi and defuse the situation. Trust me.’
The marshal went back to his station. He trusted the prosecutor but he was very distressed. The prosecutor was a good man, a man with years of experience as a children’s judge. If anyone could undo the damage, he could. What the marshal was distressed about was that he could no longer trust himself. He, too, after all, had his years of experience, years of caring for the people of his Quarter, of building up a relationship with them, of being someone they could turn to with their biggest and their smallest problems. He’d never stopped to think about it before. If it crossed his mind at all it was only to start him grumbling about the number of people in the waiting room who would talk to nobody but him. The only man they trusted. And was he now to be accused of molesting a child? If that could happen then these really were dangerous times and he had been oblivious, had patted little boys’ heads and comforted lost little girls. With horror he remembered, as he walked through his waiting room, that once a tiny lost and hysterical girl had stripped off every stitch of her clothing in that very room and he had quieted her and dressed her as best he could, no witness in sight. This thought made him break out into a sweat. He shut himself in his office without his habitual glance into the duty room. There he sat and contemplated his situation. Lisa had still been sobbing loudly when he left. If he hadn’t touched her, had called for her mother without so much as stroking her fair hair, it was only because her outburst had been so surprising, so utterly unexpected that he had failed to react. Well, thank God for that.
But the truth was that he didn’t really thank God for it at all. It was all wrong. This business might all come to nothing but things would never be the same again. If that’s the way the world was now then there was no place in it for him. If he couldn’t do things his way—and what was his way? Forgetting his promise to Sara Hirsch until it was too late? Was that how he cared for the people of his Quarter? If he was now to be accused of something he hadn’t done, didn’t it serve him right since no one had accused him of what he had done? Of doubly failing Sara Hirsch, failing to save her life and failing to find her killers.
He sat for a while, shifting files from one side of his desk to another, opening and shutting them, pretending to read them. He wasn’t breathing properly. He was too hot … he’d forgotten to take his jacket off. He got up to do it and stood there forgetting what he’d got up to do. Hot though he was, there was a heavy, cold weight in his stomach. He felt like he’d swallowed a toad. Failure after failure came flooding back. What about that Albanian girl in the hospital? The decision not to go into the flat had been his and only his. And Sir Christopher Wrothesly? 'I’m under your care, too. I’m pleased to hear it.’ He had little reason. Too much trouble to pay a sick man a visit; the great investigator was busy solving the Hirsch case. And then it was too late. The man had become too ill to receive him.
‘No, no, no …’ The world had little use for him and no wonder.
Lorenzini opened the door. ‘Is there somebody with you?’
‘No.’
‘I thought I heard you—’
‘No.’
‘Are you going out?’
‘No.’
‘Oh … there’s a couple of things here need your signature.’
‘Leave them on the desk.’
Lorenzini put the stuff down and withdrew.
The toad squatting in the marshal’s stomach swelled, colder and larger. He had to move, do something. He opened the door and called a carabiniere from the duty room. He had decided to visit the hospital, check on the girl, give them her name, something useful…
At his back he heard Lorenzini’s voice: ‘I’ve no idea. He said he wasn’t going out.’
Seven
On the journey out to the hospital they met a lot of traffic. The marshal gazed out at it without really seeing it. He heard the carabiniere driver make some comment every so often and roused himself sufficiently to say, ‘Hmph …’ Only when he realised that the young man was insisting and that they were in the car park did he say, ‘What?’
‘Have I to wait here or do you want me to come in with you?’
‘Come in with me.’
He sent him to the nurses’ station with the girl’s name and address.
‘Then wait for me in the car.’
As he went on down the corridor, looking in at each ward, a young nurse came at him, trying to head him off, saying something about visiting hours.
‘Yes … thank you …’He was past her and standing still in a doorway. The girl’s head was all bandaged but he knew it was her. She looked even more childish in bed. Tubes ran in and out of her small body. Her eyes were closed. He took a step into the room. There was another patient there, sitting on the opposite bed looking intently into a hand mirror. She was wearing a shiny dressing gown with Chinese dragons embroidered on it. The marshal stared at her, alarmed. Not that the dragons alarmed him. He fixed his eyes on them so as to avoid seeing the woman’s head.
‘I thought it might be my husband when I heard your step. He sometimes sneaks in out of hours. You know how it is—he has a restaurant and visiting hours are just when he’s busiest.’
‘Yes…’He stared harder at the dragons until the thought occurred to him that she might think he was looking at her figure. She was young and slim. He dragged his gaze up as far as her face. She was pretty. A lot of makeup, lips as red as the shiny dressing gown. He turned quickly and stood looking down at the Albanian girl. Enkeleda. The woman behind him kept up her stream of chatter. She seemed oblivious to the fact that, for whatever reason, somebody had recently sawn off the top of her shaved skull—like the top off a boiled egg—and sewn it back on again with big ugly black stitches. You couldn’t help being reminded of Frankenstein. Added to this, on the very top of her head was a hole from which sprouted a transparent tube oozing yellow liquid into a plastic bag that was stuck to her head with plasters. It was this arrangement rather than the stitches in the red wound which caused the marshal to keep his head turned away. She seemed to accept this without being offended. It was clear enough that he was there for Enkeleda and equally clear that he would get no response from the girl. So she chattered on.
‘I hope you don’t mind but I was plucking my eyebrows when you came in and I can’t leave them half done, can I?’
How could she do that? The marshal’s stomach tightened at the thought of such a painful operation so near that slice through her head.
‘My consultant says it’s a good sign when a woman patient starts caring for her appearance. That was this morning because I was painting my nails when he came round. Well, that’s as may be but I have to care about my appearance becase I have my own business: hairdresser—I ask you! That’s about as unlucky as you can get, isn’t it? Oh, I know it’ll grow again but how long is it going to take? That’s what I want to know. I mean, I can hardly show myself in the salon with no hair now, can I?’
‘No…’
‘D’you think I should buy a wig?’
‘I don’t—’
‘They cost a fortune if you want anything halfway decent, you know.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But I could go back to work sooner so maybe it’s worth it. What would you do if you were me?’
He couldn’t tell her what he was thinking—that he’d be screaming in panic if there was a hole in the top of his head with a tube full of yellow liquid poking out of it—and what was that yellow stuff, anyway?
‘Of course, they say the more you cut your hair the faster it grows and I do think it has grown a fair bit. I reckon it’s about half a centimetre long today, would you say?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure it must be, yes.’
‘You’re not looking. Go on, tell me honesdy.’
He turned his head, trying not to see. ‘Haifa centimetre, yes, easily.’ He turned back to the silent figure in bandages. A catheter bag was hooked to the side rung of the bed.
‘No sign of life from the poor kid yet. I talk to her a lot and keep my radio on. They say it helps.’
‘Yes.’ It would have helped a damn sight more if he’d got her away from those men while they were still in the flat.
“You should say something, squeeze her arm, let her know you’re there. They say she has nobody—Albanian, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘She hasn’t much to look forward to if she does come round then. I heard all about it from the nurses. Thrown out of a car, wasn’t she? There’s been a few like that. Seen them on the news. Are you all right? You’re looking a bit green at the gills. I should have thought you’d be used to this sort of thing in your job. Road accidents, murders, and whatnot.’
‘Is—did you have a road accident?’
‘Me? No. Brain tumour.’
‘A brain tumour? But you look so well, so lively …’
‘Well, I’ve had it out now, haven’t I? It’s my hair I’m bothered about. The thoughts of being a hairdresser with a bald head. I mean, look at me!’ She pointed at her skull and the marshal pretended to look. A low delighted chuckle came from the bed beside him. The two of them stared at Enkeleda. Her eyes were wide open. They were dark brown and full of merriment as she stared at the arrangement on top of the bald patient’s head.
‘That’s right, love, you have a good laugh. I look daft, don’t I? Daft!’ She repeated it, pointing and smiling.
‘Daft!’ The response was slurred but unmistakable and followed by a fit of giggles.
The marshal got to his feet and pressed the bell hanging by the head of the bed.
‘A doctor should see her right away.’
‘The nurses will see to that. Let’s hear what she has to say first, before they start messing with her.’ She came closer and leaned over the bed. ‘What’s your name, love? Tell us your name. I’m Marilena.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Marilena. Who are you? You?’
‘En-ke-le-da.’
‘Enkeleda. That’s nice. Look, she can move her arm.’
The arm trembled and the hand was limp but there was no mistaking what she was pointing at. ‘Daft.’ She chuckled again, her dark eyes twinkling. Then the arm dropped and her expression changed as her eyes scanned the room, searching. ‘Ma-ma? Ma-ma!’
‘She wants her mum, that’s what it is. She must be younger than they thought by the sound of her. Don’t you worry, love. The nurses will look after you and the marshal here will find your mum and tell her to come for you. No, no, don’t cry. No!’
But tears had welled up in the dark eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her cry was weaker but desperate now. ‘Ma-ma! Ma-ma!’ The trembling hand moved across her body and she frowned, protesting like a starving kitten, seeking something.
‘Does it hurt? It’s only a needle—don’t touch the tube, love. Poor little thing. Does it hurt?’
‘Does-it-hurt!’ She aimed the limp and shaking hand at the intubation. ‘No does-it-hurt! No does-it-hurt! Ma-ma!’ She was crying in earnest now; weak, frustrated sobs that shook her whole body.
The marshal pushed his way out past a nurse who called something after him but he didn’t hear.
‘Where are the boys?’
‘They’ve eaten, they’re in their room.’
‘Playing with their wretched computer, I suppose.’ A statement, not a question, since there was no mistaking that irritating noise.
‘Salva, for goodness’ sake. They are on holiday. And the novelty will have worn off by the time they go back to school.’
‘All I’m asking is that we eat our meals together like a family instead of us sitting here on our own listening to that racket while we eat.’
‘Have you any idea what time it is?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, it’s twenty to ten.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I might as well talk to the wall. Your mother was right. There’s no point in bothering with you when you’re like this. Do you want some more bread? I really do think you could …’
He ate mechanically, drinking in the sound of her voice, which kept the toad squatting inside him from moving. He had returned from the hospital to sit alone in his office until now. He vaguely remembered having signed some stuff that Lorenzini had left on his desk and pushed aside a note asking him to telephone someone, but he could hardly account for the rest of the time. It could well be that he had spent it opening and shutting files, shifting them from this place to that, sifting through them as if searching for something. He really was searching for something. It wasn’t anything contained in the papers, which he looked through without seeing them, but the sifting, though its practical uselessness irritated him, was necessary, a sort of mime. So the time passed and the meaningless papers, the crying Rossi child, the trembling hand trying to tear out an intravenous drip, all flashed through his mind repeatedly. He had no defence against them. You can’t close your eyes to avoid an image in your head. Doggedly, he shifted paper about. Rossi … Lorenzini’s note. He pushed it aside again to avoid the twinge of anguish it provoked but kept his hand on it. What had she said? No, no … not her, the grocer: 'No need for carrying heavy weights’—was that it? Or Rinaldi had said it. Said what? 'You must have been in her flat…’ No, no, it was Rossi … He pulled the note nearer, oblivious of its contents. She said it, something about furniture. Linda Rossi’s voice spoke clearly in his head: Very little movement in this building except for Rinaldi’s furniture being shifted between the shop and his first-floor flat.’ Then he pushed everything into a drawer, banged it shut, and sat back to stare at the map of Florence on the opposite wall. He heaved a deep breath, almost a sigh, got up to go closer, and glowered at Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti, tapping an index finger on it repeatedly.
‘No need for carrying heavy stuff…,’ he said aloud, quoting the grocer. No need to take any risks at all.
Then he had come into his own quarters. At twenty to ten. Later, Teresa watched the late news and he sat beside her staring at it. When they went to bed he fell asleep on the instant and at breakfast was as uncommunicative as he had been at dinner. He looked in at the duty room to announce, ‘I’m going out.’
‘Did you see my note about ringing—’
‘Later. When I get back.’
Lorenzini looked hard at him and asked,'Do you need a car?’
‘No. I’ll walk. I’m only going across the road but I might be awhile.’
It was hotter than ever but the sun was invisible, a glaring leaden light.
‘Morning, Marshal.’
‘Oh, Marshal! Coming in for a coffee?’
The sort of glare that hurt even through dark glasses. He dabbed a folded handkerchief on his eyes, slid the glasses into his top pocket, and pushed the door of the antique shop. It didn’t open. He peered into the gloom. The lamp on the small desk was on but there was no one there. Could be someone in the back, of course.
He knocked on the glass, waited, tried the doorbell. There was pr
obably a yard with a washroom outside the restoration studio in the back but if Rinaldi was there, why the locked door? Besides, some instinct tells us when bells and telephones are ringing in an empty room. The marshal looked at the three-wheeled truck parked half on the pavement and made a note of its number. Then he turned again to the names on the doorbells. His finger hovered over the first-floor ‘Rinaldi’ and then over ‘Rossi’. Other things being equal, he would have asked Linda Rossi to open the street door for him so as to give Rinaldi less warning of his arrival. Sure that Rinaldi was not in the back of his shop, he was equally sure that he would find him up in his flat. But other things were not equal. The door opened and Linda Rossi came outside, carrying a plastic rubbish sack.
‘Oh, Marshal, I’m so glad you came. When you didn’t call me back last night I thought—I just tried again and they said you’d gone out. I do hope you’re not angry with her. She’s only a child, after all, and she was frightened after Signora Hirsch’s death.’
‘Yes. Yes, she was bound to be.’
‘And of course it was something and nothing.’
‘Something and nothing …’
‘A child’s silliness—I’m sorry, do you want to come up?’
‘I need to talk to Rinaldi…’ He was inside.
Linda Rossi was chattering on, embarrassed. ‘I don’t want to waste any more of your time. Just a child’s silliness, as I said. Signora Hirsch went down to buy some groceries and Lisa looked in her drawers, tried some jewellery on, peeped around looking for secrets. I think it was because of the safe that she imagined antitheft devices, hidden cameras, goodness knows what. Anyway, she thought you’d found out and that frightened her and with the death … you see, when you asked her if she’d looked in the drawers she thought she’d committed a crime. Nothing I could say would convince her. She’s not going to feel easy until you—’
‘I’ll talk to her when I’ve seen Rinaldi.’
Some Bitter Taste Page 11