Anna Giulietti belonged to an old family, which had numbered some important church dignitaries among its members, including a famous nineteenth-century cardinal.
'I don't know,' she said over the phone when he invited her. 'Do you think it's ethically correct?'
All I'm proposing is a working lunch.'
Anna Giulietti thought it over. 'Not today perhaps, I have an appointment in Poggibonsi at three.'
'Do you know Latini's, in Certaldo? It's right near there.'
'Of course I know it.'
'I'll pick you up at midday'
'Okay'
'I've never married and I don't regret it. My love life is fine, but isn't really very important to me. I've always devoted myself to my work. Work is my life. My father was an appeal court judge, my grandfather a notary'
Prosecutor Giulietti was talking as they drove across the gentle hills to the south of Florence.
For the occasion, Ferrara had dusted down his old Mercedes 190, which he almost always kept in a garage and only used when he had to go outside the city. It had clocked up more than 150,000 miles, but the softly purring engine sounded as good as new.
It was a beautiful day, the air almost warm. From time to time the fragrant scents of the countryside filtered into the car - and so, occasionally, did the pungent odour of a newly fertilised field, but even that wasn't unpleasant.
Anna Giulietti had opened up during the journey. Professional and detached at first, she had allowed the conversation to become more personal as the miles sped by. It was what Ferrara had been hoping for.
'Well,' he replied, 'I am married, and I don't regret that, either. I think every choice we make in life is the right one, as long as we make it consciously'
'I've heard about your wife. They say she's an excellent cook and an amazing gardener.'
'I consider both those statements true.'
'You're a lucky man, then.'
Ferrara thought about that for a moment. 'I suppose I am,' he concluded, as they parked in an open space in front of the petrol pump that partly hid the entrance to the restaurant.
They were greeted by Latini himself. He was one of the sons of the owner of the famous restaurant of the same name in Florence. He was a short, jovial man, who knew Ferrara well. He led them to their table, where they were joined by his wife, an American woman who was equally affable and whose great contribution to the restaurant was her superb desserts.
They ordered, but Ferrara waited until the wonderful antipasti - including the unmissable crostini with Colonnata lard - arrived before asking, 'Have you had a chance to look at my report on the victims' faces?'
'Yes, and I passed it on to the experts, along with the photographs. The "r"s are perhaps a bit far-fetched, but the "F" and the "E" are quite clear. It's just a theory, of course, and a horrifying one. The idea of a killer playing Scrabble with the dead is pretty scary. If you're right, I have to hand it to you, you did a fantastic job. But that's nothing new.' She smiled. Latini's antipasti and wine had definitely relaxed her.
'Thanks for the compliment.'
'It wasn't a compliment. I don't do compliments. It's the truth. And besides, I'm sure you know that in the game of Scrabble, the word "Ferrara" is worth 10. The top mark . . .'
Ferrara looked at her closely.
Are you surprised?' she asked. 'Why should you be? A lot of people think you're an outstanding detective. I know I sometimes give you the impression of being on your back. I'm sorry. I can't help it. It's my job.'
And it's what Gallo wants, Ferrara thought.
'I understand,' he said. A pity those people you mention don't include the press.'
'They've been down on you, that's true. But it's a sign that they identify you with the whole of the police force, and not just because you're the head of a squad. The truth is, they have confidence in you, and they're provoking you because deep down they know, or hope, that if there's anyone who can stop this killer it's you. And let's not forget they have papers to sell. Stories about serial killers, and the general public being scared, are bigger circulation boosters than football derbies. When you get down to it, they're just doing their job. I wouldn't worry too much about it.'
'I'm not the one who's worried,' he reassured her.
She knew what he meant. The Commissioner and the Prosecutor were the people directly responsible for the maintenance of public order. They were the real targets of the press campaign, and theirs were the heads that would roll if the situation got worse.
'All you have to do now is your duty. Bring us the head of the serial killer on a silver platter.' She said it in a jocular tone, as if to lighten the atmosphere.
'If my theory is correct, we're not dealing with a serial killer.'
'What do you mean?'
'This killer has a very specific plan, with a beginning and an end. He doesn't kill for any of the reasons that usually drive a serial killer. He has a very precise, clearly reasoned motive. He's practically announced seven murders, and he's carried out four of them as planned. He still has three to go. Then he'll have finished and he'll vanish for ever. He'll probably carry on with his normal life, as an office worker, a school principal, a doctor, who knows? - maybe a priest.' There was a clear insinuation in his voice as he uttered these last words.
'What do you mean?'
Ferrara hesitated, and looked into her eyes for a few moments. 'Prosecutor Giulietti, you and I are on the same side, aren't we?'
'Obviously. Always remembering that we have different roles and prerogatives, of course.' She was slightly on the defensive: she couldn't see where Ferrara was going with this.
'Obviously' he repeated. 'So you could give me a hand, if need be.'
Anna Giulietti became even more defensive. 'In what way?'
Ferrara told her the whole story of Don Sergio, up to and including Father Francesco's veiled hints.
She followed the story with rapt attention. But she was equally attentive to the storyteller: the conviction in his eyes, the certainty in his measured gestures, the drive in the succession of sentences with their almost imperceptible Sicilian cadence, the calm vigour of the foreseen conclusion. 'Will you help me?'
She thought it over. 'Why not go to the archbishop?' she asked at last.
'Because behind Don Sergio's disappearance, there's something we don't know, something even Father Francesco doesn't know. Something the Church is trying to keep quiet. It could be that the priest is insane, but I don't think that's likely. I think there's something else, something the archbishop wouldn't hesitate to cover up, if I, a mere public official, went directly to him. You know as well as I do that the Church has the means to do that. There are secrets that a police superintendent or a deputy prosecutor will never scratch the surface of.'
They both fell silent as Signora Latini's speciality, the pear tart, arrived. Only Anna Giulietti had ordered it, not Ferrara.
'It won't be easy,' she said at last. 'I can't promise anything. But I'll try to help you ... if you help me with the dessert!'
12
'Simple, isn't it?' Mike Ross said. 'It looks quite innocuous, like some joiner's instrument.'
They were standing in front of the Judas Cradle, a wooden pyramid supported by a tripod and surmounted by an iron ring suspended on ropes above the point of the pyramid.
The prisoner would be hung by the belt with his feet tied, above this sharp point. By means of the rope that secured him to the ceiling, he would be lowered onto the point so that it penetrated his anus — or vagina in the case of a woman.
'There's also a more subtle use,' he explained, as if the illustrations and captions accompanying the object in the exhibition at the Museum of Criminology were not enough. 'The victim was hung in such a way that he was forced to stay awake, because as soon as he relaxed his muscles he would fall onto the point of the pyramid just as if he had been dropped - and with the same results! In fact, it was also known as 'the wake'. It must have been devastating, not only physically,
but psychologically as well. Of all the exhibits here, this one must have been the most humiliating, don't you think''
Valentina did not reply. She was astonished at the extent of his fascination with the horrific depths to which man's cruelty
could go. The Inquisitor's Chair, a rough wooden armchair bristling with spines even on the armrests, the Heretic's Fork, two small forks facing each other that would be brought closer together at the level of the neck and the chest, the famous Virgin of Nuremberg . . . One after another, the objects paraded before her stunned eyes. In vain, she tried not to imagine the sufferings of the men and women subjected to these obscene tortures over the centuries.
The whole thing made her nauseous.
'Let's get out of here, please.'
'Hey, kid. I didn't know you were so impressionable.' 'Let's go.'
Humouring her, he took her on a tour of the enchanting medieval town, in search of a gift that would make it up to her and show her the pleasanter side of life. He found what he was looking for in a little shop near the Piazza della Cisterna, not far from the museum.
It wasn't the usual tourist trap full of mass-produced trinkets, but a shop run by a young woman who made beautiful necklaces, bracelets and earrings interweaving stones with laces of waxed thread and flax. He bought Valentina two necklaces: one of green and purple crystals and one of large oval ivory-white Bohemian glass pearls. They were a perfect match for the clothes she had chosen for the occasion: an aubergine-coloured ribbed woollen sweater and a Turkish skirt that stopped just above the knees, with two zips at the front. One of the zips was half open, leaving part of her thigh bare.
It was midday, and Mike suggested they start back, and stop somewhere along the way for lunch.
Fifteen minutes' drive in the Porsche, with the hills gliding by and the olive groves shining like silver in the sun, cleared Valentina's head. She had lost her appetite after the visit to the museum, and had thought she wouldn't ever get it back, but now she was starting to feel hungry.
Mike Ross parked outside a somewhat anonymous seventies-style building half hidden by a petrol pump. A large round sign read Ristorante Latini.
They went in.
There were three rooms, a large one just past the entrance, and two smaller ones, one at the back and the other to the left. The larger room was fully booked, and a waiter led them to the one on the left, which had a large window looking out on a garden.
Mike let Valentina take the seat facing the window and sat down opposite her. Are you hungry?' he asked. 'Only a little.'
'That's a pity. They say the food here is special. It's been highly recommended to me.'
Their first course, the pappardelle al sugo, lived up to expectation.
'Delicious,' she said, despite herself.
'I shouldn't have taken you to see that exhibition, should I?'
'Well, it wasn't really my kind of thing . . .' She felt ill at ease. The fact was, she had been feeling uncomfortable ever since he had dampened her enthusiasm by greeting her that morning with a quick peck on the cheek. In the car, they hadn't spoken at all. He had put on Bjork's latest CD, which she liked too, and they had listened to it all the way from Florence to San Gimignano.
The grim exhibition of torture instruments had not improved her mood.
'To think I devoted a whole article to it,' he said.
'How was New York?' Valentina asked, changing the subject.
'Same as usual. Work, work and more work.'
They both fell silent, at a loss what to talk about.
'Mike . . .' Valentina said at last, trying to meet his eyes through the sunglasses. She realised that he was staring at something over her shoulder. She turned, but couldn't see anything except anonymous people having animated conversations and, beyond that, the door to the kitchen, over which there was a display of calendars and the insignia of the police, the Carabinieri and the anti-Mafia brigade.
'What is this?' Mike asked the waiter bringing their second course. 'A police canteen?'
'Oh, those?' the waiter replied. 'It's just that they often come in here to eat. In fact, the famous Superintendent Ferrara is here today'
'I see,' was all Mike said in reply, emphasising his American accent.
'This is a great opportunity for you,' Valentina said eagerly, once the waiter had gone.
'To do what?' Mike asked.
'To meet him. Maybe interview him. A journalist from a big foreign newspaper - he's bound to be flattered. It could be material for your book.'
'What book?'
'The one about the Monster of Florence. Didn't you want to write one for the American public?'
'Like hell I did! That was just something I said. Why should the American public care about some insignificant Italian provincial policeman? I don't even care about it myself. Nasty stories about uncivilised people. I'm an aesthete - if there's no art involved I'm not interested.'
It was clear he had no desire to talk any more about the subject. Again, Valentina felt ill at ease.
On the way out, she spotted the famous Ferrara sitting at a table in the corner next to the wine cabinet with a striking blonde woman of about fifty. She thought he looked more interesting in real life than on TV.
She felt uncomfortable again when, on the way back to Florence, he said, 'That friend of yours . . . the one in Bologna 'Cinzia?'
'Yes, that's the one.'
What did Cinzia have to do with anything? She had tried not to think about her since coming back to Florence. She had wanted to concentrate only on him. She was making a desperate effort to dispel the ambiguity of the situation in which she found herself. She wanted to be free of the past, to see things clearly. She had even pulled the zip of her skirt higher than before, leaving her left thigh completely uncovered, and now here he was, dragging her back to the very thing she wanted to forget.
'What about her?' she said, a bit too abruptly.
'Are you very . . . close?'
'We've known each other since we were children.' 'That's not what I meant.' 'What do you mean?'
'The other day, when I came to Bologna ... I got the impression you
'What? Why don't you just come out with it?'
But he didn't reply. He was driving fast, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
So that was what was eating him. He'd understood, he'd seen them together, he'd caught them just after they'd got out of bed, at midday. Oh, God!
'Is there . . . anything between you?' he asked at last, hesitantly.
'What are you talking about? We're friends, I told you. We rented the apartment together. Actually, it was our parents who rented it for us. They know each other. We've all known each other for years.'
He said nothing, clearly unsatisfied with her answer.
'What do you want to know?' she went on in exasperation. 'If Cinzia and I sleep together? Well, what if we do? It's none of your business. Anyway it's different between girls. It happens sometimes, but it doesn't mean anything.'
'I'm sure it never happened to my mother,' Mike declared unexpectedly.
'What the hell has your mother got to do with it?'
He fell silent again, and stayed that way all the rest of the journey.
The Porsche rumbled along the drive and stopped outside the front door.
'Tell me the truth,' he said, standing beside the car. Are you a lesbian?'
Valentina had got out of the car, too. She looked at him angrily, on the verge of tears. 'Fuck you, Mike Ross!' She turned and ran towards the door, repeating in her mind, Fuck you! Fuck you!
That night, the noises on the floor below returned, insistently.
She slept restlessly, and dreamed of Mike and Cinzia changing roles constantly, but always mocking her, humiliating her, excluding her. She even saw them fucking, but couldn't figure out which of them was the woman and which the man. They each seemed to play both roles. Sometimes, they fucked like women in heat, and sometimes like effeminate men. Every scene, every shameless, obscene ima
ge was accompanied by moans and groans.
She woke up with a splitting headache.
She didn't want to go downstairs. She waited until she heard the sound of the Porsche driving away, and only then left her apartment and went down.
She knocked at the door on the ground floor and asked Nenita to make her a cup of coffee.
'Strong,' she said. 'Very strong. I have a headache.'
She didn't continue, as it was clear Nenita didn't understand a word.
They were in the kitchen again, and Valentina's eyes fell on the key rack. Maybe, she thought, that was why she'd come down here . . .
She went closer. There it was, the smallest key, with a sign next to it that said First Floor.
When the coffee maker emitted its triumphant gurgle, she quickly grabbed it.
Nenita was busy taking the coffee pot off the hob.
When Nenita finished her half day and left, Valentina found an excuse to phone Mike on his mobile and make sure he would not be back soon. Then she went down to the first floor and slipped the little key in the padlock, which opened immediately.
The door swung on its hinges. It was well-oiled, and didn't squeak at all.
Valentina went in.
The door closed slowly behind her and she was swallowed by the darkness.
Darkness.
When her eyes had become accustomed to it, she could just about make out half-crumbling, smoke-blackened walls in the gloom. There was a smell of old, damp ashes, like the smell of a fireplace in a house that has not been inhabited for a while.
She groped for a switch next to the door and found it. Nothing happened.
Light filtered from behind the closed windows, outlining the shutters with pale, ghostly haloes.
Driven by an irresistible impulse that overcame any residual hesitation or fear, Valentina moved forward.
She walked in short steps, careful not to trip over the heaps of rubble that lay here and there. She was moving along what seemed a long corridor. She passed the remains of two bedrooms, a room with a large, almost completely charred wooden bookcase, two bathrooms with their pipes uncovered, other rooms, other corridors.
A Florentine Death Page 22