Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

  “And Pisanelli?”

  60: Pendolino

  Sunday, 6 December

  HE POURED HONEY into the herbal tea and sipped slowly while his eyes scanned the parish magazine that Anna Maria had left on the table. The clock, carefully dusted and now set on top of the mantelpiece, ticked noisily. The bedroom door was open. He could hear the sound of Anna Maria’s breathing and he envied her restful sleep.

  From time to time a car went past in via Milano, the sound dulled by the snow; no car stopped.

  The phone woke him. He must have dozed off, his head lolling forward. He sat up with a jerk and winced with the pain in his shoulder. Trotti looked at the clock. Four o’clock, Sunday, December the sixth.

  The chamomile was cold.

  “Zio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that you, Zio Piero?”

  Trotti ran a hand through his hair. “Who’s speaking?”

  “How are you, Zio? Are you all right?”

  His goddaughter. “Anna?”

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Is Pierangelo with you?”

  “Pierangelo?”

  “I didn’t want to phone you so late, Zio, but a friend just called me from Stradella saying she’d heard about an accident on the radio. It’s not true, is it?”

  “I was in an accident,” Trotti said rubbing his shoulder.

  “My friend thought she heard Pierangelo’s name. How is he?” she asked and Trotti could hear Anna Ermagni catch her breath on the far end of the line.

  “You phoning from Rome, Anna?”

  “Zio, please answer me. How’s Pierangelo? You must tell me the truth.”

  “Pisanelli was with me. We were in his car and were hit from behind. At about eight o’clock. The car went off the road and slid down the embankment. There was a lot of snow.”

  “Where’s Pi?”

  “At San Matteo.”

  “He’s not dead?”

  Trotti gave a little laugh. “Of course not, Anna.”

  She began to sob. “Oh, it’s all my fault.”

  “Don’t be silly. How on earth can it be your fault?”

  “Pi’s going to be all right?”

  “Pisanelli? Of course he’s going to be all right.”

  “You were beside him? Were you sitting beside him, Zio? Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “It’ll take more than a Volvo to kill Piero Trotti.”

  “Tell me about Pierangelo?”

  “I dislocated my shoulder—nothing very serious. But I was wearing my safety belt as the car went over.”

  “Went over?”

  “The car went over the edge of the road and down into the trees.”

  “That stupid French car—it hasn’t even got a proper roof. I was always telling him to get a proper car. But he’s just like you, Zio. Pi’s so stubborn.”

  “The Citroën stayed on its wheels.”

  “What’s wrong with him? You’ve seen him? You must tell me, Zio.”

  “Pisanelli’s still in intensive care, Anna. He banged his head badly and when I left—”

  “Yes.”

  “I left San Matteo after midnight and he still hadn’t regained consciousness.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “But there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll phone the hospital. Give me the number. Never get an answer out of Enquiries. Give me the number, Zio. I’ll phone San Matteo now.”

  “Wait until the morning.”

  “How d’you expect me to wait until morning? It’s already morning. Please, Zio, for God’s sake. Just give me the number.”

  “I saw the doctor. I was with Magagna—you remember him? Magagna and I saw the specialist. There’s no danger. The doctor says the X-rays are all right.”

  “Pierangelo’s unconscious, Zio! How can he be all right?” Her voice was lost in a wave of uncontrollable sobbing. “Oh, God.”

  “Pisa’s going to pull through, don’t worry. There are no broken bones. No blood or wounds—he just must’ve whiplashed his head as the car fell. But you know Pisa—”

  “I’ll catch the Pendolino now. I haven’t got any money but I’ve just got to come up. I can’t stay here.” More sobs. “It’s all my fault. I should never have left him. I should never have come to Rome in the first place.”

  “If you want, I can put you up here, Anna. Don’t worry about the ticket, I can pay for that. I’ll pick you up at the station. Just ring—my cousin’s here from Holland. She’ll take the call if I’m not here and someone’ll pick you up. But you really mustn’t say it’s your fault.”

  “I should’ve stayed with him.”

  “You’re in Rome, Anna. You’re studying.”

  “Pierangelo’s more important than my studies, Zio. Don’t you understand? Pierangelo is everything—Pierangelo’s my life.”

  “You still love him, Anna?”

  “That’s a stupid question. The most stupid question I’ve ever heard. How can you be so ridiculous? Of course I love him,” Anna Ermagni said. “I’ve always loved him. Ever since that first time—when I was a little girl. That first time when you and Magagna found me at the bus station. Pi was my knight in white armor—always has been. That’s why I wanted him to get out of the police. I was always telling Pi I wanted him to go back to his medical studies. A real job. To get a job that wouldn’t destroy him. That wouldn’t destroy us.”

  Trotti could hear her crying. He bit his lip.

  “With a father and a godfather in the police, Piero Trotti, I know just how that job can destroy a family. That’s something I couldn’t accept for Pi and me. I told him to change jobs.”

  61: Sacristan

  THE SOUND OF women’s voices.

  He was coming out of a dream and the voices were talking to him, but when Trotti opened his eyes he was alone. He could no longer recall the dream but he recognized the voices.

  He also noticed the ice hanging from the upper edges of the window. The shutters were not completely closed; beyond them, above the plain of Lombardy, the sky was a blue vault.

  Trotti climbed out of bed. His body ached. Carefully he put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen.

  He had to lean against the back of a chair. “Buongiorno.”

  They turned and smiled hesitantly, like two girls caught by the sacristan while gossiping in church.

  “I thought I smelled coffee.”

  “You’ve got a nice bruise, Piero,” Anna Maria remarked, regaining her habitual severity.

  “A nice bruise that hurts.”

  “Which only serves you right for gallivanting across the north of Italy on a Saturday night when most civilized men are at home with their families.”

  “Nobody’s ever accused me of being civilized. And my family is in Amer—my family’s in Bologna.”

  Simona Scola had been drinking coffee. She stood up from the table—there was a notebook and a rag doll on the Formica top—and came towards him, both amusement and concern on her face.

  “How are you, Signora Scola?”

  She came closer and Trotti held out his arm, thinking she wished to shake hands. She ignored the gesture and brushed her fingers against his forehead. “You hit your head, Piero?”

  Trotti shrugged. He could smell her perfume, he could see his reflection in the bright, dark eyes. Intelligent eyes. “I lost consciousness. It’s my shoulder that hurts.” He stepped sideways away from the touch of her hand and sat down at the table. “Any news from the hospital?”

  His cousin gave him a perfunctory kiss—a Dutch habit, no doubt. “Your man Magagna rang half an hour ago. Said he’d be picking up a young woman at Centrale. He said he’d drive her down. He also asked if you could ring him back in Milan.”

  “And Tenente Pisanelli?”

  “No developments,” Anna Maria said in a firm voice, implying that Pisanelli’s problems were all Trotti’s fault. She rose from the table.
She seemed to have now given up wearing slacks, opting instead for the shapeless, somber clothes of an old woman from the hills. “Would you care for some coffee?”

  Trotti nodded, noticing at the same time a conspiratorial glance passing between the two women.

  “I was expecting the worst.” There was a forced joviality in Simona Scola’s tone. “I heard about the accident on the radio this morning but I didn’t realize it was you until your cousin told me.”

  “All his own fault. But then even as a little boy Piero Trotti was stubborn.”

  “Really, Piero, apart from that nasty bruise, you look fine. In fact, for once you don’t even look tired.”

  “Thanks to the dislocated shoulder. And the three stitches in my arm.”

  “I was going to the hospital. I dropped by thinking you might want a lift.”

  “A lift?”

  “I’m seeing the little Priscilla this afternoon.” She added, “For the last time. I realize you may have other things to do. Anna Maria told me you’d be spending the day in bed.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  “Priscilla’s mother’s insisting on going home to the Val Camonica. Fed up with the cramped room in Pediatria. She says there’s nothing wrong with her daughter and she wants to get back to Esine.” Today Signora Scola was wearing a red woolen dress that showed off her flat belly and the narrowness of her hips. She folded her arms beneath the swell of her small breasts. She gestured with the outstretched fingers of her right hand. “Your Commissario Maiocchi said he’d help me this afternoon.”

  “Maiocchi?” Trotti placed three lumps of sugar into the bowl of coffee.

  “A nice man,” she said warmly.

  “Don’t see how he can help you,” Trotti said, wondering whether it was jealousy altering the naturalness of his voice. “There are times when I wonder if Maiocchi can help himself.”

  “He’s been very kind. On a couple of occasions I’ve come looking for you in the Questura and he’s managed to locate you. Not always so easy.” She nodded towards the clock. “I’m seeing Commissario Maiocchi at two. You want to see your Tenente Pisanelli but I was hoping perhaps you could come down to Pediatria and have a look in.”

  “You need both Maiocchi and me?”

  Signora Scola tapped the inert body of the rag doll on the table as she let out a sigh. “One last attempt before Priscilla returns to Esine and the maniac the mother’s trying to protect.”

  62: Pediatria

  THE LITTLE GIRL, her upper lip wet with running mucus, opened the door and hurried to the middle of the room where she flopped down onto the floor.

  She gazed thoughtfully at the box of toys.

  Signora Scola, cross-legged with the rag doll on her lap, raised her head. “Ciao, tesoro.”

  Priscilla’s hair had been brushed back into two short bunches, held in place with Mickey Mouse clips.

  “You want to play with me today, tesoro?” Signora Scola held up the doll. “I’m playing with a little Priscilla.”

  Less reticent than in the past, Priscilla edged forward on her small behind and began to rummage distractedly through the box’s contents of animals, balls, skipping ropes, puppets. Her attention, however, was held by the rag doll in Simona Scola’s lap.

  After a while, she asked, “That’s Priscilla?”

  “You want her?” Signora Scola was caressing the woolen hair. The rag doll had the same color hair as Priscilla, brushed back the same way into bunches. Like Priscilla, the rag doll wore denim overalls and a thick sweater.

  “It’s hard,” Priscilla said and shook her head.

  (Trotti, sitting behind the observation mirror, while beside him the tape recorder slowly uncoiled from one bobbin to the other, was surprised by the maturity of the child’s voice.)

  “Done a pipi again?”

  “Who?”

  Priscilla slid towards the woman and took the doll from her lap. “She’s naughty, isn’t she?”

  “Sometimes my Priscilla’s naughty.”

  “She’s yours?”

  “You can have her, tesoro.”

  “She’s a very silly Priscilla,” the child said, and taking the doll from Signora Scola’s hands, began to sing softly. A strange nursery rhyme in an incomprehensible dialect.

  Signora Scola looked with lingering regret at the doll.

  (Like a mother on her child’s first day at school, Trotti thought. He smiled privately as he adjusted the headphones against his ears.)

  Signora Scola sorted through the banana box. In consolation she pulled out a moth-eaten Topo Gigio.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Signora Scola agreed, and by the movement of her shoulders Trotti could see she was addressing the mother.

  The woman was sitting on a straight-backed chair. She nodded without removing a cigarette from her mouth.

  “D’you remember when your little girl was hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got back to the house, didn’t you, Mamma?”

  “I remember?”

  “You went upstairs and your little girl was crying?”

  The cigarette moved with her lips. “Yes.”

  “Was the little Priscilla crying because she was unhappy?”

  “She was crying a lot.”

  “Was your little Priscilla hurt?”

  “I think so. There was a lot of blood.”

  “Where was your little girl hurt?” Signora Scola was rubbing noses with Topo Gigio. The cloth animal in front of her mouth deformed her voice.

  “In her bottom.”

  “There was blood, Mamma?”

  “A lot of blood.”

  “Where?”

  “In Priscilla’s bottom. There was some blood in her crack, too.”

  “The poor sweetie. You must’ve been terribly worried for her.”

  “Of course,” the mother said, finally bringing emotion to her voice. “Priscilla’s my precious angel.”

  “With all that blood in her bottom, what on earth did you think? Who on earth could’ve done that to your little tesoro?”

  The mother inhaled deeply before shaking her head.

  Priscilla had found a comb in the banana box. The comb was made of blue plastic and several teeth were missing. It was grubby. With the last three teeth, Priscilla had started to comb the rag doll’s hair.

  “You rang for the ambulance, Mamma?”

  “Immediately.”

  For a moment Priscilla stopped to look at her mother.

  “I was out of my wits.”

  “You think someone very naughty tried to hurt your girl?” Again a deep inhalation of a cigarette. “Perhaps.”

  “If someone hurt your little Priscilla, would you be angry?”

  “I’d be very angry.”

  “Would you be cross with your Priscilla?”

  “Of course not. How could I be angry with my daughter?”

  “D’you think we must try to find this naughty person?” Suddenly, Priscilla ceased all movement, her hand and the blue comb held above the yellow halo of the doll’s hair.

  Neither Signora Scola nor the mother spoke as the little girl dropped her hands to the carpet and pushed her backside into the air. Priscilla got on to her feet. In a determined pace, going almost faster than her legs would carry her, she hurried to the small sink. There was a large crucifix.

  She stood on tiptoe to look at herself in the mirror.

  Then the little girl hurried over to where Signora Scola was sitting. She went behind Signora Scola, while above Trotti’s head the same movement was projected on to the small television screen.

  With a clenched fist the child pushed against the woman’s back. Trotti could see that the child was smiling.

  Signora Scola asked, “What do you think, Mamma?”

  Priscilla’s mother had stubbed out the cigarette. “I love my daughter.”

  “I think we should catch this bad person who does naughty things to Priscilla’s bottom?”

  The mother was silen
t.

  “Perhaps a policeman could catch him?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps a very strong and very brave and very kind policeman could help us, Mamma?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Shall I call a policeman?”

  “You think he could help?”

  “There’s a very nice policeman I know. A policeman who likes children.”

  “Call him if you think it can help.”

  “You won’t go away?” Without waiting for an answer, Signora Scola picked up a toy telephone. Putting the yellow receiver to her ear, she spoke. “Pronto, pronto. 113? Is that the Carabinieri. Ah, better still, it’s the police. Pronto.” She gave a little laugh, “Yes, it’s Simona speaking. Could you please help us?” She nodded, speaking into the mouthpiece. “I’m with Priscilla’s mamma and we think there’s a naughty man who does some very silly things to little girls’ bottoms and we really do need a strong policeman because this man is so naughty and we’re afraid he might get angry. What we want’s a very kind and a very good and a very, very big”—she was nodding as she reiterated the words—“a very big policeman. Do you think you can help us?”

  A scratching sound and the little girl looked up. She had returned to her place beside the banana box and resumed her job of combing the doll’s hair.

  “Very big and brave? Oh, that’s lovely. But there’s another thing … Does he like little girls?”

  More scratching.

  “He likes girls and he has three daughters at home that he takes to the lake and they paddle in the water? Oh, that’s excellent. He has a little girl who plays with dolls? Marvelous, marvelous. Well, could you please send us this nice and brave policeman? We need him here because there’s a very bad man who does naughty things to good little girls and we must stop him as soon as possible.”

  Scratch.

  “Precisely. We must stop him before he ever does it again. We must put him in prison because he can make a little girl bleed. It’s not fair. I know this lovely girl who’s her mummy’s angel but she’s very unhappy. This bad man hurts girls’ bottoms and their cracks and that’s not what bottoms are for. Of course,” Signora Scola nodded, “bottoms are for cacca, cracks are for pipi.” A brief giggle. “This is a very silly man because he does other things and he’s naughty because he can hurt Mamma’s tesoro.”