Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

  Trotti noticed there were two gold bracelets around the strong wrist. “Yet what, signora?”

  “I was often very lonely. A young girl—I wasn’t even twenty-four years old. I had money, of course, and I had a car. But I come from a big family and I like having people around me.”

  “And you met Bassi?”

  “I realize now I embarrassed my husband.”

  Signora Scola asked, “You don’t have children?”

  The other woman shook her head. “Luigi’s not interested in children. Not now. He has two sons living in Rome.”

  “You wouldn’t like to have children?”

  “No.” She smiled blandly. “Not yet.”

  “Your husband’s a lot older than you. You’re not in a hurry?”

  “Children?” She folded her arms. “We’ll see.”

  “Signora Viscontini, where did you meet Fabrizio Bassi?”

  She thought for a moment and she stroked her chin with the back of her hand. “I suppose I first met him in the foreigners’ bureau at the Questura. I had to go there because I didn’t have Italian citizenship.” She shrugged. “Now, of course, I have a passport.”

  “And that’s where you met Bassi?”

  “I met him, yes. But the first time we ever really spoke—it was funny really. It was during a political rally. A Socialist rally. There were policemen. They came to protect the various speakers.”

  “And Bassi decided to protect you?”

  “I was sitting in the front row. An open-air meeting in Piazza Vittoria and they were testing the sound system. He came over. Fabrizio came and talked to me. You know, a lot of people were very unkind to me in those early days. They said I’d only married Luigi to escape from the Communists. They couldn’t understand what attracted Luigi and me. And so I appreciated Fabrizio’s kindness.”

  “You often met Bassi after that?”

  She nodded. “Fabrizio was a kind person.”

  “And through his kindness, he lost his job with the Questura.”

  “A private detective agency—that’d always been his goal. He wasn’t kicked out—please don’t think that. Fabrizio left the police of his own accord. He was very happy.”

  68: Knowledge

  “WAS HE IN love with you?”

  “Who?”

  “Was Fabrizio Bassi in love with you, Signora Visconti?”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  “There was an affair?”

  “What do you mean by that, commissario?”

  “Did you and he make love?”

  She shook her head with disbelief. “Commissario, I’m a married woman.”

  “Plenty of married women have affairs.”

  “But not me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I won’t deny I spent time with Fabrizio.”

  “A happily married woman?”

  “I spent time with him because I was lonely, because my husband was often busy and I rarely saw Luigi from one convention to another. I know now it was a mistake.”

  “In what way?”

  “Fabrizio was kind. And by being with him, I suppose I was trying to make my husband jealous.”

  Signora Scola asked, “Did it work?”

  “There are people who say Luigi was very angry. I didn’t want to make him angry. I suppose I wanted to embarrass him. I wanted him to take notice of the young wife he’d forgotten all about. If I had married him, it was because I wanted to be with him.”

  “You managed to embarrass him?”

  “There are still people who say my husband was instrumental in Fabrizio’s leaving the police force.”

  “Your husband is a friend of the Questore,” Trotti said flatly. “My husband has many friends. And even more acquaintances. I can’t tell you whom he likes and whom he simply meets with for political reasons.”

  “You know the Questore, Signora Viscontini?”

  “Of course.” She shrugged her shoulders. “The Questore’s a Socialist. He’s been to this house on several occasions.”

  “Do you think it’s possible there was a deliberate attempt to have Fabrizio Bassi leave the force?”

  “As I understand it, the Polizia di Stato’s part of the Ministry of the Interior. And, as such, policemen are civil servants, employed and paid by Rome. You should know that better than I, commissario. I really can’t see how anybody at a local level could influence the career of a civil servant.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I thought I already had.”

  “You’re forgetting—perhaps because you’re still new to the Byzantine workings of this Italian state of ours—you’re forgetting, Signora Viscontini, that in our democracy, the ultimate power lies in the hands of the parties. Not in the hands of the people. This is a partitocrazia—and for nearly a decade, we’ve had two parties running this country for us. For us and without us. Two parties, including the Italian Socialist Party. Your husband’s party. In other countries, not in Yugoslavia or in Italy, but in the old democracies—in countries where power belongs not just to the strong but to everybody—civil servants do not brandish their political allegiances. In those countries, the civil servant merely executes the wishes of the democratically elected government.”

  The young woman glanced at Simona Scola. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying, commissario.”

  “Perhaps I should speak a bit slower.”

  “Speak a bit more clearly. With clearer ideas.”

  Trotti asked, “In your opinion, was there pressure at a political level for the removal of Fabrizio Bassi?”

  “Fabrizio Bassi was not sent to Sicily or Calabria or the Adige. There was no pressure in this city that had him posted elsewhere. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  “Then why did he leave the police?”

  “I think I’ve told you.”

  “Then tell me again.”

  “Is this so important?”

  “Why did Fabrizio Bassi leave the Polizia di Stato?”

  “To set up his agency.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Fabrizio was aware he’d be losing all the advantages for his pension. He knew that. But working in the passport office or having to accompany politicians and hang around in the cold or sit and wait in a car while they ate their official lunches—that was something he was fed up with. Fabrizio wanted excitement.”

  “That’s not what he told his colleagues.”

  “I can only tell you what he told me.”

  “He told you the truth?”

  “I hope so.” The young woman made a gesture of amused irritation. “There were times when he liked to embellish, just like a little boy. He once told me he’d studied investigation in America—but I knew it wasn’t true. That doesn’t make Fabrizio a liar. Fabrizio was a good man. Naive, possibly. And perhaps he was influenced by all those television programs. He really wanted to be a private detective, just like the characters he saw on television. And perhaps …”

  “Yes?”

  Signora Viscontini took a deep breath.

  “And perhaps what, signora?”

  “Fabrizio Bassi was in love with me.”

  “So?”

  “He’d come out of a messy divorce and he needed female company. For him, being with a woman meant showing off. He had this very strong need to impress people. In his way, Fabrizio wasn’t very bright. I’m not saying he was stupid. Just that he had difficulty in understanding other people.”

  “Most men do, signora,” Simona Scola remarked. She was writing in her notebook.

  “Fabrizio could never really understand there was no need to wow or dazzle people. His goodness was sufficient. It was his goodness that I liked about him.”

  “And that’s why he set up his detective agency? He wanted to dazzle you?”

  “Yes.” She raised one of her legs and tucked it under her thigh.

  “He wanted to impress me. He wanted to impress eve
rybody. And I suppose he wanted to impress himself.”

  “You still love him?” Trotti asked.

  “You want me to collaborate—and then you ask stupid questions.”

  “Your voice was on the answering machine.”

  “What?” Color seemed to drain from the broad face.

  “There was a message on the tape. A message from you.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Possible or not, signora, I can assure you it’s your voice.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Fabrizio Bassi for months.”

  “The affair’s over?”

  “There never was any affair.” She caught her breath. “He liked me more than he should. And perhaps I was childish. Childish and flattered because I was lonely and I enjoyed Fabrizio’s company. But there wasn’t any affair.” Blood was now returning to her features. The pale blue eyes went from Trotti to Signora Scola. “I suppose I used him. Perhaps it was because of me that he left the police. But I would never have harmed him. I would never harm Fabrizio.”

  “Why not? You no longer needed him.”

  “Why not? Because when I felt alone and abandoned in a foreign country, he was a good friend to me.” She shrugged. “He wanted something that I couldn’t give him and I told him that. But Fabrizio Bassi will always remain one of my best Italian friends.”

  69: Cousins

  “YOU HAVEN’T ANSWERED my question.”

  “You ask so many.”

  “A professional hazard.”

  “Which question, commissario?”

  “When did you last see Fabrizio Bassi?”

  She sat back in the chair, one leg still tucked beneath her thigh. The other leg rocked gently, the woolen sock grazing the carpet. “See him? It must be several months now. July, August. I saw him once at the Lido on the river. I was with friends and he came over to talk to me.”

  “You never saw him since?”

  “I spoke to him.”

  “When?”

  She gestured to a portable phone. “From time to time he would ring me.”

  “What about?”

  “The same sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “He seemed to believe there was some kind of future for us.”

  “What sort of future?”

  “He felt I was too young for my husband. He believed I was unhappy in my marriage.”

  “Of course you’re not?”

  “Who’s happy?”

  “A good question, signora.”

  “Even when you’re happy, are you really aware of it? We spend our lives chasing after various goals.”

  “Cheese in the mousetrap?”

  She frowned her incomprehension. “I grew up very poor. I come from a happy family, very united. Yet as soon as I was aware of what was happening in my country—I used to listen to the Italian radio and Radio Free Europe, that was how I learned your language—I knew I’d have to escape.”

  “And you escaped?”

  “I now have everything I ever dreamed of.” She gave a disarming smile that went from Trotti to Signora Scola. “The strange part is, I can’t tell you whether I’m happier than before. I can tell you that I miss my family. I miss my sisters and my cousins.”

  “Why did Fabrizio Bassi think you were unhappy?”

  “Perhaps he was more unhappy than I.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’ve achieved much of what I desired. You asked me a moment ago whether I wanted children. It’s true—I wasn’t totally honest. I’m a woman and I’d like to have children. But that’ll come. I can wait a bit more. I can wait for Luigi to calm down, to cease his running backwards and forwards in the name of the party. I thought when he lost the mayoralty, he’d spend more time at home. I was wrong about that. If, as everyone says, there are going to be elections in the spring, then for my sake and for the sake of my family, I hope the Socialists take a beating. Then we can start living the life of a normal couple.”

  “How are you happier than Bassi?”

  “I’m dissatisfied precisely because I’ve achieved what I always wanted. Fabrizio was dissatisfied because he must have known he would never achieve his aims.”

  “That’s why there was no affair between you? His dissatisfaction?”

  “There’s that.” She lifted a shoulder in begrudging acquiescence. “Plus the fact I didn’t love him.”

  “Then why did he contact you?”

  “Because he still hoped.”

  “You told him there was no hope?”

  “I told him that a long, long time ago.”

  “Yet he still phoned you?”

  There was a Gioconda smile on her face, both melancholy and complacent. “He thought I could help him.”

  “In what way?”

  “He kept telling me he was going to be rich.”

  “Richer than a Socialist, signora?”

  She ignored the jibe. Although it was Trotti who asked the questions, the young woman spoke to Signora Scola. “The Turellini affair. He told me about it. He said there was a lot of money to be made if he could identify the killer.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Very little.” She glanced at Trotti. “Please understand. I liked Fabrizio. He brought a warmth into my life. There’s so much about him that reminds me of my cousin Jani. The same dark, good looks. D’you understand? There was nothing sexual. For me, Fabrizio was just like a cousin.”

  “What exactly did he say about Turellini?”

  “He knew who the murderer was.”

  “Really?”

  “He always knew it was a woman.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “Nearly every time we spoke together.”

  “And who was the murderer?”

  She laughed, suddenly gay. “My sister-in-law, of course.”

  “Signora Quarenghi?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’d spoken to him recently?”

  “Fabrizio?” She nodded. “It must’ve been about two weeks ago. I’d told him not to ring anymore. I told him he was only hurting himself. But he insisted.” She paused. “Somehow Fabrizio always knew when my husband wasn’t here. I even wondered whether he was watching me.”

  “What did Bassi say the last time you spoke to him?”

  “He mentioned you, commissario. He said Commissario Trotti wanted to work with him. I believe you’re retiring quite soon.”

  Simona Scola smiled. “Very soon.”

  “What I don’t understand, signora,” Trotti said, “is why Bassi acted the way he did—if he knew your husband’s sister had murdered Turellini.”

  “A murder of jealousy.”

  “Precisely.” Trotti nodded. “Why didn’t he inform the police?”

  “No proof.”

  “What proof did he need?”

  “He seemed to think I could help him. And I think he was worried for me. Or at least that’s what he said.”

  “Worried in what way?”

  She smiled. “Fabrizio saw himself as my knight in shining armor—although how he expected me to share that poky little apartment of his, he never did say.”

  “What knight in shining armor?”

  “My sister-in-law’s mad. And so, in his opinion, is my husband. It was to protect me from them that Fabrizio phoned me.”

  “When did this start?”

  “When did he start getting obsessed with my sister-in-law?” Again she stroked the soft, pale skin of her chin. “About a year ago.”

  “A year?”

  “A year ago.” The young woman nodded. The Gioconda smile remained. “With time, he grew gradually more obsessed. And the more obsessive he became, the more I tried to avoid him.”

  “Why?”

  “Fabrizio thought everything depended upon getting my sister-in-law arrested. Get her arrested and he’d be rich. And then, if he were rich, he seemed to think I’d leave Luigi to go and live with him.” The girl from Croatia smiled, but
she could not hide the sadness around her eyes.

  Trotti stood up and looked through the window. Late afternoon on a Sunday. The trees along the Po were becoming indistinguishable in the gathering dusk.

  70: Coma

  THEY WENT TOWARDS the large lifts. Almost immediately, the steel doors drew apart and, as they stepped inside, Magagna hit one of the buttons. The lift moved swiftly upwards.

  “Pisa’s going to be all right?”

  It was very hot inside the hospital.

  “I’d hate to be in one of these things during an earthquake,” Magagna said.

  Trotti rummaged in his pocket for a sweet. “How’s Pisa, Magagna?”

  Magagna looked at Signora Scola who was carrying a bunch of flowers. “You know what doctors are like.”

  “What are they like?”

  A movement of Magagna’s head and Trotti noticed the first signs of a double chin. Too much food and not enough exercise. “You needn’t worry about the girl—they’ve given her a bed so that she can be with Pisa.” Magagna smiled, “Italy,” he said, as if the word alone were a joke. “Go to Naples or Bari and you’re lucky if they don’t let you die on a mattress in a corridor. But because this is a university hospital where the professors are often politicians, they not only have enough beds for the sick, they even have beds for the relatives.” He gestured. “Anybody’d think we were in America.”

  “All the pharmaceutical firms sponsor the university,” Signora Scola said.

  “What do the doctors say, Magagna?”

  Magagna looked at Trotti with his lively smile. He nodded and was about to say something when the illuminated roundel in the panel indicated they had reached the fifth floor.

  The doors slid open. Magagna stepped aside to allow Trotti out of the lift.

  Simona Scola held Trotti’s arm.

  “I don’t know whether you’ll be able to go in. At least not immediately.”

  “I can wait.”

  Magagna shrugged. “Deep coma and there’s not much Pisanelli’s going to tell you.”

  “Deep coma? What does that mean?”

  “Ask the doctor.”