‘I forget, to be honest. He was unsatisfactory, at any rate. I’ll look back through my papers and see if I can at least turn up his last known address.’
‘Thank you. The other thing is . . . as I’m sure you’ll understand, your daughter’s private life, the child’s father, and so on. If you could. . . .’
As he expected, the daughter was dismissed. ‘Go upstairs.’
She went without a word. It seemed safe to assume that if his wife had disappeared into the servants’ quarters rather than being sent upstairs like the others, it was so that he wouldn’t see the condition she was in, that she was either drunk or still undressed or both. She hadn’t been expecting her husband. Had he discharged himself when he heard that the marshal had seen her and was coming back this evening? The marshal waited to see what Paoletti would say next.
‘Can I offer you something?’ Playing for time.
‘No. No, thank you.’ It had to be a difficult performance. Wanting to be affable, cooperative, to deflect any interest in his business, but finding it difficult to combine that attitude with mourning for his daughter. Different expressions flitted across his face, to be instantly replaced by others. The marshal knew that he was trying on masks to look for a response. He was wasting his time. The marshal remained, solid, silent, and expressionless, immobile in his seat. He asked no questions, only watched Paoletti as he described his daughter’s studiousness, her secretive nature, her silence over the pregnancy. The intonations, too, were tried on along with the masks. The marshal observed his rising tension, wondering if he would produce a tear when all else failed, remembering the priest who had been persuaded to be a character witness to a pimp all those years ago. He was running out of steam with no questions from Guarnaccia to help him; but this man had survived for years on the edge of the law and made a fortune. He was no fool.
‘Now, you wanted to speak to my wife, and I’ll arrange that for you the minute she’s well enough. In the meantime, now you’re here, you might as well have a word with Danuta, the girl who let you in. She wasn’t here when it happened but—as you say—as a matter of correct procedure—routine inquiries, isn’t that what you call it? Danuta!’
No doubt she’d been listening from the top of the staircase, and she started down at once.
‘Bring me your papers, passport, work permit, everything!’
She scuttled back up and came back down with the papers. Her eyes never left Paoletti, and she was ready to jump to at his next order.
‘Sit down there and answer the marshal’s questions— her Italian’s not wonderful, but she manages. I’ll leave you to talk.’
He could afford to, knowing that, absent or present, he would be obeyed.
The papers were in perfect order, of course. As he looked at them, the marshal was listening to Paoletti’s step on the stairs. Just a bit uneven.
‘Tomaszów. Where’s that? Near Warsaw?’
‘No. Southeast, near the border with Ukraine.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘It was cold.’
‘So you’re not one to complain about this August heat like we do.’
He asked no real questions, just kept her talking a bit about how many brothers and sisters, did she hope to go back one day, and so on. The purpose of Paoletti’s move was to let him know that his operations were going to look perfectly legal on paper. Round one to him, but not entirely a waste of time for the marshal, who broke the rules by laying a big gentle hand on the frightened girl’s head as he stood up to leave.
‘Please don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble, and neither is Frida. Is she here?’
‘She’s putting Piero to bed.’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs on the ground floor. They both sleep there.’
She wasn’t pretty, too washed-out-looking. Her hair was so blond, it was almost white. It was tied back with a coloured elastic, the sort children wear.
He climbed the stairs. He had no thought of seeking out Frida. Her papers would be in order too, though Paoletti probably kept them locked up.
As he walked through the entrance hall upstairs, he heard voices and slowed down. A door stood open on his right to what looked like a pretty impressive library.
He caught a glimpse of Silvana, turning, looking back over her shoulder, the hem of her full skirt between thumb and finger.
‘For the office. . . .’
‘It’s too short. You look ridiculous.’
She rushed out of the room and pushed past the marshal. She looked ready to burst into tears.
The marshal coughed. Paoletti appeared and closed the door behind him.
‘Everything in order?’
‘Yes. Don’t let me keep you any longer from your meal.’
‘I hope you’ll forgive my wife—you can imagine what she’s going through. . . .’
‘But of course! How could I not? Don’t worry about it, nothing urgent. You need to concentrate on getting well. Your family needs you.’
Five
'Like they need a hole in the head,’ was Nesti’s comment. The marshal had found him waiting, ‘L standing in the dusk beside the shuttered newspaper kiosk, sleek as a cat in pale linens, cigarette parked in the corner of his mouth. ‘I hope there’s no chance of him turning up at the club tonight?’
‘No, no. The marshal out there told me he very rarely goes there, and he’s not recovered from his illness. I’d say he ought to be still in hospital, but he discharged himself.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right. God, I hate this city in August.’
There wasn’t a single car on the big roundabout outside the Porta Romana, and the expanse of empty tarmac around a bulky white statue in the silent gloom felt odd, even a little sinister.
‘The rest of the year, you can’t breathe for the exhaust fumes; and now you can’t breathe because there’s no air. Like living in an armpit.’
‘Why stay, then? You’re senior enough at the paper to choose your holidays.’
‘Got a bit of a story going and she has to stay, so. . . . We’d better get moving. We said half past eight.’
‘I had to go home and change. I could hardly go on this jaunt in uniform. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t worry about it! We’re two innocent punters looking for a bit of fun while the wives and kids are at the seaside!’
‘Hmph. I haven’t had time to eat, either, and it’s your turn to pay.’
‘This is business, not pleasure, though. We’ve got work to do.’
‘A place like that won’t open before eleven.’
‘That’s not what I mean. What I mean is, we’ve got a date. Are we going in your car or mine?’
‘Both. I’d rather be independent. I’ll follow you.’
The main street of the spa was as busy as Florence was quiet. It was completely dark by the time they got there and parked, and all the clubs, bars, and restaurants were lit, the more important clubs with flashing neon. Among the couples and groups in the street, a number of waif-like girls, obviously from Eastern Europe, wandered about, scanning the perfumed crowd.
‘Looking for clients, I suppose,’ commented the marshal.
‘At this hour? No. Looking for some lone man to buy them a meal.’
They were certainly thin and must have needed feeding. That one there looked like Danuta. But then, they all did. It wasn’t the features, it was the expression. . . .
‘Come on, Guarnaccia, you can’t feed them all. We’ve already got a date, remember?’
Their date didn’t look hungry. She was very pretty with long black curls, sparkly eyes and a great deal of self-confidence. She had worked The Emperor as a pole dancer for three months and left when her contract ran out. She was freelance, had an agent who found safe, well-paid gigs for her, and at the end of this season reckoned she’d have saved enough to go home to Rumania and go on with her university degree in economics. She almost had to shout to tell them all this, the restaurant was so crowd
ed and noisy.
‘And afterwards?’ the marshal asked, offering her cheese for her pasta. ‘Will you be able to find work there, or will you come back here?’
‘Here? No. I’ve bought a few plots of land back home. Bought them for a pittance, but now we’ve joined the EU they’ll be worth a fortune. I won’t be coming back. Not that I’ve got anything to complain about. I’ve met some decent people.’
‘Like my pal Tommaso,’ suggested Nesti, putting down his fork and reaching for his cigarettes.
‘It’s no smoking here,’ the marshal said, looking about him.
‘Right,’ agreed Nesti, lighting up, ‘that’s why there’s an ashtray. You passed up a good chance there, you know, Maddalena.’
‘Oh, Tommaso’s all right. But he’s got his job on the paper here. Sports reporting’s his life. And then there’s his family. His mother’s widowed and she’s not so well. He wanted me to stay here, get married. I’ve got my own plans. I intend to make money. A lot of money. Order me a grilled fillet steak, Nesti. It’s the only thing fit to eat in this place.’
‘You chose it.’ Nesti snapped his fingers for a waiter without looking up.
‘Because I’ve got to meet somebody in the bar next door at eleven, that’s why.’
‘Not above turning the occasional trick in the interests of getting rich, then.’
‘Not if it’s a decent sort and he pays well, no. It’s an honest transaction. Look around you at the women in here with their lifted faces and Vuitton handbags—all paid for by hubby while they’re screwing his best friend. The difference between them and me is that their transactions are dishonest. Listen, I haven’t a lot of time. Are you going on with this story or not?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘And what about him? Who is he exactly?’ Her bright grey eyes transfixed the marshal.
‘I. . . .’
‘He’s all right. He’s a friend of mine. Has some influence in the carabinieri, and it’s going to be up to them in the end. I just want the front page. I’m not up for any dramatic rescue stuff.’
‘Well, be careful. Do things her way, or there’ll be no way anybody can rescue her.’
‘Don’t worry about that. What’s her name?’
‘Cristina, but don’t ask for her by name. She’ll be on the centre pole, and she’ll be wearing a silver tanga and a transparent blue top that she’ll take off while she’s dancing. Her hair’s pretty much like mine and she’s got a mole, really dark, just under her left breast. When she comes offstage to work the room, she’ll find you.’
‘How many girls like her are there?’
‘Five. But it’s the other two, the ones you won’t see, that really matter.’
The local marshal had certainly been right about one thing. The Emperor was upmarket, all right. Attended carpark, big, well-kept gardens all around, gravel paths discreetly lighted.
‘This must cost a pretty penny in upkeep,’ said the marshal. They could hear music in the distance.
‘Bit more than the good old-fashioned brothels in the city, eh?’
‘It was a mistake to ever close them.’
‘Before you were old enough to get to try them, you mean? Or is that the cop in you talking? More control, medical checks, that stuff?’
‘No, no . . . I just hate seeing those young girls out on the street at all hours, getting frozen and soaking wet, the poor little things. It’s not right. They should be inside where it’s warm.’
‘Well, they’re inside where it’s warm here, all right.’
It might have been the foyer of a cinema with the box office to the left, a velvet curtain straight ahead, a staircase to the right.
‘Two,’ Nesti said.
‘First-time customers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thirty euros.’
‘Visa all right?’
The marshal followed Nesti beyond the curtain towards the noise of disco music. They weren’t going to be able to hear themselves think, let alone talk to this Cristina, whoever she was, in the marshal’s opinion, but there was nothing for it but to go on with this line of inquiry, even if it turned out to be more use to Nesti’s career than his own case.
The half-dark room lined with mirrors was about twenty-five to thirty metres long, with a bar at the far end and a stage halfway along on the left where three pole dancers were gyrating under spinning coloured lights. Small groups of leather sofas and armchairs were set around low tables. Nesti chose one they could have to themselves right opposite the stage. The place wasn’t full but, then, perhaps it was early. Early for some. The marshal tried to smother a yawn.
‘Something to drink?’
A waiter was leaning over them.
‘No, no. . . .’
‘Don’t want to look conspicuous,’ Nesti said in his ear. ‘It’s included in the ticket price.’
‘A glass of red then.’
Nesti relayed this and the waiter shook his head.
‘They don’t serve glasses of wine. Your ticket includes a real drink. Have a G and T like me. You can’t not drink. We’re here for a good time, remember?’
‘A grappa, then.’
The waiter seemed satisfied with that and went away.
‘I didn’t know you liked grappa.’
‘I don’t, much!’
When it arrived, he sipped at it gingerly. ‘And I don’t like this noise!’
‘What?’
‘I don’t—oh. . . .’ What was the use? He kept his face towards the pole dancers, trying to take in as much as he could of the customers without looking directly at them. Apart from three or four lone men of about his own age, they seemed to be all small groups of men in their late twenties, early thirties. He reconized the type. They usually had a job, still lived with their parents, and spent their salaries on cars, clothes, and holidays. Just the sort who could fritter away money in this place. It wasn’t much money to fritter, though, was it? Fifteen euros, including a drink. Next drink would probably cost thirty, but even so. . . .
The marshal started counting, still keeping his head towards the stage. He’d seen two men behind the bar, and as well as the waiter who’d served them, there was a waitress in a glittery bikini. Three pole dancers and more of the same working the room, stopping to kiss the lone customers, settling on the knees of the younger men. Must be at least three—yes, they were taking over the dancing now. That pair of dangerous-looking characters near the door were obviously bouncers. . . .
He leaned towards Nesti’s ear. ‘They’re not making any money out of this. There are more staff than customers in here.’
Nesti didn’t answer, only nudged him. One of the dancers who had come off the stage was approaching them. Long dark curls and a mole under her left breast. Cristina. She sat on Nesti’s knee and began kissing him and whispering in his ear. After a few minutes they got up and started towards the exit, and Nesti looked back to signal that the marshal should follow. As they came out, he murmured, ‘It’s worth a try.’
It wasn’t. They were stopped at the cash desk.
‘He must take another girl.’
‘We both like this one. We’ll pay for two.’
‘No. That’s sixty euros. Ten minutes.’
‘Make that twenty minutes.’ He pulled the girl close, grinning, and kissed her.
‘A hundred and twenty.’ He wound a plastic timer and gave it to the girl. They started up the stairs, and the marshal went back to the flashing darkness, the noise, and his grappa. This was going to be a long twenty minutes. He sat watching the pole dancers for a while, noting how their movements included eye contact and a seductive smile and how, every so often, tired out, their bodies would slacken and the smile melt away to be replaced by a glazed look of weariness. They never actually stopped moving, and the young men watching their breasts would never notice. They all had very pretty breasts. Some of them could really dance, too, while others just jiggled about and took up more or less obscene poses. Each time t
here was a changeover, a voice came over a loudspeaker exhorting applause for their brilliant performance. The response was feeble and would surely have been an embarrassment had it not been camouflaged by the pounding music. There had to be more than six girls, because someone had replaced Cristina. He looked at his watch and sighed inwardly.
‘Can I take this?’
He nodded and Nesti’s empty glass was picked up.
‘Something else for you?’
‘No, no. . . .’
A blond girl with an electric blue bikini bottom and tattoos paused in front of him. He smiled at her and looked away. She moved on. They were very discreet. He thought about Maddalena, so bright and so determined to get her economics degree and make money. He couldn’t help comparing her to the bored young men sitting around him. They talked and laughed and drank, and the naked girls were just accessories like the coloured lighting and the leather sofas. There was a stripper on the stage now, but the young men were still slumped in attitudes of boredom, even as she removed the last stitch and spread her legs to the mirrors reflecting her all around the room. Only three much younger boys sitting on the edge of the stage seemed awake and interested, but they, it seemed, were drunk and a bouncer warned them off when they tried to sit on the edge of the stage. They moved to the alcove just to the side of the stage, almost opposite the marshal. Two of them were giggling, but the other looked as though he wished he were at home in bed. Surely he couldn’t be eighteen. He barely looked older than Totò. He sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling, head down. Every now and then he gave a little jerk, like when you fall asleep in church. He didn’t wake up even when, with a huge fanfare, a couple started miming a variety of sexual acts on the stage, the woman naked, the man half-dressed in black leather and wielding a whip.The two giggling boys fell silent and looked, but seemed puzzled. It was no wonder. They must have been hoping for excitement, and the whole fake performance was as sanitized and tidy and brightly lit as the meat counter at the supermarket.
What was more, twenty minutes must surely have gone by and Nesti, blast him, had still not come back. A young man wearing an orange baseball cap stopped to kiss one of the pole dancers in front of the marshal’s table and yelled at a friend, ‘Take a picture of me with your phone! Go on!’
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