‘People with a great deal of power and no scruples would crush you.
‘It goes without saying that I’ll do what I can to protect you.
‘From one day to another, to wake up and find yourself posted to some desolate village at the end of the world.
‘You don’t deserve it, your family doesn’t deserve it.
‘Come to my office tomorrow and we’ll talk about what can be done for you.’
Drop by drop the poison seeped through him, and his only reaction was to think he was very, very tired. And so he got up and walked through the flat, locking up, closing shutters, leaving the windows open for the night air. It hadn’t rained enough, even now. The heat was steamier than before and there seemed to be more mosquitoes. He went to bed and fell asleep as his head touched the pillow, but it was the tense, superficial sleep of a guard dog. A breath would have woken him.
When he opened his eyes it was still dark. He remembered no dreams. His head was clear. There was no need, as sometimes happens, to wait for realization, for the cause of the pain squeezing his chest to come to the surface. It was as if a part of him hadn’t slept at all but only waited for the rest of him to wake up, ready to act. It was half past four in the morning. He got up and made the bed. Washed, shaved, and in uniform, he stood and looked at himself in the bedroom mirror as though at a stranger. And if he never wore this uniform again? Who would this person in the mirror be then? Hundreds of people knew him as the marshal, but how many people knew him as Salvatore? ‘The marshal’ would be whoever took over from him. People soon got used to a new face; he would be forgotten. All that was going to happen was what must happen anyway when he retired, so what did it matter?
He wouldn’t accept a posting to ‘some desolate village at the end of the world.’ He would find a way to keep his family here where they were happy, where Teresa was settled and the children had a good choice of schools.
On his way to the kitchen to make himself some coffee, he looked at each room in his quarters as though for the first time. It was very nice, of course, spacious and comfortable, but it wasn’t his own, was it? Teresa was right. They had to think about the future.
He put the coffee on and waited for it to percolate. The army used up your life and then you were on your own. That was the way it was.
He drank his coffee standing in the kitchen with the window and outer shutters open. The Boboli Gardens brought a lot of dampness. Oxygen, too, though, and the sawing of the crickets on summer nights which had once been the sound of his loneliness now seemed one more part of a life that was slipping away from him.
Well, it was sad, but there were worse things. Beaten women and abused children, for example. And besides, the army didn’t own the Boboli Gardens. There were hundreds of flats overlooking them. He closed the shutters with a bang, rinsed his cup, and went to open up his office.
It was cool in his little room at this hour. The computer behaved itself. He typed for more than an hour without stopping. He didn’t try to make a work of art of the thing, connecting facts and ideas. He just started his story on the nineteenth of August and went on until he got to today. What difference did it make if he couldn’t make a convincing, logical case? If somebody wanted to hear what he had to say, they would listen and act. If nobody wanted to hear. . . .
He had left a space at the top, not knowing exactly whose name to put there. The Chief Public Prosecutor of the Republic, Genoa? Probably. But there might be someone in particular who dealt with conflict-of-interest cases. And what if there was? He would still know nothing about the man. What might his sexual habits be, for a start? And he might even be great friends with one or both of the judges on that list, even with the prosecutor on this case. When all’s said and done, people protect their own, as Nesti said. Wasn’t he himself protecting Piazza?
The report was complete, but the address line remained blank. There was nothing to be done; he must ask the captain. If he didn’t know the answers to these questions, he was, at least, in a better position to find out. The marshal would neither ask him nor tell him anything else about the matter. He printed the report, put it in an envelope without sealing it, and filled in a registered-letter form which he attached to the envelope with a paper clip.
Then he opened a new file and wrote a letter to the General Command of the Carabinieri:
I, the undersigned, Salvatore Guarnaccia, born in Noto in the Province of Syracuse on 16th. . . .
If he hesitated there, it was only to do a quick calculation of his years of service. Would he be entitled to any part of his pension at all? The captain would help with that.
Marshal major in the service of Regional Command, Tuscany, request permission to take early retirement from 26th October of the current year. I intend to be domiciled. . . .
Where? He was obliged to give an address, and he didn’t have one.
I intend to be domiciled. . . .
It couldn’t wait. He must resign before he could be transferred, and he knew from experience that it could be a matter of days. Finding a house could take months. More than the three months’ notice he’d had to give.
I intend to be domiciled in Noto, provincia di Syracuse. . . .
He gave his sister’s address. He would go home.
Florence, 26th August. . . .
He printed, signed, and put it in an envelope. It had to be delivered by hand to his commanding officer. He would walk over to Borgo Ognissanti now. He glanced at the window. It was light. He switched his desk lamp off and stood up. The walk would do him good, and he’d be back well in time to open his station.
Outside, he looked at the expanse of damp forecourt in the sickly, pinkish light. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Not so much as a dog. He walked down the broad slope and crossed the empty road. All the metal shutters were down. Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti was so narrow, its buildings so high, that it was still almost dark there. His footsteps echoed in the alley with its uneven paving stones. A small black cat appeared from the deeper shadows of a doorway, walked with him down the alley in silence for a while, and then slid behind a grating and vanished. He turned right, made for the river, and crossed the Santa Trinita bridge. Without traffic, the smell of the river was strong, but he didn’t glance down at the level of the water the way he usually did, only walked on at a steady pace until he reached the barracks in Via Borgo Ognissanti.
‘Morning, Marshal.’
If the young guards on duty were surprised to see him at that hour, they made no comment. He passed in his letter to the captain at the window, nodded, and walked away.
It was done. Going back, his walk was slower and he was breathing more easily. It was still very early as he walked upriver towards the Ponte Vecchio. The sun was up now, the pearly pink sky turning blue above the dark olive-green water. He had always liked to walk by the river. He and Teresa, years ago, had taken a walk like this most evenings after supper, stopping to sit in that little garden on the left bank to chat and look across at the floodlit towers and palaces on this side. How long was it since they’d done that? At some point, it had stopped being a pleasure . . . too much traffic noise and exhaust fumes. There was a traffic block on summer nights nowadays, but they’d lost the habit. So many years. . . .
Pausing on the Santa Trinita bridge, he thought about those years, gazing upriver at the tumble of overhanging windows of the oldest bridge. The Florentines . . . they were a funny lot, but you had to hand it to them. It looked so lovely on this quiet morning.
A boy, coming towards him on a moped across the bridge, ripped into the silence and his thoughts with a fierce roar. The youngster, enjoying having the city to himself, did a couple of wheelies before he noticed the marshal and dropped his front wheel. Well, he’d no doubt have done the same at that age if he’d been given a moped. The noise faded. He’d complained a lot over the years about that noise, about the muggy climate, the smelly, medieval drains, the streets clogged with tourists, the baffling character of the Florentines. And now t
he place had . . . well, he’d got used to it. That must be what it was. In any case, he had to find work here. The captain would help him. He knew a lot of people, had some influence.
Well-established detective agency . . . excellent computer skills, dynamic personality . . . what a thought!
As he turned to walk on, he saw his first Japanese tourist of the morning, taking photographs of him against this famous background. No accounting for tastes.
He reached the Palazzo Pitti and turned left to where the huge iron lantern hung from the stone archway leading to the entrance of his station. How many times had he—oh, for goodness’ sake! It was the entrance to the Boboli Gardens as well, and he could go in as often as he wanted.
At this hour, though, he needed his electronic key to open the gates that closed the archway off until the gardens opened. As he reached the foot of his staircase, one of the garden custodians in the glass cubicle on the right waved at him to stop.
‘I think this must be for you.’
He pushed an envelope through the window.
‘For me? There’s no name on it.’
‘No, but it says urgent. We found it propped against the gate when we arrived about ten minutes ago, and it’s not for us. . . .’ He glanced at the other custodian, a young woman who reddened a little and turned away.
The marshal felt his heartbeat quicken and his whole body heat up as he took the thing.
‘Thanks. . . .’
He started up the steep stairs. He was breathless, but it wasn’t because of the climb. There was nothing except ‘urgent’ written on the envelope with a broad felt-tip in block capitals. It was large and yellow.
Lorenzini appeared as soon as he unlocked the door.
‘Your wife called to say—’
‘Later. I don’t want to be disturbed.’ He shut himself in his office. It was something if Teresa had remembered his existence. He’d call her when he could. He’d spent enough time waiting, listening to a phone ringing in an empty flat.
The yellow envelope lay on the desk before him. He turned it over. It was unsealed. ‘This must be for you.’
That young woman’s embarrassed face.
Some sort of anonymous threat. If it was, it couldn’t touch him now. He had resigned. It was over.
He opened the envelope.
The photograph was an A4 computer printout. He drew in a sharp breath and his heart thumped.
‘This must be for you.’ Of course, the garden custodians had opened it. And there he was, his face expressionless, eyes red in the light of the flash, and behind him. . . .
The stripper was stark naked. She was bent over with her back to the camera, legs spread, peeping round. His head was between her calves.
It was a trick. It looked as though he were sitting on the edge of the stage right at the stripper’s feet; but he had never been there, never moved away from his seat except to leave. Of course . . . the mirrors. The stripper was reflected behind him. At the bottom left of the picture was part of an outstretched hand, blurred as though it were moving, but definitely a woman’s hand with red nail varnish. Right down in the corner was a bright orange semicircle. Part of the peak of a baseball cap.
‘Take a photo of me with your camera! Go on . . . another. . . .’
‘Hmph.’ Well, he wasn’t going to try and explain that away to the gardeners. They could carry on giving him funny looks until the whole story came out—which wouldn’t be until those children and young girls were safe. He would have liked to screw up the picture and throw it away, but it was evidence. He took a folder from his drawer and slipped the printout into it.
He thought of calling Nesti, and then thought not.
To discredit the source was the classic way of killing an accusation. The photograph was the start of it. It was unfortunate that his resignation would look like a confirmation that he was in the wrong, but it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps he needed a lawyer. He thought of all the lawyers he had known through various cases, but none of them inspired him. There was time, anyway. He wasn’t going to tell this story to anyone until his resignation had been accepted and the Procura in Genoa had received his report. Once he’d spoken to the captain and was sure he wasn’t making a wrong move, he could transmit the thing by E-mail as well as by registered letter. There was no time to lose, as Don Antonino had pointed out. Nesti, he could rely on to keep his word. Piazza, trapped now between a rock and a hard place, would keep his head down; and Maddalena was probably the sharpest of all of them. She would keep quiet now and be an impressive witness later. The only weak link was Cristina, but one weak link was enough. . . .
There was a tap at the door. The face that looked in was that of his youngest recruit, the one he’d saved from old Signor Palestri.
‘What is it?’ The marshal placed his big hand on the folder with its photograph at the sight of his fresh young face.
‘Excuse me, Marshal, but I was told not to pass any calls through to you and there’s someone who says you told him to telephone about a seven hundred order. I’m sorry, but I thought you should decide if it’s urgent, because I don’t understand what—’
‘Signora Nuti’s lawyer, is it?’
‘A lawyer, yes.’
‘All right. Put him through.’ Poor Signora Nuti. After that storm. . . .
The man seemed to be on the ball, at any rate.
‘You know how these things go, Marshal. The judge could all too easily turn it down and order only damages, which is useless in this instance since it’s the cause we need to get at. We can sue for damages once that’s removed, but I need a strong case now for an emergency intervention. The signora says your men have been there and can vouch for the blocked street drains being the cause.’
‘I’ll see that you get a written statement to attach to your application.’
The man seemed genuinely concerned.
‘There’ll be a question of moral damages, too. She has terrible arthritis, and if she slips on those wet cellar steps. . . .’
‘I hope you can persuade her not to go anywhere near the cellar. I’ve tried, but she’s afraid for the foundations of her house.’
‘Of course she is—and, let’s face it, Marshal, it’s all very well to tell her not to try carrying buckets herself. But unless there’s somebody else to do it. . . .’
A good man. Perhaps he should make an appointment with him. Without going into any detail, he could, at least, set out his general situation. There’d be no limits to how far the people on that list would go to discredit him. The photo was only a warning shot. There might well be one of him undressed in that hotel bedroom, too. He might feel better at the thought of somebody knowing, being there to advise him as things developed. Should he ask?
‘You’ve been an enormous help, Marshal.’
‘Don’t mention it. Now, there’s something I have to—’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be keeping you on the phone over this when you must have so many bigger problems to deal with.’
‘No, no . . . it’s just that I—’
‘I do apologise,’ continued the lawyer, ‘but, to tell you the truth—though I’m reluctant to take up more of your time—I had in mind to ask you about another matter that you’d be just the right person to advise me on.’
‘Ah,’ said Guarnaccia.
‘I only take civil cases myself, but my nephew’s a criminal lawyer, and under the new system he needs someone to do investigative work, checking alibis, statements, and so on—I just thought you might be able to suggest somebody—without going to any trouble—I wouldn’t dream—but perhaps a retired colleague you could recommend.’
‘I . . . it’s possible that there is somebody. Leave me your number.’
He wrote the lawyer’s name and number in his pocket notebook.
It would have been a waste of time asking, anyway, if he only took civil cases. There was no knowing what he might have to defend himself against. And the nephew? There was nothing to stop him having
a talk to him. Getting more information about this job. It was worth doing in itself, but it would also give him a chance to size the man up, judge whether he might be the right man to defend him if needed.
He tried to push this thought aside and concentrate on dealing with the people who were now starting to appear in the waiting room. He sent them all away satisfied, or, at least, calmer, only to find that the thought of that lawyer had never left him and that he was going after that job and getting it before he had to tell Teresa he’d resigned. It would all turn out all right. It would be more than all right. They’d all be better off.
He pulled out his notebook and dialled the number. The man must surely have been surprised, but he was certainly delighted.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’ll ring down right away and tell him to expect you. We’re in Via Por Santa Maria right opposite the porcellino. Francesco’s on the second floor, directly below me. His name’s on the door. I do appreciate this.’
After such a long, cool start to his day, the wall of heat outdoors came as a shock. Sheltered behind dark glasses from the oppressive sun, he pushed his way through the tourists on the Ponte Vecchio, wondering, for once, not why they came here but whether it wouldn’t be nice to be one of them, to enjoy all the attractive things, the paintings, the architecture, the fine gold work in these tiny shops, the food. And then just get on a plane and leave, escape.
He had never set foot in one of the jeweller’s on the bridge, and in all his years here he had probably not visited even half of the museums. And they rarely ate out. Well, it was going to be different now. He would have a real job that even Totò would approve of, with regular hours, weekends away, a life like other people had.
A breeze touched his burning face and, above the river, an enormous white cloud was moving. The sort Teresa called whipped cream.
The straw market was busy and, beside it, the por-cellino was surrounded with people rubbing the boar’s shiny bronze nose and dropping pennies into the water for the orphans. What would happen to those two children? Now, that was the man to help! What was his name? The one who’d placed the little Albanian girl in the country after her pimp had her thrown out of a car on the motorway . . . he had been a children’s judge. If only he were on this case, how different things would be.
Vita Nuova Page 14