Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  “A man in the prime of life, Commissario.”

  The strange aching of the muscles beneath his eyes.

  “A man of probity. A man who has the courage of his convictions.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. “A man who is not afraid of being unpopular.”

  “It’s not my job to be popular.”

  “How much do you earn, Commissario? A civil servant, a flatfoot at the end of his career—and just enough to get by on. Off-the-peg Lebole suits and cheap shoes. A nylon tie from Standa. And no doubt a dutiful wife at home, sweating over the kitchen, with her hair falling into her eyes.”

  “My wife is in New York.”

  “You’re not rich—perhaps not even particularly intelligent.”

  Trotti shrugged.

  “But honest.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “An honest policeman.”

  “Let’s just say stupid.”

  “An honest man—the sort of man that I should have married.”

  Trotti laughed. “With my salary, signora?”

  “Instead I was looking for something else. Honesty, integrity—I thought they didn’t exist.”

  “Perhaps they don’t.”

  “Now you’re laughing at me, Commissario.”

  “An unintelligent flatfoot, Signora Bianchini?”

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  Their eyes met.

  “My family was not rich, Commissario. I grew up in Caserta. Not starving, not desperately poor—but poor enough to be determined that my children would have the best. There’s nothing romantic about being poor, about being hungry. There is no dignity in poverty—just fear. Fear that you have eaten your last meal. That’s why I married my husband.” She shrugged; then she tapped Trotti’s knee. “There’s a pair of sunglasses in the glove box.”

  He found the glasses—German, with a neat, golden logo on one of the arms—and handed them to her. “You don’t need glasses with the tinted window, signora.”

  She put on the glasses.

  “And you have beautiful eyes.”

  They had reached the foothills; the vineyards ran down the slopes and the afternoon air was hazy with the late summer mist. A castle in the distance stood out from the soft skyline. No smells from the countryside penetrated the cool interior of the Audi. Several road signs indicated the possibility of landslides. “You really don’t have to take me all the way to Santa Maria, Signora Bianchini.”

  “What else have I got to do with my time?” She slowed down before overtaking a tractor. The driver—a wizened peasant beneath a battered felt hat—gave a little wave and then frowned his wrinkled eyes at the silent, powerful car. “It is a pleasure to talk to a man like you, Commissario.”

  “A man who is not rich? Nor particularly intelligent? With a wife sweating over the cooker?”

  “You know, when my husband decided to leave me, it was a relief. He loved me no more than I loved him—he’d married me for my looks and I’d married him for the money. Once I’d got tired of the nice clothes and the nice cars that money could bring, there was nothing left. Nothing except my son.” She shrugged. “And about the same time, he realized that I was no longer an eighteen-year-old virgin but a middle-aged woman and mother. With wrinkles and a flabby belly.”

  Trotti felt uncomfortable. At the same time, it was not unpleasant to be beside this woman, to breathe in her perfume, share her secrets.

  “Now it’s you who are fishing for compliments, signora.”

  “Why New York, Commissario?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is your wife doing in New York?”

  “It’s not always easy living with an unintelligent, underpaid policeman.”

  “And you have children?”

  “I have a daughter.”

  “Then you know how a parent feels.” She shrugged. “I never thought I would have children—I was the eldest of seven and I didn’t want that. It was so—so animal, so degrading, seeing Mama with her swollen belly and her tired face and her hands roughened by all the hard work. I didn’t want that—and instead I made the mistake of having only one child. One child, Commissario, and you are a prisoner. Even when you are angry with him, you dote on him. You dote on him because there is nobody else—there is no one else to share your affection.”

  Trotti turned away. Seen through the tinted glass, the outside world was unreal, like a moving film.

  “And in the end, by loving him too much, by worrying for him, you teach him to resent you.”

  “My daughter is in Bologna.”

  “To resent you. And then to hate you.” A sigh. “Riccardo is a man. In these last two years, he has grown up a lot—he has changed. And now he no longer has time for me. I am a fool, an old woman. I think he despises me.”

  “For many years, my daughter admired me, she looked up to me, I was the only man in her life. Now I scarcely ever see her.”

  “Riccardo thinks that I am mercenary, that all I am interested in is money and the good things. But it was for him that I wanted the best. You can understand that, can’t you, Commissario? The good life—it wasn’t for me, but for him. So that he wouldn’t suffer. That’s why I came north, that’s why I did what I did …”

  “What you did?”

  The eyes move behind the dark lenses. “I am not a saint, Commissario. And when I came north, it wasn’t easy to find a job.”

  Trotti waited.

  “I went to Turin.”

  An awkward silence.

  “I could no longer stay in Caserta. Eighteen years ago I was a pretty girl. From Turin, I sent a lot of the money back to mother—so that my sisters could go to school. And then I met my husband.”

  “You fell in love?”

  “I have never loved any man, Commissario. Not even my father.”

  “But you love Riccardo?”

  “Riccardo is part of me.” She took her hand from the steering wheel and brushed lightly at her cheek. “And now he no longer needs me.”

  “Why not?”

  “About a year and a half ago something happened to him. Riccardo went to stay with his father. On Lake Como. And when he came back, he was strange—he had changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “Riccardo has always been very good—very affectionate. And as soon as he came back, I could sense the hostility. He was no longer the affectionate son that he used to be. He resents me. And it was after coming back from Lake Como that he started staying away. He has the motor bike that his father bought for him at Mandello del Lario.”

  “And when did he start seeing the Vardin girl?”

  “Riccardo never told me about her at first.” Signora Bianchini opened her mouth to say something else, but instead she fell silent.

  “When did they meet?”

  “Riccardo deserves better than that girl.” The corner of her lip turned down. “She is insignificant.”

  “Perhaps he is in love with Netta.”

  “Of course he isn’t.”

  “She is very fond of your son.”

  “That girl means nothing to him. When she comes to the house she has hardly got a word to say for herself.”

  “That’s not the impression that I—”

  “Riccardo may have been infatuated, but he doesn’t like her anymore—and, anyway, I haven’t sacrificed eighteen years of my life just to see Riccardo go off with the first stupid little girl that comes along. A poor little peasant child—and a father who hasn’t got two hundred lire to rub together.”

  They turned off the main Tarzi road and followed the signposts. Santa Maria, eight kilometers. Trotti’s ears began to sense the change in the atmosphere.

  “He is a good boy. You must help him, Commissario.” She sighed. “Oh my God.”

  Trotti looked at her again.

  “He would never hurt anyone.”

  A beautiful woman.

  “Riccardo is all I have got. You will help me, won’t you, Commissario?”

&n
bsp; 14: Rooftops

  FRA GIANNI TURNED and called out, “Too many boiled sweets, Piero, and not enough exercise.”

  “I am an old man.”

  “You’re fifteen years younger than me—and I am a young and athletic priest.” He laughed as he leaned on his stout walking stick.

  Out of breath, Trotti caught up with his friend. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief then let himself sink down on to the soft grass. They had come to a clearing and, through the trees below them, Trotti could see the village of Santa Maria.

  Trotti was born in Aquanera but he had gone to school in Santa Maria. Once he had seen the American bombers on their way back from Milan.

  Strange that the village should have changed so much. There were villas and apartment buildings where Trotti could remember only fields. A place that had grown richer—a lot richer since the days when Trotti had lived there with his aunt and his cousin, Sandro. And yet, each time he returned, it somehow seemed smaller. Streets that had appeared broad to him as a child, he now saw as little more than alleys.

  Fra Gianni said, “I’m so glad you decided to come with me, Piero.”

  (In 1977, Sandro had phoned from his clinic in Brescia, offering to share the old house with him. It had fallen into disrepair and needed a lot of work. Pioppi was still at school and for a few days, Trotti had been tempted to retire. To move out of the city, to move back to the hills. In the end, he had somewhat reluctantly turned down his cousin’s suggestion. Anyway, Agnese would never have followed him into the country.)

  Santa Maria.

  So many faces—and not even young faces—that he had never seen before; and boutiques where he could remember only shops selling the bare necessities of life. The Santa Maria he remembered belonged to the past.

  Fra Gianni handed him the water flask. “Who was that woman in the car?”

  “A friend.”

  “A very attractive friend.”

  Far below in the valley, the church spire rose grey and austere against the terracotta rooftops.

  Trotti drank. “I came, Fra Gianni, because you asked me to.” His throat was dry and he did not want to speak. “The woman you ask about kindly offered me a lift.”

  Fra Gianni took the flask, drank, then banged the cork cap into the metal neck.

  “I still don’t have a car.” Trotti clambered to his feet.

  They started walking, following the path that was scarcely visible. A smell of pines and burnt wood hung in the air; a smell that reminded him of his childhood. “You let more than forty years go past—and then all of a sudden you drive down to the city because you have to see me. That is why I came, Fra Gianni.”

  “Your mother is dead, Piero. It would have done no good for her to know. It was better that she should die thinking her son was killed by the enemy.”

  Trotti stopped. “Who murdered my brother?”

  The priest stopped, too. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “It wasn’t the Fascists who killed him.”

  “Answer my question, Gianni.”

  “The partisans killed him.”

  “The partisans? What makes you say that?” A perplexed laugh. “Italo was a partisan.”

  “He was a witness.”

  “Witness to what?”

  “You don’t remember Saltieri?”

  “A Carabiniere.”

  Fra Gianni nodded.

  “He collaborated with the Fascists.”

  The priest shook his head. “Saltieri was not a collaborator—nor had he ever been. Just a policeman—a humble policeman from Ancona province—who tried to do his job at a difficult time.” He shrugged and started walking again. “They murdered him and they made him appear as a Fascist—so killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Them?”

  “An unwanted intruder—and, by accusing him of collaboration with the enemy, they passed themselves off as partisans.”

  Trotti’s legs felt heavy and he was sweating; his shirt stuck to his back. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Piero—I knew the partisans—and there were many of them that I loved like my own brother. Loyal men and honorable—even in a dirty war. A dirty, civil war. But they were not all innocent choirboys. We had a job to do and that job was to chase the enemy from Italy. The men that lived in these hills—there were Italians. But there were also Poles and South Africans and the English and the Americans. Not to mention the deserters from the Italian army; and even some Germans. Good Germans, Piero. They were wild men and they needed disciplining.”

  “Who murdered Italo?”

  “Do you remember Primula Rosa?”

  “Tell me about Italo, for heaven’s sake.”

  Fra Gianni held up his hand. “You remember Primula Rosa?”

  Trotti shrugged. “I saw him at the end of the war.”

  “A good and honorable soldier who looked after his men.” The priest was now walking more slowly so that Trotti could keep pace with him. “I think we all loved Primula Rosa.”

  “Who murdered Italo, Fra Gianni?”

  “You saw Primula Rosa?”

  “Once—at a victory parade, at the end of the war.” Trotti ran a hand along his damp forehead. “I can recall thinking that he was only a few years older than me. He had lost an arm.”

  Fra Gianni smiled.

  “Primula Rosa murdered my brother Italo?”

  “No.” Fra Gianni clicked his tongue. “Of course not.”

  “Then who killed Italo?”

  “Come, Piero, another few hundred meters and we are at the spot.” Turning forward, the priest marched briskly up the incline.

  Trotti sighed, pulled back his shoulders and followed.

  It was several years since Trotti had been back.

  He felt hot. He was sticky with sweat and out of breath. But then, when he came to the small graveside, Trotti knelt down and lowered his head. He tried to remember an almost forgotten prayer as he stared at the engraved headstone.

  ITALO TROTTI, 1921—1945

  Then Piero Trotti closed his eyes and prayed, asking for eternal peace and divine love for his dead brother.

  15: Cool

  “WHY CAN’T YOU tell me the truth?”

  He laughed. “You think that I’m not telling you the truth?”

  “You talk like a Jesuit, Fra Gianni.”

  “Is that an insult?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  The Fiat 500 went into a slight skid on the unsurfaced road. “Careful.” Trotti could feel the back of the car sliding forward. “You are a priest—not a Formula One driver.”

  The older man gently touched the medallion of Saint Christopher on the dashboard. “Perhaps I should never have been a priest—and perhaps you should never have become a policeman.”

  “I don’t think I would have been a good priest, if that’s what you mean.”

  Fra Gianni was hunched over the steering wheel but he turned to look at Trotti. “You have the dedication, Piero. You have a kind of moral single-mindedness.”

  “And that’s why you asked me to come here?”

  “Your mother is dead, Piero. She cannot be hurt.”

  “There was no need to tell me about Italo. Dead—Italo is dead.”

  The rubble surface was bright in the sunlight. “Too many people have died.”

  Trotti frowned.

  “You knew la Nini—she sometimes used to help your mother with the animals after the war.”

  “La Nini?”

  “Her real name was Giulia Spallanera.”

  Trotti nodded. “Well?”

  “Two weeks ago she was murdered.”

  They went through a small copse and the pine trees partially cut out the sunlight. The shadows of the trees danced hurriedly across the windscreen and the air was filled with particles of white dust rising from the road.

  “A bit eccentric, a bit old-fashioned. La Nini spent her time living in the past—during the war, she used to carry messages from one partisan group to another. She k
new the hills like her own apron. She must have been thirty years old at the time—but in those days she could run faster than most men. Old stock, Piero—hard-working and loyal.”

  “And?”

  “They found her at the back of her house.” He raised his right hand and gestured towards the valley. “Since her husband died some twenty years ago, she’d been living by herself. A bit strange in the head—but harmless.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She fell into the stream and cracked her skull. That’s what the Carabinieri think.” He shrugged.

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “La Nini was murdered.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “In cold blood, Piero.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  Fra Gianni glanced at Trotti. “The sixth person to have died in strange circumstances.”

  “Six people?”

  “Six people in the last twenty-five years. And all of them were directly or indirectly connected with the partisans.”

  “If one day I get run over in the street in Milan, is that because my brother was a partisan?”

  “You don’t understand, Piero.”

  “Fra Gianni, the war ended forty years ago. That’s a long time. And it’s more than long enough for anybody to carry out their plans of revenge.”

  “Here in the hills, memories can be very long.”

  Trotti placed his hand on the priest’s arm.

  “I am afraid, Piero.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Not for myself—but for other people in the village.”

  “Afraid of what, Fra Gianni?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Revenge for something which happened in 1944 or 1945?” Trotti tapped his temple. “I think you’ve been overworking your head.”

  “Six people, Piero.”

  Trotti laughed, but without conviction. “Suppose you are right—suppose six people have been murdered. What for? People don’t get murdered just like that. They get murdered because they know something or because they are dangerous. What on earth can an old cleric … a young and athletic cleric know that would put his life in danger?”

  “I never said that my life was in danger.”

  “Then what are you worrying about?”

  “You’re forgetting about the others.”