Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  He put down the receiver.

  57: Changes

  SUNDAY MORNING.

  Trotti stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator smelled of chlorine. His fingers ran reassuringly across the hammer and sickle engraved in the metallic paint.

  When the elevator stopped, Trotti was looking in the mirror. He felt less tired, and with a good night’s sleep the drugs seemed to have worked themselves out of his system. Still the ache in his ribs.

  “Buongiorno.”

  A man in uniform.

  “Where’s Gino?” Trotti asked, surprised. “Who are you?”

  The man pushed aside the copy of Epoca that lay open on the desk.

  “Where’s Gino?”

  “Gino?” A slow Neapolitan accent.

  “Who are you?”

  “You work here?”

  Trotti raised his voice. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “Your name is here?” A typed list of names had been attached to the desk top with adhesive tape.

  “I’m Trotti.”

  A slight gesture of the hand. “Trotti?” The man wore pink-tinted glasses that made his eyes appear large, like the eyes of a fish.

  “Commissario Piero Trotti.”

  “Commissario Trotti?” The man shook his head—long hair that had been carefully cut and dyed black—as he ran his finger down the printed list of names. “No Trotti here, Commissario or otherwise.”

  “Of course my name’s there.”

  “Look for yourself.”

  “Commissario Trotti. My name is Commissario Trotti and I work here.”

  “I can’t help you. Your name isn’t on the list.”

  “Where is Gino, for God’s sake?”

  “Trotti?” An accent that was both ingratiating and arrogant. “It must have been you the man wanted to speak to.”

  “What man?”

  “Orsi.”

  “I don’t know any Signor Orsi.”

  “The blind man—the man I have had to replace.”

  “Gino? Why’s he not here?”

  A bland smile. “You’ll have to ask the Questore.”

  Trotti clicked his tongue. “Give me a line, will you? I’ll take it in my office.” Without hiding his irritation, he turned away and walked down the corridor.

  Gino had gone—and with him Principessa. The third floor no longer smelled of the cancerous dog. Like a disease, Trotti thought, that you almost miss once you are cured.

  He stepped into the office, thinking about Gino and his dog. Fourteen, fifteen years that the blind man had been on the desk. And now he had left without a word.

  The office was empty.

  Everything—the filing cabinets, the greasy canvas armchairs, the piles of folders and the old desk—everything had gone. Just the photograph of Pertini on the wall and on the floor, the bulbous green telephone. Between the telephone and the wall, there lay the coils of the dusty, green flex.

  For an instant, he thought he had entered the wrong room.

  Trotti stood still, his mouth open in surprise. His eyes searched for something familiar. There was no mistake, he identified the wooden partition in the wall. And a couple of sweet paper wrappings lay on the dusty floor; rust marks where the cabinets used to stand.

  “My God.”

  A feeling of pain, of loss, of bewilderment in the pit of his belly. “What’s going on in this damn place?” He turned on his heel. “Hey,” he shouted.

  The man at the desk looked up from the pages of Epoca.

  “What’s happening?” It was hard to speak, the words swelled in his throat. “My office—it’s been cleared out.”

  The man shrugged.

  It was as if his hand were autonomous—it wanted to strike the round, complacent face, send the tinted glasses flying. With difficulty, Trotti controlled his anger. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “This is where I work—this is where I’ve always worked. What’s going on?”

  “I’m new here.”

  “Who’s given permission?” Trotti choked on his words.

  The man looked at him.

  “Why’s my office been cleared out like that?”

  “I think it’s something to do with the policewoman.”

  “Ciuffi?”

  “Commissario Merenda said he was making this his HQ.”

  “That’s my office. I haven’t been consulted.”

  The Neapolitan raised his shoulders in simulated empathy.

  “Merenda doesn’t work on this floor—he’s got no right here.” Trotti placed his hand on the receiver of the telephone exchange. “You’d better give me a line.”

  A plump white hand went to the telephone. “No.”

  “Give me a line.”

  “I have my orders.”

  “Give me a line, will you?”

  He shook his head. “My instructions are clear.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “Not allowed. I do not know you. Your name is not on the list. The Questore is adamant.”

  “The Questore is going to be adamant about throwing you out on your ear. You, your pimp’s glasses and your eau de cologne.”

  There was no reaction behind the thick lenses.

  “This is where I work.” Trotti gestured in anger. “That’s my office—do you understand? It’s been my office for the last seven years.”

  “The Questore and Commissario Merenda say there have been too many personal calls. I have had to log everything down.” He pointed to an exercise book beside the magazine. “Without the permission of the Questore—or of Commissario Merenda—I cannot let you use this phone.”

  Trotti stared at the round, pale face.

  “I’m sure you understand.”

  58: Leper

  “THE BASTARD.”

  The doors of the elevator closed behind him. In the mirror, Trotti’s eyes were red. He had forgotten about the pain in his ribs.

  “Bastard Merenda.”

  He rode the elevator to the basement and pressed the button. A few seconds’ wait and then Maserati opened the door.

  “What’s going on in this place, Maserati?” Trotti stepped out into the archives.

  “Good to see you, Commissario.” Maserati did not smile.

  “My office has been gutted, I’m not allowed to use the phones.” Trotti had raised his voice. “What’s happening? What’s that bastard Merenda doing?”

  “I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “I’m here and I want to know what’s going on.”

  Maserati shrugged.

  “You must tell me.” Trotti placed a hand on his shoulder.

  A slight wince on the young man’s face. Maserati was wearing a lab coat and his face seemed to pale. “Tell you what?”

  “Am I a leper? All of a sudden, I’m persona non grata in this Questura. What’s happening on the third floor, Maserati? They’ve cleared out my room, there’s some Neapolitan gigolo at the desk. And where’s Gino?”

  “It’s the Ciuffi thing, Commissario.”

  There was the sound of movement behind him.

  Trotti turned and he recognized the two men.

  Cardano nodded briefly towards him. A thin smile on his narrow face, he headed towards the door. There was an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. Schipisi was a couple of steps behind him. Both were carrying files. They walked fast, with their heads down.

  The two men went through the swing door.

  “A warm welcome I’m getting.” Trotti turned back to Maserati. “What about Ciuffi?”

  “Merenda’s set up a major enquiry into her murder. He’s making the third floor the central command.”

  “Apart from your two friends”—Trotti gestured towards the swing doors—“there’s nobody around.”

  “Today’s Sunday.”

  “A waste of time and money.”

  “The Questore is going out of his mind. We’ve been ge
tting all the pressure from the newspapers. You know how the Questore is sensitive about that sort of thing. Already been two press conferences. Merenda is keen to get the enquiry sorted out as soon as possible.”

  “A waste of time, Maserati, because I know who killed Ciuffi.”

  “You know who killed her?”

  Trotti nodded.

  Maserati placed his hand on the computer. “Who killed Ciuffi, Commissario?”

  “Later.”

  “Has he been arrested yet?”

  “It was a woman.”

  “A woman? Who?”

  “I must see the Questore first.” Trotti moved towards the telephone. Beside it, there were three half-full cups of coffee. “At least somebody’s working on Sundays.” He shook his head.

  “Schipisi has been helping me.”

  “Where’s Merenda? Is he at Mass?”

  Maserati chewed at his upper lip. “Merenda is in Rome.”

  Trotti picked up the receiver. “I’ll have to speak to the Questore.”

  Maserati reached out his hand. “Please, Commissario.”

  “What, Maserati?”

  Pressure from Maserati’s hand and the receiver was pushed back into its cradle. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “My orders are precise. I have been told …”

  “You, too, Maserati?”

  “My orders come from the Questore. I am not to collaborate with you.” A slight frown. “You understand? You no longer work here, Signor Commissario.”

  59: Cigarette

  THERE WAS A shop selling antiques and, beside it, another that had a full window display of knives and scissors. Trotti took the small path between the two shops where the smell of urine and dirt assailed his nostrils. He found himself in a dusty courtyard. A Japanese van, used for transporting the antiques, filled most of the restricted space.

  There was a bicycle without a seat leaning against the wall; a sign for the local section of Amnesty International.

  The sky was overcast and it shed a grey, disconsolate light upon the city. The weather was hot and humid; soon it would rain.

  Trotti went up the two flights of the outside stairs. No noise came from behind the shabby closed blinds. On the third floor, two doors faced each other. The name ORSI, written in ballpoint pen, had been slipped under the doorbell.

  Trotti rang the bell and waited.

  The smell of death seeped from behind the cracks in the door.

  He rang again, this time keeping his finger on the bell. The sound of shuffling feet.

  “Who is it?”

  “Trotti.”

  Gino opened the door.

  “We work for seven years in the same building. You take all my phone calls for me—and then you go off without a word.” Trotti placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And you don’t recognize me when I come to your front door.”

  “I’m a blind man.” Behind the thick glasses, the sightless eyes appeared welcoming. “Come on in, Piero Trotti.”

  He had aged in the days that Trotti had been away. Gino was wearing a blue cardigan over his narrow shoulders and his movement was slow. He closed the door and Trotti followed him down the dark hallway, past the ancient bakelite telephone attached to the wall.

  Gino walked without raising his slippered feet.

  The smell was almost overpowering and Trotti put his hand to his nose. “They didn’t want me.”

  “How’s Principessa?”

  “It’s not the Questore I blame—it was Merenda who wanted to be rid of me. The dog was just an excuse, Piero. The Questore is a weak man.”

  “What’s Merenda doing?”

  “Merenda knew I wouldn’t stay without the dog.” Gino shrugged. “So I have to leave in September. So what? Another few months, and I’d’ve been retiring anyway.” They entered the kitchen.

  “You’ll get your pension, Gino.”

  He nodded. “This way, I can be with her.”

  “Got a cigarette, Gino?”

  “You gave up smoking years ago.”

  The kitchen was dark, but it was clean. The white tiles around the sink were spotless.

  “Nice place.”

  “A woman comes in three times a week.”

  “I’d like a cigarette if you can spare it.” Trotti sat down. He held his hand to his nose and his voice was nasal.

  “You soon get used to the smell. I know it’s not pleasant.”

  Trotti laughed. “Give me a cigarette.” He did not remove his hand.

  “A packet on the sideboard.”

  Trotti turned in his seat. He took the packet of Alfa and removed the filter-tip from a cigarette. “My third cigarette in twelve years.” He lit the end with a match and watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling. He did not place the cigarette in his mouth.

  “If you’re going to smoke, Trotti, smoke properly.”

  “You see everything, Gino.”

  “An advantage of being blind.”

  “They say it was in Shanghai—is that true? You were on a ship and the boilers blew up.”

  There was a small verandah and the dog lay outside in a wicker basket. It seemed to be asleep. Trotti noticed that in places the fur had grown thin, leaving ugly patches of pink skin. The body rose and fell softly.

  Above the rooftops, the sky was growing darker.

  “The vet says she’s got another month or so.”

  “She suffers?”

  “Sleeps most of the time, poor beast.” Gino lowered himself into a wicker chair beside the refrigerator. “Perhaps that’s what I ought to do.”

  The smell of burning cigarette filled Trotti’s nostrils. His eyes had started to water. “Feeling sorry for yourself again?”

  “Without her, I won’t have much to live for.”

  “You should get married.”

  “Married.”

  “With your pension, you’ll be out and about. It’s the dog that’s stopped you from finding yourself a nice wife.”

  As if realizing that she was being talked about, Principessa raised her head and turned to look at her master. She blinked sleepily then lowered her head again.

  “I don’t need a woman—never have.” Gino had the tired, sick face of his dog.

  “You’ve got your friends.”

  “First time you’ve ever come looking for me.”

  “I have my problems, too. Don’t be harsh, Gino.”

  “What do you want, Piero?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “I hear you got beaten up in Verona.”

  “Like you, I’ve been kicked out of the Questura—Merenda doesn’t want me either.”

  “And you don’t even smell like Principessa.” The unshaven jaw broke into a smile. “Piero Trotti, smoke that thing properly.”

  Trotti put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

  “Did you find the person you were looking for?”

  “Who?”

  “Did you find the girl’s murderer?”

  “It was a woman, Gino.”

  “A bastard, whoever it was.”

  “You never had much time for Ciuffi.”

  “I don’t have much time for women, Trotti—I was married once. All my wife ever did was moan. In the end she went off with some southerner. Glad to be rid of her.” He paused. “Ciuffi was all right—even though she hated my dog. And even though you were gaga over her.”

  “Gaga?”

  “Good men like Pisanelli and Magagna—you’ve always been hard on them, Piero. You came up the hard way and you expect perfection from everybody else. Good men and good policemen, Pisanelli and Magagna—and you treat them like dirt. You treat them like dirt if you don’t get perfection. Your kind of perfection.”

  “Because I get angry when Pisanelli goes swanning off with Merenda?”

  “With the girl you were different.”

  “In what way was I different?”

  A dry laugh. “Perhaps you were in love with her.”


  Trotti stood up. “They told me in the Questura you’d left a message for me.”

  Gino was still smiling. “A May-December marriage? And why not, Piero? You would have made a good couple. And it was plain to see that she was madly in love with you.”

  “Sometimes you see too much, Gino.”

  “Gaga over her—and she, poor little slip of a thing, was head over heels in love with you.”

  “You really think she was in love with an old man like me?”

  The smile vanished. “Who killed her, Piero?”

  “Somebody who was trying to kill me.” Trotti placed his hand on Gino’s chair. “What was it you wanted to contact me about?”

  “You saw the Neapolitan pimp?”

  “What was it, Gino?”

  He shrugged and he seemed to be looking at the dog. “It’s not important.”

  “What?”

  “Podestà?”

  “What about her?”

  “The ugly woman …”

  “How do you know she’s ugly?”

  Gino tapped the side of his nose. “A man came in. It must have been when you were down by the river with Ciuffi. He said he wanted to see you.”

  “And?”

  “After the shooting, he came back again, and I suppose I was the only person who’d listen to him. So he told me.”

  “What?”

  “A married man—he said he’d had an affair with Podestà.”

  “He’s a teacher?”

  Gino’s head turned. “That’s right. He said that … he was embarrassed, but he said he felt he had his duty to do.”

  “Which was?”

  “He said Podestà was a liar. That she spent a lot of her time making up stories—fantasies. He said that she’d wanted to marry him—and that he’d even thought about divorcing in order to go through with it. But in the end it wasn’t sensible.” Gino got to his feet and shuffled over to a chest-of-drawers. “Look, I wrote his name and address down. He would like to see you personally. He said that you weren’t to believe anything she said. Not her fault, he said, but she lived in a world of sexual fantasy.”

  Trotti took the piece of paper that Gino handed him. He glanced at the name. Then he looked into the sightless eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Shanghai?” Gino asked.

  “What about Shanghai?”

  “People believe that’s how I lost my sight? On a ship in Shanghai?”