In a small cupboard in the kitchen there were a couple of bottles of whisky, Davide took the one already opened, served himself copiously—Duca had ordered him to—and after drinking summed up his thoughts by saying, ‘Why does it have to be a man in his fifties?’ He waited in vain for a reply then said, ‘Usually it’s a young man, the type that women like, the type who can win them over.’
Duca switched off the transistor radio as it was starting to broadcast the latest political news. ‘Those young men you mention don’t take photographs, they work on damaged goods, I’m sorry, I meant on women who don’t have much and are all too ready to prostitute themselves, and they’re all well known to the police. The person we’re looking for does something very different, and on a larger scale. He looks for new girls, of a certain style, like Alberta, he probably has to supply high-class brothels in Italy and abroad. It’s all highly organised, exactly like an import-export company. They need the photographs so that they can send them or take them personally to other people involved in the trade. All fifty photographs from a Minox roll can be fitted comfortably into an envelope or can be hidden in a packet of cigarettes, even a full one and from the negatives you can even make 30×45 enlargements. A lot of men are shy, they prefer to choose a woman by looking in a kind of album. Besides, keeping a dozen girls in an apartment is always dangerous, so instead they have the album, the man chooses, number 24 for example, and at the time and place arranged he’ll find number 24. But for this traffic they don’t need the usual girls who are already out there on the streets, the kind who’d listen to that nice young man of yours. And to win over this high-class merchandise, I’m sorry, I’m still talking about women, it takes a mature man, an expert. Think about Alberta, she would certainly never have let herself be persuaded by a young man with slicked-back hair just out of the hairdresser, it takes a mature man, someone who’s confident, a gentleman, the kind of man who always makes an impression on women. Unlike me, you haven’t been in prison for three years, so you’re a bit lacking in technical knowledge. In prison I enjoyed, without wanting to, the friendship of a big procurer, who explained to me almost everything about his activity, that’s why as soon as I saw those photographs alarm bells started ringing, and when we found out that the two women who had posed had been killed, I had the proof that this was a large organisation. Small-time pimps don’t kill, or very seldom, but in a vast organisation you have to be ruthless.’
This crash course on prostitution continued for a while, until they were interrupted by little Sara crying in the next room.
‘It’s nearly one,’ he said to Davide, ‘at one she drinks two hundred grams of milk with her eyes closed, almost without waking up, has a pee at the same time, and then she’s out like a light until tomorrow morning at six or seven. I’ve always thought that kind of vegetable life is the most civilised. I think civilisation ends, at least for the human race, as soon as brain activity starts.’
This second crash course, on social metaphysics, was also interrupted: by the ringing of the telephone.
He stood up, anxiously. He often sensed things before they happened, oh yes, he was a magician. He smiled at Davide and went into the hall. There was a tranquil smell of wax and gas.
‘Hello?’
He heard Livia’s voice. ‘I’ve found him.’
2
You didn’t need to be a mind reader to understand who she had found: Signor A.
‘But didn’t Davide take you home?’ he asked. At eleven o’clock Davide had indeed taken her home, not driving away until he had seen her go inside the building and close the street door behind her. Where had she found Signor A? On the landing outside her apartment?
‘Yes,’ his Livia said in her beautiful, limpid voice, ‘but then I had to go out again almost immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘Dad wasn’t feeling well, he had a terrible toothache and there was nothing in the apartment to ease the pain, so I had to go out to the pharmacy.’
‘I see.’
‘There weren’t any taxis, at that hour they’re all parked outside the cinemas. I walked to the Piazza Oberdan, where there’s an all-night pharmacy.’
‘That’s quite a distance from your apartment.’
‘I had no choice. There was only one other customer in the pharmacy, a man. When I saw him, it struck me he was exactly the kind of man we were looking for. I bought a tube of painkillers and left.’
Livia Ussaro even did overtime. She had worked until eleven with Davide, then had seen an interesting man, and had carried on working.
‘He followed me.’ She had done nothing to make him follow her, she had been only the innocent prey, she had given him the impression that she was what he was looking for.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘Outside the pharmacy, I stopped at the curb to let the cars pass. Then he said that everyone was getting headaches in this heat.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I didn’t reply, just smiled a little, but as if I was annoyed.’
Perfect. Then his Livia Ussaro had crossed the Corso Buenos Aires to where the taxi stand was. Obviously, the stand was empty, you never see a taxi stand with lots of taxis, except when you don’t need them. Signor A had tactfully followed her, without saying another word, as if he wasn’t following her, as if he had also had to cross the street, but when he had seen her stop at the taxi stand, he must have thought he was a lucky man.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait,’ he had said.
Another smile from her, without words, but less annoyed, more words from Signor A, and finally she had followed him, accepting the lift he had so politely offered her, and had got into Signor A’s dark blue Flaminia.
‘The number, Livia.’ The licence number. Even if it had been a twenty-figure number, she was sure to remember it, without needing to write it down.
‘Duca, maybe I’m stupid, but I didn’t catch it.’ She sounded as if she wanted to cry.
She hadn’t caught the licence number, his ace of spies had failed in the simplest of operations. ‘How can that be?’ ‘Duca, cars have number plates on the front and the back, but when you get in, you get in from the side, where there are no number plates,’ she excused herself timidly, without hope, as if knowing she had already been condemned. ‘All the time I was with him, I tried to find an opportunity to look at the number, but it wasn’t possible, he kept me inside the car, I couldn’t get out and look at the number plate without making him suspicious, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t.’
He wasn’t going to let her off that easily. ‘But when he left you and drove off, you could have seen the number plate at the back as the car was leaving.’
‘No, I couldn’t do that either. He insisted on driving me all the way back to the front door of my building, and he waited until I’d gone inside, I don’t know if he did it only out of gallantry, but I had to close the door behind me after going in, I opened it again as soon as I heard him leave, but the car was already some distance away and the street isn’t very well lit.’
It happens. The great chef calmly cooks venison all’imperiale with California oranges soaked in rum, and then messes up a scrambled egg.
‘So what do you know about him?’ he asked, almost roughly.
‘The photographs.’
Signor A had taken his Livia towards the Parco Lambro, not precisely into the park, which at that hour would have been a little dangerous, but into a quiet avenue next to it, and besides, for what he had to do, he could have parked in the Piazza del Duomo at midday, because he hadn’t done anything except talk, although it was quite an erotic conversation. He had asked her a lot of questions, but discreet ones: how old was she, what region was she from, did she have a boyfriend? He’d been pleased to hear that she was a schoolteacher, even though she wasn’t teaching at the moment, he said that culture in a woman was the thing that excited him the most. He had indulged in a few weary caresses, then had confessed sincerely that at his age, ine
vitably, things changed in your body, things you couldn’t do much about. Of course if he was twenty, he had said with a smile, everything would have been different, but now he only came alive when he saw photographs of beautiful women, obviously with not too many clothes on, in fact, with no clothes at all, she had to understand his plight, a photographic nude had more effect on him than a real nude, especially if he had met the girl in the photograph and talked to her a bit, nude photographs in the specialised magazines left him indifferent, because he had never met the women in them; he would have liked, for example, to have a nice series of photographs of her, now that he had spoken to her and seen what a nice, attractive person she was. Of course, she didn’t have any photographs like that, but this was a small inconvenience which could immediately be remedied. He had a friend, a completely trustworthy friend and an expert photographer, that she could go and see. As an expression of his gratitude, he would be happy if she would accept fifty thousand lire, and last but not least he had reassured her that nobody would ever know about it, she would pose with her face in shadow, and anyway it was in his interest to keep this weakness of his a secret. Livia had told him she didn’t like the idea, she didn’t even like what she was doing with him now, and she didn’t want to do it any more even though her financial situation was difficult. Signor A had praised her for this stand of hers and had even expressed the fervent hope that she would find a good job and then a nice young man and get married, but a few photographs wouldn’t make any difference, would they?
He had insisted, subtly, and in the end he had given her the address of his friend the photographer, even adding an extra twenty thousand lire.
‘Tell me the address,’ Duca asked his Livia Ussaro impatiently. He had signalled to Davide, who he could see through the open door of the kitchen, to come and write.
‘Publicity Photographic,’ Livia said.
‘Publicity Photographic,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down.
‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the tollbooth,’ Livia said.
‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the toll booth,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down. ‘And when do you have to go?’
‘He told me to be there between two and three in the afternoon, because after that his friend has some work to do outside the studio.’
It was a well-chosen time, Milan would be asleep at home, Milan overwhelmed by the heat but unable to sleep in the streets, on the trams, in offices, in factories: it was a more solitary and discreet time than any hour of the night.
‘And now the description,’ Duca said, signalling to Davide again to make sure he wrote everything down. ‘Height?’
‘At least one metre seventy-five, he’s taller than me and I’m one metre seventy,’ she said, adding innocently, ‘in high heels.’
‘Height one metre seventy-five. Build?’
‘Thin, his jacket hung on him.’
‘Complexion?’
‘A bit olive. He has a moustache, very thin, grey, almost white.’
‘Hair?’
‘Also grey, almost white, with a receding hairline, but he still has a lot of hair and he wears it quite long and well combed.’
‘Eyes?’
Livia hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the colour.’
‘Nose?’
‘A bit aquiline, but only a bit.’
It wasn’t much, but he’d pass this information on to Mascaranti, who would have an identikit made by the police draughtsmen. His hope lay in the photographer: if they managed to get him he would give them the name of his accomplices, including Signor A. They had a better chance to catch him now.
‘Livia.’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stay at home until I tell you otherwise.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never answer the phone personally. If they call, get a member of your family to answer, and have them say you’re not there.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never open the door yourself, send someone, and if they ask for you, same answer, you’re not there.’
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously nobody will come tonight, but from tomorrow morning at six, I’ll phone you every hour to make sure nothing has happened.’
‘What could happen?’
‘I don’t think anything will, but after what happened last year they may have become more cautious. They may be watching you to see if you have contacts with anyone.’ That wasn’t the only thing, but he didn’t tell her the rest. ‘Now go to bed, Livia. And thank you.’
‘I’m so glad I succeeded,’ she said, her girlish voice triumphant.
Only when he put down the receiver did he notice that Lorenza was standing in the square, bare, yet intimate hall, her eyes cloudy with fear.
‘Go to bed, don’t worry.’
‘Who was it?’ She couldn’t help worrying, she knew everything, Duca had told her everything, and it was a horrible business.
‘Livia. We found the man.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
He became nervous because he felt sorry, eaten up with remorse, because she was right: it was stupid, criminal, that instead of looking for a good job he should get involved in this disgusting affair. ‘Maybe I’ll go out, maybe I’ll stay here, but there’s one thing I’d like, which is for you to go to bed without worrying about me.’
Lorenza turned red, because of that tone, and because Davide was there, listening, she looked at him, she seemed to be about to say something, but she was dominated by her big brother, and she went back to her room.
‘A guide to Milan,’ he said to Davide. They went into the living room, which was a little larger than the hall, and where among the other so-called furniture in the so-called Rational style—chosen by his father, who had thought he would like it—there was a small bookcase with books and old magazines, the beginnings of a library that had remained unfinished when he had gone into prison, three years earlier. There was also dust, because Sara didn’t give her mother much time to see to the house, and there was also a guide to Milan, a little book with a nice map, a bit out of date, but it might still be useful. They went back in the kitchen, laid the map out on the table, looked at the list of streets: Via Egidio Folli, at the very edge of the city, just behind the Parco Lambro, the street then joined the main road that led to Melzo and Pioltello. ‘They’ve become very cautious,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Davide asked.
‘They’re not confident enough these days to set up their studio in the middle of town. They’ve moved out of the centre, just like the big companies. At the first sign of anything going wrong, they can jump in their car and they’re already on the main road.’
‘What do we do now?
‘I’m thinking about that.’ But it wasn’t true, in broad terms he had already made up his mind, he was only pretending to think in order to convince himself that he wasn’t working from a whim. It was all a lie.
If he had been an honest citizen, at this point he should have phoned Carrua, given him the information about the photographer, and let him deal with it. But he couldn’t be an honest citizen, his criminal record showed that.
‘How strange,’ he said, ‘if Livia Ussaro’s father hadn’t had a toothache, Livia wouldn’t have gone out to the pharmacy and maybe we’d never have found anything with our system.’
‘We have to do something,’ Davide said: he was an impatient man and didn’t realise he was basically saying the same thing for the second time.
‘Of course,’ Duca replied. ‘Can you ride a bicycle?’
‘I think so.’
‘All right, now let’s see what time the sun rises.’ He had a diary, a very wonderful one, there were many wonderful things in it, including the fact that this week the sun rose at 5:32. ‘That means that by five there’s already a bit of light, so you have to leave here at 4:30.’
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br /> ‘And where do I have to go?’ Davide asked.
‘To the end of the Via Egidio Folli, to see where these Ulisse Apartments are, what they are, how far they are. If I went there by car I’d arouse suspicion.
‘And the bicycle?’
‘The caretaker’s son has one. I’ll wake the caretaker and ask him to let me borrow it, he’ll be a bit surprised, but he likes me, I really don’t know why.’ It was the dead of night, and there was complete silence in the kitchen, as if everyone was asleep, and even the things in it seemed to be asleep—the empty beer bottles, the whisky bottle about to become empty, Sara’s dummies and feeding bottles on a towel on the draining board by the sink—though he was sure Lorenza wasn’t asleep. But even Lorenza couldn’t understand.
‘And afterwards?’ Davide asked.
‘You see, Davide,’ he said, ‘if they’ve become so cautious, we have to be cautious, too. Let me explain what we’re going to do tomorrow. Just before two o’clock, Livia will call a taxi and go to this Publicity Photographic place. We’ll follow her. But let’s suppose that someone else, very cautiously, is also following Livia, to make sure that Livia doesn’t have any friends with her, like us. If that’s the case, this person will notice that we’re following Livia, and then we won’t get anywhere. Are you with me?’
‘Of course,’ Davide told him with his eyes.
‘So we have to follow Livia, but indirectly. In other words, we’ll go ahead of her, we’ll set off a hundred metres in front of her and keep the same distance. But even then, only up to a certain point. Imagine the formation: first us, in the Giulietta, then the taxi with Livia and then, possibly, this person following Livia. While we’re in the city, in the traffic, we can maintain this formation because the man won’t notice that we’re with Livia, given that we’re in front of her, but by the time we get to the end of the Via Egidio Folli, we’ll be on a road in the open country or almost,’ he pointed at all the green on the map, ‘and we’ll probably be the only cars around at that hour. Then he may suspect, because we’ll be all too visible. In addition, when we’ve got to these Ulisse Apartments, we’ll have to park the car, if we park it right in front, we’re rather naïve as pursuers. So you understand what you have to do there on the bicycle.’
A Private Venus Page 16