“Then why did she get pregnant again?”
“I kept them together. They were about to divorce when she discovered she was carrying his child. In time Mamma would’ve drifted into Zio Chicchi’s bed.” Lakshmi said, still smiling. “With him, she knew where she stood.”
“Your mother loved Giovanni Verga?”
“Papa never gave Mamma the attention she deserved.”
“There was an affair between Giovanni Verga and your mother?”
“Several—but never consummated. More a meeting of the minds. It couldn’t have been easy for Papa—that’s why he hid behind a cloud of dope. That’s why he was so depressed—until he rediscovered himself as an investigative journalist.”
“He knew Giovanni Verga was screwing her?”
She looked at him coldly. “My mother’s never loved anyone other than Papa.”
“But Papa didn’t love her?”
Silence.
“The short side of the triangle?”
“Commissario Trotti, there was nothing physical between Zio Chicchi and my mother.”
“But there was another woman in your father’s life?”
“Mamma could put up with anything—she still does. It was for me she set her foot down. She insisted Papa be present for me. A woman always knows when she’s not desired—she could live with that. It was for my sake Mamma couldn’t accept a divorce.”
There was a long silence until Trotti repeated his question. “There was another woman in your father’s life?”
“There’d always been other women.”
“At the time he was murdered, was there someone else?”
A small nod. “Someone who could never love him as Papa wanted to be loved.”
“Who?”
A brief silence.
“Who?”
Lakshmi stretched her finger and pointed to the upside-down photograph that Trotti was holding away from his eyes. Her finger pointed to the right side of the photograph, to a woman sitting away from the others.
Trotti tipped his head slightly to get a better look.
The woman was staring at the camera with dark eyes. Her legs were demurely crossed at the knee, and one hand lay loosely on her lap. She was wearing tights and a black cardigan.
Unlike the other people in the photograph, she was not wearing white. Unlike the other people in the photograph, she was not smiling. The strong, regular features appeared devoid of emotion.
“She’d told father years before she could never love him. Him or any other man.”
“Lia Guerra?”
70: Baritone
“I want you to take this.”
“What?”
“This folder—there are some photocopies. And my phone number.” From the beige folder she took a cassette. “This, too. It comes from a program Papa was working on.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Listen to it—that’s what people usually do with audio tapes.”
Trotti frowned.
“If you intend to help my mother, you might find it useful. It was recorded not very long before his death. Papa intended to do an autobiographical video and this was going to be the soundtrack.”
“What made your father want to do anything autobiographical?”
“His idea of a testament.” Lakshmi shrugged. “Staying alive would have been the greatest testament for me. I told you—Papa was selfish without realizing it. He loved people—but he never understood loving means having to make personal sacrifices.” The girl caught her breath. “He found it a lot easier to be a martyr to the cause than a good father. Papa never gave a second thought to the years of loneliness for Mamma and me. Loneliness and now prison.”
“Your father knew the people who wanted to kill him?”
“Everybody wanted him killed—that wasn’t what mattered.”
“What mattered, Lakshmi?”
“His appointment with destiny. Or so Papa said. Twenty years earlier, in Trento, he thought his destiny was political. Those were the days when he believed Lotta Continua would change the world. By 1988, he realized the only way to change the world was by telling the truth. Papa liked to see himself as an educator. He was so happy with his new job as a television journalist—and he knew he had to die for it.”
“He knew he was going to die?”
Lakshmi gave a sad smile. “A priest came to TRTP on one occasion. Like a black beetle, he spent a day sitting on the settee at the studio, waiting to speak to Papa in private. The dusty little cleric must have gotten up early that morning and driven in from some forgotten Sicilian parish in the hills just to tell Papa he was talking too much.”
“The warning had no effect?”
“You could never tell Papa what to do.” Lakshmi lowered her voice to a baritone imitation of her father: “The true revolution’s here in Trapani.”
Trotti laughed.
In the same deep voice, the girl continued her imitation. “Our struggle in 1968 wore the threadbare clothes of the cultural revolution, the clothes of Marxist ideology. In Lotta Continua, we were incapable of inventing new terms, a new language. What I now see here in Sicily is not a revolution, it has nothing to do with Marxism. It’s something much more important: life itself. It is the right to dignity. It is the fight to the death against the forces of evil, against the Mafia. It is the battle I wanted to fight twenty years ago. The fight for justice.”
There was a moment’s silence before Trotti realized she had started crying again.
“When the papers talk about Papa, they talk about the courageous enemy of the Mafia. The fighter, the hero. In Trento, where it all began, where he upset the first of many apple carts, there’s even a memorial museum in his name.” She looked at Trotti. The tears had started running down the soft skin of her cheeks.
“Please don’t cry.”
“All I ever wanted was a father.” Lakshmi dropped the cassette into the folder and hurriedly stood up. “Not a bloody martyr.”
She did not look at Trotti, but turned and walked fast towards the door of the bright dining room.
Trotti’s troubled glance followed her.
Two men were standing in the doorway. One was in a black uniform; the other held an unlit cigarette between his lips and was leaning against the door.
Lakshmi brushed past the men without sparing them a glance.
The men were looking at Trotti. An officer of the Carabinieri and the tall, dome-headed Neapolitan detective.
Portano was smiling.
71: Tributary
“Thank your friend and his charming young bride,” the man said with a self-congratulatory grimace as he pushed away from the doorjamb.
“What are you talking about?”
“How else d’you think I knew where to find you?”
“I said I was coming to my goddaughter’s wedding.”
“You should have stayed in the hospital, Trotti. You’d have saved me a lot of bother.” The voice was grating. “And yourself. Perhaps you think I enjoy chasing you halfway across Italy.”
The thin blond hair had been ruffled by the wind off the lake. Portano was wearing the same shabby, crumpled suit. His white shirt was grubby and at the collar, his tie was askew.
“You want to put the handcuffs on?” Trotti held out his wrists. “You’re going to beat me up again?”
“You’re not under arrest, commissario.” The officer of the Carabinieri held a peaked cap under his arm. “No need for handcuffs,” he added, in a soft Ligurian accent. He gave Trotti a reassuring smile. “Your presence’s required in Rome and I know I can count on your cooperation. There shall be no violence.”
Trotti looked at the officer. He was young, not yet out of his twenties, with long lashes and dark hair. He was wearing gloves. He looked like something off a recruiting po
ster.
The Carabiniere said, “Perhaps you’d care to collect your things so we can make a prompt departure.”
“Just the clothes I’m standing in.”
The voice was firm, the glance unwavering. “Best get your things now, commissario.”
Lakshmi had disappeared, but from a distance, several guests were watching the three men. The music—Tony Renis—had been turned down. No noise came from the kitchen.
Trotti’s glance was on Portano. “You haven’t called me a pervert yet?”
The detective was lighting another unfiltered cigarette. “Going to be difficult, Trotti?”
“While Commissario Trotti fetches his stuff, get yourself a drink, Portano.” The Carabiniere took Trotti by the arm. “Come, commissario.”
The detective exhaled a stream of smoke from his narrow nostrils. Portano smiled knowingly and entered the dining hall.
The officer, without letting go of Trotti’s arm, accompanied him upstairs. Trotti put up no resistance.
Pierangelo Pisanelli and his young wife were standing at the top of the stairs. Pisanelli was wearing jeans and there was a blank smile on his face. Neither Pisanelli nor Anna spoke as Trotti brushed past them, but when their eyes met, Trotti was aware of the anxious look on Anna’s young face. She, too, was wearing jeans and a pullover.
They were about to leave on their honeymoon.
Walking purposefully, the young Carabiniere went along the corridor, his hand on Trotti’s sleeve. A maid scuttled out of the way as Trotti entered the hotel room.
“I don’t have any baggage.” Trotti sat down on the rumpled sheets of the bed. “Just the pajamas they gave me in the hospital.”
The officer closed the door and leaned against it. He let out a sigh while throwing his cap onto the table.
“My goddaughter now thinks you’ve arrested me.”
The officer looked at him. The young face tried to smile, “I needed to get you away from Portano, commissario.”
“You think I’m running away because I killed the black girl?”
“Portano’s mad.”
“He enjoys hitting people,” Trotti observed.
“He’s mad,” the Carabiniere repeated and he tapped the side of his head. “Certifiably mad. An obsessive man.”
Trotti could taste the coffee at the back of his throat and he felt giddy. For a moment, he glanced through the window. Several sailing boats moved across the lake.
It occurred to Trotti that there was no river running in or out of Lake Bracciano.
From beyond the closed door came the sound of people walking along the corridor and the heavy fall of feet down the stairs.
“I want to say goodbye to my goddaughter properly—wish her luck on her honeymoon. Would you mind waiting just a few minutes?”
The young officer looked sadly at Trotti. “You’ve got to go now.”
Trotti raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Give me a glass of water, would you?” The taste of coffee rose unpleasantly at the back of his throat.
The uniformed officer moved into the bathroom, took a glass from its cellophane wrapping and poured water from the tap. Trotti drank the proffered glass in a single gulp.
Like a child being fed.
“Thank you,” he said. He could smell the policeman’s cologne.
“Let’s go now.”
“I’ve got no luggage.”
The man in uniform paced across the hotel room and opened the window. “Go.”
“Go where?”
“Take the Alfa. Get out of here. Go down the fire escape—without being seen. Take Magagna’s car.”
“Take me back to Rome.”
“Head north, Commissario Trotti, and don’t get caught speeding. I can deal with Portano.”
“I want to go to Rome.”
“Later you can go wherever you want, commissario,” the young officer said and pushed the retired policeman through the window onto the sunlit verandah. “Go north and . . .”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Careful of Portano. You might not get another chance.”
72: Trash
Steps ran down the side of the building. For a moment he hesitated; almost beneath him, the boats danced on the lake’s surface where they were tied to the jetty.
He followed the stairs carefully, gripping the iron rail, wondering whether he was visible from the dining room.
Once Trotti reached the terrace, he realized that to get to the parking lot, he would have to go past the dining room’s panoramic window.
To do so meant running the risk of being seen. Portano had only to be looking in the direction of the lake to catch sight of him. The detective was probably at that moment taking his coffee and smoking his cigarette. Trotti thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of the man through the glass.
Trotti pressed his back against the wall. It was warm in the sunshine. He was sweating and his heart was beating much faster than it should do when you are sixty-eight years old, when you have taken your retirement and when you should be at home, basking in the warmth of your family with your Dutch cousin, your daughter and your two granddaughters, watching television and relaxing.
He could not walk past the window without being seen; there was no choice but to go left, following the wall of the dining room. Past the whitewashed flower pots standing on their stumpy, chipped columns.
There were windows along the side of the building, but they were at waist height and unlike the panoramic window that faced the lake, there was a thin lace curtain.
Bending down as far as he could, Trotti followed the warm, concrete passage between the dining room and the balustrade. The conscript shoes creaked unpleasantly.
On the other side of the passage, there was a sharp drop. The hotel’s cellar was probably beneath Trotti’s feet.
Trotti was too old for gymnastics. It was painful to bend over, and he was short of breath. He advanced as fast as he could, trying to muffle the sound of his feet on the concrete.
He felt stupid and Trotti knew he was unfit—since retiring he had taken very little exercise.
“Going somewhere?”
Slowly, very slowly, Trotti straightened his back.
“I asked if you were going somewhere, commissario?”
Portano was standing in the doorway, one hand casually in his jacket pocket and the cigarette smoldering in his mouth. A broad smile. With the other hand, he shielded his eyes from the midday sun.
“I get the feeling you don’t want to come to Rome.” He was standing in front of the door to the kitchen. Portano’s white shirt was even grubbier in the sunlight, and his tie appeared further askew.
A grey refuse bin stood beside the doorway.
“I really was hoping I wouldn’t have to use the handcuffs.” Portano took his hand from his pocket and held up a pair of American cuffs. “Silly me—thinking you were going to be reasonable, Commissario Trotti. A funny lot, you Northerners. Must be all that polenta you eat.”
He beckoned for Trotti to hold out his wrists but before Trotti could react, before he could even massage the hurting muscles in his back, Signora Anna Pisanelli appeared at the kitchen door.
The Neapolitan turned and as he turned, Anna struck him forcefully in the groin with the malacca stick.
There was an explosion of escaping breath, and then Anna hit Portano a second time, this time directly between the legs.
The man grunted as he crumbled to the ground.
73: Wojtyla
It was a long time since Trotti had driven a car. After Pisanelli’s accident, he had been wary of cars, and in the last summer months at the Questura before retirement, he had frequently cycled to work. A friend in automobile maintenance restored the Ganna that had been gathering dust in the ce
llar for the last twenty years; Gerolamo had baked a grey coat of enamel onto the old frame and he had replaced the sprung saddle for something rather sporty in leather—“a Brooks,” Gerolamo said with pride.
Several months later, when Anna Maria arrived in via Milano, she started complaining about not being able to get out to the new shops. “If you want me to do the cooking, Rino, I’ve got to have something to cook,” she said in a querulous voice that kept the trace of fifty years in Holland, fifty years of bullying her Dutch husband. “You do understand.” Trotti dutifully promised her he would get a new car.
In the end, it was Anna Maria who found an old Seicento and it was she, sitting perched on cushions behind the steering wheel, peering through her Count Cavour glasses, who drove Piero about the city on the Po.
Trotti now headed north in the rental car.
The tank was full and the engine was powerful. He took the minor roads.
It was a pleasure to be on his own again, the first time, Trotti realized, since meeting Wilma in Florence.
Midday and hardly anybody on the road from Bracciano—a truck of refrigerated meat, the occasional farm vehicle crossing the road.
Trotti could find no map in the glove compartment so decided to follow the signposts to Viterbo. He turned on the radio. Easter Sunday and religious music from the RAI.
The second day of the Renaissance.
(“Take care of yourself.”
His goddaughter had hurriedly accompanied him to the parking lot and to the Fiat. The car was not locked and the key was in the ignition.
“Whose car is it?”
“My father rented it for the honeymoon—another of his presents.”
“What are you going to do without it?”
“We’ll use Papa’s.”
“I can’t take your car. Not today of all days.”
“Take it and go. Stay with your daughter, stay out of the way. That man wants to hurt you, zio.”
“And the car?”
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 18