(The arm was scarred and hard where needles had pierced the skin.
Lia Guerra pulled her arm free, fell backwards and crumpled onto the floor. “You bastard,” she muttered as she scratched at her arm.)
“You still remember Porta Ticinese, Commissario Trotti?”
“A long time ago.”
“A long time ago for you—but not for me.”
“I’m sure you’ve forgotten.”
“Perhaps I’ve forgiven you.”
“You see.”
“I haven’t forgotten. You tricked me and you used me.” She moved on her seat, and after all these years, Trotti was surprised how sensuous she was.
Trotti had always known Lia Guerra was pretty. In 1978, that long, hot May afternoon in the Questura, he had found her pretty, yes; several years later, when he had visited her in the Porta Ticinese shop, Lia Guerra was still an attractive young woman. Attractive despite the heroin.
It had never occurred to Trotti that Lia Guerra could be physically exciting.
Perhaps sensing Trotti’s thoughts, the woman set down the acqua brillante, got up and went towards the balustrade. She lightly placed her weight on her toes. Her eyes never left him. She beckoned, and Trotti obediently rose and joined her.
The view of Rome from the rooftop was breathtaking.
“That’s why you’ve come to see me?” Lia Guerra spoke with her Turin accent, deliberately softening the fricatives.
Trotti smiled and the smile felt awkward as it creased his cheeks, “The last time I was here, I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“You can say goodbye, commissario, and then you can leave—without a bag over your head.”
“You wanted to know who murdered Gracchi.” Trotti raised his pitch in imitation of a woman’s voice, “I need to know the truth, commissario. I need to know who killed him—it’s the only thing that matters.”
“You just told me.”
“I didn’t tell you anything.”
“Enzo Beltoni murdered my Tino.”
On the other side of the road, set back in the synagogue garden, Trotti caught sight of the bearded man with his broad-brimmed hat and dark coat. He had the bowed, thoughtful look of a priest reading his breviary.
“Spadano believes Enzo Beltoni murdered your boyfriend. I believe no such thing.”
94: G7
“General Spadano’s wrong?”
“Spadano believes it’s his duty to arrest Gracchi’s murderer. Something he owes the little girl.”
“Lakshmi?”
Trotti nodded.
Lia Guerra looked at him thoughtfully. “You think Enzo Beltoni didn’t kill Tino.”
“What I think doesn’t really matter.”
“It clearly matters to the general. It matters to me.”
“What matters to Spadano isn’t going to change things.” Trotti gave the woman a weary smile, “Beltoni’s not going to go to jail.”
“Beltoni beat you up.”
“Enzo Beltoni tried to kill me.” Trotti rubbed at his neck where the rope had bitten into his skin. “More importantly, Enzo Beltoni murdered Gracchi—at least, according to Spadano. But Signora, I’m not important and Gracchi’s not important. Nor is Beltoni.”
Lia Guerra had returned to the chaise longue and Trotti sat down opposite her.
“Enzo Beltoni’s a means to an end and Spadano knows it. He knows what the Americans want.”
“What?”
“The Americans are going to do a deal, Lakshmi or no Lakshmi. The Americans want Craxi.”
Her laughter was unexpected.
Lia Guerra put her head back and the Adam’s apple jumped in her long, thin throat. She laughed happily. It was some time before she regained her composure and her glance returned to Trotti, amusement wrinkling her eyes. “The Americans want Bettino Craxi? What’s Enzo Beltoni got to do with our Socialist ex-prime minister?”
“The Third Level—the level where Mafia and politicians meet. Andreotti being kissed by the Mafia bosses. Collusion between the state and organized crime. People’ve been talking about these things ever since the Americans brought back the Mafia in 1943, along with their tanks and jeeps and chewing gum. But until Craxi, the Third Level was within the Christian Democrats.”
“And Craxi’s a Socialist?”
“The Christian Democrats used the criminals, but Craxi is a criminal.”
“He’s in Tunisia now and out of the way. He’s ill, probably dying.”
“In Tunisia, but not necessarily out of the way for the Americans.”
“I imagine the Americans have extradition treaties with Tunisia.”
“Possibly.”
“Then why the fuss?”
Trotti was silent.
“Why’s Craxi so important? An exile and politically dead—just as the Socialist party is dead. Why bother the poor man? Let him live out his last years in peace.”
“American bombers are based here in this country. For forty years, the Americans stifled Italian democracy because they were frightened of the Italian communists. Now the communists are no longer a threat, and the Americans no longer tell us what to do as if this were a banana republic. Italy’s become the sixth wealthiest nation in the world.”
“What’s that got to do with Craxi?”
“A democracy washes its dirty linen in public.” Trotti held up his hand. “After forty years of Cold War, the Americans’ve decided they need to speak to their allies on an equal footing. It’s called the new international morality.”
“That’s just politics—empty words.”
“Craxi’s a criminal, and the Americans want him brought to justice.”
“Criminal in what way?”
“You know perfectly well.”
Lia Guerra put her hand to her throat, half smiling. “You’re accusing me of being an associate of Craxi?”
“You were at BRAMAN in the mid-eighties. Here in Rome, you dealt with the politicians. You saw how BRAMAN changed from the idealistic commune your boyfriend Tino wanted. You saw how it was turned into a machine for making money—for whitewashing dirty money. Dirty money for Giovanni Verga and his Socialist friends. Friends in Milan, friends in Rome.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“I hope not.”
95: Buffoon
“Pedophile?” A frozen smile on her face, her features suddenly weary. “You’re joking, commissario.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Giovanni likes women—he was married to an Austrian princess.”
Trotti shook his head sadly. “Not women he’s interested in now.”
“Giovanni was desperately in love with Sissi. For her sake he went out to India—Giovanni did everything he possibly could to help the wretched girl. That’s how he got into religion in the first place.”
“Verga’s a pedophile.”
“It’s just not possible.”
“And Enzo Beltoni was blackmailing him.”
Lia Guerra shook her head. “Giovanni once made a pass at me. I was shocked, but also a bit flattered that he should find me desirable. Giovanni Verga likes women—that’s plain to see.”
“I can make a pass at you, signora, but that tells you nothing about my sexual appetites.”
“You don’t find me desirable.” Lia Guerra looked at Trotti with an appraising glance. “I doubt if you find any woman desirable. There are other things more important for you. I imagine you collect stamps or bonsai trees.”
The empty glass stood on the terracotta floor of the terrace, and the black cat moved among the shadows on the roof. There was a light wind, but it was hot and brought little relief.
“Enzo Beltoni had photos—compromising photos. And he knew some of the boys.”
“Tino would never have let Giovanni g
et near his daughter—near Lakshmi.” Lia Guerra said, “Not if he was like that.”
“Giovanni Verga’s like that—and not particularly attracted by little girls. Nor by stamp collecting or bonsai trees.”
She folded her arms against her chest. She looked healthier and happier than when he had last seen her.
“That’s how you’re going to get him out of Guatemala?”
“That’s how Spadano hopes to get Verga out of Guatemala. If he does a deal with Enzo Beltoni and if it can be proved Verga’s a danger to children in Guatemala, Giovanni Verga won’t last very long—extradition treaty or no extradition treaty.”
“Does it matter?”
“Personally, I couldn’t give a damn about Giovanni Verga.”
“You couldn’t give a damn about anybody.”
Trotti allowed himself a smile. “For all I care, Beltoni can rot in prison. For all I care Giovanni Verga can stay in Guatemala—and Bettino Craxi can stay in Tunisia.” Trotti took a deep breath. “If Spadano hadn’t told me his cock-and-bull story about Gracchi, I’d never have come to see you in the first place.”
“You always hated Tino.”
“I met Valerio Gracchi just once, signora.”
“You hated him.”
“Not sure he merited the effort.” Trotti paused. “I’m finding it harder and harder to hate people as I get older—goodness knows why.”
“Senility.”
“Gracchi was a terrorist.”
“Of course he wasn’t. Tino abhorred violence.”
“I believed he’d kidnapped my goddaughter and your boyfriend spent a couple of nights in prison. I was wrong, but over the years I’ve not lost much sleep about that. Other, better people have spent time in prison and that hasn’t worried me unduly.”
“No one’s better than Tino.” Guerra shook her head. “That’s what you don’t understand, commissario. Tino was good, morally good.”
“For some reason, Gracchi seemed to respect me. I wish I could return the compliment.”
“Tino was a good man and could recognize goodness in others.”
“What was it the Sicilian magazine said?” Trotti quoted, like a child reading aloud, “A fascinating man. A thoroughly modern man, the bittersweet product of Postwar Italy, with all the conflicting contradictions, weaknesses and strengths of our nation. A flawed hero, an Italian hero, a poet, a crusader, at times even a buffoon.” Trotti lowered his head. “I personally thought your boyfriend was a misguided crusader, naive and rather dangerous.”
“Tino was never dangerous.”
“I was wrong.”
“Wrong, commissario?” There was a thin line of beaded sweat along her upper lip. “Beginning to think you don’t know everything? You really are turning senile.”
“I was wrong and I admit it.”
“Perhaps you can admit Tino was a good man? That he had his values? That he wasn’t afraid to fight for those values—in Trapani as in Trento?”
“That’s what everybody says.”
“Not you?”
“I don’t give Gracchi much thought, signora—I have other things to worry about.” Trotti nodded in concession. “But General Spadano considered him the son he’d never had. You apparently worshipped Gracchi, even if you never wanted to give him children. And his daughter Lakshmi’s always idolized him, while not being blind to her father’s shortcomings.”
“And you, commissario?”
“Gracchi’s been dead for eight years. What a slow-witted peasant from the Po valley thinks of a hero in the battle against the Mafia and the forces of evil—what a retired flatfoot thinks of Gracchi isn’t important. What I think isn’t important because I’m not important.”
“Even your self-pity’s insincere.”
Trotti made a gesture of admission.
“Your opinion of Tino’s never changed since 1978?”
“Gracchi was a fool.”
She laughed in disbelief. “That’s how you talk of the dead?”
“A buffoon who couldn’t see who his real enemy was.”
“His only enemies were people like you—people who didn’t know him, who didn’t trust him.”
“You knew him—knew him as no one else did.” Trotti paused before adding carefully, “You shared your bed with him and then, after years spent in Switzerland, you returned to that bed, although he was now happily married. You knew him, and you knew he was weak and a fool. If you loved him as you say you loved him, you really should never have murdered the poor fool. What a strange way to love a man, Lia.”
96: Ispettore
She was waiting for him, reading the newspaper on the terrace of the bar beneath a parasol. She sat in an aluminum chair, her bag at her feet and a pair of sunglasses pushed back into the thick hair. A blue ribbon ran through the curls and was tied into a knot above her neck.
She was wearing shorts with a white singlet, and for a brief moment Trotti thought it was Eva, but as the girl turned to face him, Piero Trotti saw that she was much younger than the prostitute from Uruguay.
“You never smile, signor ispettore. Not pleased to see me?”
“You’ve been waiting long?”
“Not more than a couple of weeks.”
Trotti nodded to the portable telephone on the tablecloth. “You could’ve called Spadano.”
“Spadano told me in no uncertain terms to leave you alone.”
“I’d have appreciated a phone call while I was trussed up in the trunk of Enzo Beltoni’s car.”
It was indeed a beautiful day, with the afternoon sun shining on the open square and the central fountain. The car trunk, Enzo Beltoni and the chill of the sandy, wet banks of the Po seemed a world away.
Peace of the senses?
He sat down beside her and the girl placed a hand on Trotti’s shoulder and she kissed him, a soft, gentle kiss on the forehead while with the other hand, she caressed what remained of his hair. “The general used me as much as he ever used you, signor ispettore.”
In the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, gypsy children were playing football, occasionally breaking off to beg from the passersby. A few foreign tourists entered the church or emerged from it.
Déjà vu?
Trotti had the impression of playing hooky, of being on a stolen holiday. It was as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders. “What’ve you been doing these last two weeks, Wilma?”
“Waiting for you.”
“You still want me to find your father?”
“You find that funny?”
Trotti smiled crookedly. “You don’t find it funny you lied to a gullible old man?”
“I phoned you, commissario—or perhaps you’ve forgotten. We were supposed to meet.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t forgotten.” Trotti was still smiling.
“I needed to tell you the truth. You were good to me in Florence and Empoli and Siena. When I arrived in Rome, I felt very bad about all the lies.”
“Not as bad as I felt when the Carabinieri started beating me. Or when I saw your dead body.”
The same narrow-waisted waiter surged forward and brought the list of drinks to their table. Trotti smiled in surprise and pleasure as he ordered two spremutas. The waiter gave a brief glance at the American girl then nimbly returned to the interior of the café.
Trotti’s eyes wandered to the church on the far side of the piazza, beyond the noisy children. He said, almost absentmindedly, “Of course, I never did believe in coincidences.”
“What coincidences?”
The eyes appraised him from behind the rim of the paper cup. Widely set brown eyes, and Trotti realized why she reminded him of Eva.
97: Pavé
Whenever Trotti looked at him, he had an ingratiating smile and his cheeks were creased in deep wrinkles. All the tables wer
e served, and during the lull in customers, the waiter leaned against the doorway and carefully observed his patrons at their bright tables. The tight waistcoat was neatly buttoned.
Trotti turned back to the girl. “Spadano considered your father as his own son.”
“My father’s a bricklayer from Mestre,” the girl said evenly, “and he’s never met Spadano.”
“For some reason, Spadano liked Valerio Gracchi—ever since they first met in Trento, when Spadano was supposed to be keeping an eye on the young revolutionary. Nearly everybody liked Gracchi. Even now, eight years after his death, everyone speaks well of him—an Italian hero.”
“Except you?”
“With all his posturing, the man got on my nerves.”
“You are going to arrest her?”
Trotti laughed. “A retired flatfoot—why do you want me to arrest the poor woman?”
“If she murdered him . . .”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“You said the general wanted Gracchi’s killer.”
“I don’t owe Spadano any favors.”
“Spadano told me you were friends.”
“That’s what he told me, too—for twenty-five years, I believed him.”
“You’re not going to tell the general who killed Gracchi?”
“Spadano wouldn’t believe me.”
“If the general won’t believe you, who’s going to believe you?”
“Nobody—because nobody’s going to know.”
“Yet you’re convinced Lia Guerra killed Gracchi?”
“That’s what she said,” Trotti replied softly and took another sip of the spremuta. He winced and stirred the long spoon. Granules of sugar danced against the side of the glass.
A gentle wind blew across the square. The smell of cooking came from the nearby houses—it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
Opposite Trotti, Wilma was both amused and puzzled. She was now sitting back in her chair. Beneath the parasol, the Roman light glinted off her skin.
“She admitted to killing her boyfriend?”
“She didn’t deny it.”
The Second Day of the Renaissance Page 25