Mimi's Ghost

by Tim Parks

  Burying Bobo there would prove a winning card yet.

  ‘As you know,’ Fendtsteig continued with that air of inexorability he clearly cultivated and which was leaving Morris steadily less impressed, ‘immediately before your release, the polizia arrested two extra-comunitari, charged them, I believe erroneously, with the murder of your colleague, and then proceeded to arrange for trial per direttissima, on the slimmest of circumstantial evidence.’

  Mimicking the other man’s official tone, Morris said: Two young men whom I had helped in every possible way and who repaid my kindness by engaging in lewd and perverse activities while under my employ. For which my colleague very rightly fired them. An excellent motive for their doing away with him.’

  For a moment he couldn’t remember whether he had taken this line with Fendtsteig before, or with Marangoni, or whether he hadn’t taken some other line, or even the opposite line. He stared defiantly at Fendtsteig, who was apparently still engrossed in the tips of his fingers.

  Morris said nervously: ‘Given their general behaviour, I myself wouldn’t be at all surprised if they turned out to be the culprits.’

  The carabiniere’s long silence was becoming ominous.

  Morris talked on: ‘The sort of people who will sell a man a video-recorder in a stazione di servizio that turns out to be nothing more than a brick or a block of wood. You know the kind of thing? You open it in your house and it falls on the floor and chips an expensive tile. A breach of faith towards the very people who have attempted to make their lives here less miserable.’

  Saying this, he contrived to colour nervousness with a convincing flush of anger. For a moment he enjoyed imagining himself a sort of chameleon, constantly changing shape in Fendtsteig’s bewildered and defeated grip.

  ‘Biting the very hand that wishes to feed them,’ he concluded with genuine self-righteousness.

  Fendtsteig at last looked up. He measured his words. ‘As to the exact character of the two unfortunates, Signor Duckvorse, I will not even hazard a guess. You may perfectly well be correct in your impression. However, it is not an important element. Far more interesting is the fact that no sooner was this development - the arrest and trial of these two persons -announced than we, or rather the family, received this most unpleasant note, which Signora Posenato has just shown you, a note, I might say, exactly similar in style and content to the first ransom note received by the Trevisan family when their daughter was abducted some two years ago. Now how do you explain that, Signor Duckvorse?’

  Signor Duckvorse clearly did not explain that at all - he wished he could - and hence felt it wiser simply to stare. Glimpsing, through a gap in the screen, a small brown figure pushing his drugs trolley down the ward, he shouted: ‘Ciao, Dionisio, how’s life?’

  ‘Ciao,’ Dionisio called. ‘Everything well!’

  ‘See you later,’ Morris called, and as if it were an after-thought which it was, added: ‘I was thinking, there’s a friend of mine has a hotel in Shepherd’s Bush you might be interested in getting in contact with.’

  ‘Benissimo!’

  Had his teeth been a little better looked after, Dionisio’s smile, as he poked his face for a moment through the screen, might have been described as radiant. The carabiniere, on the other hand, frowned rather severely, with a sort of small child’s pique,

  ‘Mi scusi, Colonnello, but you have to humour people in the hospital here if you want good service.’

  Fendtsteig, however, would not be drawn. Very matter-of-factly he insisted: ‘Now, Signor Duckvorse, I would be grateful if you could explain that circumstance, the arrival of this letter, only three days after the other two are accused of murder. About the fastest our post office could possibly operate in my experience. And sent espresso too.’

  Morris felt it only reasonable to show irritation at this point.

  ‘Colonello, if you cannot explain what has happened, I don’t see how I can be expected to. Especially when you consider that I’ve been ill in hospital for upwards of a week.’

  ‘Oh, but I can explain it.’ Fendtsteig had regained his composure. ‘I was merely hoping that you might save me the trouble.’

  ‘Well, then I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,’ Morris said, but he was having to hold on to his nerve for dear life now. What did he mean, he could explain it?

  Fendtsteig waited, then when he began to speak it was with the sort of sinister background tone a vacuum cleaner or electric razor makes. ‘My explanation, Signor Duckvorse, is as follows. Very simply, given the nature of this letter, we can say that the man responsible for the kidnap of Signorina Trevisan and the man responsible for the disappearance of Signor Posenato are, must be, one and the same person.’

  There! Morris took a sharp breath. The game was up. They had finally seen the obvious. Already he could smell the mixture of cheap disinfectant and human staleness that had been his prison cell. Definitely a tang of urine. Yes. And vaguely he wondered whether he would be able to ask them to put him back in with the same cellmate, whom he had rather taken a liking to after a while. In the end a murderous schizophrenic had more to offer as an object of long-term study than your average embezzler or hitman.

  ‘However, upon seeing that two innocent people were to be tried for murder, this’ - Fendtsteig hesitated and knit his Tyrolese brow - ‘this most curious maniac, Signor Duckvorse, as I think clearly transpires from the bizarre tone of these letters, has a fit of conscience and decides to use his knowledge of the ransom note he sent in the past to convince the police that they have made a mistake, and that this is a kidnap not a murder. In the end it was a provident move on the part of the polizia to charge these two. It drew the real culprit out into the open.’

  Morris sighed deeply. One could only thank the Almighty God that these people weren’t just a scintilla, a scantling, a soupgon more intelligent. He strived to look as humbly puzzled as he could.

  ‘Colonnello, I’m sorry, but it does seem somewhat unlikely to me that’ - he hesitated - ‘yes, though of course I have far less experience than yourself in such matters.’ He stopped, hesitated, wondered if his brow was registering knitted or just carelessly sewn back together. ‘As I was saying, it does seem unlikely that someone responsible for the callous murder of a beautiful young girl and a charming young man would worry immoderately about the fate of two miserable Third-World homosexuals. I can tell you for one that were I the murderer I most certainly would not.’

  This was almost true. But not quite.

  Fendtsteig said nothing. Absurdly, it occurred to Morris that if by any chance Antonella were listening behind the screen, she would be appalled by his racism. Though such considerations hardly seemed relevant at this point, like worrying if one was looking one’s best for the firing-squad. Suddenly, irrationally, feeling the game must be up, he asked: ‘In any event, who would this heinous person be?’

  For the first time Fendtsteig looked him straight in the eyes. It was not a pleasant experience. Behind their polished, rimless spectacles the carabiniere’s watery orbs gave the impression of some rather unpleasant vegetable species inexpertly preserved under glass, one could only imagine in the interests of science.

  ‘Once again I was hoping,’ Signor Duckvorse,’ the carabiniere said, with the air of one who finally has his quarry cornered, ‘that you, with your rather morbid attraction to cemeteries and young girls’ coffins, would be the person best qualified to tell me that.’

  If there were moments in his life upon which, however things ultimately panned out, Morris would be justified in looking back with nothing short of immense pride, then this was to be one of them. Brought most cruelly to bay in this squalid municipal hospital bed, his back to the wall, his handsome features disfigured, and not even in possession, as he had been on other occasions, of all the nasty facts that now needed to be juggled into some plausible illusion, Morris Duckworth, as Morris would later have occasion to think, nevertheless performed most perfectly. Indeed, the word breathtaking would hardly
be out of place, though Morris was not such a fool as to arrogate all the credit for such a performance to himself. For quite definitely it was her voice he heard prompting him now, her perfume he smelt. Quite definitely it was Massimina who simply dictated what, dancing at the end of a plank over tumultuous seas, he now contrived to repeat.

  And behind Mimi, presumably, was . . . well, God.

  ‘Colonnello’ - he took a very deep breath, as if expecting to go under for a long time - ‘Colonnello, it is unkind of you to make fun of an obsession that I appreciate is horribly morbid, even aesthetically distasteful, but which my analyst assures me is one of the most common the world over. At least among those, Colonnello Fendtsteig, who have had the good fortune to love someone and be loved by them in return.’ He paused, then with dreadful assurance simply talked on into the unknown, went right over the end of that plank, expecting the very worst of course - the billowing waves, the suck of the undertow - only to find that, like his dear Saviour before him, the monstrous waters calmed beneath his feet, the storm responded to his rebuke, allowing him quite serenely to stroll across the deep, to walk, to talk his way to the other side.

  Mimi was holding his hand.

  ‘My version of events, if you will allow me to offer an amateur’s humble opinion, is as follows; and if, as you will no doubt protest, I haven’t offered it before, this was merely, as you shall see, out of a sense of loyalty to my colleague and a genuine affection for his poor wife.’

  He paused, amazed to discover that he wasn’t even seasick, though quite how he was going to step over the next wave was not as yet clear. As usual, he had planned nothing. But this was his genius.

  Mimi was beside him.

  ‘Bobo, that is my colleague, Signor Posenato, had for some time been very, er, how shall we say, restless about his life. He felt trapped, nervous. He was afraid that the imminent death of Signora Trevisan would condemn him to what he felt was a miserable existence running a tiny company with little hope of expansion. And’ - here Morris lowered his voice, looking up hard at the screen curtain, as if his eye might penetrate it and discover Antonella’s hearkening ear - ‘although in previous interviews I may, as I said, have denied this for reasons of loyalty, I do have reason to suspect, though I cannot be sure, that most of all he was restless because there was another woman in his life.’

  Fendtsteig was rubbing two fingers back and forth on his chin waiting, expecting another mere diversion, such as that with Dionisio. He hadn’t realised as yet that Morris was acting under divine afflatus.

  The truth is that Bobo was frequently in the factory, or rather the office, at night-time. Yes, at night-time. He frequently seemed flustered and distracted. He often spoke harshly or excitedly to people without their being able to understand why. Hence these ridiculous stories of his arguments with me.’

  ‘Signor Duckvorse, if I may interrupt, these are the kind of subjective impressions which it is all too easy to invent and which no one could ever possibly verify.’

  ‘If necessary,’ Morris sailed on, ‘chapter and verse can be added at a later date. The purchase of a savage dog, for example, was no doubt intended to discourage interruptions when he was with his mistress in the office at night.’ There was an idea! ‘His opposition to my suggestion that we set up a night shift probably had a similar basis. But for the moment I will give you just the broad outline of what I have long suspected is the true state of affairs.’

  He had no idea what this might be, but at the same time was quite convinced that, even as he spoke, it was about to reveal itself.

  ‘I got my first inkling when Ispettore - is he an ispettore? I get so mixed up - Ispettore Marangoni informed me that the police had received an anonymous phone call suggesting that something drastic had deservedly happened to Bobo, Signor Posenato. But when I realised the other day that our guard dog at the factory had been poisoned I became sure of it.’

  He nodded his head twice briskly, despite the pain, like one who is at last saying and at the same time discovering what he knows must be true. ‘Yes, when I saw that poisoned dog I was convinced, and I would then have told you my suspicions - I mean, Colonnello Fendtsteig, I was myself concerned that these poor extra-comunitari, however inappropriately they may have behaved prior to the event, were being wrongly charged -yes, would have told you myself, if I hadn’t heard that Bobo had already solved the problem by sending that letter.’

  In a state somewhere between ecstasy and vertigo, Morris suddenly realised what his dear Mimi had quite probably been trying to get through to him for days now: that they would never discover the corpse. That was his trump card. That was the plank that extended to an infinite horizon. Without a corpse one could simply go on speculating ad infinitum,

  ‘Mi scusi,’ Fendtsteig interrupted, but at last with a hint of genuine interest and concern now, albeit coated with irony, ‘mi scusi, but I can’t follow you. What exactly are you trying to tell me?’

  A reasonable question.

  ‘Bobo faked the whole thing and ran off with his mistress,’ Morris invented abruptly. Then, like an animal who has given birth after considerable and painful effort, he immediately proceeded to lick the little creature he had produced with love and amazement. ‘Consider, Colonnello: his body hasn’t been found; not even his car has been found.’ Morris began to fill in, even caress, the details, already quite sure that they must all, without exception, fit. Otherwise Mimi wouldn’t have told him to say it, would she? ‘In fact, Colonnello, the only indication we have of there being any foul play is the mess in the office, a bit of blood that anybody could have produced, an easily staged interrupted phone call to the police, then an anonymous phone call, and finally a ransom letter, which, as you point out, was probably written because Bobo, who as I said is a charming person, was most upset to find that two people were being unjustly accused of his murder. But most conclusively for me,’ Morris said, though he still wasn’t quite sure why, ‘there was this business of the poisoned dog.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fendtsteig sighed. ‘You are now going to explain to me the poisoned dog. I am most impressed, Signor Duckvorse.’ But his eyes narrowed dangerously.

  ‘You see, when he first planned his escape,’ Morris began a long and winding uphill slope, not sure if the ridge ahead was the last or just one of a series, ‘I can’t imagine that Bobo foresaw the problem of having to write that ransom letter and the other ones that will doubtless follow. That is, he couldn’t suppose that the police, as you so rightly pointed out, would be so stupid as to accuse these two poor immigrants on the slimmest of circumstantial evidence.’ Out of deference to Fendtsteig, Morris did not say, though he felt it was implied, that equally Bobo could not have imagined anybody would be so stupid as to suspect Morris himself. ‘Now, the fact is that in one of the filing cabinets, there in the office, under, let me see if I can rightly remember, yes, what was it, “Trevisan, Massimina”, quite simple, in one of the filing cabinets, there is, or rather’ - and here Morris took an immensely deep breath - ‘I suspect well find there was, a collection of the documents regarding Massimina’s kidnap. Do you see what I am trying to get at now?’

  Fendtsteig did not.

  ‘If the person,’ Morris said, discovering the truth even as he was inspired to pronounce it, ‘who wrote that letter was not Massimina’s kidnapper - and why should such a person wish to draw attention to a previous crime by repeating the same ruse? -then it must have been someone who had immediate access to those letters. Bobo, as I said, had them on file in the office, since it was he who acted on behalf of the Trevisan family during the whole horrible affair, ignoring, may I say, all the sensible advice I tried to offer. My guess is that if you go back to the office you will find the file, but not the letters. He needed them to fake the one he wrote.’

  Fendtsteig stared glassily through his spectacles. At least Morris could be sure now that the carabinieri hadn’t found the letters in the coat, although at the same time, what he had just said convinced him that somebo
dy else had.

  And it wasn’t Bobo.

  Fendtsteig said: The dog?’

  Morris opened his mouth, but for a moment Massimina seemed to have deserted him. Why on earth would Bobo have killed the dog in such circumstances, for Christ’s sake?

  The dog?’ Fendtsteig repeated.

  ‘Obviously he couldn’t risk breaking into the office himself,’ Morris realised. ‘He paid somebody else to do it. Who was duly warned about the dog. Or maybe it was his mistress even. How can I know? Since the damn thing was so fierce they tried to poison it.’

  There was a long silence between them. Dionisio pushed his trolley back up the ward. Came the low moan of some patient or other trying to get used to his mutilation. Finally Fendtsteig stood up. He straightened himself to his full slender height in the proud uniform. Once again he submitted Morris to a cold and penetrating stare.

  ‘Signor Duckvorse, everything you have said to me will be meticulously checked. Let me warn you here and now, however, that I believe not one word of your absurd inventions. On the contrary, I am more than ever convinced that this affair can only end with your being charged and convicted of the murder of your brother-in-law. It is merely a question of time before the crucial evidence falls into our hands.’

  Watching him out, Morris couldn’t help feeling that the man was probably right. Either that, or he himself would have to invent some evidence that simply wrapped the whole thing up once and for all in some other way. . . .

  But quite what and how, he had no idea.

  Part Four

  29

  Mother had always called him ‘her beautiful boy’. It was one of the reasons she was so wonderful. She always, always made him feel attractive, adorable. Mother adored Morris. Morris adored Mother. Each to the other was entirely beautiful. So that if Morris was for ever to remember his encounter with chicken-pox, it was not so much because of its belated coincidence with a miserable puberty, as because of the time, coming down the stairs for the cream that was supposed to stop the itching, he had heard her voice over the television saying to his father: ‘Yes, he looks like a scrofulous little monster.’ And that beloved voice was laughing.