Black August

by Timothy Williams

  The handle did not move. The door had not been opened in a long time.

  They went up the stairs.

  Half way up, the stairs curved to the right and the two men came to a small, dusty landing and another brown door. The same handle, the same hinges; everything had been painted over in a muddy, brown paint.

  From beyond the door came the soft mumble of men’s voices.

  Trotti rapped against the wood with his knuckles.

  No answer. The mumbling continued.

  Trotti turned the handle. The door was not locked. He looked at Pisanelli, knocked again. The two men waited.

  Pisanelli smiled. In the feeble light his face seemed to have lost its youthfulness. He stood close beside Trotti. Trotti pushed at the creaking door.

  “Don’t even have a warrant, Commissario?” Pisanelli’s breath was warm on Trotti’s cheek.

  The door moved slowly, ponderously. The two men entered a kitchen. Pisanelli switched on the ceiling light.

  A fly paper, almost black with dead flies, hung from the single bulb.

  A stone sink with a few dirty plates beneath the accusatory finger of a rubber pipe. Dried tomato sauce and pasta on the plates. An espresso coffee machine on an electric stove; coffee had run from the side of the machine on to the round, rusting electric plate. A box of matches had fallen to the floor and plastic matches lay scattered across the red stone.

  A car went past in via Mantova.

  The sound of voices continued its low mumbling.

  Pisanelli ran a finger along the top of the kitchen table and then looked at the dust on his finger. “A week, five days,” he said. He was no longer smiling.

  Trotti nodded, sucking noisily, while his eyes searched the kitchen. He, too, seemed pale in the poor light.

  Beyond the kitchen was a bedroom.

  The two men advanced together.

  The television was on, the reflected grey light flickering against the low ceiling and the grubby, plastered walls. The nasal voice of a cartoon rabbit.

  “Bugs Bunny,” said Pisanelli. He even laughed, but the laughter caught in his throat as he approached the television set.

  Insects danced blindly and insistently against the black and white screen.

  20: Spaghettata

  Neither Pisanelli nor Trotti had eaten.

  “The light is on.”

  There were a few parked cars in Piazza Teodoro and a police motorcycle stood beside the large wooden doorway.

  An officer in uniform—one of the recent recruits whom Trotti did not recognize—saluted briskly, despite the windless heat.

  “I wish to speak to Signor Boatti. He lives on the top floor.”

  “At your orders,” the man said and saluted again. He wrote something down in a small notebook, checked with his watch and then held the door open as Pisanelli and Trotti brushed past him.

  “Another hot evening, Commissario. And still no sign of rain.”

  They found themselves in the rundown courtyard.

  Pisanelli laughed. “A feeling of déjà vu.” He took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it.

  “Perhaps Maria Cristina’s gone back to Garlasco,” Trotti said.

  “She left in a hurry—didn’t even turn the television off.”

  “Or perhaps she’s just very untidy—the opposite of Rosanna.”

  The air was cool in the small courtyard. The smell of the burning match mingled with the sweeter perfume of wild honeysuckle. It was several hours past sunset. Still the brick wall gave off the accumulated heat of the day.

  “What’s déjà vu, Pisanelli?”

  “The feeling you’ve seen the same thing already.”

  “You saw the same thing at four o’clock this morning.” Trotti shrugged. “Déjà vu comprà? At my age, you’ve seen everything before.”

  “Commissario, you talk as if you were getting ready to leave this world.”

  “This world, perhaps not. Not yet, at least.” With two fingers, Trotti made the horned gesture to ward off bad luck.

  “You sound very jaded.”

  “Ready to leave the Questura.”

  “You’ve been saying that for at least ten years.”

  “You think I’d miss you?” Trotti allowed himself a thin smile.

  Taking Pisanelli by the arm, he went up one flight of stairs.

  They came to a door. There was an oval nameplate in burnished brass, Dott. Roberti. Pisanelli rang the bell and after a couple of minutes, a light came on behind the opaque glass. The door was opened.

  “Gentlemen?”

  She looked very young. Signorina Roberti was slim, dressed in jeans and a Lacoste shirt. She had black hair that caught the light. She did not wear makeup. On her feet she wore blue espadrilles.

  “Commissario Trotti, Polizia di Stato.” Trotti’s tired face broke into a smile. “I wonder if we could come in for a while.” He shrugged, still smiling. “A few questions that I need to ask you.”

  “I suppose it’s about the poor . . .” She did not finish her sentence. The girl gestured with her hand to the floor above. Her eyes went from Trotti to Pisanelli. She stepped back, her hand still on the door knob. “Please come in.”

  She closed the door behind them.

  They followed her into a big apartment. The floor was of polished wood and the walls were covered in crimson silk that had begun to wear thin in places. Various crucifixes and stoops, dark furnishings and the sound of their footfalls as they went towards a well lit room at the end of a windowless corridor.

  The girl walked gracefully. She scarcely moved the upper part of her body, stepping silently on her rope-soled shoes. She said, over her shoulder, “Only just got back from the Langhe this afternoon.” She spoke with a slight, lisping Turin accent that Trotti found pleasant. “My father has a little vineyard there.”

  Within the large apartment, she had her own flat. It was bright and inviting. The air was cooled artificially; the discreet hum of air conditioning.

  There was a small television in one corner, emitting the dubbed dialogue of an American soap opera. The shuttered window gave on to Piazza San Teodoro, while along the opposite wall there was a kitchenette, with dishwasher, refrigerator, cooker and an overhead air aspirator. A couple of posters, Fiera del Levante and Marilyn Monroe, on the wall above a low, unmade bed. Clothes and shoes were scattered across the floor. There were several matching suitcases—the same Vuitton suitcases that Agnese had bought before she left Italy for the last time—from which clothes tumbled on to the wooden floor and the beige carpet.

  “When did you find out about the death of Signorina Belloni?” It was Pisanelli who spoke.

  Her black hair glistened. It had been cut in a straight line. Despite the boyish style, her face was gentle. She pushed several strands away from her eyes and looked at Trotti. “Please excuse the mess.”

  There was eucalyptus on her breath.

  “About Signorina Belloni?”

  “The poor, poor woman. She was so very kind.”

  Pisanelli said flatly, “Now she’s dead.”

  A mixture of hurt and disapproval in her glance at Pisanelli. “So I discover.” The girl sighed, looked down at her shoes. “So I discover.”

  “Would you mind, signorina, if we sat down?”

  An apologetic smile that reminded Trotti of other women he had known. “I can give you gentlemen something to drink?” The young face seemed to brighten.

  He lowered himself on to the soft cushions of the sofa, feeling the weight of his years. Trotti shook his head.

  “I was about to make myself some spaghetti.” She tapped at the flat belly beneath her pink cotton shirt. “Famished after the drive back from Piemonte. So hot, so very hot. If you gentlemen would care to eat . . .” She gestured to where a saucepan gave off steam.

 
Trotti was about to shake his head in refusal. Something—the weight of years, perhaps—stopped him. Smiling, he said, “You’re very kind. Neither of us has eaten all evening.”

  She stood in the middle of the room, her hands behind her back, her small feet revealing the neat demarking lines of a summery tan.

  Agnese, Pioppi, Ciuffi.

  Tanned skins, bright, frank eyes and wide, generous mouths.

  Their need to be loved. Their need to give.

  Rosanna.

  Trotti let his head fall back on the settee and closed his eyes.

  He was living a lie, of course.

  There never was, there would never be peace of the senses for him. He could never get by on just coffee and sweets. Women—Trotti needed them too much.

  “You mustn’t put yourself out for us—but some spaghetti would be most welcome, Signorina Roberti.”

  He needed women—and Trotti knew he liked them too much.

  21: Petrarca

  Pisanelli had reverted to an uncharacteristic sullenness. Even sitting at the girl’s table, eating the spaghetti that she had hurriedly prepared, he seemed aggressive. He had not taken off his jacket, but sat with his arms propped against the pretty check tablecloth, one hand holding a glass of dark wine. His lips were still greasy from the food. The long hair at the side of his head needed combing.

  He had removed his tie; beads of sweat had formed along his forehead.

  “Some more, Commissario?”

  Trotti shook his head. The bolognese sauce had been retrieved from the refrigerator and heated, yet was surprisingly tasty. The wine, too—Grignolino from an unlabeled bottle—was good. The girl sat opposite, her eyes scrutinizing him.

  “You are very kind, signorina.”

  “Call me Laura.”

  He could not repress the spontaneous smile. “A pretty name.”

  “The girl Petrarch fell in love with in Avignon in 1327.” She stood up and made coffee. “She was only twelve years old.”

  “Laura died in the plague,” Pisanelli said.

  Later, Laura Roberti piled the dishes in the sink and they returned to the settee. The television—RAIDUE in electronic letters at the corner of the screen—continued to show its soundless, flickering image.

  “You have a boyfriend, signorina?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “Gian Maria? He’s in Ferrara.”

  “He’s a student at this university?”

  She smiled, lowering her head. “He was. But now he’s working for Signor Rognoni—for his father in Ferrara where they have a small printing company.”

  “And when did you last see him?” Pisanelli asked. He held an open notebook on his knee and a pen in his left hand.

  Laura turned to look at him. “Why d’you need to know that?”

  “We are indiscreet.” Trotti touched the knee of her faded jeans. “Asking indiscreet questions is part of our job.” He lowered his head. “Please try to forgive us—and try to understand.”

  “Gian Maria and I are engaged.”

  “Congratulations,” Pisanelli said.

  “We intend to get married just as soon as I’ve finished my degree—I’ve got another seven exams to sit.” A tone of weariness had entered her voice. “It should be over by the spring.”

  “Your degree or the marriage?”

  She ignored Pisanelli. “Gian Maria and I’ve been engaged for nearly two years.”

  “And you’re very much in love?” Pisanelli asked.

  She looked at him coolly.

  Pisanelli wrote something down.

  Despite the air conditioning, the room was hot. Trotti ran a hand along his forehead. “When did you leave this city for the Langhe?”

  “My parents have a little estate and father produces wine there. It’s a hobby—even though he manages to sell some of the wine. The Grignolino—you liked it?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Santo Stefano’s a nice place to get away to.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Laura sat back, folding her arms against a boyish chest. “I had to return to the city to get on with my work.”

  “You can’t study there?”

  “At Santo Stefano?” She shrugged. “I haven’t got all my books there.” She made a vague movement of her hands towards the bookshelves beneath the blinds. “And there’s no university library in the Langhe.”

  “So you came back to the city?”

  “This is the best time to work—in the middle of August. There are no students around, no distractions. You can find what you want in the departmental library—and you can find a place to sit down. In the afternoon, I can go down to the Lido on the river for a swim—and in the morning, I can sleep. There’s no traffic in the piazza. Sometimes I go for a round of golf at the Country Club.” She gestured over her shoulder to the Piazza San Teodoro, beyond the closed blinds. “September seems to be when I get my best results.” She propped her small feet on the edge of the coffee table. She had kicked off the French espadrilles.

  “And Gian Maria?” Pisanelli asked.

  “What about him?”

  “When are you next going to see him?”

  “He rings in the evening—and perhaps next week he’ll drive up. He knows I’m busy. He wants me to get on with my exams.”

  “When did you go to the Langhe? When did you last see Rosanna Belloni, Laura?” Again Trotti allowed his hand to touch her knee. Sitting beside her, his head against the settee, he could smell her hair, warm and muskily sweet.

  “You really think she was murdered?”

  Beneath his hand, Trotti could feel her whole body tremble. He folded his arms. “Tenente Pisanelli and I saw the body. Somebody had hit her from behind, breaking the skull. Her nose and jaw were broken, her face badly battered.”

  “I find that so hard to believe. Signorina Belloni was a very kind and gentle person. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to be violent with her.”

  “Behind every violent death, there’s normally one of two motives.”

  “Money or sex?”

  Trotti raised an eyebrow. “You sound well informed for a young lady.”

  A girlish laugh. “I did a course in popular fiction—including detective novels.”

  “Money or sex,” Trotti said, nodding. “And sometimes both.”

  The smile died on her face.

  A silence fell on the room. Nobody spoke. The television image jumped and flickered, unheeded.

  “Perhaps if I had been here, none of this would have happened.” Laura had closed her eyes, her head tilted back.

  “You can’t hold yourself responsible for her death, Laura.”

  “Sometimes she’d come down here and we’d chat. Rosanna was a retiring person and I always felt flattered and pleased when she came to see me. Generally speaking, though, it was more often me who’d go up to her place.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “What did you do with Rosanna Belloni?”

  “She liked to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Children.”

  “What?”

  “She regretted never having had children. And she missed the children from the school.” A pause. “Rosanna liked to tell me how lucky I was to have a nice boyfriend . . .”

  “She knew Gian Maria?”

  “They met.” The girl raised one shoulder. “She liked him and I think she wanted me to be happy with him. ‘Have lots of children—lots and lots of children’—that’s what she used to say.” She added softly, “She absolutely adored Signor Boatti’s two little girls.”

  “You’re going to have lots of children?” Pisanelli asked.

  “A career—before I have any children, I want to have a job a
nd a salary.” She turned her head slightly to look at him.

  Pisanelli pretended to jot in his notebook.

  “Please tell me when you last saw her, Laura.”

  “I’ve been away for eight days. It must have been the Thursday or the Friday. We met on the stairs. I was going off to the university, she was coming back with coffee from the grocery store in via Lanfranco. And fresh bread.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said buongiorno and smiled.”

  “Anything else?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Why was she interested in the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses? I know nothing about that. Rosanna was a good Catholic—or, at least, I think so. She often went to mass on Sundays—and sometimes during the week.”

  “Were you aware of her having enemies?”

  The dark eyes opened wide. “Enemies?”

  “Was there anybody she didn’t like? Or anybody who didn’t like her?”

  “Since her retirement, Rosanna didn’t go out very much.”

  “But she had visitors?”

  The young girl sat beside Trotti, the smell of her hair like a forgotten, forbidden pleasure in his nostrils. “Visitors?” she repeated, without looking at him.

  “Did you ever see Rosanna with anybody?”

  A slight shrug. “Sometimes she was with her sister—Maria Cristina, a younger sister who stays somewhere in Garlasco. She occasionally comes down on weekends. Or once or twice with some woman friend.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know their names.” She shook her head. “Old ladies—older than her—that always smell of lavender water when they go past my door.”

  “You never saw her with a man, Laura?”

  A pause.

  “Did you ever see Rosanna with a man?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes or no, Laura.”

  “I really didn’t see her all that much.”

  “You saw her with a man?”

  “Other than Signor Boatti?”

  “Did you ever see Rosanna Belloni with a man other than Signor Boatti?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “But you saw her with Signor Boatti?”