Black August

by Timothy Williams

  “Her stepfather raped her?”

  “Rosanna never revealed her secret.”

  “When?”

  “After the war—it was in ’47 or ’48. Rosanna was already an adult—and this was before he had started drinking seriously. But if she kept her secret, I think it was in order to protect her mother. Rosanna felt that her mother had married that man to protect the family fortune and . . .”

  “He got her pregnant?”

  “No,” the old man said softly. “There was never any physical penetration.”

  “Rosanna never had any children?”

  It was now almost dark and Trotti had difficulty in seeing the older man’s face. He repeated the question, “Rosanna never had a child by her stepfather?”

  “You ask strange questions.”

  “And the photo I saw?”

  “What photo, Commissario?”

  “At San Teodoro.” Trotti’s mouth was dry; he swallowed the sweet. “At San Teodoro. In her place. The photo of a little girl that Rosanna was holding in her arms? A little girl that looked a bit like her. A pretty little girl. A photo taken in a town hall.”

  “No, Trotti.” Signor Belloni placed his hand on Trotti’s leg. “For several years Rosanna liked to look after the baby.”

  “Whose baby?”

  “It wasn’t a girl—it was a boy. It was Maria Cristina’s little boy.”

  “Maria Cristina’s?”

  “Vitaliano managed to get Maria Cristina—he managed to get his other step-daughter pregnant. She was only nine when he started abusing her.” A shrug and the glint of his teeth in the dark. “Not really surprising, is it, that Maria Cristina’s always been so fragile?”

  50: Autopsy

  “He knows?” Trotti asked after a long silence.

  “Who?”

  “Boatti—Giorgio Boatti.”

  Belloni took his time before answering. “Giorgio phoned me this afternoon. He said that he had been with you—and he told me that you believe he’s involved in Maria Cristina’s death.”

  “I think he’s trying to protect Rosanna Belloni.”

  “He seems to believe you think he’s guilty.”

  “Is he, Signor Belloni?” Trotti stood up. He started walking backwards and forwards in front of the bench, with his hands in his pockets. The last shreds of red light were leaving the sky. Mosquitoes had returned to the city from the fields. “I’ve never understood why he was so interested in Rosanna’s death.”

  “Giorgio has always loved Rosanna.”

  Trotti stopped walking. “How long’s Boatti known Rosanna for?”

  “Forever.”

  “What?”

  “Maria Cristina was fourteen years old when Vitaliano got her pregnant. Today things would have been different. Today a fourteen-year-old girl would get an abortion and that would be the end of that—if there can ever be an end to the damage caused by sexual abuse.”

  “She gave birth to the child in the photo?”

  Belloni nodded.

  “Why?”

  “There was no choice.”

  “No choice?” Trotti made a dismissive gesture. “You had friends. I imagine you’re a Freemason.”

  “Freemason?”

  “You could’ve done something. A Freemason doctor friend in the hospital, a quick operation.”

  “Perhaps, but Maria Cristina was nearly four months into her pregnancy by the time she told the truth to Rosanna.” The old man added, “And you forget that it wasn’t my decision.”

  “And so Maria Cristina gave birth to an illegitimate child? The child of her stepfather.”

  “He killed himself. Vitaliano got drunk—this was before Giorgio was born.”

  “Giorgio?”

  “What did you think, Trotti?”

  Trotti sat down heavily on the bench. “Boatti is Maria Cristina’s son.”

  A cold laugh. “That’s why you saw him in Rosanna’s photograph.”

  “He murdered his mother?”

  The man laughed disparagingly. “Yor can’t believe that.”

  “Giorgio Boatti is Maria Cristina’s son,” Trotti muttered softly under his breath.

  Belloni spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. “Fortunately for everyone, Vitaliano was killed before we even knew Maria Cristina was pregnant. He got drunk and he killed himself. In a fog near Casalpusterlengo—he went straight into a truck.” Belloni crossed his arms and began to rock gently on the bench. “Not a great loss. Other than for the Lancia Aprilia, which would be worth a fortune now.”

  “I suppose Boatti—the adoptive father—is a Freemason?”

  “Giacomino Boatti was an old college friend of mine. We studied at Ghislieri together.”

  “He adopted Boatti and gave him his name?”

  “His wife was infertile—and they both had desperately wanted a child. They had tried for years unsuccessfully. Mino was a good man—Trotti, you can’t imagine how good Mino was. He was a Republican—Garibaldi’s party. Mino was perhaps the only honest politician I have ever met. Mino Boatti accepted the little baby boy with open arms. With Loredana, Mino gave the little Giorgio a happy home. And in the end, Giorgio went to Ghislieri too.”

  “And Rosanna?”

  “The shame killed Rosanna’s mother. Perhaps Gabriella had suspected something all along, even before, when Vitaliano had abused Rosanna. Gabriella didn’t die for another twenty years—but it was the scandal that killed her. She spent the last fifteen years of her life in bed, with Rosanna looking after her.”

  Trotti did not speak for a while. He sat with his hands hanging between his legs. Then he asked, “Why the photo of Giorgio Boatti with Rosanna?”

  “In the early years, Rosanna saw a lot of Giorgio. In a way Giorgio was the child Rosanna never had, the child she would’ve liked to have. In the fifties the idea of an unmarried woman bringing a child up by herself was out of the question. Of course, Rosanna could’ve gotten married—but you can understand her being frightened of men. The whole scandal had to be hidden. For the sake of appearances.”

  “For the sake of the child’s welfare.”

  “Precisely. Maria Cristina was sent off to Switzerland for the last four months of her pregnancy. I was in Lugano with Rosanna for the birth. Then Giacomo Boatti and his wife came to take the little boy. They brought him back here.”

  “And Maria Cristina? How on earth did she react to losing her boy?”

  “The next few years Maria Cristina lived in Milan.”

  “She saw the child?”

  “Maria Cristina went to school in Milan. She even got her diploma in accounting.” The old man shook his head. “I never once heard her mention her child. Never—it was as if nothing had happened, as if she had never been raped, as if she had never carried the baby in her belly. It wasn’t until about five years later, when she was nearly twenty, that she started having her depressions. Her terrible black depressions when she needed to be calmed by a doctor . . .”

  “By Doctor Roberti?”

  “I see you’ve done your homework, Trotti.” A dry chuckle in the darkness. “Roberti came later—in the early sixties.”

  “I thought Roberti specialized in venereal diseases.”

  The old man shrugged. “Maria Cristina would have her depression after a period of frenetic sexual activity. She would disappear and later we’d discover she was in Genova living with a sailor. Or living in Turin with another woman. Maria Cristina had several turbulent lesbian affairs. And when we came looking for her, she resented Rosanna’s concern. She saw it as interference.” Again the humorless laugh. “The two sisters reacted differently to their terrible experience at the hands of their stepfather. Rosanna was frightened of sex. Maria Cristina actively sought it. She sought reassurance and affection and she thought she could get that by sharing her body.” He p
aused. “Maria Cristina died as she had lived—craving affection. And never finding it.”

  “How did Giorgio Boatti see his relationship with Rosanna?”

  “An aunt. He called her aunt. He was told that Rosanna was one of Signora Boatti’s cousins. You see, Rosanna was also his godmother.”

  “I accused him of having an affair with her.”

  “That’s what he told me.” Belloni had placed his hands on the bench. “You really believed that?”

  “I wanted to see how he’d react.”

  “Either you’re incredibly spiteful . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or amazingly thoughtless, Trotti.”

  A brief smile. “I couldn’t understand his attitude. I’m a policeman, Signor Belloni. I’ve a job to do. Boatti didn’t appear upset or particularly emotional the night he found the body. When I went to see him, I found him strangely detached. It’s not every day you discover a corpse—and I’ve seen how people can react before sudden death. Within a few hours Boatti was on to me, telling me he wanted to write a book about police procedure.” Trotti shrugged. “I didn’t believe him because I couldn’t understand his motive.”

  “He loved her,” Belloni said simply. “Giorgio has always loved Rosanna.”

  “When did he discover that Maria Cristina was his mother?”

  “I’m not sure he ever has. In life, people tend to believe what they want to believe. I don’t think Giorgio has ever suspected that he was an adopted child.”

  Trotti raised his head. He faced the banker. “Did Giorgio Boatti genuinely believe it was Rosanna’s corpse? If he knew Rosanna well, he should have realized it wasn’t her.”

  “I thought it was Rosanna’s corpse.” Abruptly Belloni stood up and he started folding the newspaper. “Maria Cristina had lost a lot of weight since coming out of the Casa Patrizia. The face was badly bashed in. You know, this morning in the morgue, I had to look very carefully. Don’t forget that when Giorgio saw the body lying on the floor at San Teodoro, the face was covered in blood. There was no reason for him to think it was anybody else. For all he knew, Maria Cristina was at the Casa Patrizia. And . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Giorgio was never very close to Maria Cristina—she wasn’t somebody he saw frequently. But then, nobody saw much of her once she went into the Casa Patrizia. Before, when she was in the city, she used to work with me. I can’t have seen her more than three times in the last five years.” A grimace. “Four times, counting this morning.” A repressed shudder. “It’s getting late. I’ve told what I believe you needed to know. I think we can go.”

  Trotti stood up. “Why did Boatti suddenly change his attitude towards me? On the night I went to see him, he was stand-offish. He was supercilious.”

  “That’s the way he is—perhaps it’s something he inherited from Vitaliano, his father.” The old man slipped his arm through Trotti’s.

  “The next day Boatti bought me lunch. He was all smiles and flattery.”

  “He’s a journalist, Trotti.”

  Accompanied by the echo of their footfalls, they walked out of the courtyard, out of the university and into Strada Nuova.

  “You honestly think he killed her?” Belloni asked.

  “I’ve no idea who killed her,” Trotti said simply.

  “Boatti has always loved Rosanna.”

  “It’s not Rosanna who’s dead.”

  “Who killed Maria Cristina?”

  “No idea.”

  “Commissario Trotti has no idea?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t really think I care.” Trotti peered at the dial of his watch.

  “You cared before.”

  “I cared when I thought it was Rosanna who was dead. And now, Signor Belloni, I will catch a taxi home. And then I’m going out for my meal.”

  “I hope I’ve been of use to you, Commissario. For Rosanna’s sake, I felt that I had to talk to you.”

  They headed towards the chained Raleigh bicycle.

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “There is one other thing.”

  Trotti stopped and looked at the older man. “One other thing?”

  “Something you ought to know.”

  “Well?”

  “Understand, Trotti, that Maria Cristina never liked me. Like her sister, I was one of the people who’d come looking for her. And that she couldn’t forgive—when she was living one of her adolescent love stories and we insisted on bringing her back to the city. She’s always hated me, in the same way she hated Rosanna. She always felt that we were against her.”

  “And?”

  “She came to see me two weeks ago.”

  “Where, Signor Belloni?”

  “Maria Cristina came to the Banco San Giovanni—you know, I still go in in the mornings. She said she wanted money, she said that she didn’t have enough pocket money, and that she needed more. Especially as she was now on holiday.”

  “You gave it to her?”

  “I asked her what happened to her allowance—to her very generous allowance that was paid to her at Garlasco.”

  “And she said?”

  “I got the impression she wanted to talk. I got the impression that if there hadn’t been the old rancor, then she might have talked. There was something in her eyes—she was agitated, and I could see that she wasn’t taking her tranquilizers. I could see she was losing weight—she looked younger, better than in the Casa Patrizia. And I got the impression that it was fear I could read in her eyes. Fear of something—and that she needed money as a kind of protection.”

  “You gave her the money?”

  A dry laugh. “The money in the bank is hers. Rosanna and I have tried to protect her—and the money—but ultimately she can spend it as and when she pleases. It belongs to her. In Garlasco she has her allowance—but all the rest is hers. All hers.”

  “A lot?”

  “I paid out to her ten million lire from her life savings.”

  51: Via Milano

  The windscreen was brown with dead mosquitoes and other insects. Trotti sat in the back of the taxi. He was tired, he felt dirty and wanted to get out of his sticky clothes.

  Water in the lungs.

  He closed his eyes.

  (In 1978 he had been to the school. It was in the Scuola Elementare Gerolamo Cardano that he had first met Rosanna Belloni. Trotti remembered wondering how old she was; in her mid-forties, he had decided. The grey hair made her appear older, but she still had the living softness that disappears as a woman goes through the change. A few years older, perhaps, than Agnese.

  He had asked her about the disappearance of Anna Ermagni.

  “You don’t think it’s a maniac who’s taken Anna, Signora Direttrice?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A maniac, a child molester. You don’t think that Anna Ermagni has been kidnapped by a sex maniac?”

  “I know of only one case of child rape,” Rosanna had said rather coldly. “And that was a couple of years ago.” She had spoken in a dull, flat tone. Trotti had felt that he was annoying her.

  “In this school?”

  “On the other side of the river, in Borgo Genovese. A twelve-year-old girl was made pregnant. She was mentally deficient.”

  “Raped?”

  “Every evening. By her two brothers.”)

  When Trotti opened his eyes again, the taxi was already in via Milano, going by the newly enlarged Fiat showrooms.

  It was nine o’clock when Trotti reached his house. He got out of the car, paid the driver. The taxi did a three-point turn and drove back into the city.

  Trotti was crossing the road when another car drew up alongside him.

  “Bit late, Commissario?”

  “I got held up, Pisanelli. What’ve you done to your hair?”

/>   For once Pisanelli was not in a police car but in his own, battered Citroen Deux Chevaux. For a reason that Pisanelli had never made clear, it had a Cremona registration plate. Pisanelli pulled the car off the road into the forecourt of the pizzeria.

  “My hair? What’s wrong with my hair?” He was not wearing his shabby suede jacket but a white shirt and tie. He also wore a garishly checked jacket. He had put some sort of cream in the long hair at the side of his head and combed it backwards over his ears. The hair formed an irregular fringe at the back of his neck. He got out of the Citroen, slamming the tin door. It refused to close. He kicked it shut with his heel. Pisanelli was grinning, his hands in his pockets. “Anna’s been waiting for you for over half an hour. She has to be back home before eleven.”

  “What have you put in your hair? It smells—you smell like a whorehouse.”

  “Always a kind word, Commissario.”

  Trotti took Pisanelli by the arm and they crossed the road. “You’ve heard about the autopsy?”

  “On the Belloni woman?” A satisfied grin. “I haven’t been back to the Questura.”

  “I didn’t appreciate the way you vanished at San Teodoro.”

  “A man needs his rest and recreation.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for rest and recreation when I’ve retired, Pisanelli.”

  “I’m on holiday, Commissario.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve managed to change my timetable with Giordano—and so I’m going to take ten days off. With Anna.”

  “But I need you, Pisanelli.”

  “You’re going on holiday too, aren’t you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to get away?”

  “Wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  Trotti clicked his tongue while fumbling for the house key in his pocket. “Maria Cristina was not battered to death. She was drowned. There was water in her lungs.”