Converging Parallels

by Timothy Williams

  Trotti heard the scratching voice and Leonardelli nodded emphatically. As though he had been expecting a change in the weather, Leonardelli was wearing a dark suit; and lying across the desk, slightly speckled with rain, a beige raincoat. The inside label was visible.

  Burberry.

  While he spoke, Leonardelli gestured with his free hand and the glowing tip of the cigarette described short circles in the air.

  “D’accordo, d’accordo.” Leonardelli nodded, smiling. “Si, grazie. Si. Arrivederci.”

  He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver.

  There followed a long silence. Leonardelli pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and held his long hands to his face, as though lost in prayer.

  “Trotti.”

  “Yes.”

  The hands came away from the tired eyes that looked at Trotti with evident disapproval. “I’m afraid, Commissario, that you are causing me difficulties.”

  Trotti nodded. “I was at Caserma Bixio this morning.”

  “So I hear.” The cigarette had now burned down to its filter. The Questore squashed it into the porcelain ashtray that was already full of similar, black-ended filters. Against the background of Leonardelli’s eau de cologne, Trotti could smell the bitter ashes.

  Leonardelli sat back, his hands together and his thumbs hitting at each other. “A very awkward time, Trotti. A very awkward time indeed.”

  “The Provincia has mentioned nothing.”

  “I don’t see why you had to go to Bixio.”

  “I received a phone call,” Trotti said simply.

  “Ah.” He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t spend your time with the Carabinieri.”

  “An anonymous phone call in the early morning telling me to go to Bixio.” He shrugged. “So I went.”

  “It is best if we have as little as possible to do with the Carabinieri. I don’t consider them as being able to help us in any way.”

  “They have my wife,” Trotti replied.

  “Of course.” Leonardelli’s smile lacked compassion. “I understand.”

  Trotti did not speak; he could feel the anger rising within his chest. He stared at the turning movement of Leonardelli’s thumbs.

  “The trouble is that with the Carabinieri, these things can’t be kept quiet. And at this time, we have other things to worry about. Furthermore—and I say this not as a criticism—I don’t understand why it is at this hour, Trotti, that you arrive here. I hope you haven’t spent your morning drinking coffee with Spadano and smoking his filthy cigars.”

  “I don’t smoke, Signor Questore.”

  “There’s enough work here with Guerra and Gracchi for you to look into.” He stopped. “You realize that it’s serious.”

  “What?”

  “Outside the recognized casinos in Italy, gambling is illegal. You must know that and certainly your wife does. Also—and it is this I fail to understand—why did you allow her to go to San Siro?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Come, Trotti. I am not stupid. You did not know, you say. She’s your wife—how long have you been married? Twenty years now? And you don’t know her tastes. You must have known she frequented these places—because if you really didn’t, then what sort of husband are you? Come, Trotti.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.” The lashless eyes did not blink behind his glasses. “A commissario of the Pubblica Sicurezza—someone whose job is to see through the petty lies of criminals—who doesn’t know what his own wife is doing.”

  “My wife has always been very independent.”

  “You realize”—the voice now hardened—“that I can ask for your resignation.”

  “You can have it.” Trotti allowed himself a brief smile.

  “But I have to take into consideration other and more pressing points.” The Questore chose to overlook Trotti’s offer. “There is the crisis the country is going through, the shortage—the drastic shortage of trained manpower. Despite rising unemployment, it is hard to get recruits, young men don’t want to join the PS. And there is the fact that I know you, Trotti, and”—a magnanimous shrug—“I know that you are honest and reliable. Perhaps you are too honest, as I’ve told you before.” In a more optimistic tone, “I have friends in the Carabinieri,” he added.

  “Friends?”

  “To help your wife.”

  “There are no charges. Spadano told me. He said he would keep Agnese—that he would keep my wife until this evening. For her sake, he said. To serve as a lesson.”

  “You’re a good policeman, Trotti, and I don’t want to lose you—if it is possible to keep you, that is. The other officers like you, you’ve got a team that I am satisfied with. You are a valuable element. If I manage to get your wife released, I want a firm undertaking from you that you will keep a tighter control of her. I don’t want this kind of thing being repeated. It is embarrassing for me—and it forces me to make use of favors that I have given in the past, favors that I could make much better use of.”

  “She’s not under arrest, Signor Questore. She will be released this evening. Spadano and I came to an agreement.”

  “It is all very well to tell me she has her independence. If her independence is detrimental to the good name of the force in the city, I’m afraid I will have to get rid of her and you.” He smiled, allowing himself to relax. “She’ll have to change her ways.” He sat back and took the cigarette case from his pocket. He held out the tipped cigarettes to Trotti.

  Trotti shook his head.

  “I may be able to make an arrangement with Bixio.” He put the cigarette in his mouth.

  “Spadano said he’d release my wife this evening; there is no need for any arrangement.”

  Leonardelli laughed, allowing air to escape from his nose and blow at the glowing tip of the cigarette. “I think, Trotti, you are being naive. You don’t seem to understand the Carabinieri. They are southerners; Levantines, if you like. They drive a hard bargain.” He laughed again. “They certainly don’t give any presents. I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  A dismissive wave of Leonardelli’s hand. “They owe me favors. It is possible I can get them to drop charges. I will look into it. But while I’m doing all this for you, I’d be grateful if you’d get on with your work. Your place is here in the Questura. I don’t want you wandering about—not now, not with elections here next Sunday. I want you to get to the bottom of the Guerra affair. Get a confession. And leave politicking with the Carabinieri to me.”

  Outside in Strada Nuova, the Italian flag, drenched and bedraggled, hung limply from the flagstaff.

  42

  MAGAGNA WAS WAITING for him in the corridor. He was smoking and he looked worried.

  “You’re wearing uniform,” Trotti remarked, surprised.

  Magagna shrugged. “I received orders.”

  “From him?” With his thumb, Trotti gestured over his shoulder to Leonardelli’s office. They went past the Faema machine.

  “Indirectly.” Magagna pulled at Trotti’s sleeve. “But come quickly. There’s someone I think you should talk to.”

  Trotti quickened his step. “You’ve heard about my wife?”

  Again Magagna shrugged. A matter of no importance. “Come,” he said.

  They went into Trotti’s office.

  “He’s waiting outside with Gino.”

  Trotti sat down at his desk, opened the bottom drawer and quickly poured a few drops of grappa into the screw-top. He drank and hurriedly put the bottle back in its place. Magagna came back, ushering in the visitor.

  “This way, please. Commissario Trotti can now talk to you.”

  An old man entered. He was well-dressed in a slightly outdated fashion; beneath the open-necked shirt, a white singlet. Over one arm, a raincoat and hanging from his forearm, a black umbrella. Pale cotton trousers, light blue except at the bottoms where the material had been splashed by the rain.
White socks and woven leather shoes.

  “Avvocato Romano.” He held out his hand. In the other hand, he held a leather leash. A small Pekinese dog trotted dutifully behind him.

  “I think we’ve met.”

  “Yes, I think so.” Trotti smiled and they shook hands.

  He had a tanned, intelligent face, a high forehead speckled with dark freckles. The eyes, too, were intelligent; cunning even. His thin hair was sandy in color and formed a widow’s peak. A thin, peppery mustache—of the type that had been popular before the war in the old telefoni bianchi films—ran along the upper lip.

  He gripped Trotti’s hand firmly; the hand was dry.

  “Please be seated.”

  The man, seventy years old at least, Trotti decided, carefully attached the dog’s lead to one arm of the armchair before sitting down on the dusty canvas. He pulled at the creases of his trousers while Magagna took the raincoat and umbrella.

  A smile. “Avvocato Romano, Ettore—now retired.”

  “A pleasure to meet again. Now how can I help you?”

  The lawyer raised a sandy eyebrow. “Help me?” He shook his head. “No, Commissario, I don’t need help. I come here as a citizen to do what I consider to be my duty.”

  “Which is?”

  Avvocato Romano seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the question. He glanced at Magagna before answering. “To tell you what I know—or rather, to be more exact, what I saw. I trust it may be of use to you. This young officer here concurs with my opinion.”

  Magagna smiled.

  “Then please tell me everything.” Trotti unscrewed the top of his pen expectantly. He took a sweet from his pocket and placed it in his mouth; it clicked against his teeth.

  Avvocato Romano sat back in the chair, obviously enjoying the attention now being given to him. He placed his elbows on the armrest and clasped his hands together on the lap of his cotton trousers. The dog lay obediently at his feet.

  “I usually take Giuseppina for a walk in the evening.”

  “Giuseppina?”

  “My dog.” The pekinese raised its eyes to look at its master. “A good walk does us both good—and well, it helps me to sleep. I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of an insomniac; since the departure of my good wife, I don’t sleep as well as I used to.” He leaned forward and on a more intimate note added, “Herbal teas don’t help. So a walk around the city—I follow the old Roman walls, you understand, and it normally takes us about an hour. Useful exercise. And then I can sleep.”

  “I understand,” Trotti said and pretended to write a few words on the sheet before him.

  “We usually leave at about eleven o’clock in the evening. There are fewer cars for Giuseppina to bark at. Of course, I am very happy about the pedestrian zone; unfortunately, most of the parking places for the cars are now along the old city walls. Earlier in the day you can’t walk on the pavement because of the cars. That’s where they leave them, the people who come here to work.”

  “The dog barks at the cars?”

  “But she’s getting better.” A proud smile. “Aren’t you, my dear?” He gave a tug at the lead. The dog looked at its master with haggard indifference.

  “I follow the Roman walls—as I told you—starting from the river and going round the city. For six years now—ever since the good lady died. And only fifty-four.” He placed a hand in his trouser pocket and rummaged, looking for a handkerchief. He pulled it out and wiped his forehead. “Only fifty-four, God rest her soul.”

  Trotti murmured a few words of sympathy.

  Then Avvocato Romano, looking to the window, said, “Humid, isn’t it?”

  It was still raining outside, the large drops splashing against the window. Through the glass there came the muffled sound of tires running over the wet cobbles in the street below. Trotti, too, felt hot. He pointed to the door and asked Magagna to open it. Magagna got up and opened the door, jamming it with a chair. A timid breeze from the corridor pushed at the dirty curtain. The dog raised its eyes.

  “Thank you,” the lawyer said. He folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “I wouldn’t have come—I wouldn’t be here, wasting your time like this—if it wasn’t important. And then when I saw her photograph in the newspaper—and the article—then I knew I had been right.” He raised his shoulders. “I don’t normally read those articles—the cronaca nera, it’s so depressing. Goodness knows how people can enjoy that sort of thing. And yet you know, I had colleagues, other lawyers like myself, who wouldn’t touch anything else.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  Avvocato Romano frowned. “I saw her photograph in the paper. The Provincia. Most days I go to the bar—Il Senatore in via Cremona—to have a look at the papers, and especially at the obituaries. I like to see who has died. It’s nice to know who you’ve outlived.” A little laugh. “A kind of revenge, I suppose. Unfortunately as all my old enemies die off I’ve got no one left to share the pleasure with. And I’ve got no one left to hate.” He sighed. “Ah! Growing old—it gets very lonely.” One hand fell against the other and made a dry sound. “But otherwise, no—I don’t read the papers. It’s not the same world. So much violence, so much senseless violence. And no real politicians, just rather horrible little men. Now Giolitti—that was a politician.”

  “What did you see in the paper, Avvocato?”

  “Please do not rush me, Commissario.” He held up a hand. “I’m an old man now and it takes me time to think. I’ll get there, have faith in me—but let me get there under my own steam. At my own speed and in my own way.” There was a runnel down his chin—he now ran a finger along it while his eyes were closed in thought. He shook his head. “It was in yesterday’s paper. And I saw the photograph quite by chance. It gave me a nasty turn. It was her all right. I recognized her face—and her mouth. She had a nice mouth. You know, those photos, they make everybody look ugly. And in the paper, she looked ugly, poor thing. But she wasn’t ugly.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, I never knew her name. And she probably wouldn’t have given it to me if I’d asked. It’s strange, isn’t it, how there are so many people whose faces are etched into our memory, we see them every day of the week—and yet we haven’t got the first idea of what their name is. I used to say hello to her whenever she was there. Sometimes it was almost every evening. Of course, there were occasions when she wasn’t there. I was disappointed—I liked to see her—but of course I was being selfish. She was probably with a client, making some money, the poor thing. I would go past at about half past eleven—maybe a bit earlier.” He stopped. “Yes, she had a nice mouth.”

  “You mean Irina Pirvic?”

  “That’s right. She was Yugoslav, according to the newspaper. She wasn’t Italian, I knew that. She had an accent. Sometimes she’d say buona sera and then I would stop and we’d talk about the weather for a few minutes.” He stopped, smiling to himself. “One of the consolations of old age, perhaps, is that it teaches you the true value of women. When I was a young man”—he made a rotating gesture—“women, I had as many as I wanted. But it was love not of women but of myself that drove me to conquer more and more. We are so caught up by the need to conquer women that we don’t have time to enjoy them. As fellow human beings, with similar passions and this great desire to love—to love unselfishly.” Again he gestured. “She was a prostitute probably because she had no choice. I’d like to think that she did that humiliating job because she had another mouth to feed.” Quite sharply he pointed at Trotti. “But don’t think I blame men for making use of whores. Men are no worse than women; we are all caught up in a system which is much stronger than us. We think it is us, making our own decisions, achieving our own little satisfactions. And of course, we are too self-centered to realize that all that we do, all our petty desires, it’s all innate and that we are as much masters of our lives as are puppets masters of their movements. We are puppets—driven on by forces much stronger than us—the force to reproduce and
the force to survive.”

  “She never solicited you?”

  “I am old enough to be her father.” The avvocato was genuinely shocked. “And I am a respectable man.” He turned, looked through the window. “But indeed, there was something engaging about her. Something almost innocent—as though she herself didn’t quite understand why she spent her evenings on the pavement, waiting to be picked up by riffraff. It wasn’t her real job. She probably had no choice.” He smiled. “Or am I imagining these things? No.” He shook his head slightly. “No, I don’t think so. Her face was gentle—even though she wore the most atrocious wig. A wig of frizzy white hair. And the clothes she wore—mini-skirts and provocative blouses and shoes with strange heels. But despite all that, she didn’t look vulgar. A nice mouth—and a nice oval face.”

  There followed a short silence; then it was Magagna who spoke, removing the cigarette from his mouth. “Avvocato, she was killed by the man she lived with. It was an accident, she fell down the stairs. To get rid of the body, he cut her up.”

  The avvocato’s face darkened. “So I read. I don’t normally read those articles, but when I saw her photograph … It gave me a shock.” He paused. “But in a way, I was expecting something like that. Perhaps not quite so gory—but I knew that something had happened. I suspected something and then when I didn’t see her for several days … down by the Casa dello Studente, Giuseppina and I would dawdle deliberately—just in case she might turn up. To see her, a nod, a few words—when you reach my age, that can make all the difference. But she didn’t come and that only confirmed my worst doubts.” He stopped, looked around the office, at the grey filing cabinets, the wall map, the dusty dossiers piled on the floor, the chipped paint of the radiator. He looked at Magagna and then again at Trotti. “That man was lying,” he said. “He didn’t kill her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He was lying. The old man in the newspaper. Her lover. He didn’t kill her.”