I didn't sleep much that night, I can promise you. I couldn't help imagining my own little girl in his place . . .
'Only now that I had succeeded did I wonder if I'd been right to interfere. It was my wife who calmed me down, pointing out that the alternative would have been an orphanage. She was right, of course, but even so I didn't sleep. I kept seeing him sitting there alone, and wondering what was going through that strange, half adult mind of his.
'I didn't see him again for some time. The next news I had of him was from the woman who went in to help. I was relieved to find that she was beginning to take to him.
'"An odd creature and no mistake," she said, "but he's a worker, I'll say that for him. I call him my little helper. He's taken to looking after the other two -who, between you and rhe, aren't as they should be -like a mixture of guard dog and nanny. It's a comical sight, I can tell you, him so small and the other two such big lolloping creatures as helpless as the day they were born. Just like their mother, crazy Maria - she died, did you hear? Only a few days after they moved her from the villa. Shock, if you ask me, after all those years."
'Well, I might have expected that that's the way things would go, knowing little Moretti as I did. Unfortunately, things went very differently at school. I saw him one day in the playground as I was passing by. He was standing back against the school wall, alone, watching the others run about, just as he'd watched them that day at the park. He looked a forlorn figure but it may be that he wasn't unhappy. He didn't know how to play, and perhaps it was too late for him to learn. I decided that next time I passed I would try and find time to make inquiries of his teacher.
'When I did the news wasn't good. It seemed he was considered a disruptive influence. This came as a surprise, I must say. I had expected her to say he was withdrawn, that he didn't mix with the others and so on, but not this. However, the child was so completely detached from the group that often, when she was teaching, he would get up and wander off to stare out of the window or to try to leave the classroom altogether. It was obvious that he meant no harm, but he was completely uncontrollable and naturally the other children used him as a welcome distraction. He was learning nothing and evidently the teacher considered him subnormal and would have been glad to be rid of him. I asked her if he was bullied by the other children, given that he was so small for his age. The question seemed to embarrass her. There had been a number of incidents in the playground.
'"They'd found out who he was, you see ..."
"'What do you mean, who he was?"
'"That he was a German. At first they just stood around him chanting at him, then they took to hitting him. He didn't react or defend himself and he didn't tell anyone."
"'He didn't tell anyone? But there must have been an attendant on duty."
'That seemed to be at the root of her embarrassment. All she said was: "There are a lot of people around here who have no use for Germans."
"'So it was allowed to go on? When did you find out?"
'"When an attendant came to complain about Moretti's older brother - half-brother, I should say. He'd beaten up two boys. It turned out that they'd been attacking his brother. The attendant couldn't stop him and had to call for help. Big Beppe, as everybody calls him, is enormous for his age and as strong as an ox but he's slow and usually docile and never causes trouble. Nevertheless, he was half crazy with anger and the attendant was terrified."
'"Well, at least that probably put a stop to their tormenting little Moretti."
"'I imagine so. But in one way or another the child is always causing trouble and he learns nothing here."
'I confess that in a way I was pleased at the idea of Moretti's being defended by his great brute of a half-brother. At least it meant he'd become part of the family. But there's no doubt that over the years it's always been Moretti who's defended him. He's a poor slow-witted creature and people have always teased him. They can make him believe anything and are always ready to get a cheap laugh at his expense.
'It was disappointing, though, to hear that little Moretti was learning nothing at school because I was convinced that he was bright, brighter than average.
'It wasn't long before he learned one thing, that he could stay off school fairly often and get away with it. The old man took little notice and would sign his absence book without making much fuss.
'The following year things improved slightly. His new teacher took a bit more interest in little Moretti's case and discovered that the child was something of a genius at mathematics. He whipped through the year's textbook in a couple of months and after that it was a job to give him enough to do. There was little improvement in other respects, though, and when obligatory school came to an end for little Moretti, he left only just literate and without a diploma, to start work in the factory.
'There's no doubt that theoretically at least he's wasted there, but he doesn't know it and he's never been dissatisfied with his lot, which counts for much in this life. That brief moment of glory when his intelligence suddenly manifested itself through his brilliance in mathematics is probably just a dim memory for him, if he remembers it at all. His character has never changed from the first day I saw him working busily at a geranium plant with a frown of concentration on his face. Once in the factory he threw all his considerable energy into becoming a skilled potter and when the old man retired he was ready not just to take over the business but to expand it. He began producing garden pots as. well as tiles and drains, and it wasn't long before that side had developed to such an extent that it took over completely. He exports all over Europe from that tumbledown place of his. I often wonder what he might have become in different circumstances . . .
'All his remaining energies went into looking after his cumbersome brother and sister - not that the brother's ever been a trouble to him; he's not capable of helping to run the business, as I'd known he wouldn't be, but he works night and day, doing all the heaviest jobs. Poor Tina was more of a problem. She's given him a lot of worry over the years, but he'd defend both of them to the death, like a ferocious guard dog, as that teacher once said. He married -1 suppose you know that - but in typical fashion he married a girl from an orphanage who hadn't a soul in the world or a penny to her name. Someone else for him to look after, to help. That's little Moretti all over. It seems to have turned out all right, though, and they have a little girl. As soon as he could afford it, he took a flat in town and ceased living in the factory. It's not a big flat, I believe, but he told me there'd always be a room in it for his brother - Tina was with the nuns then - and I wondered how his young wife would take that because Big Beppe's not everyone's idea of what you want about the home, but I gather he spends ninety per cent of his time holed up in the factory, not bothering anybody. It's been something of a standing joke in the town, ever since he got Tina off, whether he'd find a willing bride for his poor half-witted brother but it hasn't happened yet.
'Here I am rambling on and I've completely forgotten to tell you about Robiglio, who is of more interest to you, I suppose, than all this family gossip. Needless to say he vanished after that night when Pietro Moro was killed. I assume he went north and I found out later that he'd been called up to serve in the GNR shortly afterwards. As the Allies got threateningly close to us his father went north, too, and at the end of the war succeeded in crossing the border to Switzerland, which is more than Mussolini managed to do - but then, he was a slippery character, old Robiglio, much more so than his son ever managed to be. As I say, young Ernesto vanished after that night and the Robiglio factory and house, both damaged by bombings, remained deserted for years. Then, in the early 'sixties, I had a letter from him. It didn't come as a great surprise to me, I might say, though I was surprised at its promptitude which could only mean that he was well informed on everything that was happening here. The letter, you. see, arrived within a month of old Moretti's death. The only two eyewitnesses of his treachery were out of the way and he wanted to come back and set up in business again. The o
nly obstacle, as he saw it, was me. He knew well enough that I'd followed his activities during the war. I'd seen him so often slinking about after curfew up to no good and he was afraid of me. I didn't come to a decision without long thought, and when I did I made what you might think a strange request of him. I asked him for what was to all intents and purposes a confession, that is, I asked him to write to me giving a full account of the events of that night, including his own part in them, at the same time giving him my assurance that I had no intention of openly denouncing him. Don't misunderstand me, I had no intention of blackmailing him and I told him so. My feeling was that there'd been enough bloodshed and anger in the past, enough bitter reprisals following the war. Nevertheless, if Ernesto came back I knew that in a short time, with the means at his disposal, he'd be in a position of power in the town and at that point he'd only to wait for my death and he could proclaim himself a saint with nobody in a position to oppose him. That idea stuck in my gullet. Maybe I'd no right to do what I did but I'm glad I did it, and if he gets himself elected mayor, even more so. I may not live as long as he does but that letter will, and he has no means of knowing whose hands it will be put into when I'm gone. I don't say it keeps him on the straight and narrow path altogether but it will make him careful of doing any more damage in this town.
'Well, there it is. He came back, rebuilt his factory and house and married. His old father's long dead, of course.
'For years I've observed them, Ernesto Robiglio and little Moretti, as they worked and planned and gained acceptance in the town. Moretti gained it unconsciously, keeping himself to himself, doing a good job and paying a fair wage, looking after his family and doing no harm to anyone. Robiglio did it consciously, with his money. I wondered more than once if their paths would ever cross. Nobody, by the way, has ever set eyes on that letter other than myself. Moretti knows about it. When the old man died and he took over the factory I had him up here and told him the truth about his birth. I also told him about the letter when it arrived. I felt he had a right to that.
'And now I suppose I must tell you the truth about this business of the land that he bought from Robiglio as Tina's dowry. I'm trying to be fair. Young Moretti means a lot to me, you'll have understood that, I'm sure, but I'm not making him out to be a saint and I'd rather you knew the truth of it than imagined worse.
'In the first place, whatever people say, the idea for that deal over the land and Tina didn't originate with Moretti but with the crafty old so-and-so who married her. Moretti was in a tight spot all right; he didn't want his sister put in an asylum and he could hardly take her in at home. Even apart from her behaviour, there was the fact that they were expecting their child by then and there wasn't room. It was ironic that he should find himself in the situation I'd once been in when looking for a home for him. At any rate, he came to see me and told me the whole story, the suggestion of this land-hungry peasant that he should buy a piece of land on the cheap from Robiglio as a dowry on the grounds that, according to the peasant, Robiglio "owed him a favour" - Moretti, that is. At the centre of all this was the letter. The peasant didn't know about it, he only knew the story and that from hearsay, but Moretti knew and he came and asked me for it.
'I refused. I felt for him and I told him so but I refused. I said that if he felt it was the right solution he could try and convince Robiglio to sell, anyway, without being devious about it.
'"I can't afford to buy. I'm in debt over the apartment and I've just taken on a new thrower. Then there's a child on the way."
'"1 can't help you, not that way. It would be blackmail."
'"In a good cause."
"'But still blackmail."
'"From what you told me it's no more than he deserves!"
'"1 won't do it, Moretti."
'"Then why did you ever want that letter if you won't use it?"
'"To keep Robiglio from doing more harm, not to harm him."
'"You know what will happen to Tina?"
"'I won't do it. Go to Robiglio. Tell him you want that land and why. Ask him to let you pay in small instalments. He can only say no. Always try the simplest way first. I'm not saying it will work. If he's anything like his father he has no conscience, which is why I invented one for him and keep it locked in a drawer. Even so, try it. As to his owing you a favour, it's true that you probably owe your very existence in this world to him. Whether you look on that as a debt he owes you or one you owe him is for you to decide. If it doesn't work, send that old rascal who wants Tina to me and we'll see if we can't appease him with a promise of something later on when you can afford it. But I warn you of one thing: don't try putting pressure on Robiglio by pretending you can get your hands on that letter because he'll immediately check with me and I'll deny it."
'Well, whatever he told Robiglio it seems to have worked. He got the piece of land on deferred payment. Although I'd suggested it myself, nobody was more surprised than I was that it worked, and to be absolutely honest with you I had a moment of doubt about how Moretti had managed it. So much so that I made a telephone call to Robiglio. I wanted to be sure that there had been no false menaces concerning that letter. Robiglio assured me that it hadn't been mentioned.
"h1"We came to an amicable agreement."
'It was none of my business to insist on knowing the terms of their amicable agreement if it didn't concern me or the letter, so I had to let it go at that. What other people may think their terms were I don't know. Probably they don't know either. The point about these anonymous letters, as I've already said, is that they're all aimed at the same thing, Nazi-fascism. For those people Robiglio is the son of his father and Moretti the son of his. Racial hatred is like a volcano. The flames of the great eruption of the last war may have died down but the volcano goes on smouldering. Nothing has changed. It only needs an excuse, economic depression, threatened vested interest, whatever you will, and it's ready to erupt all over again. Now you've seen it for yourselves in microcosm in this small town. As long as things are peaceful we're hospitable and polite to the German buyers who come tq buy our pottery and the German tourists who rent our country cottages. But now a girl has been murdered and the old flames have been fanned.
'I don't envy you your job, I can tell you. I hope I've made it easier for you by telling you the truth of what's behind these anonymous letters, if only so that you can eliminate the irrelevant. I can't do more than that. I don't know who this Swiss girl was and I don't know what's going on between Moretti and Robiglio now. I can only promise you that just as I refused to give Moretti that letter years ago to help him settle Tina, I refused just as firmly to give it to him yesterday in this very room. I don't know why he wants it now, he wouldn't tell me, though I did my best to find out. Perhaps you have some idea yourselves. Isn't that what brought you here?'
Eight
The car was crashing over potholes in the lane which hadn't seemed to be there when they came down it. Niccolini was driving too fast.
'I'm driving too fast . . . damn! Sorry.'
A tractor tried to pull out from an orchard to their right.
'Eh, no!' He leaned on his horn, 'Back you go, laddie, we're in a hurry!'
Perhaps he couldn't have said why they were in a hurry if anyone had asked him. Nobody asked him, certainly not the Marshal who sat silent and uneasy behind his dark glasses, but he didn't complain even when he was bounced out of his seat, and for once he was glad of Niccolini's ebullient activity which tended to relieve his feelings. Not a word had passed between them yet about what they had heard but he knew by unspoken agreement they were heading for Moretti's place and that there was no time to lose. They might have been trying to prevent a murder rather than investigating one.
'Blast these lights . . . they're going to be red - I knew it!'
The car didn't quite stop but braked and continued edging forward inch by inch. The Marshal, who was feeling slow and heavy, incapable of logical action, observed the big boot toying with the accelerator and the glov
ed hand that tapped the steering-wheel impatiently and thought to himself: Thank God he's in charge, somebody wide awake and efficient who can take some sort of decision, put some facts together. As for himself, his head was full of moving images, some of them first-hand, some of them inspired by the doctor's story, and all of them slowing down and slowing down until they became silent tableaux. An ugly little boy reaching for a dead geranium head in a lemon-scented garden. Maria spreadeagled on the kitchen table. A pale, watching face at the window of the house with the seven lavatories. Berti creeping out from the dark cavern of a kiln, thin and grey, crawling out over the crumbled brickwork at the kiln's mouth. Berti's thin fingers spinning his hair-fine brush that made patterns appear like magic. Why Berti? What was the point of thinking about him, if you could call it thinking? It was Moretti who mattered, Moretti towards whom they were racing as the lights changed and the car leapt forward, throwing him back in his seat. Moretti who . . . Were they going to arrest him, or to protect him? Perhaps it was time they called the Captain. It was all very well to collect a lot of miscellaneous information, but you needed someone with brains to make some sense of it all. In the meantime, at least there was Niccolini who would act instead of sitting dumbly with a head full ofjumbled pictures . . .
The Marshal and the Murderer Page 16