by John Grisham
were deceiving because Giorgio couldn’t block a doorway. Great.
Carlo was back, directing waiters and rearranging the table. Nino produced another bottle, which, surprisingly, came from just around the corner. It was a Lambrusco, a sparkling red, and Nino knew the wine-maker. There are many fine Lambruscos throughout Emilia-Romagna, he explained, but this was the best. And the perfect complement to the tortellini in brodo that his brother was serving at the moment. Nino took a step back, and Carlo began a rapid recitation in Italian.
Sam translated softly, but quickly. “This is tortellini in meat stock, a famous dish here. The little round pasta balls are stuffed with braised beef, prosciutto, and parmigiano; the filling varies from town to town, but of course Parma has the best recipe. The pasta was handmade this afternoon by Carlo himself. Legend has it that the guy who created tortellini modeled it after the belly button of a beautiful naked woman. All sorts of such legends here involving food, wine, and sex. The broth is beef, garlic, butter, and a few other things.” Rick’s nose was a few inches above his bowl, inhaling the rich aromas.
Carlo took a bow, then added something with caution. Sam said, “He says these are small servings because more of the first course is on the way.”
Rick’s first ever tortellini almost made him cry. Swimming in broth, the pasta and its filling jolted his senses and caused him to blurt, “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Carlo smiled and began his retreat to the kitchen.
Rick washed the first tortellini down with Lambrusco, and attacked the others swimming in the deep bowl. Small servings? Paolo and Giorgio had gone silent and were deeply involved with their tortellini. Only Sam showed some restraint.
Nino seated a young couple nearby, then rushed forth with the next bottle, a fabulous dry red Sangiovese from a vineyard near Bologna that he personally visited once a month to monitor the progress of the grapes. “The next course is a little more heavy,” he said. “So the wine needs to be more strong.” He uncorked it with a flair, sniffed the bottle, rolled his eyes in approval, then began pouring. “We are in for a treat,” he said as he filled five glasses, giving himself a slightly more generous serving. Another toast, more of a curse directed at the Bergamo Lions, and they tasted the wine.
Rick had always been a beer man. This headlong dive into the world of Italian wines was bewildering, but also very tasty.
One waiter was gathering the remains of the tortellini while another whisked down fresh plates. Carlo marched from the kitchen with two waiters in tow and directed traffic.
“This is my favorite,” Carlo began in English, then switched to a friendlier tongue. “It’s a stuffed pasta roll,” Sam was saying as they gawked at the delicacy before them. “It is stuffed with veal, pork, chicken livers, sausage, ricotta cheese, and spinach, and layered with fresh pasta.”
Everyone but Rick said, “Grazie,” and Carlo took another bow and disappeared. The restaurant was almost full and becoming noisy. Rick, while never missing a bite, was curious about the people around him. They seemed to be locals, enjoying a typical meal at the neighborhood café. Back home, food like this would cause a stampede. Here, they took it for granted.
“You get a lot of tourists here?” he asked.
“Not many,” Sam said. “All the Americans go to Florence, Venice, and Rome. A few in the summer. More Europeans than anyone else.”
“What’s to see in Parma?” Rick asked. The Parma section of his guidebook had been rather scant.
“The Panthers!” Paolo said with a laugh.
Sam laughed, too, then sipped his wine and thought for a moment. “It’s a lovely little town of a hundred and fifty thousand. Great food and wine, great people who work hard and live well. But it doesn’t attract a lot of attention. And that’s good. You agree, Paolo?”
“Yes. We do not want Parma to change.”
Rick worked a mouthful and tried to isolate the veal, but it was impossible. The meats, cheese, and spinach blended together into one delicious taste. He was certainly no longer hungry, nor was he full. They had been there for an hour and a half, a very long dinner by his old standards, but just warming up in Parma. On cue from the other three, he began to eat slowly, very slowly. The Italians around him talked more than they ate, and a mild roar engulfed the trattoria. Dining was certainly about great food, but it was also a social event.
Nino dropped by every few minutes with a quick “Is good?” for Rick. Great, wonderful, delicious, unbelievable.
For the second course, Carlo took a break from the pasta. The plates were covered—small portions still—with cotolette alla parmigiana, another famous dish from Parma and one of the chef’s all-time favorites. “Veal cutlets, Parma style,” Sam translated. “The veal cutlets are beaten with a small bat, then dipped in eggs, fried in a skillet, then baked in the oven with a mix of parmigiano cheese and stock until the cheese melts. Carlo’s wife’s uncle raised the veal himself and delivered it this afternoon.” As Carlo narrated and Sam interpreted, Nino was busy with the next wine, a dry red from the Parma region. Fresh glasses, even larger, were presented, and Nino swirled and sniffed and gulped. Another orgasmic roll of the eyes and it was declared sensational. A very close friend made the wine, perhaps Nino’s favorite of all.
Sam whispered, “Parma is famous for its food, but not its wine.”
Rick sipped the wine and smiled at the veal and vowed that he would, for the rest of the meal anyway, eat slower than the Italians. Sam watched him closely, certain that the culture shock was vanishing in a flood of food and wine.
“You eat like this often?” Rick asked him.
“Not every day, but this is not unusual,” Sam replied casually. “This is typical food for Parma.”
Paolo and Giorgio were slicing their veal, and Rick slowly attacked his. The cutlets lasted half an hour, and when the plates were clean, they were removed with a flourish. A long pause followed as Nino and the waiters worked the other tables.
Dessert was not an option, because Carlo had baked his special, torta nera, or black pie, and because Nino had secured a very special wine for the occasion, a dry sparkling white from the province. He was saying that the black pie, created in Parma, was chocolate with almonds and coffee, and since it was so fresh from the oven, Carlo had added just a touch of vanilla ice cream on the side. Nino had a minute to spare, so he pulled up a chair and joined his teammates and coach for the final course, unless they were in the mood for some cheese and a digestif.
They were not. The restaurant was still half-full when Sam and Rick began offering their thanks and trying to say good-bye. Embraces, pats on backs, powerful handshakes, promises to come again, more welcomes to Parma, many thanks for the unforgettable dinner—the ritual took forever.
Paolo and Giorgio decided to stay behind and have a bite of cheese and finish off the wine.
“I’m not driving,” Sam said. “We can walk. Your apartment is not far, and I’ll catch a cab from there.”
“I gained ten pounds,” Rick said, pushing his stomach forward and following a step behind his coach.
“Welcome to Parma.”
Chapter
7
The buzzer had the high-pitched whine of a cheap scooter with a missing exhaust pipe. It arrived in long bursts, and since Rick had never heard it before, he at first had no idea what it meant, or where it was coming from. Things were foggy anyway. After the marathon at Montana’s, he and Sam, for reasons that were not clear then or now, had stopped at a pub for a couple of beers. Rick vaguely remembered entering his apartment around midnight, but from then on, nothing.
He was on his sofa, which was too short for a man his size to comfortably sleep on, and as he listened to the mysterious buzzer, he tried to remember why he had chosen the den instead of the bedroom. He could not recall a good reason.
“All right!” he yelled at the door when the knocking began. “I’m coming.”
He was barefoot, but wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He studied his brown t
oes for a long time and contemplated his spinning head. Another screech from the buzzer. “All right!” he yelled again. Unsteady, he walked to the door and yanked it open.
He was met with a pleasant “Buongiorno” from a short, stocky man with an enormous gray mustache and rumpled brown trench coat. Beside him was a smartly uniformed young policeman who nodded his greetings but said nothing.
“Good morning,” Rick said with as much respect as he could muster.
“Signor Dockery?”
“Yes.”
“I am police.” From somewhere deep in the trench coat he produced documentation, waved it under Rick’s nose, then returned it to its hiding place with a move so casual the message was “Don’t ask any questions.” It could’ve been a parking ticket or a receipt from the cleaners.
“Signor Romo, Parma police,” he said through the mustache, though it barely moved.
Rick looked at Romo, then at the cop in the uniform, then back at Romo. “Okay,” he managed to say.
“We have complaints. You must come with us.”
Rick grimaced and tried to say something, but a thick wave of nausea rumbled down low, and he thought about bolting. It passed. His palms were sweaty, his knees rubbery. “Complaints?” he said in disbelief.
“Yes.” Romo nodded gravely, as if he had already made up his mind and Rick was guilty of something far worse than whatever the complaint was. “Come with us.”
“Uh, to where?”
“Come with us. Now.”
Complaints? The pub had been virtually empty last night, and he and Sam, to the best of his memory, had spoken to no one but the bartender. Over beers, they had talked football and nothing else. Pleasant conversation, no cursing or fighting with the other drinkers. The walk through the old town to his apartment had been thoroughly uneventful. Perhaps the avalanche of pasta and wine had made him snore too loudly, but that couldn’t be a crime, could it?
“Who complained?” Rick asked.
“The judge will explain. We must go. Please, your shoes.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No, maybe later. Let’s go. The judge is waiting.” For effect, Romo turned and rattled some serious Italian at the young cop, who managed to deepen his frown and shake his head as if things could not possibly be worse.
They obviously weren’t leaving without Signor Dockery. The nearest shoes were the maroon loafers, which he found in the kitchen, and as he put them on and looked for a jacket, he told himself it had to be a misunderstanding. He quickly brushed his teeth and tried to gargle away the layers of garlic and stale wine. One look in the small mirror was enough; he certainly looked guilty of something. Red puffy eyes, three days’ growth, wild hair. He tousled his hair, to no effect, then grabbed his wallet, U.S. cash, apartment key, and cell phone. Maybe he should call Sam.
Romo and his assistant were waiting patiently in the hallway, both smoking, neither with handcuffs. They also seemed to lack any real desire to catch criminals.
Romo had watched too many detective shows, and every movement was bored and rehearsed. He nodded down the hall and said, “I follow.” He dropped the cigarette in a hall ashtray, then stuck both hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat. The cop in the uniform led the perpetrator away, and Romo protected from the rear. Down three flights, onto the sidewalk. It was almost 9:00 a.m., a bright spring day.
Another cop was waiting by a well-dressed Fiat sedan, complete with an array of lights and the word “Polizia” painted in orange on every fender. The second cop was working on a cigarette and studying the rear ends of two ladies who had just passed him. He gave Rick a look of utter disregard, then took another puff.
“Let’s walk,” Romo said. “Is not far. You need air, I think.”
Indeed I do, Rick thought. He decided to cooperate, score some points with these guys, and help them discover the truth, whatever that was. Romo nodded down the street and walked beside Rick as they followed the first cop.
“Can I make a phone call?” Rick asked.
“Of course. A lawyer?”
“No.”
Sam’s phone went straight to voice mail. Rick thought about Arnie, but little good that would do. Arnie had grown increasingly hard to catch by phone.
And so they walked, along the Strada Farini, past the small shops with their doors and windows open, past the sidewalk cafés where people sat almost motionless with their newspapers and little espressos. Rick’s head was clearing, his stomach had settled. One of those small strong coffees might be welcome.
Romo lit another cigarette, blew out a small cloud of smoke, then said, “You like Parma?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No. This is my first full day here, and I’m under arrest for something I did not do. Kinda hard to like the place.”
“There’s no arrest,” Romo said as he lumbered heavily from side to side, as if both knees were about to fold. Every third or fourth step his shoulder nudged Rick’s right arm as he lurched again.
“Then what do you call it?” Rick asked.
“Our system is different here. No arrest.”
Oh well, that certainly explains things. Rick bit his tongue and let it pass. Arguing would get him nowhere. He had done nothing wrong, and the truth would soon settle matters. This was not, after all, some Third World dictatorship where they randomly rounded up people for a few months of torture. This was Italy, part of Europe, the heart of Western civilization. Opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, Lamborghini. It was all right there in his guidebook.
Rick had seen worse. His only prior arrest had been in college, during the spring of his freshman year when he found himself a willing member of a drunken gang determined to crash an off-campus fraternity party. Fights and broken bones ensued; the police showed up in force. Several of the hooligans were subdued, handcuffed, knocked around by the cops, and finally thrown in the rear of a police wagon, where they were poked a few times by nightsticks, for good measure. At the jail, they slept on cold concrete floors in the drunk tank. Four of those arrested were members of the Hawkeye football team, and their adventures through the legal system were sensationally reported by several newspapers.
In addition to the humiliation, Rick got thirty days suspended, a fine of four hundred dollars, a scathing tongue-lashing from his father, and the promise from his coach that another infraction, however minor, would cost him his scholarship and send him to either jail or junior college.
Rick managed the next five years without so much as a speeding ticket.
They changed streets and turned abruptly into a quiet cobblestoned alley. An officer in a different uniform stood benignly by an unmarked opening. Nods and quick words were exchanged, and Rick was led through the door, up a flight of faded marble steps to the second floor, and into a hallway that obviously housed government offices. The decor was drab; the walls needed paint; portraits of long-forgotten civil servants hung in a sad row. Romo selected a harsh wooden bench and said, “Please have a seat.”
Rick obeyed and tried Sam’s number once more. Same voice mail.
Romo disappeared into one of the offices. There was no name on the door, nothing to indicate where the accused was or whom he was about to see. There was certainly no courtroom nearby, none of the usual hustle and noise of frantic lawyers and worried families and cops bantering back and forth. A typewriter rattled in the distance. Desk phones rang and voices could be heard.
The cop in the uniform drifted away and struck up a conversation with a young lady at a desk forty feet down the hall. He soon forgot about Rick, who was quite alone and unwatched and could have nonchalantly disappeared. But why bother?
Ten minutes passed, and the cop in the uniform finally left without saying a word. Romo was gone, too.
The door opened and a pleasant woman smiled and said, “Mr. Dockery? Yes? Please.” She was offering him an entrance into the office. Rick walked inside. It was a crowded front room with two desks
and two secretaries, both of whom were smiling at Rick as if they knew something he didn’t. One in particular was very cute, and Rick instinctively tried to think of something to say. But what if she spoke no English?
“A moment please,” the first lady said, and Rick stood awkwardly as the other two pretended to return to work. Romo had evidently found the side door and was no doubt back on the street pestering someone else.
Rick turned and noticed the large, dark double wooden doors, and beside them was an impressive bronze plaque that announced the eminence of Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice. Rick walked closer, then even closer, then pointed to the word “Giudice” and asked, “What is this?”
“Judge,” the first lady said.
Both doors suddenly flew open and Rick came face-to-face with the judge. “Reek Dockery!” he shouted, thrusting a right hand forward while grabbing a shoulder with his left, as though they had not seen each other in years. Indeed they had not.
“I am Giuseppe Lazzarino, a Panther. I am fullback.” He pumped and squeezed and flashed his large white teeth.
“Nice to meet you,” Rick said, trying to inch backward.
“Welcome to Parma, my friend,” Lazzarino said. “Please come in.” He was already pulling on Rick’s right hand as he continued to shake it. Once inside the large office, he released Rick, closed