Converging Parallels

QUATTRO STAGIONI: literally “four seasons,” a pizza divided into four sections with different ingredients, traditionally artichokes, mozzarella, ham and olives

QUESTORE: chief inspector

QUESTURA: police headquarters

QUESTURINO: policeman

REPUBBLICHINI: Republicans

ROTA: rotation, shift

SALUTE: cheers, to good health

SBIRRO: policeman

SCOPONE: an Italian card game

SCUOLA ELEMENTARE: elementary school

SEI POLITICO: six out of ten, the lowest passing academic grade

SEZIONE LAUREATE: postgraduate annex

SIGNOR: mister

SIGNORE: sir

SINDACO: mayor

SQUADRA MOBILE: first response team

TELEFONI BIANCHI: a type of film made in Italy in the 1930s in imitation of American comedies of the time, often featuring Art Deco sets with white telephones (symbol of bourgeois wealth)

TOPOLINO: the Italian name for Mickey Mouse, as well as an Italian digest-sized comic series featuring the Disney characters

TOTOCALCIO: Italian soccer betting pools Ufficio Provinciale del Turismo the regional department of tourism

UPIM: an Italian department store chain

VIA: street

VIALE: boulevard

VICOLO: alley

VIGILE URBANO: municipal policeman

T
ROTTI SAT AT
his desk and for a moment stared out of the window.

The sky was dark with future rain and the tiles of the neighboring rooftops had lost their terracotta glow. A swallow dropped through the air. The cooing of the pigeons had ceased.

He felt depressed, slightly sick. After a week of hot summer days—and this at the end of April—dark cloudbanks had formed to the north and had come up over the Alps, bringing a chill air. His ankles were cold in the short white socks. At the same time, he felt sticky and uncomfortable.

“Magagna!”

Brigadiere Magagna stuck his head through the door. “Dottore?”

“Bring me a coffee. And one for yourself.”

The door closed.

He looked again at the photographs on his desk: a dead piece of flesh. Without meaning, without purpose, photographed in a glossy black and white.

Trotti had seen his first corpse when he was seventeen years old. A couple of partisans, not much older than himself, in shabby clothes, the red scarf still around their necks, had been strung up by the repubblichini and left to bleed to death. At the time he had wondered what had become of the amputated hands.
The smell, the dark blood on the cobblestones and the flies—they had been part of his nightmares ever since.

Magagna knocked and entered carrying a small tray; the air of the dingy office filled with the reassuring aroma of coffee.

“Grappa?” Trotti took the bottle from the cupboard of the desk and without waiting for a reply, poured a shot into each cup. Small, plastic cups with vacuum filled walls and screw-on caps.

They drank.

A Vespa went past in the narrow street below; the engine sounded hollow and angry beneath the old brick walls of the Questura. Several birds darted upwards, touched at the gutter of the roof opposite and then flew away.

Magagna drank noisily, the froth of the coffee tinting the ends of his mustache. “Good.” He always said that. He placed the cup back on the tray. “Thank you, Commissario.” He wiped his mustache with the back of his hand.

“Sit down, Magagna. I want to speak to you.”

Magagna took the green canvas armchair; the cloth was worn and in need of sewing. He was a good-looking man, with a broad forehead and dark black hair. From Pescara. He had the healthy complexion of a peasant. Wide shoulders filled the uniform shirt, neatly washed and creased. A pair of American sunglasses; the thin arms ran parallel to the line demarking his hair and his well shaven cheeks. He smiled readily, showing even teeth.

“I’d be grateful if you dealt with this matter.” He pushed the photograph across the desk. “I’m busy at the moment. It’s nearly seven weeks since they kidnapped the most important man in Italian politics and nobody is any closer to catching the criminals. Or saving Moro’s life. It’s nothing to do with us here but Leonardelli seems to think differently. And in ten days’ time, we’ve got the municipal elections.”

Trotti laughed without humor. “Leonardelli could put us all on traffic duty and say it was a national emergency. ‘In this moment of crisis and political tension, the state knows that it can count upon the loyalty of all the forces of order and in particular upon the Pubblica Sicurezza, who acting upon the instructions
of a democratically elected government …’ ” Trotti had raised his hands; he now let them drop back on the desk. There was a packet of sweets by the telephone. He unwrapped one—rhubarb flavor—and placed it in his mouth. “He’s a politician.”

“What do you want me to do, Dottore?”

“Everything. Get a report from Medicina Legale. It looks like a woman. Put out a check on lost persons. Try the Carabinieri and the Pubblica Sicurezza of the up-river urban centers. And try Milan. See if you can …”

“Commissario!”

There was a hatch door in the wall; from the other side Gino was banging against the thin panels. “Line three, Commissario, for you. It’s a private call.”

“Excuse me.” Trotti leaned forward and picked up the phone.

“Pronto.”

It was not Agnese. The voice was male and hoarse. “Commissario Trotti?”

“Speaking.”

There was a pause. The faint bell of a cash register tinkled; muted voices speaking in the background.

Silence.

“This is Commissario Trotti speaking.”

“I must speak with you.”

“You are speaking with me.”

“In private.”

“Who is that, please?”

The deadened scraping of fingers against the plastic mouthpiece. “I am a friend, Commissario. You know me.”

“I am here in my office. The Questura, third floor. I shall be here for another couple of hours. You can speak with me here.”

A click of exasperation; air being sucked in. The voice was now louder, a hint of anger. “That is not possible. I must see you alone. You understand—away from your office.”

“I am a busy man.”

“You have a daughter, Commissario.”

The first fat drops of rain fell with sudden ease onto the sill of the window; dark blotches multiplied like the plague on the
concrete ledge. Magagna stood up to close the windows; he stepped over a pile of beige dossiers.

“I imagine you care for your daughter.”

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