Authors: Timothy Williams
The boy nodded.
“You know that Laura is in the hospital?”
Another nod.
“You know that she was attacked by a man with a knife.”
“Yes.” His face was partially hidden by the bright light of the sky behind him.
“And you are Netta’s boyfriend?”
“Netta and I are friends.”
“More than just friends, I believe.”
Trotti saw the slow blush as it moved across Riccardo’s face. He stood with his hands loosely clasped. His hair was unruly and, although he had brushed it, it showed a lack of attention. It needed cutting.
“Netta and I are friends—that is all. There was a time …” He hesitated. “There was a time when we were a lot closer. Now we are just friends.”
“Can you tell me where you spent Saturday night, Riccardo?”
“I was with a friend.”
“A friend?”
“From the Istituto Tecnico.” He nodded earnestly, stepping forward towards Trotti’s desk. “We went to the cinema and then, as it was late, I stayed at his place.”
“Who is this friend—and where does he live?”
“Raffaele Arzanti, via Emilia, thirteen, in the Borgo Genovese.” The boy spoke fast as if he had been preparing his answers.
“And Raffaele—can he corroborate what you say?”
“Of course.”
Trotti opened the left-hand drawer and took out the dossier. He looked at Riccardo carefully before asking, “And does this mean anything to you?” He handed over the identikit pictures, two side views and one frontal.
The boy took the sheet, his hand was shaking very slightly. Then with his eyes on the sheet of paper, he lowered himself on to the armrest of his mother’s chair. The light from the window softened the long nose and high cheekbones.
Signora Bianchini looked up at her son; she placed her hand on his arm.
“Well?”
In thought, Riccardo massaged his jaw with his hand, as if he were trying to alter his own features. His face had paled, the blush had disappeared.
“Well?”
Signora Bianchini took the sheet from her son’s hand.
“A resemblance?” Trotti asked in a flat voice.
“It’s the old man, isn’t it?”
Now the eyes were steady. Riccardo looked uncomfortable, but the eyes remained on Trotti. The same almond eyes as his mother. “Signor Vardin—the old bastard. He gave you the identikit.” Riccardo Bianchini spoke calmly. “It was Vardin, wasn’t it? He’s always hated me … And now he wants to get me into trouble with the police.” A dry laugh. “The cunning old bastard.”
A
MISTAKE
. A pleasant mistake.
The Audi moved effortlessly out of the city and Trotti sat back, enjoying the sensation—the sunlight beyond the tinted windows, the comfortable upholstery of the car and gentle, insinuating perfume that hung in the air.
For twenty minutes he sat in silence looking through the window at the tinted September countryside. A country at work, a people at peace. Italia felix. Trotti smiled to himself. The muscles beneath his eyes seemed to ache.
Signora Bianchini turned her head, raising an eyebrow. “Commissario?”
He looked at the woman, at her regular features, her wide, almond eyes. “Not every day that I have such a charming chauffeur.”
“And it is not every day that my son is accused of attacking an innocent child.”
“Nobody is accusing him, signora.”
The voice was cold. “But you don’t believe him.”
“I don’t believe anybody.”
“You believe that my son would take a knife to a little girl?”
“Your son has nothing to be afraid of … if he has a corroborated alibi. We will check with Raffaele.” Trotti folded his arms. “Understand, signora, that I must look into every possibility, no matter how disagreeable.”
“You really think Riccardo is a child molester?”
“I believe nothing without proof, signora.”
The woman pursed her lips. “You’re a strange man, Commissario Trotti.”
“I am interested in facts—not in beliefs.”
“A strange man—and harsh.”
“An old man—and only a few years away from a well-deserved retirement.”
“Old?” She smiled. “You are fishing for compliments.”
He put his head back on the rest and closed his eyelids.
“A man in the prime of life, Commissario.”
The strange aching of the muscles beneath his eyes.
“A man of probity. A man who has the courage of his convictions.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. “A man who is not afraid of being unpopular.”
“It’s not my job to be popular.”
“How much do you earn, Commissario? A civil servant, a flatfoot at the end of his career—and just enough to get by on. Off-the-peg Lebole suits and cheap shoes. A nylon tie from Standa. And no doubt a dutiful wife at home, sweating over the kitchen, with her hair falling into her eyes.”
“My wife is in New York.”
“You’re not rich—perhaps not even particularly intelligent.”
Trotti shrugged.
“But honest.”
“You flatter me.”
“An honest policeman.”
“Let’s just say stupid.”
“An honest man—the sort of man that I should have married.”
Trotti laughed. “With my salary, signora?”
“Instead I was looking for something else. Honesty, integrity—I thought they didn’t exist.”
“Perhaps they don’t.”
“Now you’re laughing at me, Commissario.”
“An unintelligent flatfoot, Signora Bianchini?”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
Their eyes met.
“My family was not rich, Commissario. I grew up in Caserta. Not starving, not desperately poor—but poor enough to be determined that my children would have the best. There’s nothing romantic about being poor, about being hungry. There is no dignity in poverty—just fear. Fear that you have eaten your last meal. That’s why I married my husband.” She shrugged; then she tapped Trotti’s knee. “There’s a pair of sunglasses in the glove box.”
He found the glasses—German, with a neat, golden logo on one of the arms—and handed them to her. “You don’t need glasses with the tinted window, signora.”
She put on the glasses.
“And you have beautiful eyes.”
They had reached the foothills; the vineyards ran down the slopes and the afternoon air was hazy with the late summer mist. A castle in the distance stood out from the soft skyline. No smells from the countryside penetrated the cool interior of the Audi. Several road signs indicated the possibility of landslides. “You really don’t have to take me all the way to Santa Maria, Signora Bianchini.”
“What else have I got to do with my time?” She slowed down before overtaking a tractor. The driver—a wizened peasant beneath a battered felt hat—gave a little wave and then frowned his wrinkled eyes at the silent, powerful car. “It is a pleasure to talk to a man like you, Commissario.”
“A man who is not rich? Nor particularly intelligent? With a wife sweating over the cooker?”
“You know, when my husband decided to leave me, it was a relief. He loved me no more than I loved him—he’d married me for my looks and I’d married him for the money. Once I’d got tired of the nice clothes and the nice cars that money could bring, there was nothing left. Nothing except my son.” She shrugged. “And about the same time, he realized that I was no longer an eighteen-year-old virgin but a middle-aged woman and mother. With wrinkles and a flabby belly.”
Trotti felt uncomfortable. At the same time, it was not unpleasant to be beside this woman, to breathe in her perfume, share her secrets.
“Now it’s you who are fishing for compliments, signora.”
“Why New York, Commissario?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is your wife doing in New York?”
“It’s not always easy living with an unintelligent, underpaid policeman.”
“And you have children?”
“I have a daughter.”
“Then you know how a parent feels.” She shrugged. “I never thought I would have children—I was the eldest of seven and I didn’t want that. It was so—so animal, so degrading, seeing Mama with her swollen belly and her tired face and her hands roughened by all the hard work. I didn’t want that—and instead I made the mistake of having only one child. One child, Commissario, and you are a prisoner. Even when you are angry with him, you dote on him. You dote on him because there is nobody else—there is no one else to share your affection.”
Trotti turned away. Seen through the tinted glass, the outside world was unreal, like a moving film.
“And in the end, by loving him too much, by worrying for him, you teach him to resent you.”
“My daughter is in Bologna.”
“To resent you. And then to hate you.” A sigh. “Riccardo is a man. In these last two years, he has grown up a lot—he has changed. And now he no longer has time for me. I am a fool, an old woman. I think he despises me.”
“For many years, my daughter admired me, she looked up to me, I was the only man in her life. Now I scarcely ever see her.”
“Riccardo thinks that I am mercenary, that all I am interested in is money and the good things. But it was for him that I wanted the best. You can understand that, can’t you, Commissario? The good life—it wasn’t for me, but for him. So that he wouldn’t suffer. That’s why I came north, that’s why I did what I did …”
“What you did?”
The eyes move behind the dark lenses. “I am not a saint, Commissario. And when I came north, it wasn’t easy to find a job.”
Trotti waited.
“I went to Turin.”
An awkward silence.
“I could no longer stay in Caserta. Eighteen years ago I was a pretty girl. From Turin, I sent a lot of the money back to mother—so that my sisters could go to school. And then I met my husband.”
“You fell in love?”
“I have never loved any man, Commissario. Not even my father.”
“But you love Riccardo?”
“Riccardo is part of me.” She took her hand from the steering wheel and brushed lightly at her cheek. “And now he no longer needs me.”
“Why not?”
“About a year and a half ago something happened to him. Riccardo went to stay with his father. On Lake Como. And when he came back, he was strange—he had changed.”
“In what way?”
“Riccardo has always been very good—very affectionate. And as soon as he came back, I could sense the hostility. He was no longer the affectionate son that he used to be. He resents me. And it was after coming back from Lake Como that he started staying away. He has the motor bike that his father bought for him at Mandello del Lario.”
“And when did he start seeing the Vardin girl?”
“Riccardo never told me about her at first.” Signora Bianchini opened her mouth to say something else, but instead she fell silent.
“When did they meet?”
“Riccardo deserves better than that girl.” The corner of her lip turned down. “She is insignificant.”
“Perhaps he is in love with Netta.”
“Of course he isn’t.”
“She is very fond of your son.”
“That girl means nothing to him. When she comes to the house she has hardly got a word to say for herself.”
“That’s not the impression that I—”
“Riccardo may have been infatuated, but he doesn’t like her anymore—and, anyway, I haven’t sacrificed eighteen years of my life just to see Riccardo go off with the first stupid little girl that comes along. A poor little peasant child—and a father who hasn’t got two hundred lire to rub together.”
They turned off the main Tarzi road and followed the signposts. Santa Maria, eight kilometers. Trotti’s ears began to sense the change in the atmosphere.
“He is a good boy. You must help him, Commissario.” She sighed. “Oh my God.”
Trotti looked at her again.
“He would never hurt anyone.”
A beautiful woman.
“Riccardo is all I have got. You will help me, won’t you, Commissario?”
F
RA
G
IANNI TURNED
and called out, “Too many boiled sweets, Piero, and not enough exercise.”
“I am an old man.”
“You’re fifteen years younger than me—and I am a young and athletic priest.” He laughed as he leaned on his stout walking stick.
Out of breath, Trotti caught up with his friend. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief then let himself sink down on to the soft grass. They had come to a clearing and, through the trees below them, Trotti could see the village of Santa Maria.
Trotti was born in Aquanera but he had gone to school in Santa Maria. Once he had seen the American bombers on their way back from Milan.
Strange that the village should have changed so much. There were villas and apartment buildings where Trotti could remember only fields. A place that had grown richer—a lot richer since the days when Trotti had lived there with his aunt and his cousin, Sandro. And yet, each time he returned, it somehow seemed smaller. Streets that had appeared broad to him as a child, he now saw as little more than alleys.
Fra Gianni said, “I’m so glad you decided to come with me, Piero.”
(In 1977, Sandro had phoned from his clinic in Brescia, offering to share the old house with him. It had fallen into disrepair
and needed a lot of work. Pioppi was still at school and for a few days, Trotti had been tempted to retire. To move out of the city, to move back to the hills. In the end, he had somewhat reluctantly turned down his cousin’s suggestion. Anyway, Agnese would never have followed him into the country.)
Santa Maria.
So many faces—and not even young faces—that he had never seen before; and boutiques where he could remember only shops selling the bare necessities of life. The Santa Maria he remembered belonged to the past.
Fra Gianni handed him the water flask. “Who was that woman in the car?”
“A friend.”
“A very attractive friend.”
Far below in the valley, the church spire rose grey and austere against the terracotta rooftops.
Trotti drank. “I came, Fra Gianni, because you asked me to.” His throat was dry and he did not want to speak. “The woman you ask about kindly offered me a lift.”
Fra Gianni took the flask, drank, then banged the cork cap into the metal neck.
“I still don’t have a car.” Trotti clambered to his feet.
They started walking, following the path that was scarcely visible. A smell of pines and burnt wood hung in the air; a smell that reminded him of his childhood. “You let more than forty years go past—and then all of a sudden you drive down to the city because you have to see me. That is why I came, Fra Gianni.”