Big Italy (33 page)

“Signora Viscontini, I’m a policeman. I’m not paid to think. I’m paid to discover the truth.”

“You think by accusing me of Fabrizio’s death you’ll discover the truth?” Her eyes looked steadily at him.

“I believe you had an affair with him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Anything that can help me find out who murdered Bassi is my business.” Realizing that he had allowed a certain harshness to enter his voice, Trotti was about to ask another question, this time more mildly, when Signora Scola spoke.

She had produced the notebook. She sat with her coat unbuttoned and now she balanced the notebook on the knees of her red dress. She smiled at Signora Viscontini, a smile of feminine collusion. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything. That’s not how the police work.” She threw a sidelong glance at Trotti. “We’d simply
like to find out why Signor Bassi was murdered. We believe you can help us.”

“I don’t know why he was murdered.”

“Of course not. But you knew him, didn’t you?”

The woman nodded.

“It was common knowledge …” Signora Scola lowered her voice, as if afraid to reveal a secret to the walls and the framed political posters of the large, bright room. “Common knowledge you were seen with Signor Bassi.”

“A long time ago.”

“Three years ago, I believe.”

Signora Viscontini looked at Trotti. “There was nothing in it. My husband was often away and I felt very homesick. Homesick for my country.”

“For Yugoslavia?”

“For Croatia. I’m from Zagreb. It was in my city that I met my husband. Luigi came with a delegation of the Italian Socialist Party. I was working as an interpreter—and we got married in a couple of weeks. Love at first sight.” A smile. “His first wife had died and his children no longer live in this city. They’re in Rome and Luigi was very lonely. It’s not easy being a mayor. Politics in your country—it was something I was not used to.” Another smile of the pale lips. “In my country—before independence—at the time of the communists, a mayor didn’t have enemies. He was a member of the party and everyone respected him. But this is not Yugoslavia. This is Italy.”

“You’re happily married?”

“A happy marriage, believe me.” The broad face confirmed the honesty of her assertion. “Unfortunately, my husband’s a very busy man. Oh, I know now there’s a lot of talk about the Socialists. There’s a lot of talk about Bettino Craxi and all his friends in Milan. Tangentopoli, Mani Pulite—and perhaps it’s true. This is Italy. But Luigi’s not like that. A good man and a very honest man. Yet …” She made a gesture with her hand.

Trotti noticed there were two gold bracelets around the strong wrist. “Yet what, signora?”

“I was often very lonely. A young girl—I wasn’t even twenty-four years old. I had money, of course, and I had a car. But I come from a big family and I like having people around me.”

“And you met Bassi?”

“I realize now I embarrassed my husband.”

Signora Scola asked, “You don’t have children?”

The other woman shook her head. “Luigi’s not interested in children. Not now. He has two sons living in Rome.”

“You wouldn’t like to have children?”

“No.” She smiled blandly. “Not yet.”

“Your husband’s a lot older than you. You’re not in a hurry?”

“Children?” She folded her arms. “We’ll see.”

“Signora Viscontini, where did you meet Fabrizio Bassi?”

She thought for a moment and she stroked her chin with the back of her hand. “I suppose I first met him in the foreigners’ bureau at the Questura. I had to go there because I didn’t have Italian citizenship.” She shrugged. “Now, of course, I have a passport.”

“And that’s where you met Bassi?”

“I met him, yes. But the first time we ever really spoke—it was funny really. It was during a political rally. A Socialist rally. There were policemen. They came to protect the various speakers.”

“And Bassi decided to protect you?”

“I was sitting in the front row. An open-air meeting in Piazza Vittoria and they were testing the sound system. He came over. Fabrizio came and talked to me. You know, a lot of people were very unkind to me in those early days. They said I’d only married Luigi to escape from the Communists. They couldn’t understand what attracted Luigi and me. And so I appreciated Fabrizio’s kindness.”

“You often met Bassi after that?”

She nodded. “Fabrizio was a kind person.”

“And through his kindness, he lost his job with the Questura.”

“A private detective agency—that’d always been his goal. He wasn’t kicked out—please don’t think that. Fabrizio left the police of his own accord. He was very happy.”

“W
AS HE IN
love with you?”

“Who?”

“Was Fabrizio Bassi in love with you, Signora Visconti?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“There was an affair?”

“What do you mean by that, commissario?”

“Did you and he make love?”

She shook her head with disbelief. “Commissario, I’m a married woman.”

“Plenty of married women have affairs.”

“But not me.”

“Of course not.”

“I won’t deny I spent time with Fabrizio.”

“A happily married woman?”

“I spent time with him because I was lonely, because my husband was often busy and I rarely saw Luigi from one convention to another. I know now it was a mistake.”

“In what way?”

“Fabrizio was kind. And by being with him, I suppose I was trying to make my husband jealous.”

Signora Scola asked, “Did it work?”

“There are people who say Luigi was very angry. I didn’t want to make him angry. I suppose I wanted to embarrass him. I wanted him to take notice of the young wife he’d forgotten all about. If I had married him, it was because I wanted to be with him.”

“You managed to embarrass him?”

“There are still people who say my husband was instrumental in Fabrizio’s leaving the police force.”

“Your husband is a friend of the Questore,” Trotti said flatly. “My husband has many friends. And even more acquaintances. I can’t tell you whom he likes and whom he simply meets with for political reasons.”

“You know the Questore, Signora Viscontini?”

“Of course.” She shrugged her shoulders. “The Questore’s a Socialist. He’s been to this house on several occasions.”

“Do you think it’s possible there was a deliberate attempt to have Fabrizio Bassi leave the force?”

“As I understand it, the Polizia di Stato’s part of the Ministry of the Interior. And, as such, policemen are civil servants, employed and paid by Rome. You should know that better than I, commissario. I really can’t see how anybody at a local level could influence the career of a civil servant.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I thought I already had.”

“You’re forgetting—perhaps because you’re still new to the Byzantine workings of this Italian state of ours—you’re forgetting, Signora Viscontini, that in our democracy, the ultimate power lies in the hands of the parties. Not in the hands of the people. This is a partitocrazia—and for nearly a decade, we’ve had two parties running this country for us. For us and without us. Two parties, including the Italian Socialist Party. Your husband’s party. In other countries, not in Yugoslavia or in Italy, but in the old democracies—in countries where power belongs not just to the strong but to everybody—civil servants do not brandish their political allegiances. In those countries, the civil servant merely executes the wishes of the democratically elected government.”

The young woman glanced at Simona Scola. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying, commissario.”

“Perhaps I should speak a bit slower.”

“Speak a bit more clearly. With clearer ideas.”

Trotti asked, “In your opinion, was there pressure at a political level for the removal of Fabrizio Bassi?”

“Fabrizio Bassi was not sent to Sicily or Calabria or the Adige. There was no pressure in this city that had him posted elsewhere. At least, that’s what he told me.”

“Then why did he leave the police?”

“I think I’ve told you.”

“Then tell me again.”

“Is this so important?”

“Why did Fabrizio Bassi leave the Polizia di Stato?”

“To set up his agency.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Fabrizio was aware he’d be losing all the advantages for his pension. He knew that. But working in the passport office or having to accompany politicians and hang around in the cold or sit and wait in a car while they ate their official lunches—that was something he was fed up with. Fabrizio wanted excitement.”

“That’s not what he told his colleagues.”

“I can only tell you what he told me.”

“He told you the truth?”

“I hope so.” The young woman made a gesture of amused irritation. “There were times when he liked to embellish, just like a little boy. He once told me he’d studied investigation in America—but I knew it wasn’t true. That doesn’t make Fabrizio a liar. Fabrizio was a good man. Naive, possibly. And perhaps he was influenced by all those television programs. He really wanted to be a private detective, just like the characters he saw on television. And perhaps …”

“Yes?”

Signora Viscontini took a deep breath.

“And perhaps what, signora?”

“Fabrizio Bassi was in love with me.”

“So?”

“He’d come out of a messy divorce and he needed female company. For him, being with a woman meant showing off. He had this very strong need to impress people. In his way, Fabrizio wasn’t very bright. I’m not saying he was stupid. Just that he had difficulty in understanding other people.”

“Most men do, signora,” Simona Scola remarked. She was writing in her notebook.

“Fabrizio could never really understand there was no need to wow or dazzle people. His goodness was sufficient. It was his goodness that I liked about him.”

“And that’s why he set up his detective agency? He wanted to dazzle you?”

“Yes.” She raised one of her legs and tucked it under her thigh.

“He wanted to impress me. He wanted to impress everybody. And I suppose he wanted to impress himself.”

“You still love him?” Trotti asked.

“You want me to collaborate—and then you ask stupid questions.”

“Your voice was on the answering machine.”

“What?” Color seemed to drain from the broad face.

“There was a message on the tape. A message from you.”

“Not possible.”

“Possible or not, signora, I can assure you it’s your voice.”

“I haven’t spoken to Fabrizio Bassi for months.”

“The affair’s over?”

“There never was any affair.” She caught her breath. “He liked me more than he should. And perhaps I was childish. Childish and flattered because I was lonely and I enjoyed Fabrizio’s company. But there wasn’t any affair.” Blood was now returning to her features. The pale blue eyes went from Trotti to Signora Scola. “I suppose I used him. Perhaps it was because of me that he left the police. But I would never have harmed him. I would never harm Fabrizio.”

“Why not? You no longer needed him.”

“Why not? Because when I felt alone and abandoned in a foreign country, he was a good friend to me.” She shrugged. “He wanted something that I couldn’t give him and I told him that. But Fabrizio Bassi will always remain one of my best Italian friends.”

“Y
OU HAVEN
’
T ANSWERED
my question.”

“You ask so many.”

“A professional hazard.”

“Which question, commissario?”

“When did you last see Fabrizio Bassi?”

She sat back in the chair, one leg still tucked beneath her thigh. The other leg rocked gently, the woolen sock grazing the carpet. “See him? It must be several months now. July, August. I saw him once at the Lido on the river. I was with friends and he came over to talk to me.”

“You never saw him since?”

“I spoke to him.”

“When?”

She gestured to a portable phone. “From time to time he would ring me.”

“What about?”

“The same sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“He seemed to believe there was some kind of future for us.”

“What sort of future?”

“He felt I was too young for my husband. He believed I was unhappy in my marriage.”

“Of course you’re not?”

“Who’s happy?”

“A good question, signora.”

“Even when you’re happy, are you really aware of it? We spend our lives chasing after various goals.”

“Cheese in the mousetrap?”

She frowned her incomprehension. “I grew up very poor. I come from a happy family, very united. Yet as soon as I was aware of what was happening in my country—I used to listen to the Italian radio and Radio Free Europe, that was how I learned your language—I knew I’d have to escape.”

“And you escaped?”

“I now have everything I ever dreamed of.” She gave a disarming smile that went from Trotti to Signora Scola. “The strange part is, I can’t tell you whether I’m happier than before. I can tell you that I miss my family. I miss my sisters and my cousins.”

“Why did Fabrizio Bassi think you were unhappy?”

“Perhaps he was more unhappy than I.”

“In what way?”

“I’ve achieved much of what I desired. You asked me a moment ago whether I wanted children. It’s true—I wasn’t totally honest. I’m a woman and I’d like to have children. But that’ll come. I can wait a bit more. I can wait for Luigi to calm down, to cease his running backwards and forwards in the name of the party. I thought when he lost the mayoralty, he’d spend more time at home. I was wrong about that. If, as everyone says, there are going to be elections in the spring, then for my sake and for the sake of my family, I hope the Socialists take a beating. Then we can start living the life of a normal couple.”

“How are you happier than Bassi?”

“I’m dissatisfied precisely because I’ve achieved what I always wanted. Fabrizio was dissatisfied because he must have known he would never achieve his aims.”

“That’s why there was no affair between you? His dissatisfaction?”

“There’s that.” She lifted a shoulder in begrudging acquiescence. “Plus the fact I didn’t love him.”