City of Devils: A Novel (7 page)

Lombroso went on as if Horton had not spoken.

‘As you can see, we have examples on paper, clothing and pottery. It is interesting to see the way in which criminals express themselves through art. Many of them seem to have a strange compulsion to do so. They’re probably frustrated by their inability to express themselves through the use of language alone, although it is true that I have also seen literate criminals use illustration in this way.’

James looked curiously at the examples before him. Some of them were fairly primitive in their use of images but others were quite sophisticated. One in particular got his attention. It portrayed the bloody murder of an entire family including a number of small children. A man stood, surrounded by bodies, wielding a pickaxe in one hand and a club in the other. His expression was terrifying – not because it was particularly realistic but because of its lack of any emotion other than sheer determination. James peered at it and shivered slightly.

‘Here we have another similarity between the criminal and the savage,’ Lombroso announced with a note of triumph.

‘Well, maybe,’ Horton added.

Lombroso continued, ignoring him again. He picked up a framed piece of skin, once bright with tattoos but now faded.

‘The criminal often uses his own skin as a canvas. They are often rather ingenious. Look at this!’ Lombroso picked up another frame. This contained a photograph and James drew nearer to see it closely. It was of a tattooed arm, in the crook of which was the figure of a naked woman, her legs splayed. ‘As the arm moves, the lady, though I doubt that we can describe her as such, masturbates!’

Horton laughed loudly. ‘Well, would you look at that?’

The room also contained photographs of documents written by criminals, proving, according to Lombroso, that handwriting could reveal criminal character. Horton moved around the room, examining the exhibits as Lombroso told James about an experiment using hypnosis that he had conducted in order to confirm, as he put it, the atavistic nature of the handwriting of criminals.

‘Having mesmerised him, I suggested to a young man of honest habits that he was in fact the brigand La Gala. His handwriting, normally so civilised and cultivated as to be almost feminine, became rough and malformed, resembling that of some very well-known criminals. Boggia, for instance, and Francesconi, both cross their
ts
with flourishes, you know. I was astounded. The young man even kept some of the brigand’s characteristics when told that he was now an infant.’

Horton, who had been listening with interest, suddenly interjected, much to Lombroso’s evident irritation, ‘Maybe it was the effect of the hypnosis. He was in a trance, after all. That can’t do much for your handwriting!’

Lombroso breathed heavily through his nose and went on, ‘Then I returned him to the status of the brigand and, lo, the script was as rough as ever but had a certain childish roundness about it. Fascinating!’

‘Will you be writing that up for the new edition of
L’uomo delinquente,
Professor?’ asked James. ‘I heard you were working on one.’

‘I wonder why it hasn’t been translated into English?’ Horton said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Lombroso grunted. It was clearly a sore point.

‘I’m sure it will be before long, Professor,’ James said.

Lombroso turned and beamed at him. ‘We understand each other, young man. That is a good thing.’ He patted his stomach and took out his pocket watch. ‘Now I think it is time for some lunch. I will take you somewhere special. We should mark the beginning of our work together, I think.’

Lombroso nodded at Horton, as if to dismiss him, and then turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the room. James didn’t know what to say. He thought that Horton would have been offended but he merely shrugged and bid him good day.

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ Horton said in a reassuring tone, as he ostentatiously pulled out a silver cigar case and casually offered one to James. ‘By the way, has he asked you to one of his famous salons yet?’

James shook his head.

‘Don’t worry, he will. They’re quite something. Anyone who’s anyone turns up there at one time or another. See you there!’

With that he gave a short bow and left. James followed him out and hurried to catch up with Lombroso who had set a challenging pace, perhaps in an effort to shake off Horton. They paused only to collect their hats and canes then on they went, striding through the streets of Turin together. There was little opportunity to take in the fine baroque architecture, such was the punishing speed at which Lombroso was travelling. Occasionally he would slow down in order to greet a colleague or a friend but, for the most part, they swept along in silence, through the stone arcades that lined the streets and across piazzas, passing fountains and fine palazzos shining in the thin autumn sunlight.

James began to speculate as to what might be awaiting them. He was looking forward to trying some of the local cuisine for his landlady was that rarest of beings, an Italian who could not cook. She served up stodgy English food, presumably in the vague hope that it would make him feel at home, and he was hoping that at last he would taste something more appetising than boiled sausages and suet pudding. Still, at least she had not heard of Scottish cuisine, which was something, he supposed.

On they travelled, walking through the Porta Palazzo market, a Torinese institution. The sights and smells of fresh garlic, wild mushrooms and other produce almost overwhelmed him. Pyramids of gigantic yellow peaches were balanced precariously next to ripe strawberries, the last of the season, sent up from the South – not so much an offering but more a brash boast of the superiority of the climate and its fruits. Everywhere fearsome-looking women pushed and pulled at the produce, checking the ripeness and readiness for their planned dishes. Small, ragged boys ran round shouting cheekily at the stallholders and their customers who shouted back and shook fists in the air in a futile gesture towards discipline.

Soon they were in another section where the smell of the sea was unmistakable. James peered at the gleaming mounds of fish, their mouths hanging open sullenly as if sulking at their predicament. Then it was game, rabbits and hares hung upside down from butchers’ hooks, blank eyes staring into nothingness. Brightly coloured birds swung beside them as if still in flight. Nearby, haunches of unidentifiable animals marbled with yellow fat glistened in the sunlight as butchers’ muscled arms swung their cleavers into the yielding flesh. On the outskirts cheeses of all varieties were piled high on rickety tables, some oozing invitingly, others enclosed within white velvety rind waiting to be cut into to reveal the creamy white delights beneath. He longed to pause and take it all in, but on Lombroso strode, a man of purpose – and being Italian, that purpose was his lunch.

4

Criminals are generally very illogical and always imprudent.

Lombroso, 1876 p 72

When they arrived at their destination James’s first thought was that his definition of special was rather different from that of the professor. Their lunch venue was a trattoria in the older section of the city, near the river. It looked dilapidated to say the least. Its whitewashed walls were decidedly grey and the sign hung precariously by broken hinges. Inside it was dark and cool and the tables, benches and chairs that were scattered around the room were basic and uninviting. It occurred to him that this was more like a working-man’s eatery rather than the fine restaurant he had been expecting. James wondered how the food would compare, but it seemed that he was not to be disappointed for the aroma that greeted them was an appetising one of herbs and frying meat. And there, sitting at a table, evidently waiting for them, was Ottolenghi.

Lombroso held up a hand in acknowledgement and they made their way over to him. The table was tucked into a corner next to the kitchen and was rather small for three. Once seated, they were forced to hunch together as if keeping warm, elbows touching in an intimacy that James found unfamiliar. He noticed how Ottolenghi looked as if he had almost folded himself in two in an effort to get his long limbs into such a limited space. Every now and then the door swung open, giving an unedifying view of a fat, sweaty chef toiling over an open stove. The proprietor, a man greeted as Paolo by Lombroso, would run into the kitchen and hurl some colourful abuse at the chef who responded loudly in kind. James fervently hoped that the food was more refined than its creator.

Eventually Paolo came over to their table and spoke at length to Lombroso, who was clearly an old friend. They chattered away in what James assumed was Piedmontese, the local dialect, for he could only make out odd words and phrases. Lombroso gestured towards him and Paolo looked at him curiously and bowed. James stood up to shake his hand and found himself being embraced. Once released, he sat down again, confused. Such intimacy between men was virtually unknown in Scotland and he was unprepared for it. He looked around for menus but it seemed that the choice was to be made for them.

‘I will bring you what is good,’ Paolo said slowly in Italian, presumably for James’s benefit, and backed away to the kitchen, staring at James as if he was some kind of exhibit.

Lombroso sat contentedly viewing the grimy room. There were several other occupied tables and most of their fellow diners looked somewhat down at heel. James caught the eye of a man at the next table who smiled broadly at him, revealing a set of rotting teeth. An elderly woman eyed him suspiciously from a corner, gathering her basket to her as if James was about to rob her. On the other side of the room two other men were arguing vociferously about something, presumably a number of gold watches revealed in the coat of one of them as he held it open for viewing. A larger group of men sat at a round table in the centre of the room. Raucous and rough, they threw their heads back as they laughed and slapped their hands on the table when someone told a dirty joke. Lombroso was evidently enjoying the spectacle as he was watching intently and occasionally nodding vigorously, presumably at something he had seen or overheard. James was about to ask him why he had chosen the place when Paolo arrived through the kitchen doors like a recently fired cannon ball and placed before them plates of small fish, glistening invitingly in a bright green sauce, and a basket of crusty bread. Glasses of cool white wine were brought and Lombroso nodded in satisfaction. James looked at the food with interest and realised that not only did he not know exactly what it was, but that he had no idea how to go about eating it. What was the correct etiquette? Did one need cutlery? He thought back to when his mother was alive. Somewhere in his mind existed the tiniest spark of a memory. He was sure she had told him of a similar dish but he could not remember it in detail.

Ottolenghi, sensing his discomfort, smiled amiably at him. ‘Anchovies in a herb sauce, a local delicacy.’ With that he took some of the bread and dipped it in the sauce, scooping up some of the anchovies as he did so. Relieved, James did likewise as Lombroso looked on, beaming at them as if he had cooked and produced the food himself.

‘You will not find food as good as this anywhere in Turin,’ he stated proudly.

James was surprised. ‘Surely there are better places? After all, there are so many restaurants and hotels in the city.’

Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘Many of them serve French cuisine. This is authentic Piedmontese fare, not as fancy, but the flavours are far superior.’

Lombroso nodded in agreement. ‘This is real food eaten by real people. There is a place for French cuisine, of course. They always serve it at official dinners and it can be quite delicious. But we like to come here and experience proper cooking, basic but honest.’

As James tucked into the fish and enjoyed its piquant flavours, he had to admit that his dining companions were right about the food, if not the ambience. One thing puzzled him though. Neither of them had mentioned the murder. He had expected it to be discussed at some length, given the apparent connection to Lombroso, but it had not been spoken of once. Perhaps, he thought, they were waiting for him to raise it. He cleared his throat in preparation.

‘Professor,’ he began, ‘I wondered what you thought about what happened yesterday?’

Ottolenghi frowned at him and shook his head.

Lombroso looked irritated. ‘Please, Murray, let us not speak of such unsavoury matters whilst we are eating. There is a time and place for these things and it is not here and now.’

‘Of course, Professor,’ James said, beginning to wonder when and where
would
be suitable. Could there be some other reason for the professor to be reluctant to discuss it? He glanced over to Ottolenghi and decided to raise it with him when they were on their own. Perhaps he could shed some light on this mystery.

Once they had finished the anchovies their plates were scooped up and bowls of steaming brown stew were placed unceremoniously in front of them. Paolo then produced a plate of yellow glistening slabs of something he did not recognise. A carafe of red wine was also brought with three dingy glasses that, in company with everything and everyone else in the place, looked as if they had seen better days.