Converging Parallels (34 page)

He gripped Trotti’s hand firmly; the hand was dry.

“Please be seated.”

The man, seventy years old at least, Trotti decided, carefully attached the dog’s lead to one arm of the armchair before sitting down on the dusty canvas. He pulled at the creases of his trousers while Magagna took the raincoat and umbrella.

A smile. “Avvocato Romano, Ettore—now retired.”

“A pleasure to meet again. Now how can I help you?”

The lawyer raised a sandy eyebrow. “Help me?” He shook his head. “No, Commissario, I don’t need help. I come here as a citizen to do what I consider to be my duty.”

“Which is?”

Avvocato Romano seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the question. He glanced at Magagna before answering. “To tell you what I know—or rather, to be more exact, what I saw. I trust it may be of use to you. This young officer here concurs with my opinion.”

Magagna smiled.

“Then please tell me everything.” Trotti unscrewed the top of his pen expectantly. He took a sweet from his pocket and placed it in his mouth; it clicked against his teeth.

Avvocato Romano sat back in the chair, obviously enjoying the attention now being given to him. He placed his elbows on the armrest and clasped his hands together on the lap of his cotton trousers. The dog lay obediently at his feet.

“I usually take Giuseppina for a walk in the evening.”

“Giuseppina?”

“My dog.” The pekinese raised its eyes to look at its master. “A good walk does us both good—and well, it helps me to sleep. I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of an insomniac; since the departure of my good wife, I don’t sleep as well as I used to.” He leaned forward and on a more intimate note added, “Herbal teas don’t help. So a walk around the city—I follow the old Roman walls, you understand, and it normally takes us about an hour. Useful exercise. And then I can sleep.”

“I understand,” Trotti said and pretended to write a few words on the sheet before him.

“We usually leave at about eleven o’clock in the evening. There are fewer cars for Giuseppina to bark at. Of course, I am very happy about the pedestrian zone; unfortunately, most of the parking places for the cars are now along the old city walls. Earlier in the day you can’t walk on the pavement because of the cars. That’s where they leave them, the people who come here to work.”

“The dog barks at the cars?”

“But she’s getting better.” A proud smile. “Aren’t you, my dear?” He gave a tug at the lead. The dog looked at its master with haggard indifference.

“I follow the Roman walls—as I told you—starting from the river and going round the city. For six years now—ever since the good lady died. And only fifty-four.” He placed a hand in his trouser pocket and rummaged, looking for a handkerchief. He pulled it out and wiped his forehead. “Only fifty-four, God rest her soul.”

Trotti murmured a few words of sympathy.

Then Avvocato Romano, looking to the window, said, “Humid, isn’t it?”

It was still raining outside, the large drops splashing against the window. Through the glass there came the muffled sound of tires running over the wet cobbles in the street below. Trotti, too, felt hot. He pointed to the door and asked Magagna to open it. Magagna got up and opened the door, jamming it with a chair. A timid breeze from the corridor pushed at the dirty curtain. The dog raised its eyes.

“Thank you,” the lawyer said. He folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “I wouldn’t have come—I wouldn’t be here, wasting your time like this—if it wasn’t important. And then when I saw her photograph in the newspaper—and the article—then I knew I had been right.” He raised his shoulders. “I don’t normally read those articles—the cronaca nera, it’s so depressing. Goodness knows how people can enjoy that sort of thing. And yet you know, I had colleagues, other lawyers like myself, who wouldn’t touch anything else.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

Avvocato Romano frowned. “I saw her photograph in the paper. The
Provincia
. Most days I go to the bar—Il Senatore in via Cremona—to have a look at the papers, and especially at the obituaries. I like to see who has died. It’s nice to know who you’ve outlived.” A little laugh. “A kind of revenge, I suppose. Unfortunately as all my old enemies die off I’ve got no one left to share the pleasure with. And I’ve got no one left to hate.” He sighed. “Ah! Growing old—it gets very lonely.” One hand fell against the other and made a dry sound. “But otherwise, no—I don’t read the papers. It’s not the same world. So much violence, so much senseless violence. And no real politicians, just rather horrible little men. Now Giolitti—that was a politician.”

“What did you see in the paper, Avvocato?”

“Please do not rush me, Commissario.” He held up a hand. “I’m an old man now and it takes me time to think. I’ll get there, have faith in me—but let me get there under my own steam. At my own speed and in my own way.” There was a runnel down his chin—he now ran a finger along it while his eyes were closed in thought. He shook his head. “It was in yesterday’s paper. And I saw the photograph quite by chance. It gave me a nasty turn. It was her all right. I recognized her face—and her mouth. She had a nice mouth. You know, those photos, they make everybody look ugly. And in the paper, she looked ugly, poor thing. But she wasn’t ugly.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I never knew her name. And she probably wouldn’t have given it to me if I’d asked. It’s strange, isn’t it, how there are so
many people whose faces are etched into our memory, we see them every day of the week—and yet we haven’t got the first idea of what their name is. I used to say hello to her whenever she was there. Sometimes it was almost every evening. Of course, there were occasions when she wasn’t there. I was disappointed—I liked to see her—but of course I was being selfish. She was probably with a client, making some money, the poor thing. I would go past at about half past eleven—maybe a bit earlier.” He stopped. “Yes, she had a nice mouth.”

“You mean Irina Pirvic?”

“That’s right. She was Yugoslav, according to the newspaper. She wasn’t Italian, I knew that. She had an accent. Sometimes she’d say buona sera and then I would stop and we’d talk about the weather for a few minutes.” He stopped, smiling to himself. “One of the consolations of old age, perhaps, is that it teaches you the true value of women. When I was a young man”—he made a rotating gesture—“women, I had as many as I wanted. But it was love not of women but of myself that drove me to conquer more and more. We are so caught up by the need to conquer women that we don’t have time to enjoy them. As fellow human beings, with similar passions and this great desire to love—to love unselfishly.” Again he gestured. “She was a prostitute probably because she had no choice. I’d like to think that she did that humiliating job because she had another mouth to feed.” Quite sharply he pointed at Trotti. “But don’t think I blame men for making use of whores. Men are no worse than women; we are all caught up in a system which is much stronger than us. We think it is us, making our own decisions, achieving our own little satisfactions. And of course, we are too self-centered to realize that all that we do, all our petty desires, it’s all innate and that we are as much masters of our lives as are puppets masters of their movements. We are puppets—driven on by forces much stronger than us—the force to reproduce and the force to survive.”

“She never solicited you?”

“I am old enough to be her father.” The avvocato was genuinely shocked. “And I am a respectable man.” He turned, looked through the window. “But indeed, there was something
engaging about her. Something almost innocent—as though she herself didn’t quite understand why she spent her evenings on the pavement, waiting to be picked up by riffraff. It wasn’t her real job. She probably had no choice.” He smiled. “Or am I imagining these things? No.” He shook his head slightly. “No, I don’t think so. Her face was gentle—even though she wore the most atrocious wig. A wig of frizzy white hair. And the clothes she wore—mini-skirts and provocative blouses and shoes with strange heels. But despite all that, she didn’t look vulgar. A nice mouth—and a nice oval face.”

There followed a short silence; then it was Magagna who spoke, removing the cigarette from his mouth. “Avvocato, she was killed by the man she lived with. It was an accident, she fell down the stairs. To get rid of the body, he cut her up.”

The avvocato’s face darkened. “So I read. I don’t normally read those articles, but when I saw her photograph … It gave me a shock.” He paused. “But in a way, I was expecting something like that. Perhaps not quite so gory—but I knew that something had happened. I suspected something and then when I didn’t see her for several days … down by the Casa dello Studente, Giuseppina and I would dawdle deliberately—just in case she might turn up. To see her, a nod, a few words—when you reach my age, that can make all the difference. But she didn’t come and that only confirmed my worst doubts.” He stopped, looked around the office, at the grey filing cabinets, the wall map, the dusty dossiers piled on the floor, the chipped paint of the radiator. He looked at Magagna and then again at Trotti. “That man was lying,” he said. “He didn’t kill her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He was lying. The old man in the newspaper. Her lover. He didn’t kill her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I knew she was dead.”

Magagna was now leaning forward in his chair.

Trotti said, “Please explain.”

“I was there when she was killed.”

“You were there?”

“It was last week. Last Tuesday, I think. Yes, last Tuesday. I was listening to the radio—I can’t remember, I think it was Vivaldi—I’ve always liked Vivaldi.”

“And …” Trotti prompted.

“And? Oh, yes. I was late. Normally I leave at about eleven but I was listening to the radio. It must have been after midnight.” He nodded. “Yes. There were still one or two people about along the Corso—but the gelaterias were all closed. I don’t know if you noticed, Commissario, but since this unhappy affair of Aldo Moro, people no longer stay out in the evenings. I’ve noticed the difference. People are afraid—even here, in our city. Fewer people in the bars, fewer people going to the cinema.”

“So what happened, Avvocato?” Trotti unwrapped another sweet.

“Nothing. There was nobody about. So we followed the river, Giuseppina and I. They’ve spoiled it, of course. The Po—there was a time that you could drink the water. Now it’s polluted by all the industry in Milan. And the old bridge that the Germans blew up in their retreat. After the war they put up a modern imitation—and it’s another thirty meters downstream. But at night, you know, with the current running fast and the city lights reflected in the water, it’s almost as it was before the war. This was a beautiful city once, you know. And sometimes when Giuseppina and I are walking in the evening, it is as though time has stopped. Forty years.”

“So you walked along the embankment?”

“That’s right. The length of the Lungo Po and then we crossed over the road at the bottom of Strada Nuova—we’re in Strada Nuova now, aren’t we? But at the bottom, by the bridge. We crossed Strada Nuova at the bottom. On the other side, there are so many truckss parked on the sidewalk. Trucks with their number plates from Messina and Imperia and Naples. Long-distance trucks that are heading up to Turin and Milan and the Swiss frontier. The drivers—I don’t know where they sleep—and I don’t think I want to know either. They leave their trucks on the sidewalk and it is a disgrace. They disgrace the river, they disgrace our city. But,” he sighed, “I suppose it is to somebody’s
advantage. And I suppose that this is why she—this Yugoslav woman, poor soul …”

“Irina Pirvic.”

“That’s right. That’s why she hung around there, it was good business for her.”

“Near the Casa dello Studente on the Lungo Po?”

“That’s right. It’s an old university building that was made out of brick and granite in the Duce’s time. It now belongs to the university. I sometimes see young people there, lots of Arabs and Greeks. And sometimes late in the evening, there are young people who go running in their tracksuits and their strange woolen bonnets. It’s there that she used to work—if that’s the right word.” An apologetic smile. “There’s an old church—just before the Casa dello Studente and slightly down from the embankment. It’s almost hidden and she’d normally wait there—in the shadow.”

“I know the place,” Trotti said.

“She was there. Last Tuesday. I was pleased to see her. For some reason—it must have been after midnight—there were no trucks. And as I went past—I hadn’t seen her—she made a remark about times being hard.”

“You stopped?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t normally stop—but you understand, I hadn’t seen her for several days. And Giuseppina—a good place to have a call of nature—was a good excuse for an old man like me to stop and exchange a few words with a prostitute.” His eyes were sad.

Giuseppina was now fast asleep.

“What did the woman say?”

“We talked about the weather—about nothing in particular. I had the impression she was pleased to see me. We chatted for a bit. Then I had to go because she thought she saw a prospective client. I left her. I turned into viale Libertà and headed towards the Corso.”

“And that’s all?” Trotti was disappointed.

“But no, Commissario. That’s why I’ve been trying to get in touch with you over these last few days. Of course something happened. I wouldn’t be wasting your time otherwise.”

“What happened?”

“I’m getting there, Commissario. But in my own time. You keep asking me these questions. You confuse me.”

“Asking questions is my job.”

“Of course, of course.” Avvocato Romano was wearing false teeth that clicked on the sibilants. “Beninteso.” He sat back and smiled.

“Please go on.”

“It must have been ten minutes later. Ten to fifteen minutes later. I was crossing the Corso by the statue of Minerva.”

Trotti frowned. “It took you a quarter of an hour to get from the Casa dello Studente to the Corso. Avvocato, that is scarcely more than three hundred meters.”

The old man laughed; the teeth shifted slightly. “I stopped to look in the bookshop window. There’s a bookshop—I think it must be run by the Communist party, it’s full of texts by Gramsci, Neruda and Ceausescu; but nice dust jackets and they change them regularly—where they leave the lights on late into the night. Perhaps they hope to convert an old Giolittiano like me. And of course, I read a lot. What else do I have to do, an old man?”