Persona Non Grata (20 page)

“You think that I’m involved, don’t you?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“You think I’m trying to protect my son.”

“That would be quite normal.”

“And you think that somehow I am connected with the death of the girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t you, Commissario?”

“Don’t I what?”

“You believe I won’t stop at anything to protect my son.”

Trotti shrugged.

“Well?”

“Riccardo is all that you have.”

“You think that I knew about the shooting down on the river.”

“Listen—you came to the hospital. You took me to your house. I didn’t ask for that. I never asked Magagna to contact you—and there was no reason for you to want to help me.”

“You never give a straight answer, Commissario.”

The serving girl came to take their plates.

With an empty table between them, neither Trotti nor Signora Bianchini spoke for several minutes. He looked at her graceful hands.

“What is it you want, Commissario?”

He smiled, feeling the muscles pulling at his eyes. “I have been asked to take a holiday.”

“You need rest. I can understand that.”

“Mine is not an official enquiry. At this moment, I should be lying in bed, watching twenty different channels on my TV.”

She had raised one hand to her throat.

“The Questore doesn’t want me interfering with the enquiry into Ciuffi’s death.”

“But why Verona?”

“Somebody that I have got to see—somebody who can help me find Ciuffi’s murderer.”

“Then I really am just the chauffeur?”

Trotti looked into the almond eyes.

“N
EVER REALLY LIKED
Italian opera—too much shouting.”

“Then what do you like?”

The journalist shrugged but did not reply.

MacSmith had aged since Trotti had last seen him, and put on weight. More flesh to the chin, the long hair had started to go grey and the bags under the eyes bore witness to too much alcohol and too many cigarettes.

“You smoke, Trotti?”

Trotti shook his head. “I gave it up.”

“Lucky man.” MacSmith grinned, letting the smoke of the Marlboro flood through his nostrils. “What are you drinking?” He nodded towards the empty coffee cup.

He was an Australian. Many years previously he had taught English in a language school. Then there had been a strike of the teachers and MacSmith had submitted a series of articles to a London-based educational newspaper. The start of a career as a foreign correspondent. Now he was the stringer for several Australian and American newspapers. Over the years he had moved away from education, specializing in crime. Political crime, industrial espionage, the Mafia, the Years of Lead and carbonized corpses—English-speaking readers had an insatiable appetite for Italian violence. MacSmith had slowly built up the reputation as a reliable, well-informed journalist. He had
developed a wide circle of contacts. He had worked in Sardinia and Sicily. He had even gotten to be friends with a killer in Palermo. The resulting article had won a prize in New York.

(It was believed that in 1977 there had been an attempt on his life. Shots were fired through his front door at a time when MacSmith was researching into a leak of toxic gas from a Swiss-owned factory in the Brianza. MacSmith gave a dossier to his lawyer with the instructions that it should be sent to the newspapers in the event of his untimely death. There were no more shootings, but on two separate occasions MacSmith was refused entry into Switzerland.)

MacSmith had an easy manner and a slow, stumbling way of speaking Italian that belied a sharp mind and an impressive memory.

Trotti had first met MacSmith in Bologna. In those days, MacSmith had been thin, poor and poorly dressed. Now he had a large belly that pushed at the buckle of his corduroy trousers. His clothes were of good quality, although they had acquired a look of shabbiness.

“Another coffee, Trotti?”

“No thanks.”

“Or you’ll join me in a grappa?”

Trotti shook his head.

MacSmith called the thin waiter, who removed the dirty cups.

“And how’s the family? Your daughter must be quite a big girl now.” He smiled. “I can never remember that strange name of hers.”

“Pioppi’s studying in Bologna.”

“Married?”

A toneless voice, “She has a boyfriend.”

“She was a delightful little girl. So fond of her father. So proud of him.”

“My wife has left me. She’s now living in America.”

“Sorry to hear that.” MacSmith took the cigarette from his mouth. “You get back to Bologna ever?”

“Don’t have the time.”

“A city I miss—the food, the people. I miss the Emilia.”

“You’re better off here in Verona.”

“Verona?” More smoke from his nostrils. “Not my favorite city.”

“An attractive place.”

“If you don’t have to live here.”

“I find it very civilized.”

“Verona must be the only city in Italy without a pedestrian precinct.”

Trotti laughed. “That’s important?”

MacSmith raised an eyebrow. “Do you still cycle to work, Trotti?”

“I’m getting old—and fat.”

“After Peking, Parma has the highest number of bicycles per inhabitant.” There was an awkward silence. “But Parma is in Emilia—and here we are in the Veneto. I miss Emilia—Bologna, Modena, Parma—even Piacenza which has now become little more than a suburb of Milan. The Emilians are lively, full-blooded. But here in the Veneto, the people are mean and hypocritical. Fervent church-goers, mind, and anti-Communist. Wealthy peasants.” The Australian took the cigarette from his mouth. “Culture, the opera, the tradition of music? A shopping mall. That’s what Verona is really. Culture? An endless string of shoe shops and boutiques. Benetton and Timberland.”

“All good for business.”

MacSmith laughed. “You know the business of Verona?”

“An international opera? It must bring in a lot of money.”

“Drugs, Commissario. We have the highest percentage of addicts in the entire peninsula. And the easy money you see—it’s not from the opera.” He gestured with his thumb. “Go down to the river at night—and you can see them, the addicts, huddling together for warmth.”

“As in any other Italian city.”

“The kids of the wealthy—that’s okay. Their parents can get them into clinics and have them looked after. But there are the rest, too. Working-class people, out of work and with no future—other than hepatitis, or an overdose. Or AIDS.” There was no humor in his brown, tired eyes. He looked at Trotti, his
head to one side and the smoke rising from the cigarette towards the dark awning of the terrace.

“It gives you something to write about.”

MacSmith stubbed out his cigarette. “What can I do for you, Trotti?”

Piazza delle Erbe, ten o’clock in the morning.

The winged lion of the Venetian republic
—la Serenissima
—stood proudly atop its column, a rain-stained paw placed on the open book. Behind it, the Palazzo Maffei was being restored and cleaned. Scaffolding had been set up and a green net—it looked like a mosquito net—spread the length of the scaffolding to retain the dust and rubble.

Reaching towards the sky, like a sturdy tree determined to survive, the Gardello tower rose above the green netting.

The waiter brought MacSmith’s drink.

“Sure you don’t want some grappa, Trotti?”

“I had breakfast in the hotel.”

The sound of a pneumatic drill was hardly audible against the noise in the piazza. Permanent canvas roofs protected the various stands—sausages, cheeses, wines, old detective magazines, doughnuts. Tourists wandered aimlessly backwards and forward, mixing with the Veronese housewives and the amiable merchants. “Where are you staying?”

“Via Pigna.”

“You could’ve stayed at my place.”

“I’m with a friend.”

“A lady friend?” MacSmith raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations.” He swallowed a thirsty gulp of grappa.

“You were married once, I seem to remember.”

The dark eyes watered. “What do you want from me, Trotti?”

“You heard about the murdered policewoman?”

“I got your message.”

“A man called Galandra. I think he may be involved directly or indirectly in the girl’s death.”

“Galandra?”

“He got seven years for watering down blood and selling it at the Policlinico San Matteo.”

“In your city?”

Trotti nodded.

“What’s that got to do with me—or with Verona?”

“He was in prison here.”

“So what?” A tone of aggression had crept into MacSmith’s Australian accent.

“You can help me.”

He held up the glass. “You’re paying for the drinks?”

“Official channels are temporarily closed to me.”

MacSmith laughed unexpectedly and the bags beneath his eyes seemed to have a movement of their own.

From the Piazza dei Signori came the sound of a church bell.

S
HE HAD PUT
a woollen shawl over the gently tanned skin.

“I thought Pisanelli was a friend.”

“Who’s Pisanelli?”

“He works with me in the Questura.”

“Have I met him?”

“He came to your house, signora. He brought the flowers.”

“He was the same man who phoned me?”

“No—that was Magagna.”

The arena was always full for the operas, particularly the Puccini and Verdi. Now only the bank of seats directly opposite the stage was filled. All the scenery from
Aida
had been removed—sphinxes that sprawled nonchalantly into the streets around the arena—and in its place five columns supported a strange, undulating canopy that appeared to be made out of polystyrene foam. Beneath this temporary roof, the chairs in the bright light were empty, awaiting the arrival of the orchestra. The music stands were barren, like skeletons, without their scores.

An atmosphere of expectation.

Old men were selling cushions to the latecomers. The ancient, weather-worn tiers of steps where Trotti and Signora Bianchini sat were hard. Without a cushion, the stone was cold. There was more comfortable seating nearer the stage. Chairs—and even armchairs—in the stalls, to which the elegant concert-goers
were escorted by officials in tails and bow ties. Red carpets that silenced the discreet footfalls.

“What do you want from Pisanelli?”

“From Pisanelli, I expect help.”

“But you yourself say that your enquiry is not official. I imagine he has other things to do.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to work with Merenda.”

“Who’s Merenda?”

“Pisanelli has been with me for more than five years—and we get on well together. Merenda is only—”

“If Pisanelli has a job to do, you can’t really expect him—”

“Pisanelli knows how I feel about Ciuffi.”

“And Merenda is in charge of the official enquiry?”

“Yes.”

“Then is there any need for Pisanelli to help you?”

“Pisanelli and I have always worked together.”

“You are not working now, Commissario.”

“I need his help.”

The lights around the arena began to dim; spotlights turned towards the orchestra. There was clapping and then the musicians filed like penguins into the floodlit oasis beneath the strange roof.

“I left a message for him to contact me in the hotel.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

The Dresden Orchestra.

Schubert’s
Unfinished Symphony
and, beside him, Trotti felt Signora Bianchini’s body swaying gently with the rhythm. Overhead in a now cloudless sky, the stars glittered. The smell of Signora Bianchini’s perfume seemed to be an extension of the music, part of it.

Applause.

A woman with an English name came on to the stage. The conductor held her hand and there was more clapping. The woman faced the audience and sang. Strauss, the last lieder. Music both beautiful and sad.

Trotti could sense a change in Signora Bianchini and he found his own thoughts returning to the pain in his ribs. Instead of the
German orchestra, before his eyes, he saw the image of Ciuffi’s face.

The lights came on.

When Signora Bianchini turned to look at him, she was frowning.

“You are not listening, are you, Commissario?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go.”

“You do not like the music?”

“Let’s go.”

They climbed up the several rows of seating—twice she turned to look over her shoulder—and then they took the long, broad stairs that carried them out on to the piazza.

“You want to go back to the hotel?”

“Ponderous German music.” She slipped her arm through his.

“The hotel—or perhaps a nightcap in Piazza delle Erbe?”

They went past the brightly lit shops in Corso Mazzini, pushing and jostling their way through tourists strolling, window shopping, eating ices and enjoying the cool evening air.

Suddenly she stopped outside a bookshop and stepped into the small portico. Signora Bianchini bent forward and for a moment he thought she was studying the book display—several photographs of Umbria, advertising a guidebook of the Touring Club Italiano.

She had not released his arm.

“We must hurry. The bars in Piazza delle Erbe will be closing.”

“You can’t feel it, Commissario Trotti?”

“Feel what?”

Instinctively she rubbed at her shoulders. “Feel it in your back.”

“What?”

Her voice was very low but hoarse. “We’re being watched. In the audience—there was somebody behind us and he was watching us.”

“Who?”

“Watching us—and he followed us out of the arena when we left.”

“I
CAN
’
T SLEEP
.”

For a moment, Trotti hesitated. Then he stepped back. “You’d better come in.”

She was wearing the shawl over her nightdress. A brief smile. “You do understand, don’t you, Commissario?”

“I had just dozed off.”

“By myself I’m afraid.”

“I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.”

“You must think I am a foolish woman.”

He shrugged. “You can use the other bed if you wish, signora.” He closed the door and turned the key. Signora Bianchini watched Trotti in silence.