The Marshal and the Madwoman (17 page)

'Nothing. He was still unconscious last time I rang.'

'How long ago?'

'It must be an hour.'

'Couldn't you try again?'

'I'm going to.'

'Call me if there's anything—oh, I almost forgot what I came in for. This came for you, by hand.'

Ten minutes later the Marshal took his hat and jacket from behind the door. He stopped in at the duty room before leaving.

'How's your shoulder?'

'All right. I'd rather stay up, Marshal, really—'

'Can you do a bit of typing with one hand?'

'I suppose so. It just means one finger instead of two.'

'Well, if you can't, get one of the other lads to type for you and finish typing up the notes of the report that's on my desk. I've already done the bulk of it and I'll look through it when I get back.' He didn't say that he was incapable of sitting still and concentrating. Any excuse was good enough to get out of the office and walk to shake off the dread that was gripping him.

'Did you call—'

'There's no change.'

'But don't they say anything else?'

'Yes. They say there's a clot lodged in his brain and that they'll probably operate today.'

'Jesus . . . Marshal, I found this on his locker.'

It was a postcard from Bruno's parents. They were in Vienna and going on to Amsterdam. The message ended:

'See you Sept. 1st. Love.'

'Should I inform Headquarters? You never know, they might be able to—'

'Yes. Call them.'

'You're going out?'

'I'll be back by lunch-time. If not I'll telephone.'

He walked. He felt that if he walked far enough and with enough determination he might somehow ease the weight on his chest and breathe properly again. He walked steadily, looking neither right nor left, seeing only a dark-tinted blur of colours and hearing only a deadened buzz of meaningless noises, like someone half asleep on a train. Sometimes he bumped into groups of tourists who walked uncertainly, gazing up at the high buildings and blocking his way. He was aware of their stopping to stare after him but he never turned to apologize. His dark glasses cut him off from them and their world. He crossed the river and walked up the embankment on the other side.

There were times, in his more lucid moments, when he would get angry with himself during a difficult case for his lack of brains and efficiency. He'd even been known to make lists and plans and draw diagrams which he would then stare at for hours without their suggesting anything to him other than his own stupidity. Then, at a certain point, he would forget all about them and go his way, absorbed, inexorable, following his instinct. It had happened with almost every case he'd been involved in and he had never stopped to think about it afterwards because he found his own behaviour a bit embarrassing and preferred to forget the whole business as soon as it was over.

This time there was no deceiving himself with lists, no futile efforts at putting his limited intelligence to work on a lot of contradictory facts. This time, probably because of Bruno, there was none of that. There was only pity for a poor old woman attacked in her bed whom he had thought to keep alive in his dream by sitting with her.

'Will you sit with me?'

It was Angelo who had first aroused that pity. Angelo, whose face lit up at the sight of a bird.

And Bruno. He couldn't keep Bruno alive by sitting with him, though, God knows, he'd have been only too willing to sit there night and day. They wouldn't even let him in. Would they shave his head? And his parents were enjoying their holiday, little knowing what was waiting for them when they got back. His own two boys . . . He'd always taken it for granted that they'd do their National Service with the Carabinieri. . .

'Look out!'

A crocodile procession of Japanese tourists had jostled him off the narrow pavement into the path of a taxi. The driver had just braked in time and was glaring at him. The Marshal shrugged and stepped back. He must pull himself together. He'd already walked a little too far along the embankment and he crossed over and went back a few yards. Heaven knew how far he would have walked if it hadn't been for that taxi. He made his way to the church of Santa Groce and stopped in front of its marble facade to fish out the address from his pocket. The street he was looking for was a tiny one, just off the square, and when he got there he found the road up and planks laid over gaping holes, though no one was working. The shops all had their metal shutters down except for what looked like a fishmonger's where some alterations were going on. A grey-haired man with a big moustache was standing in the doorway with a brush in his hand. Seeing the Marshal hesitate, looking at the door numbers, he smiled at him:

'Nice mess, this,' he said.

The Marshal looked beyond him into the shop. They seemed to be re-doing the place while it was shut for the holidays.

'I mean the road,' the man went on, 'and God knows when they'll be done. New gas pipes. A few more storms like yesterday's and we'll be baling out like in '66.'

'Were you here then?' the Marshal asked, waking up at the thought that he might have found somebody who'd known Clementina.

'Where would I have been? See this counter?' It was an elaborate affair of marble with coloured inlay. 'You won't see many like it these days, but all this part in front used to be closed in with glass. Smashed to bits. And two world wars it had gone through without so much as a chip! And the cellar! Where all my stock was! We had to use gas masks to go down there and clean it out. I hope I'll never have to go through the like again.'

'No ... I wonder if you could help me. If you were here all that long ago, perhaps you knew a woman—she'd be in her thirties—who lived over there at No. 5.'

'What name?'

'Clementina was how she was usually known.'

'Clementina, Clementina, doesn't ring a bell. What was her surname?'

'Franci. Anna Clementina Franci. Her husband was Chiari.'

'Say no more! I'm with you now. It was the Clementina that baffled me, never knew she was called that. Anna Chiari's the woman you mean.'

How odd it sounded. She had become a real person. Anna Chiari, not crazy Clementina.

'Did you know her?'

'Of course I knew her. Chiari had a leather shop right there on the ground floor and she was a customer of mine, poor soul. She never came back after they took her away.'

'Dino!' called a voice from the back of the shop.

'Just a minute! What did you want her for?'

'Didn't you see in the paper that she's dead?'

'Dead?'

'Dino!'

'I'm coming! Well, I didn't, but then I'm not much of a one for reading the paper, I watch the news on television. She recovered then? I'm not so much surprised she's dead as surprised to hear she was still alive. They said she was very bad—'

'Dino! The van's waiting and he's blocking the street!'

'I'll have to go.'

'Wait! What happened to her? I need to know.'

'Dino!'

'I'll have to go, but ask anybody round here—ask Signora Santoli, No. 5, first floor. It's a long story but she's always glad of company—All right, all right! I'm coming!'

He dropped his brush and dived into the back of the shop leaving the Marshal to stare across at No. 5.

CHAPTER 9

'Who is it?'

'Carabinieri.' There was a spyhole in the door and the Marshal had no doubt that an eye was peering out at him, checking on his uniform. He stood back a little so she could see him better and then waited as a number of bolts and a chain were undone. The door opened and a woman looked at him inquiringly. Although she was well past middle age she was robust and very upright and so neatly dressed that she might have been expecting a visitor.

'Marshal Guarnaccia. I apologize for disturbing you but I'd like to talk to you for a moment.' Seeing a shade of anxiety cross her face, he added, 'Please don't worry, there's nothing wrong. Just a bit of information you could give that might help me with an inquiry.'

'I see. I just wondered because sometimes my mother-in-law . . .' She glanced over her shoulder and then beyond him at the opposite door. 'You'd better come in. The neighbours will think . . .'

He followed her into the entrance hall, which was small but gleaming with cleanliness.

'Come into the sitting-room where we can be comfortable.'

The sitting-room was as clean and polished as the hall but it was anything but comfortable. The shining bare floor and symmetrically arranged chairs gave it the air of a well-to-do dentist's waiting-room. There was even a neat stack of magazines on a low, carved table.

'Please sit down.'

At least it was cool and the Marshal was glad enough to sit himself down in one of the chilly leather armchairs, placing his hat with his sunglasses inside it carefully on his knee. The woman sat bolt upright on a hard chair facing him and waited for him to begin.

'It's about a woman who used to live in this building. It's a long time ago now, but perhaps you remember her. Her name was Anna Clementina Franci. Her husband was Chiari and I believe he had a leather shop in the ground floor here.'

'Anna—?' Her face became more animated. 'But ... I read in the paper this morning . . .'

'That she was murdered. Yes. I'm trying to find out something about her past and since you were her neighbour . . .'

'I see. But it's a long time ago, as you say. I understood from the article that it was burglars. At least, that was the impression it gave, so I don't quite see . . . Forgive me, you know your job best I'm sure. I'm just a bit surprised, that's all.'

'Murders happen,' the Marshal said, 'and sometimes they happen to people you know.'

'It's not that. I know what you mean, but, frankly, what surprised me when I saw the article was not that she was dead but that she'd lived on all this time, though I gather she wasn't her normal self.'

'No, she wasn't normal. She was in San Salvi for quite a number of years until most of the patients there were discharged.'

'Oh, I knew she'd gone into San Salvi.'

'You did?'

'Certainly. I went to see her there.'

'Really? You were close friends, then?' He couldn't imagine this kindly but rather prim lady among the inmates of San Salvi. Nevertheless, she looked like a strong character, the sort to do calmly what she saw as her duty, however unpleasant it might be.

'I wouldn't say close friends exactly—but I'm being neglectful, I do beg your pardon. On such a hot day you must be in need of refreshment.' Her eyes glanced off his sweated uniform and the Marshal became conscious of what he must look like after a long and agitated walk in the heat. This woman looked the sort who would remain cool and composed no matter what the temperature, and no matter what her feelings. She went across the room now to open a heavy, dark cupboard. There were three or four bottles in it and a neat row of small glasses, but the Marshal had visions of long-opened, sticky vin santo. This wasn't a house that saw many visitors, he was sure.

'You're very kind,' he said quickly, 'but what I'd like most would be just a glass of water.'

She straightened up. 'Of course. I'll get you one.'

While she was gone, a tiny, ancient woman with a walking-stick came into the doorway and stopped there, staring at the Marshal in that unselfconscious way of small children when they stare at a stranger.

'Good morning.' The Marshal started to get to his feet but the old lady, hearing footsteps approaching behind her, vanished. He heard a voice say very quietly, 'Go to your room.'

'I want my breakfast.'

'You've had it already. Did you forget? Go to your room, now.'

A door closed. Signora Santoli came back with a glass of water in her hand. The Marshal was still on his feet.

'Do sit down. You mustn't mind my mother-in-law. Did she come in here?'

'Just as far as the door. I suppose she was curious to know who was here.'

'Please don't mind her. She's become more or less a child.'

'A stroke?'

'No, arteriosclerosis. I can't complain, since she's docile enough. The only thing is I can never go out, because even though I double lock the door, she's often managed to open it and then she wanders off and has no idea where she is or how to get back home, poor thing. It was easier when my husband was alive, though of course she wasn't nearly so bad seven years ago as she is now.'

Seven years. Seven years trapped in this house, keeping up appearances in spite of a life that must be almost totally devoid of even the smallest pleasures. Some women were saints.

As if she could read his thoughts, Signora Santoli went on: 'Fortunately, I'm very fond of music and I've treated myself to a stereo set, not a very good one but it's adequate.' Her eyes strayed across to where an obviously new stereo set was set up in one corner, the only modern note in what was a rather gloomy, old-fashioned room. 'I enjoy watching television, too, and my mother-in-law goes to bed early. Her health is otherwise very good, you know, one must be thankful for that. And I have a neighbour who comes in for an hour on Saturday mornings so that I can do a little shopping for myself instead of having everything sent in. It makes a nice change.'

'Though I imagine,' the Marshal said, 'that your neighbour is on holiday now.'

'She is, but August will soon be over, won't it?'

'Yes,' said the Marshal with feeling, 'it will, thank goodness.'

He sipped the water. It was cool, so it must have been in the fridge, but it was tap water and unpleasant. He was pretty sure that there wasn't much money to spare in the household and that buying the stereo set had been a very big event in this woman's life. No doubt she'd agonized over the decision for months beforehand before taking the plunge. Seven years . . . With a start he remembered the Prosecutor's words about the way he let people involve him in their 'little problems'. But the Prosecutor never saw these people except in his office where their 'little problems' were not in evidence. Out of pure defiance he sat there and let Signora Santoli carry on talking.

'Although my husband was Italian,' she was saying, 'I'm Swiss, myself. We met when I was working as a children's governess here. Unfortunately, we had no children ourselves, which was a great disappointment to both of us, especially to me as I'd been used to having children around me because of my job. Well, we must take the rough with the smooth, don't you think so? And if I'm not too old when my mother-in-law goes, I intend to register myself as a child-minder. Few people can afford nannies and governesses, these days, but so many young mothers are obliged to carry on working that I'm sure I can make myself useful.'

'I'm sure you can.'

'Would you like me to get you another glass of water.'

'No. No, thank you.'

'Then perhaps you should tell me what you'd like to know about Anna. I shouldn't be wasting your time talking about myself.'

'I want to know anything at all you can tell me. You see, I know nothing about her life before she went into San Salvi except that she had a husband and child.'

'Ah, little Elena. What a lovely little girl she was, and so full of life. Many's the hour she spent up here with me—it was through little Elena that I came to know Anna and her husband. Before that, although we'd been neighbours for so long, it never went further than a few polite words if we met downstairs. They lived on the ground floor behind the husband's workshop. He made leather bags and belts and so on, and I think he did quite well. I only went in their house twice, but though it was small and on the ground floor, she'd made it very pretty and put a few plants out in the tiny courtyard behind so that they could sit outside on hot nights.'

'But weren't they rather cramped, living behind the workshop with a child? If he was doing well. . .'

'In fact, they'd started building. One of those cooperative building schemes. Very sensible of them, really, to stick it out here until they could afford something of their own.'

'I see there's no longer a shop on the ground floor.'

'No, indeed. It was completely restructured and now it's an elegant little flat which I'm sure costs the earth. It's always rented by foreigners. Things have changed so much in this Quarter since the flood. When I first came here, Florence was the sleepiest little city I'd ever seen. Now it's all tourism and fast food. The old ways are gone and everyone wants to make too much money too quickly. There's still some fine craftsmanship here but it's a luxury now.'

'That's true.'

'Anna's husband was one of the old-style craftsmen. Poor man, he was barely forty when he died. I didn't know him well but I think he was a very hardworking, respectable sort of man. It was little Elena I was fond of. She must have been about six months old when Anna came knocking at my door one evening. She was in a panic because the baby was sick, and as the doctor had already been and left some medicine, saying it was nothing serious, she hadn't the courage to call him again. Although we didn't know each other well she'd heard I'd looked after children so she came to ask jny advice. Couples with their first child easily get into a panic like that, with the result that the baby gets hysterical. When I got down there she'd been screaming for hours and they were beside themselves, especially Anna, who, as I found out on knowing her better, got hysterical when the slightest thing went wrong. I only discovered the reason much later. Anyway, needless to say, the baby soon settled when she felt the presence of somebody calm, and after that Anna would come to me whenever she needed help. It wasn't long before I started having little Elena up here when Anna was helping her husband in the shop. It was a great pleasure for me to have her and I missed her terribly when she died. It's strange to think she'd have been a young woman by now.'

'Was she killed along with her father?'

'They died within minutes of each other. He was trying to save her, you see. You didn't even know about that?'

'Nothing at all. I wasn't here all those years ago. I'm not from Florence.'

'Ah. I'm afraid that even after all these years in Italy I'm not very good at distinguishing accents. I'd have thought that a tragedy like that would have been in the national papers, even so. Though it's true that so many terrible things happened, so many people burned—and that poor man whose body was hanging from the roof for twenty-four hours. It's not something you ever forget.'

For a moment, the Marshal had the impression that she must be talking about the war and that she was a bit confused. That was forty years ago, not twenty. But before his embarrassment at her confusion could make itself felt he remembered the words of the fishmonger who had sent him up here:
'A few more storms like yesterday's and we'll be baling
out like in '66.'

The flood. . . But she'd talked of people being burned . . .

'Did they die in the flood, the husband and child?'

'Both of them, poor things. And the miracle was that Anna didn't die, too. In a way you could say that she did die, since she was never the same person afterwards. Living on the ground floor as they did . . . They were asleep, of course, when the banks burst, with it being so early in the morning. The water rose so quickly that by the time they awoke their doors wouldn't open. It was the strangest thing, I often think of it still, but that night I had a dream about water running down the stairs of this building, like the terraces of one of those big fountains. It wasn't a dream about the building being flooded, just this cascade of water on the stairs.'

'Perhaps you heard the rain in your sleep.'

'That could be. It had rained and rained for days. But it may have been because we'd seen a film called
The Bible
the evening before. We'd gone out that evening because the fourth was a holiday and, like everyone else, we'd planned on having a lie-in. Little did we know. At any rate, when I woke up it was as if I were still dreaming. I'm not sure what woke me, whether the explosions had already started or whether it was the roar of the floodwater and Anna's husband screaming for help from the window below. They'd tried at first to get out into their little courtyard because the flood had broken the door which wasn't very strong, but all that happened was that more water rushed in. Of course, if they'd managed to get out of the building at that point they'd all three have been killed at once because the water was travelling at 60 kilometres an hour and hurling tree-trunks and cars and all sorts of debris along these narrow streets. Nobody could have survived in that.

'I don't know whether they realized it, but at any rate they were perched on the windowsill with the water rushing by them, screaming. We hadn't even a bit of rope in the house but my husband thought of tying some bed sheets together. He was shouting down to Signor Chiari to tie little Elena on to the end of the sheet. It looked terribly risky, of course, but what else could we do? The water roaring past was getting higher every second, they'd have been swept away. He couldn't make himself heard. It wasn't just the water but the explosions which had started by then, plus the fact that Anna was completely hysterical and making things more difficult by screaming continually. Every time there was an explosion we saw great columns of water going up. It was the sewers exploding and gas pipes and boilers, but just then it seemed like the end of the world, especially as it had broken into our sleep and we were too dazed to understand. Signor Chiari, whether he could hear us or not, began trying to tie the sheet round little Elena, under her arms. I suppose it sounds simple. It's the sort of thing you see on television all the time, isn't it? But in reality it was impossible. The current was tearing at their feet and he was clinging to the child with one arm and the shutter with the other. How could he hope to tie the sheet round her? Every time he grabbed at it he had to let go and clutch at the shutter again, and Anna just screamed and screamed instead of trying to help him. We felt so helpless up here watching him and I think we knew even then it was hopeless, though we didn't know what else to do except to go on dangling that useless sheet.