Converging Parallels Read online

  “Perhaps that’s why she’s disappeared.”

  The headmistress looked at Trotti. “I don’t think so. It is very unlikely that she would go off with a stranger. You think she was picked up by a man, don’t you? A child molester? Unlikely. She is a shy girl—at that age a lot of children are. I think it is much more likely that there is a misunderstanding. Perhaps she has gone with some friends—or an aunt. It happens. You know, people often think that children are innocent and that they don’t understand the dangers that surround them.” She smiled faintly. “At that age, the world can be a very frightening place.”

  “Ermagni tells me that apart from the grandparents, there are no very close relatives.”

  “Friends?”

  “He works too hard to have many friends. At one time, perhaps, I was his closest friend. I’m the child’s godfather.”

  “If Anna really has disappeared, Commissario, I think you must assume she’s been taken under duress.” Again the hazel eyes turned away to stare across the roofs. “I believe she’s with somebody she knows well.”

  “You have known cases of kidnapping, signorina?”

  Irony plucked at the thin eyebrows. “This is a quiet, law-abiding city—with no crimes more heinous than tax evasion. And a lot of adultery.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  She blushed. “I’m not quite sure what you mean by that.” A light, almost girlish laugh. Trotti wondered why she had never married, and why she should talk about adultery. “I live here and have lived here for the last twenty years. But I am from Milan—from the big city up the road—and I still remain an outsider. This is a very provincial place, as I am sure you know.” Her fingers touched the Provincia Padana that lay folded on her desk. “The violence, the kidnapping, the senseless murder which has become the trademark of Italy over these last nine years—our only growth industry—has somehow bypassed this provincial backwater. A provincial city, with all the faults of provincial complacency and petty-mindedness. But with the great virtue of peace.”

  “There are riots.”

  “We have a large university, Commissario. Sometimes the students get excited, they spray the walls with their philosophy, they even throw stones through the windows. But it’s nothing very serious. They are unhappy about their rents or the quality of the spaghetti in their colleges. It’s the fashion and they are young. But this is a human city, where people are people and not merely statistics.”

  “We have our problems.”

  “There are problems everywhere. That is why I feel Paradise must be a very dull place—not that Paradise concerns me. Here there are not the immigrants that you have in Milan or Genoa or Turin. There’s no heavy industry—just the textile factory and another that produces sewing machines. We have been fortunate. The Italian miracle that has changed so many cities into industrial ghettos has bypassed us. Perhaps we should thank our mayor.”

  “He is a Communist.”

  “You don’t approve, Dottore?”

  “I try not to get involved in politics.”

  “You must have your opinions.”

  “I keep them to myself.”

  “Yet you want mine?” The smile had hardened.

  Trotti lowered his head in apology. “I am being rude. I beg your pardon.”

  “Not rude, Commissario. You are being cold.”

  “A professional risk, signorina.”

  “As a policeman, can’t you admit that our mayor Mariani has done a lot for the city?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He has kept it small. He has prevented the big industries from stepping in, taking over the small factories and transforming them into industrial complexes. We have no sprawling suburbs, row upon row of box-like tenements that you will find everywhere else. No colonies of Sicilians and Calabrians brought north to work like animals on the production lines. The mayor has done a lot to keep the artisans and the small shopkeepers in work. And in doing so, he has managed to preserve this city as it was twenty years ago. Our river is not polluted. Where else in Italy can children swim in a river without poisoning themselves? You’re a policeman, you must know the statistics better than I do. Where else can a woman go down the streets at night without fear of attack? Where else can she do her shopping without being afraid that teenage gangsters on motorbikes will snatch her purse?”

  “You don’t think it is a maniac that has taken Anna?”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “A maniac, a child molester. You don’t think that Anna has been kidnapped—not in this old-fashioned, crime-free city?”

  “I know of only one case of child rape,” she said rather coldly. “And that was a couple of years ago.” She spoke in a flat, dull tone. Trotti felt that he had annoyed her.

  “In this school?”

  “On the other side of the river, in Borgo Genovese. A twelve-year-old girl was made pregnant. She was mentally deficient.”

  “Raped?”

  “Every evening. By her two brothers.”

  The phone suddenly rang and for the next two minutes, the headmistress spoke into the mouthpiece. From time to time, her thin fingers pushed at the grey hair of the bun. Trotti stood up and went to the window. He looked out on the damp concrete courtyard. The fountain still spurted mournfully. Children in uniform were streaming out of a classroom, their cheerful shouting dulled by the windowpane. They wore black overalls and white cardboard cravats.

  One little boy—he had blond hair and socks down over his ankle boots—was waving the Italian flag on the end of a stick; rain had caused the red and green to run. The colors had dribbled onto his fist.

  There was a teacher; from where Trotti stood, she did not look much older than her pupils. She scolded them for making too much noise.

  Trotti’s feet were cold and damp. He wondered if Agnese would be back.

  “Can I offer you something to drink before you go, Commissario?”

  The headmistress had hung up; Trotti turned slowly away from the window. “That was the health inspector,” she said with apology. “He wants to know when he can send in his team to disinfect. He’s been phoning me every week now for the last two months; yet he still phones up to ask the same stupid questions. If his men are anything like the ones I had last time—the general elections in ’76, I think—I’ll have to spend two weeks cleaning up and disinfecting after them.”

  “Perhaps I could speak to Anna’s teacher?”

  Signorina Belloni’s face hardened. “I cannot stop you; but I should be most surprised if she could tell you anything about Anna that I do not know.”

  “You don’t want me to talk with her?”

  “Signora Perbene is a good teacher—a bit modern perhaps, she has some rather unconventional ideas. But I am concerned for Anna’s welfare.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your enquiry must be discreet. I suggest you wait before talking with Signora Perbene.”

  “I’d rather talk to her now.” Trotti smiled. “I can ask her certain questions without raising any suspicions.”

  “As you wish, Commissario.” She pressed the button on her desk; a distant bell rang. “Nino will accompany you; in a few minutes, she will be coming out of class.” She tapped again at her bun. “While you wait, can I offer you a cup of coffee? The best arabica, toasted and ground by me.” She smiled, almost childishly, showing her teeth and pointed to a small espresso pot standing on an electric ring in the far corner of the room. “An old spinster’s vice.”

  5

  “THE AZZURRI WILL make the final. Believe me, Dottore. Probably with Scotland or Germany. I shouldn’t be surprised if we win.”

  Nino held up the umbrella to protect Trotti from the light rain as they crossed the courtyard. The sleeve of his jacket fell back, revealing a worn shirt cuff.

  “You’re an optimist.”

  The small man smiled knowingly and the red face creased with wrinkles. “We’ve got a good team. We deserve to win. And don’t f
orget”—he placed the other hand confidentially on Trotti’s sleeve—“Dino Zoff’s one of the best goalkeepers of the century.”

  “Goalkeepers don’t score.”

  “Who can beat us?” He offered a packet of Esportazioni. Trotti shook his head. “Bearzot has got the cream of the clubs to choose eleven men from,” Nino said, placing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  “And England?”

  The porter stopped suddenly; Trotti almost lost an eye as he stepped into the iron rib of the umbrella. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  He whispered softly, almost in awe, “England’s eliminated. They’re out of the cup. Here.” He handed Trotti the handle of the umbrella while from his pocket he took a packet of household matches. “Germany, Scotland or Brazil; that’s who we’ve got to be scared of. But believe me, Dottore, Italy’s going to win.” He tapped his chest. “I can feel it in my bones.” He lit the cigarette and flicked the burning match into the fountain.

  Children were playing in the porticoes, under the watchful eye of their young teacher. The small blond boy was still waving the faded tricolor. Nino patted him on the head.

  They came to a corridor.

  A green, chipped door was slightly ajar. Nino lowered the umbrella and opened the door for Trotti to step through. “Signora Perbene.”

  She was younger than Trotti imagined. A lot younger. The classroom was empty and she was sitting cross-legged on the teacher’s desk. She wore jeans and a white shirt. A woolen sweater of soft beige was loosely placed about her neck. She was reading Lotta Continua.

  Looking up, she turned towards the door.

  “This is Dottor Trotti, signora.” Nino held his cigarette between finger and thumb.

  The girl lowered herself lithely from the table. She had black eyes and black hair, parted in the middle and pulled back austerely into a short tail. Her complexion was soft, Mediterranean, yet the absence of makeup—apart from pencil along the eyebrows—gave her face a certain hardness. It was as if she refused her own prettiness. She did not smile. The black eyes stared calmly at Trotti. She held a lighted cigarette.

  “Can I help you?”

  Trotti turned to the porter. “Thank you.”

  Nino backed out of the room, closing the door slowly. To the girl, Trotti said, “I won’t waste your time.” They shook hands.

  “In five minutes the children will be coming back.” She had the accent of the city, a slightly rasping—but not unpleasant—voice. She placed the cigarette in her mouth. Her fingers remained against her lips as she inhaled. Her chest rose and Trotti could see that she was not wearing a brassiere. High, unaccentuated breasts. Her other hand remained on her hip. Her body was narrow, boyish.

  “I could do with your help. In complete confidence, of course. I will only take a few minutes of your time.”

  She inhaled again before answering; the fingers about the yellow filter were slightly stained. “What do you want to know?” Wisps of smoke were released with each syllable.

  “I work for the city Welfare Department and it has come to our attention that”—he took a notebook from his jacket pocket and consulted the first few pages—“that Signora Fulvia Ermagni died a few months ago. The husband is a taxi driver. He works nights. We would like to know whether any action should be taken to guarantee the welfare of the child of the union …” Again Trotti looked at his notebook. “… Anna Ermagni, a girl.”

  “The child lives with her grandparents.”

  “That is correct. Now, is there anything you can tell me about Anna? Is she clean? In your opinion, does she come to school properly dressed? Does she have lice? Does she soil herself in class? Is she prone to disease? In your opinion should I ask the welfare officer to intervene? Of course, your answers are in total confidence—and I must ask you, for the child’s sake, to repeat nothing outside this room.”

  “Anna is always very neat. Her grandparents are well-off and I have the impression the grandmother likes to spend money on Anna. She always has lovely clothes.”

  “She is properly nourished?”

  “Of course.”

  Trotti looked around the classroom. The blackboard was of a deep green, smeared with chalk dust. One word, written in neatly printed characters, AMORE. The room was filled with rows of empty desks; on the bright walls, several children’s paintings had been pinned up. There was also a poster on the far wall. With an unexpected jab of recognition, he identified the white facade of the cathedral in Bari.

  “Does she see her father? What do you know about him?”

  “Ermagni?” She shrugged. “A typical Italian male. He is possessive. He doesn’t consider his daughter as an autonomous human being. He considers her as an object, as an extension of himself to be dressed up and to be shown to the world. Even before the mother’s death he was like that. Recently things have got worse. He is neurotic about his child.”

  “You speak to him often?”

  “I used to. I didn’t have much choice.” She breathed at the cigarette and stubbed the filter on the ground. She was wearing navy blue moccasins; a minute American flag had been stitched onto the leather at the heel.

  “He pestered me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I thought at first he was merely concerned with his daughter’s education. I liked him and I was helpful. It is my duty to be in a permanent and constructive dialogue with the parents. This was at the beginning of the year; however, it soon became apparent that he had other intentions.”

  “Of what nature?”

  She caught her breath. “Marriage as we know it is a bourgeois concept. I reject marriage if it means unhappiness and constraint. Personally I am married—but I do not consider that I have lost my freedom. I have the freedom to choose other partners if I so wish. My body is my own, it belongs to me and I can share it with whom I wish.” Her eyes did not leave Trotti. “My husband has the same freedom. However, I refuse to have any choice imposed upon me. I am a woman; I am a free woman and I am not an object. I refuse to be the plaything of any self-styled Latin lover.”

  “Ermagni tried to seduce you?”

  “Yes.” There was a short silence while the girl continued to stare at Trotti.

  “I would have thought,” he said, “that in the course of his work—he must come into contact with a lot of women—he has ample opportunity to play the role of a Latin lover.”

  “He said that he was in love with me.”

  Trotti frowned. “When was this?”

  “On several occasions—before the death of his wife. He kept coming here. He said it was to pick up his daughter but in fact it was to talk to me. Sometimes he came to see me instead of going to visit his wife in the hospital. He invited me out even.”

  “You didn’t accept?”

  “I accepted once—and that was enough. He took me to a dirty trattoria in Borgo Genovese—a place where truck drivers go—and then he tried to grope me. I told him to stop but he wouldn’t. I hit him. We were inside his taxi.”

  “When was this? What time of day?”

  “About nine o’clock in the evening.”

  “I thought he worked nights.”

  “He mentioned something about having made an arrangement with a friend of his.”

  “What did you do?”

  “When?”

  “When he started touching you?”

  “It was unpleasant. His hands were so large and they were all over me. I slapped him very hard.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He went quiet. He let me go and he said nothing. He just took me home.”

  “After that you saw him again?”

  “He still comes to school to pick up his daughter. But I don’t speak to him.” Her face softened slightly. “Perhaps I should. I was sorry for him when I heard his wife died. They weren’t happy together—he told me that—but he loved her. He looked up to her; and she despised him.” Her hand went to her forehead. “I realize now that perha
ps all he wanted was my company. Trying to fondle me—his hand between my legs—perhaps that’s just social conditioning. He was with a different woman and he didn’t know what to do, so he did what he’s always been taught to do. The conditioning of a phallocratic society.” She stopped. “I’d like to speak to him, but I don’t dare. Not now. I offended him, I offended his male pride.”

  The door was flung open and a ragged file of shrieking children entered the classroom. Trotti noticed a little boy with a sad expression and a pudding-bowl haircut. The children stared at him inquisitively; a couple of girls giggled behind their upheld hands.

  “Which one is Anna?” He shouted to make himself heard.

  “She’s not here today.”

  “Ah.” Trotti made a note on his pad. Without looking up, he asked, “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she often absent? Or late?”

  She looked at him sharply while small heads filed between them, heading towards the desks. “Never,” she said, then turning abruptly away, she clapped her hands. “To your desks, please children, and sit down. Without talking, Gianmaria. You have work to do; get on with it. Show our visitor that you are well-mannered, responsible people.” The vein in the side of her neck vibrated as she spoke. The children fell silent.

  “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, signora.” They shook hands again and Trotti moved towards the door. “Arrivederla.”

  He was already several steps along the portico when he heard her behind him.

  “Dottor Trotti.”

  He stopped.

  “There was no need to lie.”

  “Lie?”

  “You are not a welfare officer. You are a policeman.” She stood with a hand upon her hip. “You talk like a policeman.”

  “You are very shrewd.” He smiled, genuinely amused. “I know I can count on your complete discretion.”

  “Has something happened to Ermagni?” Her forehead was wrinkled with concern. “Has he done something wrong—or stupid?”