The fist that slammed onto the Alfetta’s dashboard sent one of the radio dials flying, but the air conditioner gave no sign of life. Not a breath of air filtered out of the useless device.
They’d taken the Serravalle motorway for Milan shortly after dawn. At that hour there’d been almost no traffic and the cool early morning air had blown in through the open windows. Now, on the way back, the unbearable mugginess was starting to suffocate them.
‘You fucking idiot, why didn’t you make sure it was working before we left?’
But it wasn’t the muggy July afternoon or the bugs crashing against the windscreen that were getting to major Annibale Canessa. It was the time he’d wasted, the pointlessness of it all. The trip to Milan for a court hearing, which was immediately adjourned, and then the drive back along a shimmering, hot motorway through flat plains shrouded in haze. It was all wearing on him. It wasn’t even tiredness, though he’d slept very little in the past few weeks. It was impatience.
The young Carabiniere in the driver’s seat was sweating profusely, and not just from the summer heat. The excitement of 54being so close to this legend made him more nervous than usual. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, he noticed one of the red display lights start to blink.
Canessa saw that something was wrong from his sudden terrified expression. He glanced at the dashboard.
‘I can’t believe it! We’re running out of petrol? Didn’t you fill the tank before we left? You’re the living inspiration for all those jokes about the Carabinieri!’
The calm voice of Marshal Ivan Repetto came from the back seat. ‘Easy, Annibale – the next service station is only a couple of kilometres away. I don’t know about you, but I was going to ask to stop anyway for a piss.’
Repetto was Canessa’s right hand, his escort, but most of all his conscience. He shadowed him everywhere, spoke with irony and wisdom and watched his back whenever Canessa acted rashly. Repetto was his only confidant, the only dam against the major’s impetuous tides.
The young driver overtook a long-haul vehicle and turned on his indicator. The moment they took the exit ramp, the services restaurant materialised from the shimmering summer horizon like a mirage.
‘Go and get some petrol, then join us inside for a cold drink,’ Canessa told him, calm once more. He jumped out the door with the motor still running, seeking shelter in the cool oasis of the café, and didn’t even hear the young man’s shy thanks. Giordano, his regular driver, had left a couple of weeks earlier and Canessa was looking for a substitute.
‘One thing’s for sure: this one’s a definite no,’ he murmured to Repetto, who mentally crossed another off the list. ‘Number five is out.’ 55
Canessa had had a weird feeling ever since they’d left that morning. His bullet wound had started bothering him, as if trying to warn him that things weren’t going the right way. Something was wrong.
‘It’s really late,’ he told Repetto as they sipped a cold soft drink, surrounded by holiday makers admiring the small group of uniformed Carabinieri. Only a couple of years earlier, they would have avoided appearing in public in full uniform. Repetto smiled at his friend. He always addressed Canessa informally, even in front of superiors. It was a privilege allowed to him and no one else, not even generals.
‘I don’t get your hurry. He’ll never get away from you now.’
‘I don’t know. This call feels weird, summoning me for absolutely nothing the night after his arrest. As if they didn’t know how important it is to interrogate him immediately.’
‘Annibale, what’s got into you? You and interrogations… Just because a couple of them talked when you took them down, it doesn’t mean they all will. Remember: most of them keep their mouths shut. Petri’s one of the toughest. He ain’t gonna talk. He’s not like Filippi and his posse of young rich kids playing terrorists. They started crying for mummy as soon as we nicked them – they wanted to play at something safer. This one believes in what he does. You could electrocute his dick and he still wouldn’t talk.’
Canessa smirked. ‘Yes, but I haven’t interrogated him yet. He might let something slip. Or maybe he’s had a change of heart because he wants to go back to his girl on the tomato farm.’
Repetto’s humour kept the tension in check for a while. They’d been partners since 1977. Seven years of the same high intensity that had distinguished the career of the young Lieutenant Canessa, fresh out of the academy. He’d forged ahead thanks to his arrests 56and some impressive operations. They’d got through all those years of terrorism together, somehow surviving a brutal existence and sharing with their enemies the uncertainty of life under the threat of war. And in a way, they too had embarked on a life of secrecy, never sleeping more than one night in the same place, staying away from home for months at a time. The Carabinieri had bulging folders on the terrorists, sure, but the terrorists had equally thick ones on them. They were targets, same as anyone on the front line.
It had been harder for Repetto since he was married and, during the brief respites, had managed to have a family. But he’d never abandoned that kid ten years younger, that uncompromising lieutenant who too often mixed personal with business on duty. The son of a retired general with a medal from Libya in 1940, Annibale Canessa had no romantic ties, only flings that lasted a few dates, a holed-up weekend, or a night. Those that might’ve lasted longer never did. The major was still a handsome man, with messy hair that had gone prematurely grey. Women liked him and stories had started spreading about his lovers. About how he’d sleep with his colleagues’ wives, because he had no time to find anyone outside his circle. He’d ‘help himself in the barracks’, ran the rumour.
Bollocks. Repetto took it all with a pinch of salt. Canessa’s mother had died when he was still young. His father had given him and his brother Napoleone a military education, and got proud results from one, rebellion from the other. His younger son had thrown over his military career for a degree in Bologna on the trendy new Drama, Arts and Music programme. ‘A hotbed of extremism,’ was the general’s response. In the confidential reports Annibale had sent to him, you could trace the ‘black sheep’ all 57the way through the radical left. No ties to the armed wing of the party, however; no violence or beatings, only active participation in ‘proletarian expropriations’. Clean record. And yet, the grey area his brother operated in was one used by terrorists to recruit not only new soldiers but also sideline supporters, the ones who never joined the ranks but were crucial to operations, providing homes, food and other forms of support. Annibale worried that his brother Napoleone might end up doing something of that sort. He had no proof, only a hunch. He’d had him followed, discreetly of course; if Napoleone ever found out, their already rocky relationship would explode. And Annibale didn’t want that, out of respect for their father.
Annibale occasionally met up with his brother, but he never told anyone except Repetto. Napoleone’s name was forbidden, and everyone, including his superiors, knew it. It had become like the story of Cyrano’s nose: those unfortunate enough to intrude on Major Canessa by mentioning his brother ended up very badly.
Repetto looked around, taking in the crowd in sundresses, shorts, tank tops and flip flops. He set his glass back down on the bar. Seven years. He hadn’t had the courage to tell Annibale that this arrest spelled the end of their long breathless chase, at least for him. Enough. He’d already sent in his notice, asking them to hold on to it. He had to tell Annibale first. He’d go and work with his father-in-law, who’d started a security firm: from security doors to alarm systems, all the way through to full surveillance for companies. With his experience and the name he’d made for himself during those dangerous years, Repetto would be marketing and publicising the business. He’d been on the verge of telling Canessa the night before when they’d landed in Genoa on their way back from Cartagena, the Spanish city where they’d finally tracked down 58Pino Petri and taken him into custody. He was the last fugitive, a member of the hit squad of the infamous, bloody Red Brigades. But then they’d received the court summons, Annibale’s temper had spiked, and he’d decided to wait till things settled down.
Petri was one the most dangerous killers during the Years of Lead. With an alleged record of six murders and sentenced to life a couple of times over in absentia, he’d fled the country two years earlier. Canessa had been hunting him for years, but he’d only really focused on the case for the past few months. He’d tied up loose ends on his list (the legendary ‘Canessa List’) before going after Petri. He’d tracked him halfway across the world, from France to the US, to Brazil, then back to Europe, and Spain.
‘He’s the type who’ll come back,’ he’d once told Repetto. ‘We’ll catch him close to home. He’s not one of those wankers who end up making pizza in some small South American country or being protected by the French and their love for due process. No, he’ll be back, sooner or later.’
For the past year Petri had been living between Cartagena and Murcia on a farm in the countryside. He’d met a local woman while in hiding in South America. She’d studied agriculture and was involved with a cooperative project over there. Her father owned a farm, and on his death, she’d gone back to Spain. Petri had followed her and started growing tomatoes, aubergines, cucumbers, peppers, and more on that good soil.
The day they found him, Repetto had tasted one of the tomatoes, plucking it out of a crate while the Guardia Civil searched the house. He’d brushed the soil off it and wolfed it down as the sun set in the hills. He turned to Canessa, his mouth full.
‘You should try one. They’re amazing! I’d happily take a box. Actually, I might ask that Spanish captain, what’s his name…’ 59
Canessa wasn’t listening, though. He was staring out towards the Mediterranean – you could see the water thirty kilometres away that evening, even from the farm. Or maybe he was looking deep inside himself.
Repetto knew that expression well.
Canessa was frustrated. First of all, he’d realised when he’d found himself face to face with Petri that the fierce terrorist was no longer the man they knew. He was sitting at the table in a blue vest and dirty work trousers next to the woman he’d let his guard down for. They didn’t need weapons or bulletproof vests to cuff him. When they burst through the door, they found him with his partner and the other workers, eating vegetables and jamón, laughing, a dinner like any other interrupted by fully armed men in uniform. They’d found him thanks to her. A tip had taken them to Paraguay. He’d been smart, Petri, heading to a country famous for having given refuge to ex-Nazis. The police informant on the ground had told them that a Spanish woman was having a thing with an Italian, a commie. Had he been the opposite colour, they probably wouldn’t have reported him. Using her name, they’d contacted airlines and border control posts to see if any other name regularly appeared with hers. And so they’d followed the intricate route they suspected the terrorist had travelled. It had taken them months, but they’d finally located the woman there, in Spain. A week-long stakeout had confirmed that Petri was at her farm.
At the moment of arrest, all he was holding was a fork. He’d lowered it, slowly, and raised his hands.
On his way back from talking to the Guardia Civil’s special unit (they’d blessed his request for a few crates of tomatoes: ‘they’ll rot anyway, hombre’) Repetto found the major sitting at the table, finishing up the scraps of food. 60
Annibale Canessa looked up from his plate.
‘You’re right, the vegetables are really tasty, but you were going to toss the jamón?’
Repetto shook his head. He’d never really get used to Canessa’s mood swings.
Petri had surrendered without a word and didn’t open his mouth until the arrival of the special flight in Genoa. Once they got into the armoured van waiting for them at the Cristoforo Colombo airport, packed with a small squad of Carabinieri with assault rifles (Canessa had been clear: ‘if you send me a bunch of academy kids, I’ll kick them all the way back to you’), he addressed the major as a peer, the captured enemy acknowledging his victorious opponent.
‘The woman doesn’t know who I am. She did suspect I was a fugitive, but she has no idea why. She has nothing to do with this.’
Canessa looked at him with contempt. ‘You’d better worry about what’s going to happen to you, you son of a bitch.’ But when they reached the barracks he said, ‘She’s already out of the picture, but she’ll be charged with aiding and abetting. She’ll get through it.’
That was the major, Repetto mused. He’d explode in anger, crawling all over people in his fury, but then he’d be back, apologising, or showing – like just then – a scrap of humanity towards someone who hadn’t demonstrated any to the people they’d massacred. It would’ve been seen as a weakness in anyone else, but it actually made Annibale a bigger man, fostering respect in those close to him, especially his team. Maybe it was a smile, or just a reflection of the lights from the van, but something glinted on Petri’s face as they led him away.
What had really saddened Canessa was the devastating realisation of his farewell to arms. The war was over, the future uncertain. 61He’d spent his youth on the front line, turned thirty, and ridden like a Horseman of the Apocalypse during the period of terror. That all-consuming battle had taken it out of him. And now the warrior was left with no enemies. Some wise person would’ve pointed out to him that a Carabiniere always has enemies, not just terrorists, but Repetto – the only one who knew him closely – knew this was about something else.
The men who’d given that war their all, on either side, knew only how to fight. How to fight that war. Find another enemy? Come up with a new way of life? Those were luxuries reserved to people who hadn’t lived through those times in the way Annibale and Pino had. They, along with everyone else who’d taken it personally, would always be war veterans.
But for me, it’s time to retire. I’m just a public servant who has served his duty, was Repetto’s thought on that suffocating July afternoon at the dirty table of a services restaurant. He pondered the best way to take Annibale aside and tell him about his decision. But Canessa kept on acting impatient, as if facing off against Petri in front of the judge were a matter of life and death. Canessa unbuttoned his uniform jacket and stroked his side.
‘That hole is hurting.’
‘It’s the humidity,’ Repetto replied.
‘No. It’s a bad feeling.’
They reached Corso Europa at 6 p.m. They’d run into traffic and when they finally drove into the car park at the barracks, Canessa once again exited the car before it came to a halt. Repetto did his best to reassure the young driver, who had no idea how to deal with the situation. The major ran into the building and plunged down the stairs leading to the cells in the basement. He couldn’t 62see any of the four Carabinieri from the morning shift. The door to Petri’s cell was ajar. He kicked it open and proceeded to check the other five. Two were occupied but not by the man he’d arrested. No one. Petri had disappeared. His world collapsed around him. Repetto, now coming downstairs himself, had to move to one side to avoid being trampled by Canessa on his way back up to the entrance and the guards.
‘Where is he?’
‘Sir?’
‘Where the fuck is Petri? What about the men I ordered to guard him?’
The two men looked at him, then at each other, uncertain which one of them should speak.
‘Spit it out. Now!’
One of them, a brigadier, plucked up his courage.
‘They moved him, sir, at around noon today.’
‘I left specific orders. Who made that decision?’
‘Sir, we arrived after the fact. They told us the magistrates had come in with high-ranking officers, including a general. He’s still here, upstairs with the colonel.’
Canessa stopped listening to them. Repetto couldn’t stop the man. Ignoring the lift, he leapt upstairs and burst into the commander’s fifth-floor office without knocking.
‘Where is Petri?!’
At his heels, a breathless Repetto arrived to witness a scene he’d never forget. Sitting in Colonel Botti’s study were three colonels and General Verde, deputy commander general of the force. They sat staring, somewhat baffled by Major Canessa, his shirt untucked and sweat-stained, his tie loose and his jacket 63unbuttoned. Canessa planted himself in the middle of the room. If not for his tight fists and a complete absence of shame, he might have been standing to attention. One of the colonels, the usual self-important kid who’d never been on the front line (as Canessa would say), put his coffee down on the table and addressed Canessa’s direct superior, Colonel Botti, with more than his fair share of attitude.
‘You should probably do a bit more to discipline your subordinates.’
Colonel Botti stood up, moving closer to Canessa.
‘Major, care to explain?’
‘Colonel, sir,’ he replied, the word dripping with sarcasm. The two had never had such a formal exchange. ‘Where is Petri?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I had an agreement with the prosecutor’s office.’
‘Enough!’
General Verde stood up, moving Botti aside and pushing his own face into Canessa’s.
‘Your behaviour is unacceptable, Major. The case is no longer under your jurisdiction.’
‘Not my jurisdiction? I hunt him down for years, I snag him, and I can’t interrogate him or even witness the interrogation? I demand an explanation.’
‘Demand? How dare you, Major! I’ll have you court-martialled!’
Repetto could see Canessa inching closer. Their faces were almost touching. The marshal was about to intervene to prevent his friend from doing something incredibly stupid, but Canessa held his hands at his sides. It would’ve been better if he’d hit the general. But his words, spoken softly and straight into Verde’s ear, were worse than a punch to the gut followed by a hook to the 64chin. Fortunately, Repetto was the only one who heard them, or the situation would’ve spiralled out of control.
‘Yes, General, demand, because your ass is mine. Because if you’re able to fuck your wife once a year, it’s thanks to me; because if you’ve been able to walk your daughter to the altar for a “good marriage” to that fancy boy from the Guardia di Finanza, it’s thanks to me; because if one of these cologne-drenched fuckers you’ve surrounded yourself with had been on the Appia Antica at the time, you’d be court-martialling worms today.’
Everyone knew the story. Verde had been targeted by a hit squad from the Rome chapter of the Red Brigades. Unfortunately for them, they hadn’t counted on Annibale Canessa’s involvement. Their car cut him off, but he’d already spotted them. He’d noticed someone following them, and when the trap was sprung, he was ready. He left the car and opened fire first, using the guns he always carried: a standard issue Beretta and a Walther PKK his father had given him. His subordinates called him ‘Tex Willer’, ‘dual wielder’; his superiors sent him reproachful memos about the use of non-authorised weapons. Canessa didn’t care and, after 13 July 1978, no one had had anything more to say about his guns. Two terrorists had fallen; one had managed to survive but ended up in prison in a wheelchair. So Verde owed him his life. True, a Carabiniere doesn’t say what he’d just said to a general, but there was truth in every word. Including the bit about his superior officer’s son-in-law, an official dimwit from a good family.
Nonetheless, Repetto broke out in a cold sweat. It felt as though someone had wheeled a humongous iceberg into the room.
No one breathed a word. Canessa and Verde stood locked in a staring match. 65
It was the general who broke the silence, not once lowering his gaze.
‘Gentlemen, could you leave us alone for a minute?’ Repetto vanished, followed by the other officers. Botti closed the door behind him.
‘You’re mad, Annibale,’ Verde exclaimed. He threw himself into an armchair and undid a few buttons on his shirt. ‘I have to report you now. Do you realise what kind of scene you just made?’
‘Bollocks. Those officers are worthless, just like all the rest of them you surround yourself with, you and the commander general. They’ll keep grovelling. You just need to bark at them. Where’s Petri?’
General Verde brought his hands to his face. ‘Annibale, Annibale… Calm down a minute. Come here, sit down.’
‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
Verde shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry, and not just because Canessa had saved his life.
He remembered it well. The difficult period after Aldo Moro’s kidnapping. The State was still unprepared in the face of armed threats. It acted slowly and predictably; it was muddled. Despite the increase in attacks, Carabinieri, police, and magistrates inhabited a sort of limbo, with a suicidal self-confidence: it won’t happen to me. With Annibale Canessa, it was a different story. He was born suspicious – it was in his DNA – and wherever he went he was on high-alert, trusting no one. Day or night, his Beretta was in its holster and the Walther behind his back, with its stock to the left. Even the way he stored them had become legend.
Verde and young Lieutenant Canessa had ended up in an ambush in Rome. There was never any traffic then, which is why 66Canessa had noticed two cars appearing from side streets. The first one had overtaken them but the second had not, and that was suspicious. The driver had died immediately. Canessa had told him to stay down, but he’d hesitated, and ended up riddled by the hit squad’s bullets. Canessa, on the other hand, had saved Verde’s life and his own. When the car in front of them had screeched to a halt – almost a rerun of the attack on Moro and his escort – gun-wielding terrorists had appeared from behind the cars parked nearby. Canessa had already thrown open the car door. He pushed Verde out and started shooting in every direction, convinced that they were surrounded. Witnesses described him standing against the car, the Beretta in his right hand aimed at the men who’d cut them off, while he discharged the Walther at the men behind them with his left. He reloaded and kept firing from behind a bench, where he was sheltering with Verde. Of the five people involved in the ambush, only two escaped. But they were identified, and ended up on Canessa’s list; he hunted them down for three years and finally caught them. It was one their rare failures before the raid in via Gaeta, an event that changed the history of Italian terrorism.
‘Look, Annibale,’ Verde continued. ‘The magistrates in charge of Petri’s case came from Turin today and took him away. That’s it.’
‘I’ll catch up with them.’
‘No, you won’t. That’s an order. The Petri chapter is closed as far as you’re concerned.’
‘What’s your game, General?’
‘There is no game, Major. It’s over. You’re the only one still playing. The war is over. This country has had enough of terrorism, the Years of Lead. Look around. Can’t you see what the people want? They want to forget. They want to go shopping in 67town on Saturday mornings. The season of direct conflict is over. The State won. The other side – not all of them mind you – are in prison. We let some off, and some escaped. Look at the stuff on TV, the adverts, and you’ll see which way the wind is blowing. No one wants to see guns and rifles! They want swimming costumes in the summer and ski suits in the winter. Pretty girls with their tits out. You were the only mad dog left, and with Petri’s arrest, your mission is over.’
Canessa went quiet for a moment, letting the general’s words sink in before he said wearily, ‘The victims’ families don’t want to forget.’
‘Bollocks, as you’d say. They’re a minority, a sideline. This has been a war and there have been deaths, most of them innocent. Some will pay, many will not. But this country is focused on other things now. We won the World Cup, we have a new Prime Minister, a socialist. It’s a new season, who’s to say if it’ll be better or worse, but it’s a new one.’
Annibale was pacing.
‘You’re making me feel like an old tool, General.’
‘You are, even if you’re only just past thirty. You’re still chasing fugitives when we have special departments for the task. You have no friends, except for that marshal who’s about to retire.’
Canessa stopped in his tracks. He looked at his superior in disbelief, his arms limp at his sides.
Verde spread his arms, shook his head.
‘He hasn’t told you? I’m sorry. He hasn’t officially sent in his notice. Maybe he wanted to talk to you first. He has a family and it’s time you got one too. I like you, Annibale, but I can’t protect you any longer. You’re a hero, but your temper, your behaviour, your crusades… they belong to wartime, not today. History repeats 68itself. It’s happened to others before you, in other circumstances. The city needed a gunslinger – and then they didn’t. I’ll come clean with you: we’ve had some pressure from above. They wanted to stop you sooner, but I convinced them to keep you on because you were this close to catching one of the worst terrorists in Italian history. You got him! Applause, speeches, another medal. You must have lost count by now. You want more? You want another war? Go to Sicily. There’s a great group of mafiosi there who can’t wait to meet you.’
‘You think I haven’t considered it? My transfer request for Palermo is in my desk drawer. But I’ll decide when. First I need to—’
‘—tie up loose ends. Sure, Canessa tying something up. Good. You’re done.’
Annibale headed for the door without looking back.
‘I’m going to find those magistrates.’
‘You won’t. You’re on paid leave, effective immediately.’
The words sent him reeling. He turned around, but before he could say anything, General Verde explained.
‘I’m sorry, but this morning your brother was arrested in Reggio Emilia, in an alleged hideout. I said “alleged”. We still don’t know how involved he is in criminal deeds, but these are the rules, and you know it. You’ll have to stay benched until the situation has been cleared up. That’s the reason I’m here. I came for you, not Petri. No one’s questioning your integrity, but with a brother accused of terrorism you can’t waltz around like a vigilante. While you’re waiting for your next duty, go and have a nice holiday. You’ve got years of unspent leave. Go see your father, hit the beach, run after women without the risk of being shot by a jealous colleague. Come back once this thing with your brother 69has blown over. I’ll say it again: if you still want to be a soldier, they’re waiting for you with open arms in Sicily. Their war is still raging. It’ll be raging when you get back, and unfortunately it will still be going once you leave.’
It had been a difficult trip, with dense fog from Busalla to Bologna, dead slow traffic. There were only a few days left to Christmas and Lieutenant Colonel Annibale Canessa (his new title – Verde had called him to Rome for his promotion, first time for someone that young) had put his uniform back on after three months. It was the second time since the day they’d taken Pino Petri away from him and given him a tower and two stars on his epaulette instead. To be honest, he’d also worn his uniform a month earlier, in November, when he’d buried his father in the Staglieno cemetery. It had been a short, emotional service, especially for the handful of old soldiers, veterans of actual wars – great ones, but almost all of them lost. They’d come to say their goodbyes to a friend, with ribbons, medals and flags as proud and threadbare as they were themselves. The old Genoese military chaplain had spoken a few words at Annibale’s mother’s grave. She’d belonged to one of the city’s historic families. The Bisagno Valley knew how to be cruel to humans, and on winter days the north wind would whistle down the mountains. On that bitterly cold Thursday, the sky over Genoa – dark, grey – matched the Carabiniere’s own mood.
Verde had come especially from Rome, but they hadn’t spoken. He stood to one side, surrounded by his escort and only paid his respects with a handshake after the service, queueing up with the other fifty or so people attending.
The old man died one morning in the cool hours of dawn. 70
‘A fighter, your father, a real soldier. Anyone else would’ve surrendered much sooner,’ the doctor had said, trying in vain to console him.
Annibale Canessa was now taking a leisurely drive in his Porsche 911. He’d bought the car on a whim a couple of years earlier, in a flurry of regret for the youth he never had, and there was something sentimental about this trip. He was setting out to burn bridges with his past, and he wanted to exert control by doing the driving, rather than trusting a pilot or a train conductor. His first stop was the restaurant in the train station in Modena. There, in that foggy, anonymous, distracted place, his brother Napoleone sat waiting for him.
He smiled at the thought of their names. An officer obsessed by military history had given his sons the names of two great leaders, both remarkable strategists.
‘Both beaten, in the end,’ Annibale had said, during one of his rare rebellions with the general.
His father didn’t get angry at his impertinence. ‘True, but no one won battles the way they did. Everybody knows their names, but not those of the victors. And anyway, everyone loses at some point.’
His father wasn’t militaristic, or a warmonger. He didn’t look like one either. He looked more like an academic than a general: a little too thin, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses eternally perched on the tip of his nose, a penchant for sleeveless cardigans. Over time, Annibale had formed the idea that the reason he’d joined the army was that it allowed him to reenact his true passion: playing with toy soldiers.
In the big house in via Caffaro (to be honest, it was his mother’s), the largest room was called ‘the diorama room’. The general had 71recreated some of the biggest war scenes from history with wood and papier-mâché: Cannae, Pavia, Lepanto, Austerlitz, Gettysburg, Stalingrad, D-Day. The two brothers were admitted to that giant wonderland and allowed to play, touch, move, make-believe, but never to change the course of history. When they’d finish playing, everything had to go back as it was; no changes were allowed on the field. History was not a game.
One day, just as Marshal Soult’s corps were surprising the Austro-Russian army on the Platzen at the climax of the battle of Austerlitz, Annibale had asked his father, ‘Why isn’t there a Waterloo diorama?’
Kids know how to be mean, but the general had simply smiled. He’d appreciated the question.
‘Because Austerlitz is the triumph of human genius and strategy, while Waterloo was decided by external factors. Starting with the weather. There was no trace of intelligence or cleverness, only good and bad luck.’ Annibale had never bothered to find out whether that was the truth, or simply his father’s opinion.
The brother he’d pretended not to love for years in order to protect himself was sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. Each time they met up, Annibale felt naked before the pretence. He pretended, to himself most of all, not to love the kid who was almost a son to him. That’s how he’d treated him after their mother’s death.
The place was humming and the music blaring, but all the better. Young men and women, students waiting for their trains with bags and rucksacks, laughter and hugging, hearts made lighter by the Christmas holidays about to begin. No one paid attention to him. Verde was right, Annibale thought: the country was changing, and 72now, Canessa could walk through a crowd of young people who only a few years ago would have been screaming insults at him or retreating from him as if he were contagious. He could walk in without being noticed, just another guy.
Napoleone Canessa’s eyes shone with a sad light. He was sitting with his knees together, a worn leather bag between his feet. Annibale sat down without a hello, thinking that his brother would be a lousy terrorist: he’d placed himself in the most exposed spot in the entire self-service area, wearing the guilty look he’d had since he was a boy, even when he was totally innocent. Napoleone’s melancholy had forced Annibale to defend him constantly from the bullying of the older kids from the Cinque Terre, where they spent their summers with an aunt, always on the lookout for foreigners to pick on.
‘I’ve got some papers here for you to sign.’
No greetings, no small talk. Annibale opened his bag and pulled out a pile of documents held together by an elastic band.
‘I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I asked for time off but they said no.’
‘I know. It was probably better that way.’
Napoleone looked at him but without surprise. ‘You hate me that much.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘I don’t hate you, Napoleone, quite the opposite: I can’t bring myself to hate you. I don’t know where we went wrong, what the breaking point was. Maybe I’ve always been too demanding. But we’ve drifted apart and I’m probably the one who’s suffered most.’
‘How would you know? Jesus, even now you’re being patronising.’
‘I said “probably”. But if you’d come to the funeral, I would probably have hugged you, defended you once more, and rekindled 73a relationship that’s only ever brought me pain. That’s what it is – pain – and I can’t stand it. Napoleone, I see everything you do as a form of rebellion, and I don’t get it. It makes no sense. It just feels like you’re punishing me and Dad. Maybe not. You’re actually probably very consistent in your beliefs. But I want to stop chasing after you, rescuing you, protecting you. From today onwards, to each his own.’
He removed the band from the papers. ‘Dad removed you from the will entirely, leaving you only the legal minimum, but I convinced him to change it because even though I know you wouldn’t have argued, I want you to have half. I’m keeping some furniture, a few old colonial trinkets, the books and dioramas, but I have buyers for everything else. It’ll be a decent sum. It’ll allow you to get a house and live comfortably. If you know how to invest, you won’t even have to work. Just sign where I’ve marked.’
‘I don’t want the money.’
‘But you’ll take it, all of it. It’s not dirty money, it used to be Mum’s and now it’s yours. Don’t be an idiot, and don’t do as I would in this sort of situation. You might have a family someday, maybe kids, and the money will be useful.’
‘You’re still scripting my life, Annibale.’
The waiter walked over with the coffee they’d ordered. The lieutenant colonel took his black, swallowing it down in one gulp and smiling to himself as he watched his brother add three spoons of sugar. Undrinkable, he thought.
‘If that were the case, then this is the last scene I’d write. But I know you better than you think. You’ve always been against everything, but once I’m out that door, you’ll be relieved to see life from another perspective. You’ll start building something, and you’re someone who can do that successfully. This is the irony that 74links us: I’m the antisocial one, despite my uniform. I bet you’ll be married with kids way before me.’
Napoleone started signing. Annibale handed him the documents one by one, slowly. At the end of the pile, he gave his brother the ones to keep.
‘Good. That’s it.’
But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Something was bothering him.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there? I know you just as well.’
‘You’re right. Yeah. Before I go, I want you to tell me about your arrest.’
‘I was acquitted, you know. “Sorry, our mistake, case closed, forget about all this.” Nothing to add, really.’
Annibale Canessa waved away the objection.
‘I’m interested in your version.’
‘Why?’
‘Personal reasons. I’ve never believed in coincidences. I don’t know how much coincidence there was between your arrest and Petri’s capture.’
‘Annibale, you’ll never stop believing the world revolves around you, will you? But like I said, there’s nothing to add. I’ve never been a terrorist or a sympathiser. Sure, like others, I praised the armed struggle, went to meetings where there might have been some fugitive passing through. But that’s it.’
‘So what happened that day?’
‘I was visiting a friend who was leaving for Greece, and he decided to go and say goodbye to his old comrades in Modena at a social centre in an occupied villa with a nice garden. I tagged along for the party. Eating, drinking, singing, making out. Joints. Lots of joints actually. Other than that, a very bourgeois thing. 75There were around forty of us. Suddenly, the police special unit was there, black suits, balaclavas, assault rifles, the lot. They shoved us against a wall and searched the house, claiming that it was a hideout for a new terrorist cell. We laughed, but a gun and some old leaflets turned up in the search.’
‘They could’ve been there for some time.’
‘True, but my friends said no, they’d been planted, and maybe by the police themselves. It wouldn’t have been the first time.’ He grinned at his brother, but the Carabiniere didn’t bite.
‘There were forty of you, so why did they hold only you and five others?’
‘We were the only ones on record as “autonomous”. The others were students, younger than us and there for fun. I got three months in jail. Then one day they call me to tell me there’s no evidence against me, the gun can’t be traced to any shooting, the leaflets were like, really old – we couldn’t’ve made them. “Nothing more emerged after a thorough investigation. You’re free and clear, but you’d better toe the line.” End of story.’
Annibale Canessa slid his documents back into his bag and stood up. He put his coat and beret back on, and looked at his brother. ‘One last question: who was the magistrate in charge of the inquiry? You must’ve met them.’
‘Someone from Milan, the one who sent the police, apparently following an anonymous lead from a supergrass. His name’s Salemme, Giannino Salemme.’
‘Never heard of him.’
Annibale Canessa headed to the door of the restaurant without looking back. It was the last time he saw his brother alive.
*
76Rome was beautiful as always, but around Christmas it had something extra, something magical. Annibale Canessa drove his Porsche towards the small hotel in via Sistina where he’d been a regular for several years now whenever he wasn’t in the barracks or some safe house. He handed the keys to the valet and locked himself in his room, exhausted from the trip. He showered, put on his civilian clothes and headed to a restaurant behind Piazza di Spagna, walking down the famous stairs. Compared to the snow and fog in the north, the weather was lovely. Cold, but clear. The streets and squares sparkled with festive lights. It felt like forever since anyone had celebrated a proper Christmas.
This year he’d leave his thoughts behind and not think about the future. Finally. But there was something to sort out.
On 23 December 1984, at 10.30 a.m., Annibale Canessa was sitting outside the office of the commander general of the Carabinieri. His uniform, dry cleaned at the hotel, was impeccable. To his breast he’d pinned all of his ribbons, his carefully polished medals and the arms of the paratrooper branch of the Carabinieri.
‘Sir, the general will see you now,’ the secretary said.
Lieutenant Colonel Canessa stepped into the office, clicked his heels and saluted the flag before bringing his right hand to his forehead and saluting the generals waiting for him. Verde sat in one of the armchairs in front of the commander’s desk.
‘At ease, Colonel Canessa. Please sit down.’
Annibale didn’t move, though he relaxed his posture. He held his beret tight under his left arm, and pulled out a piece of paper with his right hand. The officers stared at him, bemused.
Verde broke the silence and tension that had fallen over the meeting. ‘I was just discussing your future assignments with the 77 general, Canessa. Maybe it’s too soon to talk about Sicily. With your résumé and experience, you could be an excellent ambassador for us. You might work abroad in a consulate, with your fame and pedigree. I’m told you speak many languages, is that right?’
Canessa brushed past without looking at him and set the folded paper on the desk, addressing the commander general.
‘Sir, this is my official request for final discharge. I would like to thank you, General Verde and the force for everything you’ve given me. As of today, I am a civilian.’
‘Are you joking?’
The commander general was shocked, and he didn’t like the feeling.
‘Not at all, sir.’
Verde interjected, switching to the informal, fatherly tone he’d often used with Canessa, especially in delicate situations like this.
‘Annibale, don’t be rash. Your brother’s situation has blown over. You can’t still be angry about the Petri situation…’
‘No sir, I’m not angry about the Petri case. You helped me to understand something. I’ve been thinking about what you said for the past five months: “There’s life out there”—’ he pointed to the trees along the Tevere ‘—and I think it’s time I looked into it.’
‘Annibale, what the fuck…’ Verde was furious, but the commander general waved his outburst aside.
‘If this is your decision, we will not force you to reconsider. I hope you don’t come to regret it. You were born to be a Carabiniere.’
Annibale smiled. The commander general was good at his job. He’d always admired him.
‘Thank you, sir. You may be right, but I won’t go back on my decision. There are too many people in this country who regret their life choices.’ 78
He clicked his heels with deliberation, saluted the other two officers, the flag, and left the room.
The moment he was outside, he undid his tie, unbuttoned his uniform and pulled out a plane ticket. Addressing the secretary’s curious look, he said: ‘For now, it’s the Maldives.’