ANGELO’S OFFICE WAS LOCATED in the residential complex where Cardinal Alessandrini lived. There were low-rise buildings, each three stories high, surrounded by a park, on Via della Camilluccia in one of Rome’s greenest residential areas. Alessandrini lived on the top floor in one of the buildings and had given the other floors over to Dioguardi for his offices. The third floor was used for administration; the second floor was open to the public—that is, priests and nuns looking for accommodations.
On one of my days off, a Saturday at the beginning of May, I went to meet him there. It was a glorious morning—the skies clear, the sun already warm. In my old Alfa Romeo Duetto, I crossed the historic city center crowded with tourists. Every so often I slowed to admire a young female visitor. Near the Colosseum I saw a German blonde with huge tits and the words Über alles printed on her T-shirt. In Piazza di Spagna, American girls in shorts were sitting on the Spanish Steps, and in Piazza del Popolo, where the bars were already full, two gorgeous Japanese girls were taking turns photographing each other. Eventually I drove up the winding slopes of Monte Mario and came to Via della Camilluccia. A huge green gate barred the entrance to the park where the two low-rise blocks were situated, separated by a huge fountain, a tennis court, and a swimming pool. It was a little corner of paradise allowing some privileged people to live a separate life, far above that wonderfully chaotic city crawling with people and traffic.
I drove the car up to the gate. A severe-looking woman in her sixties came out of the gatehouse. She looked me up and down skeptically, unable to decide whether I was an encyclopedia salesman or some lackey of one of the rich people around there. I stared back at her with one of my own surly looks, a gift that came naturally to me.
“Can I help you?” she asked with a Southern accent.
“I’m a friend of Angelo Dioguardi’s.”
“You’ll have to park outside. Only the residents can park inside.”
She saw me surveying the handful of vehicles parked on the enormous grounds. Among them was a stupendous Aston Martin, Angelo’s Fiat 500 and, gleaming in the sunshine, a Harley-Davidson Panhead.
“The Count doesn’t want nonresidents’ cars past the gate. And if it was up to him, you know, nonresidents wouldn’t even be allowed in on foot,” the concierge added with a note of disapproval, whether for the nonresidents or the count I couldn’t decide.
Fortunately, parking on that quiet green road was no problem. The residents all had garages, and there were no stores or restaurants around, only trees, well-tended flowerbeds and Filipino au pairs pushing strollers carrying the children of the wealthy. Their parents were off having coffee in Piazza Navona or out on the golf course.
“You have to walk to the far end of the grounds. Go around behind the pool and the tennis court, and you’ll get to Building B. You can see the balcony from here; you can’t miss it,” she explained, as though talking to a small child.
As I passed Building A, the one nearer to the gate, I felt I was being watched. I turned upward and caught sight of a reflection on the third-floor balcony. Someone was spying on visitors through a pair of binoculars. I stopped to admire the Aston Martin parked in front of the entrance to the building. The Harley stood beside it. I went around the large fountain and onto the pathways between the tennis court and the swimming pool; tall trees prevented me from making out Building B.
I came across a lanky and energetic young man. Thick red curls, blue eyes, freckles, probably not more than twenty. He was wearing a priest’s cassock.
“Are you lost?” he asked in a thick American accent.
“I’m not sure. I’m looking for Angelo Dioguardi in Building B.”
“You’re not a priest,” he said, smiling as though he’d said something witty. He explained, “Only priests and nuns come to see Angelo. I’m Father Paul, assistant to Cardinal Alessandrini.”
He accompanied me to Building B’s front door.
“Angelo is on the third floor. Call me if you decide you’d like to become a priest. Maybe I can help.”
He really was a bit too much of a joker for a first encounter. I recognized it instantly as a way of covering up his insecurity—and Father Paul’s insecurity exuded from every pore.
I went up on foot. As I was going past the first floor, a girl with the features of a young goddess came out of a door. She was wearing a long white nurse’s coat, and I would have considered feigning illness on the spot. That kind of a uniform tends to disguise the figure, but no kind of dress could have hidden that curvaceous outline.
She stopped dead, her eyes lowered. “Please, go ahead,” she said, pausing to let me pass. Her voice was soft and childlike, a little dreamy, like her smile. Her arms were full of ring binders.
“Can I help you?” I offered. She kept avoiding my eyes and shook her head, distracted. A ring binder fell to the tiled floor. While I was bending down to pick it up, I caught the scent of her soap. “I’m really sorry,” she said, absurdly overapologetic.
I couldn’t persuade her to give me any ring binders, and we went up to the second floor in silence. She ushered me through a small door into a long corridor with several doors leading off it.
“Mr. Dioguardi’s office is at the end,” she said. She hadn’t once met my eyes, and she quickly disappeared into the first room on the right.
I found Angelo behind a desk, buried under papers, ring binders, and folders of every kind. Behind him hung a huge photo of the Pope. I almost laughed at the sight of him in that setting. In the workplace, his complete inability to keep things neat was striking.
“I know, Michele—your brother looks the part behind a desk, but I look silly. Worse, here I am making a mess in a job that demands organizational skills.”
“At least you’ve got some good-looking coworkers,” I said, gesturing toward the corridor.
“I guess you saw Elisa,” he replied, laughing.
“If that’s the kind of young goddess you have carrying your bits of paper . . .”
He explained that Elisa Sordi had been there for two months as a weekend assistant; she was in college, studying to become an accountant, and would be taking exams in June. She was only eighteen.
“And from whence does this manna from heaven descend on you?”
“Paola’s uncle, Cardinal Alessandrini. Our illustrious neighbor the senator, Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno, introduced him to Elisa. The cardinal and the count do favors for each other, even though their morals and their politics are polar opposites: the cardinal’s a Catholic democrat, and the Count’s an anti-Church monarchist despot.”
“I think they’ve done you a favor this time, Angelo. Sure, she’s a bit young, but you know I don’t hang about . . .”
He shook his head with a smile.
“She’s not your type, Michele.”
“And why not?”
“She’s awkward, incredibly shy, and a very devout Catholic—someone like me, who really believes.”
“Is that what you think of me, Angelo Dioguardi? That I’m only a collector of fucks from cheap sluts?” I asked in a tone of obviously feined disdain.
I expected him to laugh but instead he made a face. It was the noise of ring binders falling to the floor behind me that made me realize what was happening. Blushing, Angelo rose to help the girl gather them up. I turned round with my most innocent smile. Elisa was standing there with a stunned expression on her face, a look of shock in her eyes. Not having the gift of invisibility at my command, I excused myself and went to the men’s room, where I remained for a long time, cursing myself. The face I saw in the mirror was that of a vulgar idiot who had just made a complete fool of himself.
I went back into Angelo’s office only when I was sure Elisa would no longer be there. He gave me a sardonic grin that made me furious.
“Asshole! What’s so funny? You could have warned me, couldn’t you?”
“I tried to, Mike. Anyway, Elisa certainly knows what you’re about now. But if she has a sudden stroke and loses her memory, I’d say you’ve got a chance . . .”
We ended up shutting the door and settling down for a chat over a beer. There was no ashtray, because Angelo didn’t smoke in his office, so I used the wastepaper basket. Angelo explained his work to me. The Vatican sent him the scheduled arrivals, and his three regular staff allocated the available housing to the priests and nuns—in separate quarters, naturally—while his responsibility was to take care of hostels and convents for any upcoming conventions. As for emergencies, such as unexpected arrivals, he was always on call, no matter the time of day. That was why he needed extra help on Saturdays and sometimes Sundays too. This extra help came in the shape of that young goddess Elisa Sordi, the girl about to take her exams in accountancy.
“So, on Saturdays you’re here alone with her. How do you resist?”
“There’s nothing to resist. I’ve already told you, Elisa’s off limits. Go on, admit it: the truth is that my being faithful to Paola upsets you, and you’d feel better if I stepped over the line once in a while.”
That wasn’t true. I wasn’t jealous of the self-control he applied to this renunciation. I’d had to work on self-control a good deal myself and was still alive because I’d learned it the hard way before anyone had had a chance to kill me. But I really didn’t understand self-control applied to sex—it was like sucking mints to hide bad breath. And I wanted my friend to see it as I did: self-imposed faithfulness was like renouncing life itself. And that really was a deadly sin.
At half past one, Elisa knocked and put her head around the door, avoiding my gaze.
“May I go out for something to eat?” she asked.
It seemed an old-fashioned request, like asking for permission to go to the bathroom. I went to the window to watch her leave. A young man was waiting for her outside Building B’s main door.
“You said she was a little saint,” I said to Angelo.
“Shit, Mike, you’re still planning on trying to get into her pants? That’s Valerio Bona, an old friend of hers. Anyway, it’s no business of ours.”
The goddess was going off with a guy her own age who was short and skinny and wore glasses. It was absolutely ridiculous—such a waste. He looked like a loser. She’d taken off her white coat. She was dressed simply and modestly in loose-fitting pants. A sweatshirt tied around her waist camouflaged her splendid behind.
I could have some fun with a girl like that.
I intended to do everything I could to cancel out my tactless behavior. After all, it was only the first time we’d met.
. . . .
Angelo had to discuss a couple of matters with the cardinal before we could go for some lunch.
“Come with me, Michele. He’ll be happy to meet you. It’s always useful to know a policeman,” he said with a grin.
The cardinal’s penthouse was enormous: a spacious living room, several bedrooms and bathrooms, together with a large balcony overlooking the grounds, with a view all the way to the entrance on Via della Camilluccia, where the gatehouse was located. The living room was full of young African priests and nuns speaking French. It was like a deluxe Catholic youth hostel.
“These are the people we have to find places for. They should have left this morning but there’s a coup d’état going on in their country, and they’ve closed the airport,” Angelo explained.
The only white face apart from ours was that of Alessandrini, who was mingling with the young clergy in his everyday clothes. He poured lemonade into their glasses from a large carafe. A short, middle-aged man who radiated great energy, his lively, intelligent black eyes stood out against his cropped gray hair.
He came up to me with a smile and an outstretched hand. “You must be Michele Balistreri,” he said. Then, turning to Angelo, he added, “Help yourselves to lemonade. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He picked up the telephone and spoke in perfect English.
“You can tell His Holiness that, with all due humility, I do not agree. There’s no violence. It’s a bloodless coup. The fact that they’re not Catholics is another matter, but we can find a way to have a dialogue.”
He came back, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his hooked nose.
“The current Vatican hierarchy has no love for communists, exactly the same as you.”
I looked at Angelo, who shook his head. No, he definitely wasn’t the type to gossip about me with the cardinal. Either the cardinal could read in my face what I was thinking or he had looked into my background because I hung out with his niece’s future husband. I didn’t care.
“I don’t agree with the Vatican on any subject. Not even on communists.”
The Cardinal ignored my comment and led us to the only corner of the living room not taken over by noisy young Africans.
“Your Eminence, we have some problems,” Angelo said. “We can’t manage to find places for all of them in our housing and the hotels are booked with tourists. We’re looking for about twenty beds.”
This was a different Angelo Dioguardi than the one I knew. He was awkward and insecure. The cardinal was too important for him.
Alessandrini laughed. “My poor Angelo, I see you can’t multiply beds like Our Lord did with the fishes! But it’s no problem. The priests will stay with me. Naturally, you’ll have to accommodate all the sisters. You can never be sure . . .”
“Your Eminence, this is a big apartment, but there aren’t enough beds. We’re talking about twenty priests. Where will you put them all?”
The cardinal pointed to the terrace. “I slept out there last night to keep cool. It’ll be no problem for them—they’re used to it in Africa. I’ve already sent Paul to get some sleeping bags from San Valente.”
Angelo relaxed and the cardinal turned to me. “So, you’re a policeman?” I had heard the word spoken with a thousand different shades of meaning: often ironic, sometimes even offensive. But Alessandrini said it with pure curiosity. At the same time, he was telling me that he knew all about me. In that residential complex, you entered only on foot and after all your details had been checked.
“I wanted to be a policeman when I grew up, but the Lord had plans for me to serve a different kind of justice,” he said.
I had my own opinions about the conflict between earthly and divine justice, but I figured it wasn’t the right time to discuss Nietzsche and the Gospels. This powerful and friendly man may have been admirable, but I didn’t find him likable. He was a priest and, after years of religious schooling, I knew that a pleasant manner could merely be ash over hot coals. I had learned to be wary even as a young child, from the moment in the fifth year of primary school when a soft hand infiltrated my shorts while I was being told about the goodness of Our Lord.
He read my thoughts. “Yes, I know, you’re very much the layperson and opposed to the Church, or perhaps even opposed to religion. Look, I respect justice on earth, but I also recognize its tragic errors. In this world, justice is often in the wrong hands.”
I was losing patience. “If we waited for the next life, we’d be living in tears, tormenting ourselves with our sins. When remorse turns to penitence and absolution, it’s only a way of avoiding life.”
Seeing Angelo’s look of alarm, I stopped, but the Cardinal wasn’t the type to be offended by an insignificant nonbeliever like me.
“Mr. Balistreri, I realize that the only sin you recognize is what we call crime. And punishment is meted out on earth, possibly in prison. But it was the justice of the Enlightenment, not faith, that instigated the guillotine of the revolutionaries, and they didn’t only decapitate the guilty.”
“While no mistakes were made under the Inquisition, is that it?”
“The Inquisition is one of the Church’s many embarrassments. And really it was earthly justice.”
Cardinal Alessandrini had very clear ideas and was willing to promote them even if they went against Vatican dogma.
I would have preferred to wait in Angelo’s office for Elisa to come back, but I realized after opening my big mouth about easy lays and sluts it was better to allow things to settle. And so I let myself be persuaded to accompany Angelo to the church of San Valente to help Father Paul.
While we were walking back over the grounds toward the exit, I glanced up at the third-floor windows. Elisa’s office window was the only one wide open. I lit a cigarette and again saw the sun’s reflection from Building A’s penthouse balcony.
“There’s someone up there who likes playing around with binoculars.”
Angelo nodded. “Manfredi, Count Tommaso’s son. He’s a bit strange, but if I were him I’d have problems too.”
It seemed impossible to have problems in this branch of paradise. But I’d learned that family wealth doesn’t immunize people against the world, especially when they’re young.
“What kind of problems does he have, apart from a problem with spying on passersby?”
“Manfredi’s problem is his father. The count’s a very powerful politician, the leader of a party that wants to bring the monarchy back to Italy. He’s got vast economic resources, thanks to his family’s investments in Africa. Timber, minerals, livestock.”
I’d also had an important man for a father. I could guess what Manfredi’s problems might be. But there was far worse, as I soon learned from Angelo.
“The count married a very young woman named Ulla from an aristocratic family in the north of Europe. She was only seventeen at the time. She got pregnant right away. She continued to go riding and the fetus suffered. Manfredi was born with a severe birthmark and a harelip—you can barely look at him. Apart from that he’s a healthy kid and highly intelligent, but a difficult character. I feel really sorry for him; I don’t know what I’d do in his place.”
The little freak with the binoculars got no sympathy from me.
“There are worse things in life, Angelo. There are people who live quietly with much worse disabilities. Anyway, why don’t they operate on him?”
“They’ve consulted plastic surgeons all over the world. The birthmark is too big to be removed—the technology just isn’t there yet. Maybe someday.”
A blue car entered the grounds and parked next to the Aston Martin. A member of the entourage got out and quickly opened the rear door. The man who emerged immediately commanded respect. He was about forty-five, dressed in an impeccable blue pinstripe suit despite the heat. Tall and ramrod straight, he wore his black hair combed back from his wide forehead. He had a long aquiline nose, a thin mustache and a well-trimmed goatee. He didn’t so much as glance at us. He whispered in his bodyguard’s ear, then slipped through the front door of Building A.
“Real friendly,” I observed.
Angelo smiled. “The Count doesn’t much like human contact, especially with those who are not his peers.”
The bodyguard came up and, pointing to me, addressed Angelo. “Is the gentleman with you?”
“Yes, he is,” Angelo replied, cowed.
“Then please inform your guest that these grounds are private property and smoking is strictly forbidden,” he said sharply. He turned and walked away.
I’d never heard of a residential complex that banned not only parking, but smoking, too. A place where they spied on you from the balcony and knew all your details. I could see why young Manfredi’s life might have been difficult. I was careful not to stub out my cigarette on the ground for fear I’d be set upon by a pack of Dobermans or transferred to some forgotten police station up on a mountaintop.
Angelo explained that the count occupied all of Building A and owned the entire residential complex. The Vatican only rented Building B. As we were passing through the gate, he introduced me to Gina Giansanti, the concierge.
“Next time, finish smoking before you come in,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether that was a rebuke or a gesture of solidarity.
At the gate, I turned around and gave a little wave to the binoculars reflected on the balcony. Bye-bye, Manfredi.
. . . .
The church of San Valente was fifteen minutes from the complex along the Via Aurelia Antica. The Saturday traffic was calm. Many stores were closed, and Romans were having lunch at home or picnicking in one of the parks. We drove down a small lane and I parked on a patch of unkempt grass between overgrown shrubs and hedges. Everything was tumbledown, left to its own devices. The church was small, very simple. Its walls were peeling from decades of exposure to the sun. On the opposite side of the grass stood a small white house. Next to it was a single tree that had been planted recently.
A dozen children between ten and thirteen were playing football and a blond girl of about twenty was acting as referee. Another girl was clearing a long table set outside, directly under the tree.
We went around to the house. Disorder ruled everywhere; the place needed a great deal of work. The lanky Father Paul, sweating copiously in his cassock, was loading sleeping bags into an old Volkswagen Beetle.
“Angelo!” he called. “And Angelo’s friend, the soon-to-be priest.”
This time I smiled at him—his desire to reach out was almost painful. We helped him to load the car.
“Eat with noi?” said Paul finally, in his mixture of English and Italian, as we washed our hands in a simple bathroom with a chipped basin.
“Would you like to eat something?” Paul asked.
We sat outside, and the blond woman brought us plastic cutlery and some lukewarm soup. Then she said she was going to wash the dishes.
“Don’t the children help?” asked Angelo. I knew that as a child he’d cooked, cleared the table, and washed his own dishes.
“Difficile, only at start,” explained Paul. “Would you like to speak to a bambino?”
“Thanks, maybe next time,” I said. “I have to be back at the station. I’ve only got time for a cigarette, assuming we can smoke here.”
Paul burst out laughing. “I don’t smoke myself, but I’m not crazy about it like the count. You’re free to kill yourself.”
I opened my second pack of the day and went to light a cigarette. Angelo signaled to me not to.
“Long time in Rome?” I asked Paul. I was consciously omitting verbs, as if this would help him understand better.
“Almost one year. I’m taking some classes and working with Cardinal Alessandrini. When I’m finished I’m going to open an orphanage like this in Africa. If you hurry and become a priest, you can come with me.”
Then Paul grew serious.
“How old were you when you knew police work was your vocation?” That’s the word he used: vocation.
“I don’t know whether it’s my vocation, but I became a policeman two years ago.”
I saw him make a quick calculation about my age. He came to the conclusion that he still had some years to go in order to be certain of his own vocation. I imagined that, in the years to come, several of his firmest convictions would be strenuously put to the test.