SPENDING THE NIGHT AT Paola’s also gave me a huge logistical gain. I was only two strides from the Vigna Clara police station and could therefore sleep in longer. And that morning I needed it. I ignored the alarm completely, having told the station I’d be late. Cristiana was sleeping at my side and from the bedroom next door there was no noise. In the end, what forced me to get up around eleven was hunger.
I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth. I just quietly slipped on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to the café in the piazza. A crowd was discussing the previous night’s win. The sidewalks were packed with people who should have been at work, just like me. In the general throng, I put myself right with a tall coffee and a pastry.
“On the house,” declared the man behind the bar, obviously a soccer fan. “Only Germans pay today.”
I bought the Corriere dello Sport and went back to Paola’s apartment. I wanted to read all the details of the big win in peace and quiet. I stretched out on the sofa in the living room with the paper and my cigarettes to enjoy reports on the game.
After a while, I heard Cristiana and Paola talking in the kitchen and smelled coffee. They came in with a steaming cup for me, as well as some toast and jam. They were in slippers and robes, their eyes still puffy.
“There you are, fit for a king,” Cristiana said. She leaned down and I gave her a quick kiss.
“Paola,” I said, “Angelo won’t be happy if he wakes up and knows I’ve seen you in this state . . .”
“Angelo went out at seven thirty. The big jerk woke me up.”
I was a little surprised, but then I remembered that he had problems to sort out with the priests and nuns. I dove into my second breakfast, then went back to reading the paper. My head hurt, but my spirits were sky high.
Angelo called a little after noon. Paola handed me the phone.
“The police are here, Michele. From your precinct.” He sounded scared.
“Who’s there?”
“Your deputy, Capuzzo. Elisa’s mother reported her disappearance at midnight, and this area is in your precinct. I told Capuzzo I know you, but I didn’t say you were at Paola’s. They were looking for you at your house. They don’t know where you are.”
Good man, Angelo, but this was still a real hassle. “I’ll be right over.”
I phoned the office, pretending to know nothing. They said Capuzzo was looking for me and gave me a number where I could reach him—the number for Dioguardi’s office. I called and a secretary put me through to Capuzzo.
“What’s up?”
“Captain, a young woman is missing. She works for your friend Dioguardi.”
“Who reported it?”
“The mother. She came to the station at midnight. She was with some priest. I told him the procedure for filing a missing persons report about an adult is complicated, that we have to wait twenty-four hours.”
“Listen, between you and me, Capuzzo, the young woman in question is a hot ticket. Chances are she’s off celebrating the big game with some lucky son-of-a-bitch.”
“The priest is really leaning on us. He must have clout because halfway through the morning the rapid response team was ordered to go and check out the situation.”
I took some time to make myself presentable. Sure, dressed in jeans and T-shirt I hardly looked professional, but there was no time to go home and change. I made my way on foot through the many knots of idlers discussing Italy’s triumph. All the balconies were displaying the national flag. It must have been the first time since Mussolini’s era. Perhaps since the day they hanged him upside down in Piazzale Loreto. A country without honor. I squashed the thought that had followed me throughout adolescence; this wasn’t the right moment.
The regular concierge wasn’t at the gate; she was probably already on her way to India. In her place was a polite young woman who resembled her—her daughter, I assumed. I was smoking when I got to the green gate. I showed her my police badge and entered with the cigarette still in my mouth. I wasn’t Angelo Dioguardi’s friend this time; I was the police. Just let Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno try to impose his medieval rules and regulations on me.
The reflection from Building A told me that Manfredi was on the lookout. I was in such a bad mood that I almost pointed in his direction to threaten him. Instead, I waved my cigarette in greeting. I hoped he would tell his arrogant shithead of a father. I knew all this aggression was motivated by feeling liked I’d come off looking stupid during my single brief encounter with the count. Knowing that only made me angrier.
Capuzzo was waiting for me in Angelo’s office. My friend looked as if he’d slept little and badly—dark circles under his bloodshot blue eyes. He was unshaven, and his hair stuck out all over.
It was really too much. I took him to one side.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, Angelo?”
He shook his head.
“We’re assholes, Michele. Such assholes.”
“Why, because we didn’t do anything last night? Elisa’s out with some guy, I’m sure.”
“You really are an asshole,” he said to me.
He’d never insulted me like that before. I decided to let it go. He was sensitive, that was all.
“So, Capuzzo, who saw the girl last?”
“We don’t know, Captain.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Her time card was stamped six-thirty, but Signor Dioguardi told us that he went away at six-fifteen with you and the cardinal, and the only people who live in the other building left at the same time. The young priest, Father Paul, had already left when you arrived, and the concierge went to mass at six, then took a bus to the airport. She was seen in church, but the village where she’s staying in India has no telephone, so—”
I interrupted him.
“Okay, Elisa left a little after we did, two hours before the final, planning to go home and join her parents. Then she probably ran into someone she knew. He whisked her away to watch the game at his beach house, and she’s still there with him recuperating after a long night.”
“No,” Angelo said, giving me a dark look.
“No? How do you know?”
“I already told you, Elisa’s not that type.”
I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to one side. “Listen, you might fall for that shit, but I know a lot more about women than you do. Elisa the saint spent Sunday night fucking some lucky bastard. And tonight she’ll come home all apologetic.”
Angelo turned his back on me and left the room.
“Go fuck yourself, Angelo Dioguardi!” I shouted after him.
Capuzzo looked on, appalled.
“She’s an adult, Capuzzo, and the law is clear. We can’t do anything until there’s an official report. Yesterday the concierge told us she saw Elisa after five, just before Angelo and I arrived. Even if she punched out at six thirty, let’s say she disappeared at five. Get a photo from her mother. It should be easy to find a good one. Just don’t get a photo of Elisa in a bathing suit or we’ll have thousands of reports from perverts. Her face is unforgettable all by itself.”
I carefully avoided mentioning that I’d spoken to her on the phone myself around five o’clock, a few minutes before Angelo came to pick me up at the station.
Capuzzo took notes. “Captain, what should I tell her parents and that priest?”
“Tell them that these are the procedures and it’s a free country and not a Church state. And tell them to get off my back.”
I left without saying good-bye. I was angry with Angelo and irritated with Cardinal Alessandrini.
Next to the fountain was the skinny kid with the glasses I’d seen with Elisa from Angelo’s office window. He looked lost.
“Where are you going?” I barked.
He gave a half jump from fear and I saw the small gold crucifix swaying around his neck.
“Who are you?” he asked nervously, adjusting the glasses on his nose.
Of course, the right and proper thing. I showed him my badge and he became even more nervous.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To see a friend of mine, but I’m not sure if she’s there.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Elisa Sordi. She works in the office on the third floor of Building B.”
“Did she watch the game with you last night?”
He turned pale.
“With me? No, I was at home with my parents.”
“You didn’t see Elisa yesterday?”
He thought for a minute.
“Yes, just for a moment right after lunch. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because Elisa never went home after work yesterday.”
“Oh my God,” he muttered.
“Was that unusual for her?”
He hesitated. Finally, he spoke.
“Yes, it is unusual, because—”
“Because she’s not like that, I know. Is she your girlfriend?”
He stepped back and blushed, running a hand through his smooth, fair hair, and adjusted the glasses again.
“No, no. We’re friends, close friends, but—”
“And what’s your name?”
“Valerio. Valerio Bona.”
“All right, Mr. Bona. Elisa’s not here. Go home. I’m sure you’ll see her tomorrow.”
I was angry, but I didn’t want the whole day to be ruined. On the way back to Paola’s I bought a copy of the Gazzetta dello Sport. I wanted to read another take on our triumph. When I got back I was covered in sweat from walking in the sun. In the apartment the air conditioning was on and Cristiana was waiting for me on the bed, wearing only her underwear. She was on the phone.
There was little else to discover about her after that night, and I wanted to read the paper. But I noticed she was on the phone with her fiancé in Milan.
I pulled off her underwear while she was promising caresses to her fancy man.
. . . .
Cristiana woke me later in the afternoon.
“There’s someone called Capuzzo on the phone for you.”
What a pain in the ass work is.
“Capuzzo, what the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Captain. I took the liberty of calling you there.”
“It’s all right, Capuzzo. What’s up?”
“She hasn’t come home.”
I checked the time. A quarter to six.
“Okay, let’s put out a bulletin.”
“Already done, Captain. That priest—the cardinal—came by at five. He made some phone calls, and Chief Teodori is here.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Rapid response team, section three,” Capuzzo said in a funereal voice. “He told me to track you down right away.”
Section three. The homicide squad. This was all about Cardinal Alessandrini and the power of the Vatican. So much for it being a free country. The Pope chose the head of the government; the cardinals chose who was to investigate the presumed disappearance of an adult girl.
I drank some whiskey to calm myself and smoked yet another cigarette. Then I took a taxi to Via della Camilluccia. Waiting for me in Elisa’s office were Capuzzo, Cardinal Alessandrini and an obese man with his tie loose and his thin white hair disheveled who introduced himself as Chief Superintendent Teodori. They were sitting around the desk. I had the impression that Alessandrini recognized the crumpled T-shirt and jeans he’d seen me in twenty-four hours earlier, but he made no comment.
“Good afternoon, Balistreri,” Teodori said by way of greeting. He didn’t shake my hand or indicate that I should sit. His tone wasn’t exactly cordial.
Well, I wasn’t going to be intimidated by a priest and a fat bureaucrat with a desk job. I didn’t say hello to anyone, just took a seat.
“You know the story, Balistreri,” Teodori said.
Old policemen irritated me in general; they were out of place. It was a profession to have from age thirty to fifty, then retirement. That is, for the unsuccessful, obviously.
Better to starve to death than find yourself at fifty still in the service of this fucking country.
Besides, as my high school teachers said, Michele Balistreri didn’t recognize authority either by age or profession. “Severe problem with ignoring authority, linked to childhood traumas in his relationship with his father” as the psychologist diagnosed years later when he examined me for recruitment into the Secret Service.
“I’ve already arranged for a bulletin to be issued, Teodori,” I said. I used just his last name, no title, exactly as he’d addressed me. Then I looked at Cardinal Alessandrini. “But I see that divine justice considers this insufficient.”
Teodori’s face got red, but Alessandrini smiled.
Real power wears a mask of cheerfulness.
“Don’t take this the wrong way and please excuse me, Captain Balistreri,” he said, emphasizing the title for Teodori’s benefit, “but there are precise rules to follow in these situations, and you have followed them. In my opinion, however, this is not a normal situation.”
And obviously between my judgment and his, it was his that counted for more. I didn’t refer to this in any way—there was no need. Besides, the presence of Teodori bore ample witness to it.
“The cardinal knows Elisa Sordi and her family well, and he says it is highly unlikely that she has stayed away for so long,” Teodori explained, as if I were a stupid child.
I decided not to help extricate Teodori from the difficult situation by telling him what he should do.
He turned to the cardinal, a little embarrassed.
“Naturally, Your Eminence,” he said, “Captain Balistreri has followed the proper procedures.”
I noticed the slight trembling of his sweaty hands. The room was stiflingly hot, despite the fact that the window was open. Elisa’s flower was still sitting on the windowsill.
“The rapid response team will handle this case from now on. The local precinct will continue its investigations, but they’re going to be stepped up,” Teodori continued, addressing the cardinal.
I looked at Capuzzo, who was staring at the floor. It wasn’t true; there was nothing to step up. Teodori was telling the cardinal a lie.
The cardinal read my thoughts.
“In what way will they be stepped up, Chief Superintendent Teodori?”
I saw the fat man turn pale and look at me uncertainly. But I was damned if I was going to help him out—the semiretired bureaucrat could sink in his own shit.
“We’ll send a description to the border patrol and Interpol,” he said at last.
He was lying, and knew he was lying. Perhaps he could push procedures forward by alerting colleagues on the Italian borders, but being a pain in the ass to Interpol over grown woman who had disappeared a little over twenty-four hours ago, without any sign of kidnapping or act of violence . . .
Alessandrini decided to take pity on him and rose from his seat.
“Very well, Chief Superintendent Teodori. Please thank the head of the rapid response team for assisting us.”
Us. Who was this us? Himself and Elisa’s parents? Or the Vatican higher-up who had called the Minister of the Interior? Perhaps the pontiff himself?
There was a knock on the door. Father Paul appeared, looking younger and more lost than usual.
“Your Eminence, I going San Valente if no more use to you.”
The American priest’s Italian was really improving.
“Wait for me downstairs, Father Paul,” Alessandrini told him sternly.
I had the feeling that what happened next wouldn’t be pleasant for Father Paul, whose eyes wandered around the room and came to rest on Elisa’s desk, where they remained for a second. Then he went out, followed by the Cardinal.
. . . .
“This is serious, Balistreri,” Teodori said. He was sweating like a pig while he tried to fill his pipe, and he was spilling tobacco all over Elisa Sordi’s desk. I realized that the meeting and the impromptu search of the evening before had compromised anything Forensics might find in the room.
Capuzzo looked at me in alarm. He knew what I thought about detectives who smoked a pipe: low-grade imitators of Maigret. But I didn’t say anything. My absence from the office could cause me some difficulties, but fortunately I had Angelo and the faithful Capuzzo to cover for me.
“Serious? Why is that, Teodori?”
“Because this isn’t just any old residential complex.”
He was irritated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that investigative efforts should vary according to what was being investigated. He had the yellowish eyes of someone who suffered from liver problems and had blotchy skin that also suggested heart troubles. He made me feel sick, him and what he represented.
“Because of Cardinal Alessandrini?” I asked ingenuously.
Teodori swept his heavy, sweaty hand over Elisa’s desk, disturbing several papers.
“Not just that. Someone far more important than the cardinal lives in the other building: Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno, senator and president of the Italian neo-monarchist party.”
“I saw him yesterday afternoon. Then I saw him again when he was leaving at about a quarter past six,” I offered innocently.
“I know, and do you know where he was going? To a meeting with the Minister of the Interior,” Teodori said. He shook his head with concern. He was conveying what kind of person would have a meeting with a powerful Christian Democrat minister on a Sunday afternoon. The kind of person the count was.
“But he was with his wife,” I said.
“He must have dropped her off somewhere on his way to see the Minister. Don’t you get what we’re dealing with here?”
I had understood, but Teodori felt obliged to inform me in detail. This was a great family with castles, estates, and its roots in medieval Italian history. The count’s father’s brother had fought on Franco’s side with the Fascists and after the war had run off to Africa, where he’d accumulated great wealth and property. Count Tommaso’s father had fought with the 10th MTB squadron and, when the association between the House of Savoy and Mussolini was broken off, had remained on the King’s side. After the war he presided over the pro-monarchy committee that lost the referendum in 1946 and following this dishonor had shot himself in the head. Count Tommaso was fourteen years old and had assumed the burden of bringing the monarchy back to Italy.
Elisa Sordi, on the other hand, was a beautiful young woman from a working-class neighborhood who stumbled into a luxurious residential complex where she was surrounded by powerful men.
“Capuzzo, naturally you checked if there were—”
“Everything, Captain Balistreri, everything. Despite the crazy celebrations, no deaths reported. Just some injuries from fireworks and a few kids who fell off car roofs—nothing serious.”
“All we can do is wait,” said Teodori.
“Well, apart from alerting our colleagues on the borders and Interpol,” I added sarcastically.
Teodori turned his yellow eyes on me. He wondered if I was more ignorant or arrogant.
“Naturally,” he said. “But let’s hope this beautiful young lady is recovering somewhere from a long night of celebrating.”
Clerics and aristocrats. Mussolini had always distrusted both their tribes. He’d flattered them to keep them happy in order to hide the basic distrust he felt. And I felt the same way too. But I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be fucked over as he had.
We agreed to touch base with Teodori the next morning. Then I tried to find Angelo, but he’d already left. I called Paola’s apartment. Cristiana replied.
“They’re not here. Paola had tickets for Aida at the Caracalla Baths. Can you come and pick me up, Michele?”
I made an excuse. I’d gotten all I’d wanted from her, and I didn’t want to risk her leaving her fiancé. I wanted to spend the evening drinking and trying to score in some bar, far away from the luxe life, illustrious people, and Elisa Sordi.