Antonella Pantano had disappeared, vanished like the memory of a dream after waking. She had left behind a few faded pictures of herself, like the photo that portrayed her next to a young military man. The woman who worked at the tobacco shop, whose name was Liliana Galioto, led us out for some fresh air. As we stood in front of the Aretusa fountain, she began to tell us a story.
“Antonella was a friend of mine. She was beautiful but she had back luck. Her mother died when she was only three, poor woman. She was a simple girl, a day dreamer, a diligent student. We met at a course for business secretaries. My father wanted me to study it. For her, it was the opposite. She enjoyed studying but her father, Mr Pantano, didn’t want her to. He was an old-fashioned, ignorant and patronising man. They lived in Ferla, a village here in the countryside. They were a very humble family.”
“You met her on a course, you said,” Mr Fisichella interrupted.
“Yes, we became friends. She used to come over to my house – my mother had grown fond of her and she felt sorry for her early loss. After the course, I began to work with my father, at the tobacco shop. That year, in October, my father had an accident on his motorbike. He damaged his spine and he stayed in bed for months. I asked him if we could let Antonella work with us, to help me out. He didn’t want to hire new people and he didn’t like the idea of leaving two women in charge of a tobacco shop. My mother convinced him though.”
“Is the photo from that period?”
“Yes. She met a man, Onofrio. He was a soldier at the Abela military station. His eyes were like a devils, I didn’t like him at all. They met at the shop – he smoked like a chimney and stocked up on cigarettes day in, day out. Antonella fell in love with him. She was a young lady, you know, she was so ingenuous and naive. They were together for a while. She hid the relationship from her father, obviously. But one day, Onofrio dumped her, out of the blue. She changed completely, poor girl. She was always so happy, always smiling, but she became depressed, silent and grim. Then one day she disappeared.”
“What do you mean she disappeared?”
“Just what I said – she said that she couldn’t come to work any more. She said that she had to leave because her father had found her a job. That’s how it happened, just out of the blue.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you mean that you never saw her again?”
“Not for a good while, Mr Pantano let us know that she was in France with some of her relatives. Or some of her relatives’ friends, I can’t remember. I was heartbroken – she was one of my dearest friends, I couldn’t believe that she had cut every tie. I wanted to write to her, but they never let me know where she lived. During the following years, I got married and gave birth to my son Corrado, the young lad who helps me in the shop. One afternoon, a few years later – maybe six or seven years later – our telephone rang. I answered and it was Antonella. I burst out crying from the surprise. She told me that she was okay, she had got married and she had a son, she said that he was a little angel. She told me that she lived in Milan. She told me that she always thought about me. She promised that she was going to write me a letter and include her full address, so that we could keep in touch. She never wrote that letter, though, and I never heard from her again.”
“Did you ever ask Mr Pantano or any of her other relatives about her?”
“Antonella had no brothers or sisters. She only had her father, a man that I couldn’t stand. He eventually disappeared too. Maybe he went to live with his daughter, I don’t know. Life goes on, you know.”
“What was her father’s job?” Mr Fisichella asked.
“I don’t really know, he kind of worked as a farmer but he was also a builder. He was a bit of a handy man. He worked in Ragusa, on the ranch of a very well off family.”
I locked my eyes with Mr Fisichella for half a second.
“The Moncada family?” We both asked in unison.
“How did you know?” Liliana Galioto sounded surprised.
*
We parked a few metres away from the church of St Sebastian, the biggest church in town. Very few people were walking along the streets of Ferla on that sweet end-of-May afternoon. We found, almost immediately, the apartment where Antonella Pantano, the mysterious young lady in the photograph, had spent her life before moving – and disappearing – up north. Liliana Galioto had given us very clear instructions on where to go, and she had even remembered the name of Antonella’s aunt, the closest figure to a mother that the young lady had ever had. Baglieri was the family name written on the intercom, like the tobacco shop owner had told us. We rang the buzzer and heard the voice of a young child in reply.
“My name is Mr Corsaro, I’m a lawyer, and I’m looking for Mrs Baglieri?”
The child dropped the intercom handset – as we imagined from the loud bang – and called his mother.
“Hello?” It was the voice of a young woman, she sounded a little wary.
“My name is Mr Corsaro, I’m a lawyer. Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Mrs Rosa Baglieri.”
“That’s my mother in law. Ring the other buzzer.”
I pressed the other button. The woman answered almost immediately. I introduced myself for the third time.
“My name is Mr Corsaro, I’m a lawyer. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve come from Palermo and I just wanted to ask you a few questions about somebody I’m conducting an investigation into for one of my clients.”
I turned to Mr Fisichella, looking for a nod of approval. The policeman made a rude gesture at me.
“No problem, first floor.”
If we’d been in Palermo I would have expected her to leave us outside as she fired questions at me. In a small town of only two thousand people, however, things were different.
Rosa Baglieri welcomed us into her living room, where interesting decorations were displayed in a typical countryside style. She had porcelain dolls and other unusual objects, some of which I’d seen before at Mr Palillo’s sister’s house. The room smelled clean and nothing was out of place. Antonella’s aunty had to be one of those women who spend a large portion of their life tidying up their home. I’d always wondered how these kinds of people felt when they realised that they have cleaned and tidied everything and they have nothing left to do but to ponder the meaning of their own life. I figured that they would probably just smash a vase on the floor so that they had something else to tidy up.
I introduced my travel companion as Mr Fisichella, without adding anything else. The lady was about seventy years old, her hair was dyed a too fake brown and her face was bony and bespectacled. I showed her the photo that had started our treasure hunt.
Rosa Pantano observed the photo, her face was expressionless. Then she asked us a question.
“Who are you guys?”
“I’m a lawyer from Palermo. I’m working for a client who was charged with the murder of a usurer, Mr Onofrio Palillo.”
“What’s my niece Antonella got to do with him?”
“The usurer, Mr Palillo, is the young military man in this photo with Antonella.”
“I don’t know him. This photo must be at least thirty years old.”
“This is not the only one with your niece in it.”
“They must have been friends, I don’t know what to say.”
“I would like to talk to your niece.”
“I can’t help with that, she doesn’t live here any more.”
“Does she live in Milan?”
“She lived in that area. In Monza, the place where they race.”
‘Who races?’ I was about to ask, and I was glad I didn’t make a fool of myself. I thought about the poster of Alonso in Mr Palillo’s sister’s house.
“Why did you say lived? Does she not live there any more?”
“No, I don’t know, I haven’t heard from her for about twenty years.”
“What about Antonella’s father?”
“My brother passed away.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Did your niece come to the funeral?” Mr Fisichella asked.
“No, because my brother didn’t die here. He had moved up north, a year after his daughter left. He died there, in Monza, in an accident.”
“Did you not get in touch with your niece for the death of your brother?”
Rosa Baglieri kept the same expression and the same tone, like a robot.
“Me and my brother were not on good terms. My niece didn’t like me either, to be honest. Some fellow countrymen who had moved up north told me.”
“Was this your brother’s house?”
“It was my mother’s house.” I heard an inflection in her otherwise expressionless tone. “My brother just lived here. When my mother died, he went up north. The house was left to me. I came to live here when my son got married.”
“Do you live here with your husband?”
“Yes, he’s at work right now.”
“What kind of problems did you have with your brother?” Mr Fisichella asked.
“Just some family issues.”
“Money?” The policeman pressed.
“Just old arguments that I don’t really want to talk about.”
“Did your niece, Antonella, have any children?” Mr Fisichella’s questions were on point, one after the other.
“I believe so, one. She married a doctor, from what I know.”
The policeman froze for a moment – Rosa Pantano in Baglieri had a brother.
“Your brother worked for the Moncada family, right?”
For the first time, the woman hesitated before answering the question.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“On their family ranch.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No, it’s near Giarratana – it’s closer to here than Syracuse.”
“What did your brother do there?”
Rosa Baglieri pulled out her glasses. Her gesture almost shocked me, considering the general flatness of her behaviour. She cleaned her glasses with her shirt, then after a few seconds of silence she looked back at us again.
“Are you investigating the murdered man or my brother?”
“I’ll be honest with you – there’s been a strange coincidence.”
Mr Fisichella glanced at me, he looked worried and burst out with a clumsy cough to stop me. I ignored him.
“Mr Palillo, the man who went out with your niece Antonella, was murdered in the building where Giorgio Moncada’s daughter currently lives.”
Rosa Baglieri stood up from her armchair with a slow, controlled movement.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know Mr Moncada and their family, nor do I know Mr Palillo. I don’t think I can help you any further, Mr Corsaro.”
“I’d just like to know one more thing, please. What job was your niece Antonella doing in France?”
“France?”
“Didn’t she suddenly move to France, despite having a job as a tobacco shop assistant here?”
“She didn’t earn enough at the tobacco shop, Mrs Galioto was a friend of hers and she let her work there out of pity. She went to Switzerland, I believe. That’s as much as I know, though, and as much as I’m able to tell you.”
“You don’t remember what job she was doing? That girl didn’t have a mother and you were her only aunt.”
“Time flies, Mr Corsaro, and you can’t just cling to memories.”
“Do you have her Monza address?”
“No.”
“Do you know anybody who might have it? Any friends that she might have had?”
“No.”
“Do you know what name she took on after she was married?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Mr Fisichella laid a hand on my arm, inviting me to cease fire. I accepted the invitation and we left the apartment after saying goodbye to the old lady.
When we were outside, Mr Fisichella began to look around suspiciously. He remembered the gunfire that bade me farewell in Agrigento. The policeman relaxed after a while and we walked towards the car.
“Switzerland, she said,” he muttered.
“Yes.”
“Lugano, maybe.”
“That’s where Grazia Moncada was born.”
“You’re beginning to understand me. If I ever get back to homicide, you can be my partner.”
I froze.
“So that’s the game you’re playing.”
Mr Fisichella didn’t bother looking at me.
“You’re hoping that Mr Aronica will look like a fool and that you’ll take his place. That’s why you’re helping me, not for my brother.”
“Does this shatter your view of the world?”
It was usually my wife who gave me that kind of answer.
“I’ll take note of it.”
“Listen, Mr all-perfect-like-a-saint, I’m doing it both for your brother and for myself. Yes, I want to show the people in charge that Mr Aronica is full of shit. I want to do it by saving an innocent man and a friend of mine. If this sounds like a dirty plan to you, you’ve seen nothing. The homicide team doesn’t have to do anything with it. I’m a drunk, a train wreck that only embarrasses people. Police commissioners would never risk putting me back in my old position. If you really want to know, my friend, I don’t give a fuck about my career. I just want to find some self-respect. I want to fight for my son. Is this okay?”
I smiled at him.
“I think so.”
He burped loudly.
“Pardon you.”
“You understand what’s happened, right? We’ve had to drive to the end of the world, but now we know.”
“I have an idea, but I don’t know if—”
My mobile phone interrupted me. Monica. It was the third time in seven hours.
“I’m safe and sound, don’t worry.”
“Be safe, I miss you so much.”
“Are Susanna and Filippo looking after you.”
“They’ve been wonderful. The kids have been playing for hours, they’re behaving. I just miss you. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”
I thought about the macrobiotic restaurant where Susanna and her friends, who were lovely people but vaguely new age, had taken us for dinner. There, we ate barley and other foods that were meant for birds.
“Is it going to be another macrobiotic dinner?”
“Yeah, I am not looking forward to it at all.” Monica giggled.
“Enjoy the barley, darling.”
“Look after yourself,” she warned me, I could tell that she was smiling.
“I love you,” I said before hanging up.
Mr Fisichella was staring at me, he looked pleased.
“Sweetheart, honey, love of my heart.”
“Do you know what privacy is?”
The ring tone of my mobile mingled with the loud laughter of Mr Fisichella. It was Gaetano.
“Any news?”
“Father Frank Stevens, Mr Corsaro.”
“Father who?”
“If it’s the man that I think it is, he’ll be a father for both you and your brother. Especially your brother.”
“Wait, what? No way…”
“He’s the man that we’re after. He was a guest at the Franciscan Friary the night of the murder. The research drove me nuts because I began with the curia – I thought they would have had a register for foreign guests. No fucking luck. I mean, there were lots of Indians, Africans and Colombians but no British or American priests. I didn’t give up though, I extended my research to other churches.”
“And you found out about Frank Sinatra.”
“Stevens,” Gaetano corrected me. He pronounced the surname as ‘Stehvens’, in a typically Italian pronunciation.
“A Franciscan.”
“Yes, he’s a professor. He studies the Bible and he’s well known internationally. He came to Sicily for a conference. I was losing hope. I’d run out of places to check so I decided to talk to my local priest. He told me off because he’d never seen me at the Sunday mass. Then he said to me that the person that I was looking for may have been a religious man. So I said ‘well, he’s a priest, so he must be religious.’”
“No, he meant a religious man in the sense that…”
Gaetano interrupted me.
“Yeah, the priest explained what he meant. They’re people that belong to the Dominicans, the Salesians, the Franciscans, all the groups that end with –ans.”
“The Jesuits are religious and their name doesn’t end with –ans.”
“Mr Corsaro, are we going to be irritating even today? When the priest explained this to me, I ran to the church of St Francis. It was midday and they were selling food in front of the church… and yet I refrained from procrastinating. I headed into the church, talked to a young lad who looked like a visitor but in reality was a Franciscan. He told me that the person I was looking for may have been an American named Father Stevens.”
“The Franciscans never dress as priests.”
“I know, that’s why I’m certain that Father Stevens is the man we’re looking for.”
“Did you contact him?”
“Me? How many languages do you think I can speak?”
“Fair enough.”
“I have an American telephone number. Cincinnati is in America, right?”
“That’s right. That’s great news!”
“I’ll send you a text with the number, Mr Corsaro.”
I hung up and put my phone in my pocket. I turned towards Mr Fisichella, I was full of excitement.
“I might have found a way to get my brother out of prison.” I was out of my mind with excitement. A light breeze blew through the streets of Ferla.