The principal hadn’t yet managed to track down Martina’s mother.
While they were waiting, Professoressa Macchiaroli informed Romano and Aragona about the Parise family with her usual garrulous mix of information and personal comments.
“They certainly aren’t rich, but then they aren’t poor either. I’d call them a normal middle-class family; it wasn’t that long ago, in fact, that they would have been considered well-to-do. It’s paradoxical, don’t you think? Before the financial crisis a family that lived on the salary of a bank clerk could get by without difficulties. Nowadays, three people can’t survive to the end of the month on even two salaries. And yet people who are on fixed incomes, now that the blush is off the rose of the so-called gig economy, ought to have an advantage, right?”
Now watch, Aragona is going to heave a sigh of annoyance, Romano told himself.
And in fact, that’s just what he did.
“Sure, Professore’, but maybe you could save the macroeconomic analysis for some other time, what do you say? Instead, why don’t you tell me: what does the girl’s father do for a living?”
Professoressa Macchiaroli made no effort to hide her resentment: “Well, that’s what I was just telling you, officer: he’s a bank teller, in a small branch office in the city center. An ordinary white-collar worker; I remember that during one parent-teacher meeting the mother told me that she’d had to come in alone because the bank manager had refused to give her husband time off.”
“What about the mother?” asked Romano.
“She’s employed in a boutique selling women’s fashion, in the hill district. She told me, again, during a parent-teacher meeting, that the rent is a tremendous expense, that it eats up nearly all of her husband’s salary, so she was forced to find this employment, even though she has a diploma as a corporate secretary. All the same, she’s in the sales sector.”
Aragona snickered.
“This whole cornucopia of words to tell us that the mother works as a salesclerk in a clothing store? One thing I find interesting though is this fact that, in all of your parent-teacher meetings, instead of talking about how the kids are doing at school, you just tell each other about your lives. Now I understand why there are always miles of cars parked in front of the schools, blocking traffic.”
As if he hadn’t heard a word that Aragona had just said, Romano continued speaking to Professoressa Macchiaroli.
“We’ll need the addresses of the bank branch and the store, as well as the family’s home address, of course. We’ll start examining every angle of this story, and if anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”
The principal disconsolately waved the receiver in the air: “I’m afraid the Signora isn’t answering. Maybe she’s busy. Emilia, give the gentlemen whatever they need: we’ve pushed this far, we can’t stop now.”
To reach the shop where Martina’s mother worked, Romano and Aragona took the funicular railway. Maybe it would have been more convenient to go back to the police station and get a car, but the truth was that neither of them was dying to run into Palma. They would have been forced to admit that he had been right, that the case was worth looking into, and that they had therefore been wrong.
Among other things, Romano still wasn’t entirely convinced of the approach they were taking, and he expressed his concerns to his partner as they teetered, barely maintaining their balance, among the rush-hour crowd that was packed into the car.
“We’ll just introduce ourselves and say: My dear Signora, we have every reason to believe that in your home, while you were peacefully sleeping, this, that, and the other thing are probably happening. She’ll look at us and reply: Excuse me, but who are you? And just how do you know these things? Who told you? How dare you? And what if I simply call the police?”
Aragona was doing his best to avoid the forced proximity to the armpit of an enormous woman, sweating profusely in spite of the biting cold, who was holding on to the handrail. He put on a grimace of disgust and replied brusquely: “Then what do you suggest? That we just head back to the precinct and say: Dear Commissario Palma, call the family court, that way, in a couple of months, once they’ve cleared their desks of the poker tournament they no doubt now have underway, one of those five-hundred-euro-a-session psychologists might even make up their mind to give the poor kid a call and invite her in for a chat. And in the meantime that swine of a father of hers can go on wallowing in his filth.”
He hadn’t moderated his tone of voice at all, and in fact the fat woman now opened both eyes wide, her interest clearly piqued.
“Oooh, Jesus, and what kind of filth is this father inflicting on the poor girl?”
Aragona gave her a hard look and, jammed in as he was by the crowd, answered her with what little breath he was able to muster.
“Signo’, these are police matters, so why don’t you mind your own business. And take a shower, while you’re at it, because you’re killing us all with your armpits hanging open like that. Trust me, you can let go of the handrail, because with the figure you have on you, you couldn’t fall over even if you were riding all alone on the funicular.”
The shop was a luxurious boutique with four plate-glass display windows looking out over the main thoroughfare of the quarter. The clothing on display was expensive, and yet Romano and Aragona spotted at least a dozen customers inside, along with just four salesclerks, and a man who was probably the proprietor.
They decided to wait until there was less of a crowd, but after ten minutes, no one had left the shop. At that point they agreed that Aragona should go in alone, to keep from arousing suspicion, while Romano would wait in a café at the corner. Just a few minutes’ exposure to the cold had been enough to chill the two policemen to the bone.
The interior of the shop, compared to the exterior, was piping hot; Aragona decided that that was why the customers were lingering at such length. He looked around to try to figure out which of the four salesclerks was Martina’s mother and, thinking he had spotted some vague resemblance to the girl in a petite woman with chestnut hair and large dark eyes, he got in line and waited until she was free. When it was his turn, he asked: “Would you happen to be Signora Parise?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not. What a pity. Are you sure I can’t help you?”
Flattered, Aragona swept off his eyeglasses: “Maybe we could come up with something, if we tried. But right now, I’m afraid I really have to speak to Signora Parise. Would you mind pointing her out to me?”
The woman made a coquettish grimace of feigned disappointment.
“If you insist . . . Antonella! This gentleman wants to talk to you.”
The woman who turned around caught the officer by surprise. Her appearance was as different as could be from her daughter’s. She was tall, she had red hair pulled up in a bun, green eyes, and a spectacular body sheathed in a warm brown dress. She looked no older than twenty-five. She walked over, with a vaguely uneasy expression.
“Yes, tell me how I can be of assistance.”
“I need to talk to you, but it’s a confidential matter. Could you step outside with me for five minutes?”
“I’m . . . I’m actually working, I was just assisting that woman and—”
Aragona interrupted: “It’s about Martina.”
Antonella stared at him. There was an inscrutable expression on her face, a blend of apprehension but also grief and sadness: she had the eyes of a suffering mother.
“Wait for me outside.”
She walked over to a coworker and pointed her to the customer she had been serving, then went up to the man at the cash register, an impeccably groomed and elegantly dressed man in his early fifties, and whispered briefly to him. A hostile look appeared on his face, then he brusquely nodded to the woman, who grabbed her overcoat and hurried out of the shop.
Romano was waiting for them at a table in the back of the café. When he saw them come in, he got to his feet and extended his hand: “Buongiorno, Signora. My name is Francesco Romano, and this is Marco Aragona, in case you haven’t been properly introduced. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?”
Signora Parise sat down, rigidly.
“An espresso, thanks. So can I ask what this is about?”
Her voice had just the faintest hint of concern. Romano, too, noticed how little she resembled her daughter. The officer decided to create the least threatening atmosphere possible.
“Today, at her school, we had the opportunity to make your daughter Martina’s acquaintance. You seem too young to be her mother.”
A glint of fear appeared in the woman’s eyes, though she proceeded to put on a strained smile as she ran her long fingers through her hair.
“I was . . . very young when she was born. I was just seventeen. I’m twenty-nine now.”
“And you look much younger than that, believe me. My compliments.”
A waiter arrived with the espressos.
“Please, don’t keep me on tenterhooks. What has Martina done? What did she say?”
Romano seized the opportunity.
“Why, what might your daughter have done or said?”
The woman started to get up: “Unless you immediately tell me who you are, I’m going to have to put an end to this conversation.”
The two policemen exchanged an uncertain glance. Then Romano said: “Signora, don’t be frightened. Our job is in fact to ensure that nothing bad happens, or if it’s happening, to make sure it stops. We’re both officers from the Pizzofalcone police precinct, but we’re here to speak with you on a completely informal, friendly basis. The principal and the Italian literature teacher contacted us. They’re worried about Martina. But I think you already know all about that.”
Romano and Aragona expected her to react with anxiety, anguish, or else indignation. Instead, Antonella drew a deep sigh and focused on the espresso demitasse, as if she thought she could find answers in it.
“So it’s come to this. We’ve reached this point. The police, no less.”
Aragona spoke softly: “Signora, you have no reason to be angry with the teachers: they’re mothers, too, it’s only human for them to worry. We read the essays that your daughter wrote and . . . we believe it’s perfectly legitimate to ask some questions, to be frank.”
The woman said nothing, still holding her head low.
Romano added: “On the other hand, it certainly happens sometimes that kids with overactive imaginations dream up things that don’t match up with reality. Maybe that’s what happened with Martina, perhaps she just felt lonely and she invented a parallel life. And it might be that she hasn’t even told you about any of these things.”
Signora Parise suddenly raised her head, and Romano found himself under the cold fire of those green eyes. Then she said: “There you go, officer. Bull’s-eye. Maybe she never even told me about any of these things. Or maybe she tried, but I refused to listen.”
Aragona was confused.
“But why would you refuse to listen?”
“Because these things are false, that’s why. Otherwise I would have come directly to you, and at a dead run. Or else I’d have killed him with my bare hands. But none of it’s true.”
“How can you be so sure?” Romano asked her.
The woman’s face had turned pale, strained. Her features had tightened, and two lines around her compressed lips gave the policemen a preview of what she would look like as an old woman.
“Because I know my husband. He’s a simple, good-hearted man, and Martina and I are all he has in the world. He isn’t a pervert, he isn’t a madman, he isn’t a maniac.”
Romano leaned forward. From the very beginning, he wished he’d never had anything to do with this whole matter, but now that he was in it, he wasn’t willing to be dismissed out of hand.
“Then why in the world would your daughter have decided to dream up anything of the sort, can you tell me that? And what’s more, describing certain scenes in an essay she was assigned to write for a class.”
Signora Parise’s lower lip began to tremble.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. My daughter and I talk all the time. I don’t know why she felt the need to . . . I can’t even bring myself to say it. But I do know, and I know it for certain, that there’s not a word of truth to it. I won’t dignify this nonsense with a police report, in fact, if anything, I’m tempted to sue the school for excessive zeal, but since it’s also clear to me that they had only the best of intentions, I’ll just pretend the two of you never came to see me.”
She stood up and started out of the café. Aragona only stopped her when she had her back to the little café table.
“Signora, wait a second. Maybe you can explain something to me that I don’t understand, and maybe I’m crazy. But how can you bring yourself to sleep peacefully, to come here to work, to walk down the street, to shop for groceries and cook dinner with the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, there’s someone in your house that’s molesting your daughter? She’s no more than a little girl, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you understand that?”
The woman stood motionless, like a mannequin, then her shoulders bowed forward. At last, they heard her voice: flat, low, steady.
“Sometimes, I bring her with me. I bring her with me when I have to come back to work here, in the afternoons. I bring her with me, so I don’t have to leave her alone at home.”
And then she hurried out of the café.