Some Bitter Taste (2 page)

And, the marshal thought, she’s tall, blond, and sexy, and you, though honest and respectable, are an office worker whose face is as dreary as your job. So he didn’t try to dissuade Mario. He just listened to him. He was going to need luck to make such a marriage work, but then who didn’t?

And now he listened to Dori. She was a lot more realistic than her prospective husband, and her fears were well grounded. If she’d ever had any hopes or illusions, they’d been crushed out of her long before Ilir’s money paid the exorbitant fee that brought her across to Puglia, wet and starved in a rubber dinghy.

‘Besides, how long will he get? Whether I’m married or not, he could still come after me when he gets out.’

‘You can afford to pay him off.’ He wasn’t being strictly honest and they both knew it. The average price of a girl was around twenty-five million lire. A girl with Dori’s looks wasn’t easy to come by. She couldn’t afford to pay him off.

‘So get married. You’ll be living in Prato. A different city, a different world …’

She lit another cigarette, thinking about it. The same image was in both their heads. Neither of them wanted to put it into words. Black nights on the motorway. Girls who refused to play ball, girls who thought they could set up on their own account, beaten, tortured, abandoned. The most recent had got off lighdy with fractures to shoulder, arm, and knee. She was eight months pregnant. The baby had survived.

And even so, after their experiences in Albania, it was authority that they feared, uniforms that they hated. So it needed patience.

If only that Mario had a bit more oomph, he’d threaten to change his mind instead of hanging around bleating like a sheep. That might shock her, make her realise …

The marshal himself had a card up his sleeve but he didn’t feel justified in showing it. One that would link her, probably unjustly, to an organized crime investigation. Better wait and see. He had a job to do, when all was said and done, and Captain Maestrangelo, his commanding officer, wouldn’t be any too pleased if he risked blowing an important case in the hopes of getting a good-looking prostitute safely married off. There was nothing for it but to play Mario’s part for him. He stared at the map of his Quarter on the wall behind the girl’s head and said, ‘I didn’t really want to say this.’ Which was true enough.

‘Say what?’ She tensed, swallowing smoke, coughing.

‘I’ve been talking to Mario—’

‘Talking to him? Putting him off? Is that what you mean? Telling him to find some nice little respectable Italian girl who works in an office—’

‘No, no … nothing of that sort. No …’

‘What then? What?’

‘Just the opposite, Dori. I’ve been doing my best for you but you’ve let him go off the boil, you know. By this time, he’ll have talked about it—to his mates at work, to his mother even. Can you imagine the fuss a mother would kick up? What she’ll be saying to him? The tears and tantrums, day in, day out?’

‘He’s never mentioned his mother to me. Anyway, why tell her? Why tell his friends? What business is it of anybody else’s?’

‘He was bound to tell them at some point.’

‘He didn’t have to tell them I was on the game.’

‘But he couldn’t avoid telling them …’

‘That I’m Albanian. Go on, say it! So I can’t be anything but, can I? Fucking racists!’

‘Yes, but in your case it’s true, isn’t it? So they’ll all be trying to put him off. I doubt if he gets a minute’s peace, at home or at work, and it’s bound to be having its effect. Get him while the going’s good, Dori, before you get AIDS, before Ilir gets out because you haven’t given evidence, before your baby’s born.’

It worked. An hour and a half later he had the signature of Dorina Hoxha on a statement, typed up by Lorenzini, that would keep Ilir inside for a few years. Now that Dori had talked, she would have to get off the streets and throw in her lot with Mario, who, fortunately, was an orphan.

The next time the carabiniere put his head round the door, the marshal, with a little sigh of pleasure, said, ‘Lunch …’

Two

‘I
t is almost one but … you said if anybody insisted …’

‘Who is it?’

‘A signora … Hirsch—’

‘No, no. Don’t send a foreigner in if Lorenzini’s gone off.’

Lorenzini could manage a bit of English and could redirect people to Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters in French and German when communications failed. He was considered the station linguist.

‘He hasn’t gone and she’s Italian. Passport is, anyway.’

‘All right. Show her in.’

Some people came through the door with their complaints tumbling from their mouths; others had trouble knowing where to start. He watched this woman glance discreedy round the room as she smoothed her linen dress beneath her and tried to gather her thoughts. She wouldn’t find much inspiration, he thought, in the row of army calendars behind his head, the photocopier, a filing cabinet. Her hair looked very white against olive skin, her eyes almost as black as her elegant frock. He noticed a gold necklace, yellowing diamonds in her ring. No wedding ring, though. The poor people of the San Frediano Quarter were voluble. They called a spade a spade. They had no resources outside their own families and they came to him to tell all and invoke his help. Women with old diamonds usually had influential friends to help them, and if they came to him it was to demand action and tell him as little as possible. He stared at her with his large, slighdy bulging eyes. She met his gaze for a second then shifted her glance to the right and upwards. The tips of her varnished fingernails touched her necklace. He waited. She changed her mind about lying to him and met his gaze again, saying, ‘I’ve come to you because I’m frightened.’

‘I see. And who are you frightened of, Signora?’

But her eyes flickered up and right again. ‘I don’t know. I—someone has been in my flat while I was out. Naturally I have no way of knowing who.’

‘Was anything stolen?’ He was reaching for a sheet of lined, stamped paper to take her statement.

‘No! No, nothing was stolen and I don’t—do you have to write this down?’

‘Not at all, Signora, if you don’t want me to.’

He put the paper back.

‘I don’t. I thought that if I told you, in confidence, you could advise me. My neighbour, Signora Rossi, a young woman whose husband is an architect—they have a little girl who occasionally spends a little time with me in the afternoons if both parents are out at work—of course, this has nothing to do with the problem. I’m just trying to explain why I came here, even though …’

‘That’s all right, Signora. You don’t have to explain anything.’

‘Perhaps not, but I don’t want you to think that I would waste your time. I mean, not reporting anything stolen, just wanting to talk to you.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’

‘You’re very kind, but I remember … my handbag was snatched recendy—you know the sort of thing, a youngster on a scooter. They say one should be thankful not to be injured as so many women are when they try to hang on to their bags and are dragged into the road. Anyway, I reported it at your headquarters in Borgo Ognissanti and, though they were perfecdy polite, quite kind, in fact, I didn’t feel I could go there with—I mean go there and talk about—’

‘Being frightened? Well, you’re right. They’re very busy over there. You did well to come here. This neighbour of yours, do I know her?’

‘From years ago, yes. She said you wouldn’t remember her but you were very kind to her and her husband just after the little girl was born and they thought they were going to be thrown out of their house. Perhaps you do remember.’

‘I can’t say I do. I don’t imagine it was anything much, whatever I did. So you told your neighbours about what’s worrying you?’

Again her eyes left his, her fingers trembled, nose, mouth, throat.

‘I mentioned it. In case they’d seen anyone on the stairs, near my door.’

‘Very sensible. Now, are you absolutely sure that there’s nothing missing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were there any signs of a forced entry?’

‘None.’

‘What sort of lock have you?’

‘A spring bolt. Six horizontal bolts and a floor-to-ceiling vertical one.’

‘Not the sort of thing they open with a credit card. Well then, Signora, if no one has broken in and there’s nothing missing, what makes you think someone has been in your flat?’

‘I don’t think. I know.’

‘How?’

‘There were things out of place. I’m not an excessively tidy person but one senses when things are not the way one left them. We all have habitual ways of placing things … I see you do think I’m wasting your time.’

‘No I don’t. I think that you’re an intelligent and sensible woman and that you wouldn’t waste your own time, let alone mine. I don’t think you’d be here—I don’t think you’d be frightened—because of a vague sensation. Was there something—a smell, a trace of some other person, cigarette smoke, for example, if you don’t smoke yourself?’

She seemed to stop breathing for a moment. The wave of fear passing through her body was visible. His big eyes were still fixed on her and she seemed unable to drag her gaze away now.

‘The first time.’ He could hardly hear her.

‘No one can overhear what we say in here, Signora. Don’t be afraid to speak up. Was there cigarette smoke? Ashes? Just a smell?’

‘Just a smell. Not cigarettes. More like cigars.’

‘And the other times? Was there a smell?’

‘A knife.’

‘A
knife?’
Was she going to turn out to be crazy, like so many others with similar complaints? ‘What sort of knife? A dagger? A hunter’s knife? A bread knife?’

‘Not a bread knife but it was a kitchen knife.’

‘I see. And was this kitchen knife yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it wasn’t in its usual position.’

‘You don’t believe me, do you? I wasn’t going to tell you about the knife. I knew you’d think I was mad. It was lying in the entrance hall, right where I’d see it as I walked in the door! I’m not mad, Marshal, I’m in danger!’

‘Now, now, Signora, nobody said anything about being mad.’

She had tried so hard to be composed but her face became red and blotchy now, her eyes bloodshot. The marshal stood up.

‘Please! You’re not listening!’

He’d spoken too soon about that, it seemed. T am listening. I’m just going to ask one of my carabinieri to bring a glass of water for you and then you’ll calm down and tell me the rest of your story quietly.’

When he came back and sat down she was already quieter but her face had a collapsed look about it which the marshal had seen a hundred times at the moment of a confession. He was pretty sure that this woman wasn’t going to confess anything that could be any business of his and he was right.

‘I may as well tell you before I go any further that I have spent time in a psychiatric clinic. You would get to know, anyway I suppose. But it was only for severe reactive depression after my mother died. I’m very much alone in the world—but I’m not paranoid or anything like that. If you check they’ll tell you.’

A carabiniere brought in the glass of water and murmured, ‘There’s nobody out there now. Can I go to lunch?’

The marshal looked at his watch and stood up. ‘All right, but first see that this lady sits down with her glass of water in the waiting room until she feels well enough to leave. Signora, leave your address with my carabiniere and don’t worry. I’ll come and see you at home myself.’

‘Wait. There’s something else.’

There was always something else. When people wanted his help without the embarrassment of telling him the full facts, they went on tossing him titbits until they got his attention. She was feeling about in her handbag with a shaky hand. ‘I’ve had a threatening letter. Here. Look at this.’

The marshal took it. It was a picture postcard, one of those joke ones that show an enlargement of the genitals of Michelangelo’s
David.
Every bar in the city sold them. Rather than an anonymous letter, it looked more like something neighbouring kids might send to a tedious spinster who nagged about radio volume or the street door being left open.

The woman said nothing. He felt her eyes fixed on him as he turned the card over.

It was addressed to Sara Hirsch, Sdrucciolo de’ Pitti 4, 50125 Firenze. It had been posted in the city in July. The postmark was too blurred to see the exact date.

It said, ‘N
OW WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE WE’LL BE COMING TO VISIT YOU
. W
HEN WE DO YOU’LL BE SORRY
.’

The marshal looked at her hard. ‘Signora, this is from someone you know.’

‘How can you say that? How could I know—’

‘No, Signora, you misunderstand me. Whoever sent you this is known to you. The writing is known to you so the writer has tried to disguise it in a very amateur way. Look here at the
N,
and then here, look at the
L
here and here. A different style each time.’

‘But why? After all, I’ve done nobody any harm. Why should they threaten me? What do they want?’

‘The message is clear enough, Signora. It means just what it says. “We know where you live.” They intend to make you frightened of living there. I take it you’re not the owner of the flat.’

‘No … no.’

‘Well, Signora, whoever it is wants you out. Unfortunately, given the length of time, sometimes twenty years, needed to obtain an eviction through legal channels, there are lawyers around unscrupulous enough to resort to terrorist tactics, especially in the case of a woman living alone. It’s a bad business, Signora, and very unpleasant for you but at least you know the motive behind it now and it’s something that you have every reason to be angry about but not afraid. I’ve known a few of these nasty lawyers but there’s never been an instance of actual harm.’

She stood up. T must go. I must think what to do.’ She held out her hand for the postcard.

‘Just a minute.’ He photocopied it before giving it back to her. You’ll find that you have something in this person’s writing at home, I think, something to do with your tenancy. If you have any further trouble we can have a graphologist take a look.’ He didn’t specify what sort of trouble, given that she herself hadn’t gone back to the story of somebody’s having been inside her flat. It was more than possible that the message had frightened her into imagining all that, but it was also possible that it was pure invention, something to get his attention. She showed no relief at his explanation of the message. People were strange about what they would admit to and what they wouldn’t. Perhaps she felt that being evicted was something shameful that only happened to poor people who didn’t pay their rent. In Florence it could happen to anybody and did. He kept quiet. Any attempt to comfort her would probably just embarrass her. He showed her to the door. She paused in going to look him in the eyes, her chin held high.