The Deliverance of Evil (3 page)

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.

Sunday, July 11, 1982

I
HADN’T SHUT MY EYES
for almost two weeks. The World Cup coming to an end in Spain had disrupted Italian life. After an uncertain start, Italy had beaten Argentina, Brazil, and Poland. Those were evenings of unforgettable excitement that segued into poker with Angelo, Alberto, and other friends and, for me, often ended in bed, each time with a different woman.

On the day of the final against Germany, Rome was in the grip of a creeping sense of triumph that was ready to explode into ecstasy. Shops selling national flags had sold out. Those unable to buy one in time had hung out three colored towels to simulate the national tricolor. Then even the towels sold out and desperate latecomers were forced to put out painted sheets.

No one doubted Italy would win the World Cup that evening. Rome woke more peacefully than usual under a clear blue sky: it was as if the entire population wanted to conserve its energy to play the final against Germany. Even the usual Sunday exodus to the beaches was largely reduced for fear of getting stuck in traffic coming back and not being in front of the television set at half past eight.

I took the opportunity to stay inside the police station in peace and quiet and sign some papers. Not that there was much to do, but I wanted to be sure I’d have no problems that evening. Angelo called a little before lunch, having just come back from Mass with Paola.

“Wait until you see what I’ve got planned for tonight, Balistreri.”

“After seeing how you organize the folders in your office, I have my doubts about your planning skills. What’s up?”

“We’re all going to Paola’s for the final; your brother’s bringing his German girlfriend, so we can tease her a bit. We’ll eat and have a drink during the match. When it’s over, Paola and the others are going to raise hell out on the streets—”

“Excuse me, Angelo, but what if we lose?”

I already knew the answer. “It’s not going to happen, Michele. That’s not part of the plan.”

“Okay, so we win. What happens next?”

“Next we stay in the apartment—you, me, Alberto, and a colleague of his—and play a little poker. When the others come back from celebrating, you can go off with one of the women. They’ll all want to keep partying.”

“Okay, Angelo. But I’m not letting the Duetto out on the road today with all this traffic. Can you come and pick me up here at the station in that old wreck of yours? I knock off at five o’clock sharp.”

“I don’t know if I can. Father Paul called and there’s a bit of problem. I have to drop by the office about five thirty.”

“Shit, on a Sunday? Have you got to find a little bachelor pad for our jumped-up Yankee priest?”

“Don’t be crude, Michele. I have to drop in on Cardinal Alessandrini—there have been some unexpected arrivals. I had to call Elisa and ask her to come in, too.”

Suddenly my hostility toward the idea transformed into enthusiasm. I hadn’t seen the young goddess again, but I remembered her very well.

“Why don’t I come with you? That way I can apologize.”

Was I joking or was I serious? I didn’t really know myself.

“No, we’re not going to see Elisa. We’d only be in her way. I have to check in with the cardinal about assigning the housing, that’s all.”

“Okay, Angelo, I’ll go up and say hello to Elisa on my own. Pick me up at five.”

This promised to be an interesting evening. At Paola’s there were always good-looking young women from the upper crust of Rome, and they were my ideal targets. Euphoria in the case of victory, plus my dark attractiveness, meant one more victory guaranteed.

I went down to the bar opposite the office in the piazza. The roads were totally deserted. Inside, in the cool of the air-conditioning, a crowd with nothing better to do was mouthing off loudly about the coming game. I ordered a sandwich and a beer and listened to the cross-currents of several voices. There was no doubt we would beat the Germans. We always did.

“Even in war we showed the Nazis!” yelled a long-haired freak with a hammer and sickle tattooed on the back of his dirty hand. He and his buddies were passing around two cigarettes with an unmistakable smell.

I looked at my watch—I still had some time, and I had the inclination. I was in civilian clothes, so I took out my badge. I waited for the joint to make its way to the tattooed guy, and then I went up to him.

I showed him my badge and took the joint from his fingers. “You’re under arrest for the use of a narcotic substance,” I announced.

He looked at me in shock. “What the fuck?”

“And also for insulting a public official. Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the police station?”

I was using bureaucratic police language on purpose, knowing how much they hated it. The long-haired freak placed a grubby hand on my shoulder. As expected, the owner of the bar went out to call the men on guard outside the police station to come over and help. There wasn’t much time.

“Remove your hand immediately or I’ll add assaulting a police officer to the charges against you,” I commanded, trying not to laugh.

The tone and the terminology finally produced what I wanted: he gave me a shove and I fell to the ground like a leaf.

This was the scene my colleagues encountered when they entered. The long-haired freak wouldn’t be watching the game that evening, not even inside Regina Coeli prison. I would have him slammed in a cell where he would spend a very uncomfortable night.

. . . .

I gave instructions to the men as soon as I was back in the office. They could watch the game on the set they’d brought in. They were grateful. But I made it clear that in exchange they were not to contact me—no interruptions for any reason—after eight o’clock. I repeated myself. For any reason whatsoever.

“What if someone gets up on the opposite roof and wants to jump off?” one of the men joked.

“You tell him to jump off tomorrow,” I responded, and I made it clear I wasn’t joking in return.

By four I’d finished the pointless paperwork and started thinking about Elisa Sordi all alone in her office on a Sunday afternoon in a completely deserted city. I was tempted not to wait for Angelo and go to Via della Camilluccia by myself, but Elisa probably had a lot to do, and after that first unfortunate meeting with her advised prudence.

My twisted mind hit on an indirect solution. At ten to five I called Angelo’s office.

The shy voice I knew very well answered after two rings.

“This is Michele Balistreri. I believe we’ve met.”

She was silent. I went on.

“I’m waiting for Mr. Dioguardi, who’s about to come and pick me up at the police station. Is he there in the office with you?”

“No, he hasn’t been here all day. He’s supposed to come by later. Should I give him a message, sir?”

That “sir” reassured me that despite the fact that I’d made an ass of myself, she still had some respect for me. Either that or she was afraid of me, which would be even better.

“No thanks. Perhaps I’ll drop by with Mr. Dioguardi later.”

She said nothing, and I put the phone down without saying good-bye.

I felt a little embarrassed about the phone call. I dialed Paola’s number. She picked up the phone.

“I’ll put him on, Michele. We’ve just had a nap and he’s coming out to pick you up.”

“Okay, see you later,” I said.

“Michele, what’s wrong?” said Angelo, sounding worried.

“Nothing. I just wanted to be sure you wouldn’t forget to come and get me. I called the office thinking you were there and got Elisa.”

He was silent for a moment. “Are you sure that was accidental? Anyway, I’ll be out of here in five minutes and with you in another five.”

He arrived ten minutes later, just after five o’clock. It was stiflingly hot, so he had opened the roof of the old Fiat, which still stank of sweat, beer and Gitanes. We pulled up on Via della Camilluccia a few minutes later; there was hardly anyone on the roads. The street was calm, silent, shaded by its magnificent trees.

“I’m going to have one before going in,” said Angelo. We approached the green gate with our cigarettes lit. The concierge scowled at us, but we stopped outside to smoke.

“What are you doing here, Gina? Today’s Sunday,” Angelo asked her.

“Getting my bags ready. I’m leaving tonight.”

“Without seeing the game?”

“Couldn’t care less. I’m going to India tonight.”

“India? What are you going to do there?” I asked, surprised.

Gina looked at me with disapproval.

“I go every year to volunteer for two weeks. Cardinal Alessandrini arranges everything for me, so I can report on how things are going over there.”

“Have you seen Elisa?” Angelo asked her, to stop me from saying anything inappropriate.

“Elisa’s been up in the office slaving away since this morning, poor girl. She did go out for lunch. I saw her when she came back with Valerio. She rang on the intercom half an hour ago and I went up to get some papers to take to Cardinal Alessandrini.”

Angelo said, “We’re going to see the Cardinal, so Elisa can go home.”

I said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

He shot me a warning look.

“Remember, I can see you from the cardinal’s balcony, so no fucking around.”

Although it was some distance away, Building B’s balcony was well in sight of the gate, and vice versa. Something of a letdown.

“I won’t move, I swear,” I said with my fingers crossed.

Angelo went off and I was left on my own with Gina. I stood on one side of the gate, having a smoke; she was on the other, polishing the gatehouse windows so she could leave them gleaming. She began to warm up to me a bit.

“I’m sorry about the smoking, but the count’s nuts about it, and his son’s even worse.”

Certainly Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno didn’t enjoy the sympathy of the severe concierge. And even less, that young idiot with the binoculars.

I looked up toward Building A’s balcony. A fleeting reflection, then nothing. Manfredi was feeling shy.

Angelo came out onto Building B’s balcony with Alessandrini. They gestured to me and disappeared inside. The concierge’s intercom buzzed. “The cardinal’s asking for you to go up,” said Gina. “I’ll say good-bye now. I have to go to mass before I leave.”

Fucking cardinal—as if I was interested in his chitchat. I was thinking about trying my luck with Elisa when a blue car rolled up to the gate. The driver rushed to help out Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno, while Gina opened the gate for him. I found him right in front me, impeccably dressed and looking cool and collected despite the heat.

“You’re Dioguardi’s friend the police captain, correct? Are you here on official business?”

I took it as a given that he was joking and gave a stupid little laugh. The count looked at me as if I were an idiot. Without another word he turned and walked toward the entrance of his block. I stayed there, watching him go, angry with myself for having felt uneasy—an unpleasant sensation to which I was not at all accustomed.

Then I set off toward Building B, not sure what to do. I risked getting lost again between the tennis court and the swimming pool, and again I encountered Father Paul, just as I had the first time.

“The cardinal is expecting you.”

This time he was serious—not a trace of his usual smile. He seemed tense: his blue eyes troubled in his freckled face, his red hair in disarray. He’d even enunciated carefully to make himself understood.

“Will you be watching the final tonight, Paul?”

I asked him in order to stall for time more than anything else, since I was fighting a little internal battle with myself.

“Yes, in San Valente, with the children. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.” And off he went without saying good-bye.

I stopped to look up at Elisa’s window. Again it was the only one open, and this time there was a flower on the windowsill. She must have put it out there when the sun wasn’t beating down on that spot, as it was now. I still didn’t know what to do, so I stood there for a couple of minutes, thinking about her, undecided.

Then I went to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

I found Angelo on the cardinal’s landing. We crossed the huge deserted living room in silence and went into the private study. Cardinal Alessandrini was there, dressed in his red robes. He was sitting behind his imposing desk and leafing through some papers, probably the work from Elisa that Gina had brought him. In those vestments and in that room he looked different. He looked like an energetic and intelligent priest, but he also looked like a man who had some power and would always want more. Angelo seemed worried; there must be a problem, some work that was unsatisfactory.

“Captain Balistreri, were you going to leave without coming up for a visit?” asked the cardinal. His tone was cordial enough, but there was an edge to it. Something was not quite right.

Angelo went out onto the terrace; I saw him smoking while he leafed nervously through some files.

“I didn’t want to impose. I know that you and Angelo have urgent business. Is something wrong?”

Alessandrini pointed to the chair opposite him. “Nothing that will force you to miss the game, but your friend needs to get to the bottom of the matter. Can I offer you a lemonade?”

Obviously it was some problem with accommodation that Angelo and Elisa hadn’t resolved. That friendly man in red must also have been a very hard man when he wanted to be.

The cardinal opened a small fridge and filled a glass with cold lemonade.

“You’re young, Balistreri, but I know you’ve accomplished a lot.”

This was exactly what he said, confirmation that he had a real and proper dossier on me.

“I’ve accomplished some good things and some bad things, like everyone.”

“The important thing is to learn from one’s mistakes. Even your dear Nietzsche’s Übermensch will one day have to stand before God.”

Well, I’d committed a grave error twelve years ago. A mortal sin, from which only a priest could absolve me. But I had no desire to talk about it with the cardinal.

I tried to change the subject. “I see that at least here we can smoke,” I said, pointing to the terrace.