The Deliverance of Evil (4 page)

“Naturally, the Vatican falls outside the count’s ‘jurisdiction,’ so do join Angelo if you wish,” he joked. He was affable, playful. But he was a little distracted, as if pursuing some thought of his own.

I went outside and, while Angelo was working, smoked a couple of cigarettes.

Then the telephone rang in the study, and while the Cardinal answered it I asked Angelo how much he still had to do. “Almost done,” he grumbled. He was serious, deep in thought. I cursed Alessandrini and his power over my friend. I didn’t like to see him under the thumb of his priestly boss.

The cardinal’s call was brief. He said, “We’ll meet there at a quarter to seven.” Then he hung up the phone.

Angelo went back inside and handed the papers to the Cardinal.

“Everything’s in order, Your Eminence. I’ll leave the arrangements on your desk so that tomorrow morning you can confirm everything before the guests arrive. I’ll see what I can do about the other thing.”

“I’m sure you will. Well now, I suggest we go down. It’s ten past six and I have to be at the Vatican. And I believe you have plans this evening?”

“Won’t you be watching the final, Your Eminence?” I asked.

“I too am flesh and blood, Balistreri. I shall try to be back by eight thirty.”

We went down in the elevator. I gave a last glance at the open window on the second floor. I had to stop thinking about her.

Gina wasn’t at the gate; she must have gone to Mass. The cardinal said good-bye in a hurry and got into a taxi that was waiting by the gate.

We were getting into the old Fiat when the count came out of Building A along with a much younger woman and a tall young man with muscles rippling beneath his red T-shirt. He wore a full-face motorcycle helmet. As usual, the Harley was parked next to the Aston Martin. The count placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and opened the gate with his remote control. Then they all left, the count and the women I assumed was his wife in the James Bond car, the kid on his
Easy Rider
bike.

. . . .

When we got to Paola’s there were already a number of people there. Angelo went straight to the kitchen, being one of the cooks, while I offered to set the large table in front of the TV. Then I helped Paola to welcome the other guests while Angelo was busy cooking. This way I could get a good preview of the female talent coming in. My brother Alberto came along with the elegant German girl who would later become his wife. Every so often I went into the kitchen and found Angelo sweating more than ever over the gas stove and glasses of wine. He was completely consumed with preparing the
penne all’arrabbiata
together with Cristiana, a petite girl with long red hair, large tits, and a pair of jeans that perfectly framed her notable bottom. From that moment my visits to the kitchen increased, ending with me hanging around to chat with her.

By eight o’clock, about fifty people were squeezed into every nook and cranny. The heat of that stifling afternoon was still entering the open windows. The neighboring housing blocks gave off the laughter of groups of friends gathered for the event. I glanced down at the street. Absolutely deserted.

The atmosphere in the house was festive. After several glasses of white wine, I got into a discussion with Cristiana about whether it would be better to get it on after a victory or after a defeat.

“You’re nice enough, Michele, but I know better than to trust you. Paola warned me about you.”

In reality, Paola was a good friend. She knew very well that that type of advice attracted the girls like flies to honey.

“Watch it. I could arrest you for insulting a public official.”

“And would you have to handcuff me, Captain?” she laughed.

“First, I’d handcuff you. Then I’d interrogate you, and I’m tough. If you offered any resistance . . .”

“Oh, you’d have to punish me to get me to talk. You might have to get out a whip.”

I glanced pointedly at her butt.

“That doesn’t work on women who like it.”

She blushed, but laughed. The part of the evening after the game and the poker was in the bag. Not much of an effort that evening. Besides, with all the cigarettes and alcohol, it was better like that. I peeped into the kitchen. Sweating like a pig and now almost drunk, Angelo was putting the finishing touches on a magnificent rice salad in the colors of the Italian flag.

Then the game started. I sat on the floor and leaned against Cristiana’s legs. I was drinking, smoking, and praying for Paolo Rossi.

. . . .

The first half was scoreless. Strung out from the tension and the heat, Italians flooded the streets, balconies and terraces to cool down and get some fresh air. Paola’s phone rang.

“It’s my uncle. He wants to speak to you,” she said to Angelo, looking puzzled.

I saw a line deepen on Angelo’s forehead as he listened to the cardinal.

“I’ll come right away,” he mumbled, and he put the receiver down. His voice was thick with drink.

I was concerned. “Same problems you were dealing with this afternoon?”

He looked at me vacantly. “They can’t find Elisa.”

“Who can’t find Elisa?”

“Her parents. They’re really worried. They say she was supposed to come home to watch the game with them and she never showed up. They contacted the cardinal.”

I laughed. “They contacted the cardinal? She’s out with some friends watching the game. Typical overprotective Italian parents.”

Angelo shook his head. “Elisa would have told them if she’d changed her plans.”

I was irritated. “Really? This has to happen tonight? Okay, let’s go. We’ll reassure her parents and be back in time for the second half.”

I was really annoyed at this bother, but it wouldn’t take long with the lack of traffic and I couldn’t let him go alone in that state.

We were both drunk. I drove Angelo’s car, and we were on Via della Camilluccia within five minutes. The Aston Martin was parked next to the Harley-Davidson. From the illuminated terrace of Building A came the sounds of a party. The count had guests for the game.

The cardinal and Elisa’s parents were waiting for us beside the large fountain. Amedeo and Giovanna Sordi were a little over fifty. Elisa’s father was a tall, gaunt man. His hair was already white. Elisa, their only child, they told me, had gotten her height and bearing from him. From her mother she’d gotten those deep-set eyes. Those eyes were looking at us worriedly.

“We’re so sorry, Mr. Dioguardi, sir, tonight of all nights,” Elisa’s mother said. Her father stood off to the side. Mr. Dioguardi. The poor are too respectful of those in power, which is why they stay poor.

The cardinal turned to Angelo. “Did you see or hear Elisa after we said good-bye this afternoon?”

Angelo staggered a little, his cheeks flushed. He managed to mumble, “No. I told her that if I hadn’t come back by six thirty it meant that everything was fine and she could leave.”

“I spoke to her several times today,” said the mother. “I also called her in the office just after five. She told me that Mr. Dioguardi was leaving, and that if everything went smoothly she’d be home by seven thirty. When she wasn’t home by then, I just assumed something had come up. I didn’t want to call and bother her.”

Her husband gazed at her protectively. “Amedeo wanted to drive over and pick her up, but Elisa never wanted to inconvenience him. At eight I began to worry. I called the office, but no one answered. Now we don’t know what to think.”

I stepped forward. “I’m a friend of Dioguardi’s and a police captain,” I said, trying not to slur my words. “Perhaps Elisa simply changed her mind and went to watch the game with some friends.”

Giovanna Sordi stared at me. I can’t have looked very good, but I guess the fact that I was a policeman reassured her..

“She would have called us, Captain,” she said respectfully.

Parents fool themselves into thinking they know everything. That thought came to me together with the fact that the second half of the game was about to begin. I assumed an exceptionally professional manner.

“Maybe there’s no phone where she is. Procedure would dictate that we wait and see what happens when the game is over,” I said firmly.

I noticed a shade of annoyance on the cardinal’s face, but unlike the two parents he made no objections.

“Let’s do that,” said the cardinal. “Mr. Sordi, head on home now while there’s no traffic. If Elisa calls or comes home, let us know. Your wife can stay here with me until the game ends. If Elisa hasn’t called by then, Captain Balistreri will tell us what to do.”

I was getting worked up, not about Elisa Sordi but about the Italian national team. And I was also drunk. I drove as fast as I could to Paola’s, while Angelo sat beside me with his eyes shut tight.

. . . .

The second half had just started.

“What’s wrong?” Alberto asked when we entered the crowded living room. As usual, he was the only one to show concern.

“Nothing serious. A woman who works with Angelo didn’t go home. I’m sure she’s out with friends watching the game, but her parents are worried.”

Alberto shot me a disapproving glance, just as Cardinal Alessandrini had, but he didn’t say anything.

I snuggled between Cristiana’s legs with my wine and cigarettes. Italy’s three goals gave rise to an equal number of roars across the country. Come the third, people left the television to fly down to the streets, or out onto balconies and terraces. The noise of car horns and air horns added to the thunderclap of fireworks.

On the referee’s final whistle, tens of thousands were already in the streets. In a few minutes the traffic was jammed solid, people sitting on car roofs shouting with joy, waving flags, sounding air horns, and beating drums. Columns of red, white, and green smoke were everywhere; the night was painted with the national colors.

Amid this deafening racket, the telephone rang. While Angelo went to answer it, I had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Alberto looked at me.

“If she hasn’t showed up, you’d better get over there right away.”

His tone was calm, but forceful, leaving no room for argument. It was the same tone my father used when I was little.
You must learn to be more responsible, Michele
.

“The cardinal says we have to get back there with the office keys.”

Angelo was less drunk now, and more worried.

It was no longer possible to go in the car with the uproar unleashed on the streets, but the complex was fairly close by, so we walked through the celebrating crowds, pushed and shoved by everyone and pushing and shoving everyone back in turn. It was a ridiculous situation: in the middle of the most unbridled joy, there we were like two drunken branches battered left and right in the wind.

It took us twenty minutes. I was in a state of near delirium about the glorious victory and the probable hook-up with Cristiana. The thought of Elisa only crept in every once in a while.

Cardinal Alessandrini and Elisa’s mother were waiting for us. She looked hopeful. We went straight to Building B. Elisa’s window was closed, though the flower still sat on the windowsill. Alessandrini was very tense; Angelo was white as a sheet. The office door was double-locked, as it was supposed to be. Angelo’s hand trembled from tension and alcohol as he opened it. I told everyone to stay out, but the cardinal objected.

“You’re a civilian, Your Eminence. I’m a policeman. Wait here.”

But he ignored me and turned to Angelo.

“Stay here with Elisa’s mother, Angelo.”

He went in without even looking at me. I didn’t care. I wanted to get away as soon as I could—to play poker, and then take Cristiana to bed.

We switched on the lights. Everything was in perfect order. Folders in storage boxes, windows closed. There was no sign of Elisa Sordi. We looked through the papers on her desk in the unlikely event she’d written down some kind of appointment. Nothing. We found her time card in its place in the rack where the staff’s cards were kept. She had been the only one in that day. Her departure was properly stamped at six thirty.

Angelo locked the office, and Alessandrini stepped to one side and spoke quietly to me.

“You and Angelo are extremely drunk,” he said, not beating around the bush. “Go home. I’ll go to the police with Elisa’s mother and file a report.”

I thought this was an excellent idea and only made a feeble protest that the Cardinal didn’t even hear. So off we went. As well as our smelling of alcohol and smoke, I’d even let a burp escape my lips.

When we got back my brother had left. No poker. But Cristiana soon returned with Paola. I carried her to the guest room and shut the door.

She stood by the door, her cheeks flushed.

“Michele, I’m engaged to a man who works in Milan. We’re getting married soon.”

I’d heard that story before. Michele Balistreri was every woman’s dark little secret, that borderland that girls know, that they fear and dream about without daring to get too close. They soon understood that if they strayed over the line of good behavior with Michele Balistreri, they could always go back to being cosseted by reassuring guys like Angelo Dioguardi, the ideal boyfriend and companion for life. It was much more enjoyable like this; I enjoyed corrupting their good principles to the point where they not only slipped out of their clothes but also the protective layers built up from years of education and self-control. Along with their panties they handed over that part of themselves they knew existed but were ashamed of, the part that no fiancé had ever seen before and no husband after. They never truly fell in love with me out of an instinct for self-preservation, but when I disappeared they couldn’t forgive me. I took away with me the most secret side of their face, even if I was perhaps the only man who had never tried to deceive them.

I unbuckled the belt around her jeans.

“I don’t have my handcuffs, so I’ll have use this.”

She unfastened my leather belt.

“And if I refuse to cooperate with the police, you can use this to punish me.”

It was going to be a hell of a night. I forgot all about Elisa Sordi.

Monday, July 12, 1982

S
PENDING 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.