The Deliverance of Evil (9 page)

“Of course, but I must warn you that Ulla is very upset about what happened and my son, Manfredi, as perhaps you know, has issues and must be treated carefully.”

“Perfectly clear, Count,” said a thankful Teodori. “We’ll be as brief with them as we were with you.”

“Then I will escort you upstairs—they are both at home.”

The penthouse was as large as it was gloomy. Dark parquet floors, heavy curtains, antique furniture. A long hallway led to two drawing rooms in succession. The first was covered in tapestries depicting battles in the Italian colonies and big game trophies from Africa and South America. The second was a museum of eighteenth and nineteenth-century furniture interspersed with modern black leather sofas. I was struck by the total absence of mirrors or any reflective surfaces. The count sat us down in another room while his personal secretary went to get the wife.

Ulla arrived immediately, as if she’d been forewarned. She was wearing a fancy sweatsuit, the expensive kind that’s not made for sweating. Her hair was gathered in a short ponytail, which made her look younger, but the tiny lines etched around her mouth and her stunning blue-green eyes showed that she was over thirty, and that her life wasn’t without stress. She didn’t mention our brief encounter beside the pool, and we introduced ourselves.

She had little to add. On Sunday morning she left the apartment early to go to Mass. I caught a flash of disapproval on the count’s face. She returned at eleven and noticed Elisa, a beautiful young women she’d seen before, talking to Gina Giansanti..

“I didn’t leave the house for the rest of the day. I slept a lot, because I was exhausted and guests were coming over to watch the game. When my husband returned at about five thirty, I gave final instructions to the cook and then went out with him to take a walk. He dropped me off on Via del Corso. It would have been six thirty, or maybe a little later.”

“Did you by any chance see Elisa while you were walking downtown?” asked Teodori.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Did you buy anything?” I asked.

She looked at me a little surprised, as if she was making an effort to remember.

“No, nothing. I hailed a taxi in Piazza Venezia and got here about a quarter past eight, a few minutes after my husband.”

“Was Manfredi already home?” I asked.

“Manfredi got here soon after, about eight twenty. He always stays at the gym for at least an hour.”

I understood why Manfredi didn’t like the company of strangers and mirrors as soon as I saw him enter the room. Apart from that face, he was a normal kid: he was muscular, with powerful but not excessive pectorals and biceps, and almost as tall as me. But from the neck up he was a disaster area, a terrible trick of destiny. A harelip and mauvish birthmark as large as an apricot disfigured his face up to the swollen eyelid of his left eye. He had smooth black hair down to his shoulders and kept it over his face to cover the disfigured part. The only visible eye was very striking, having the same sea-green color as his mother’s.

“The cop who makes funny faces,” he said. He had the guttural voice of a young man who hadn’t yet learned to control his hormones. He hadn’t yet learned his father’s art of self-control, but certainly displayed a good amount of aggression.

“Superintendent Teodori and Captain Balistreri want to ask you a few questions, Manfredi,” said the count.

The young guy said nothing, but waited for us. In the air I picked up on something I knew very well: the apparent calmness of someone who’s making an effort to contain his anger, an exercise in which I was highly specialized.

I observed this muscular young man with the disfigured face and wondered what thoughts passed through his head every day. It wasn’t enough to get rid of mirrors to accept himself—perhaps he had to eliminate the negative reactions of others. Who could tell? A glance too many, a girl’s giggle. An opinion was forming inside me. For just a second I wondered if it was an opinion or a prejudice. But I was used to trusting my instincts.

“It would be of great help to us if you could tell us whether you saw Elisa Sordi on Sunday,” Teodori said. I wasn’t happy with this opening shot, but I refrained from making a comment.

“I saw her from the terrace through my binoculars,” Manfredi replied without a moment’s hesitation.

“Binoculars?” exclaimed Teodori, taken somewhat by surprise.

“They were a gift from my father. The same ones the Italian Royal Navy used.”

“And on Sunday you saw Elisa Sordi from the terrace through your binoculars?”

“Yes, three times. I saw her arrive around eleven. She spoke briefly with Gina and waved to my mother. Then I saw her leave about one, and she came back around two.”

“Was she alone?”

“She went out alone. She came back with the guy who works on my father’s computer.”

“Were they arguing?” Teodori asked hopefully.

For a moment Manfredi brushed aside the lock of hair from the left side of his face. I believed it was so he could better observe the idiot in front of him.

“I could see, but I couldn’t hear anything. The kid was waving his hands, but I don’t know if they were arguing.”

“What was she wearing?” I asked all of a sudden.

I saw a shadow cross the count’s face, but he couldn’t veto that kind of a question.

Manfredi didn’t even glance my way.

“Blue jeans, a white sleeveless blouse, and low-heeled casual shoes.”

“Was she wearing a bra?”

There was no need to look at the count to feel his hostility. I saw the embarrassed look Ulla gave her son. Manfredi didn’t blink an eye.

“Yes, I remember seeing a strap fall down her arm.”

As I had presumed, he was very observant.

“I truly do not understand what this type of question has to do with the matter,” said the count.

“We didn’t find the girl’s clothes at the crime scene. Every detail is important, including whether she was wearing underwear.”

Manfredi gave me a challenging look.

“Obviously, I couldn’t say whether she was wearing panties or not.”

There was no trace of irony in his voice; he wanted to get back at me for the way I’d acted in the courtyard.

“Manfredi!” Ulla said.

“Manfredi,” the count repeated, “this is no time for jokes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “I only wanted to help the police.”

“Think back to Sunday,” Teodori said. “Did you ever see Elisa close up?”

“No. Right after lunch I went to my room to rest. The air conditioning was on. I was tired and I fell asleep. I only woke up when my father got home, just before six. Then we went out together about half past.”

“And you went to the gym, and obviously you didn’t see her there,” Teodori suggested helpfully.

“I didn’t see her. I came home in time for the game, which I watched in my room.”

“Alone?” Teodori asked.

“I don’t like crowds. The living room was full of people.”

“And did you go out after the game to celebrate?” continued Teodori.

“I just said that I don’t like crowds,” the kid replied testily.

“Was there anyone in the gym with you?” I asked. Teodori looked nervous, but the count was calm.

“Just my personal trainer.”

“Did you have a session scheduled with him?”

“We always see each other on Sunday afternoon from six forty five to seven forty five, when the gym’s deserted.”

“Of course, you don’t like crowds,” I said, knowing the remark was cruel.

The kid said nothing. He stared at me with his tough-guy attitude, rendered grotesque by his deformed lip and the mauve birthmark on the left side of his face covered by his long hair. The moment had arrived. I could feel Teodori champing at the bit, wanting to get away. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to ask.

I turned to the count.

“I know that your son spoke with Elisa Sordi before Sunday, July 11, and I’d like to ask him some questions that would aid us in our investigation. But these are sensitive matters. I think it would be better if we spoke to Manfredi alone, without his parents present.”

Teodori turned pale and desperate, as if we were on one of the sinking ships in the pictures on the wall.

“These are routine questions,” I explained. “But we have to ask them, especially since we believe that your son spoke to the victim alone at least once in her office.”

The count looked at Manfredi, surprised. His tone was icy.

“In her office?” he asked his son.

More than any fear in his tone, it was surprise and disdain that his son, the future Conte dei Banchi di Aglieno, should be gossiping with a little slut from the suburbs. He would have found it more dignified if I’d said Manfredi had taken her to the banks of the Tiber, hit her, knocked her around, suffocated her, and thrown her in the river, rather than wasting time chatting with the worthless girl.

Manfredi looked at his father, then at his mother. Finally, he stood.

“Let’s go to my room,” he ordered, never letting down his guard. Teodori, clearly upset followed us hesitatingly down the length of the half-shadowed hall.

Manfredi’s room was at the end of the hall. It wasn’t particularly large. The ceiling was midnight blue and the walls were completely covered with posters, many of them for heavy-metal bands: Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motörhead, and Venom. The figures in the posters did not show their faces. They wore masks or had their backs turned. Unexpectedly, there was a photograph of his school class on the wall and I could understand why immediately. Manfredi was half hidden behind the teacher; you could see only his muscular body and the unblemished side of his face. There were no reflective surfaces in the room—the glass in the windows was nonreflective. There was a door to his private bathroom. The light outside entered weakly through the single window covered by a thick curtain.

There were a good many books, a lot for a young kid, and evidently all read. Among works of history, philosophy, and art, and collections of prints of ancient Rome, I recognized
Mein Kampf
and Nietzsche,
Beyond Good and Evil.
The last time I had seen those works I was in my own bedroom in Tripoli. On the wall, scrawled in black felt-tip in an angry adolescent’s hand, was the aphorism I remembered well:
The great epochs of our life come when we gain the courage to rechristen our evil as what is the best in us.

Manfredi leaned against a wall, as far away from us as possible. Then he turned directly to me.

“So, what else do you want to know?” he asked me.

“Just if and when you spoke to Elisa Sordi before Sunday, July 11,” Teodori said meekly.

“Of course I spoke to her. So did everybody around here, everybody our age, at least. Even the young priest with the red hair spoke to her. Or do you think I’ve got less right than a priest to talk to a pretty girl?”

Terrified, Teodori mumbled something incomprehensible. Now he really was in a painting on the living room wall, aboard a sinking ship.

“You had as much right as any of us,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “As for hoping it would go beyond talking, well, that’s another story.”

His biceps flexed and his pectorals swelled. I watched the open palms of his hands. There were posters of martial arts movies on the walls, too, and I had no doubt the kid had more than a passing knowledge of the subject.

He told us calmly how he had first met Elisa Sordi. He knew what time she arrived in the morning. On that particular morning it had been raining, and through his binoculars he saw that she didn’t have an umbrella. His account matched the story Elisa had told Valerio Bona.

“What did you talk about?”

“She asked me what I was studying. I told her I was doing classical studies at a private school. We just talked for a minute. She had work to do.”

“Four Saturdays ago you went to see her in her office.”

“She told me I could come by anytime.”

He spoke as if this was the most normal thing in the world. As if a monster like that could hold any interest for a young goddess like Elisa Sordi. Perhaps the boy thought his family status gave him a special right over any peasant woman admitted into that paradise. A kind of modern
ius primae noctis
.

“Are you saying Elisa Sordi wanted your company?”

I put all the irony and incredulity I could into the question. He looked at me a long time while the only sound in the room was Teodori’s labored breathing. This kid was going to hate me forever, whether he was guilty or not.

“I’m telling you what happened. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”

“All right. And what did you talk about?”

His smile made his face look even more grotesque.

“About true and false emotions. About love.”

The little monster was trying to palm me off as if I was a child.

“You talked about love? Could you be more specific, please? It’s important. Who said what?”

“There was something preying on Elisa’s mind; she was upset. I think there were problems with that guy who followed her around.”

“Did she say so?” Teodori asked hopefully.

“Not really. She did say that anyone who kept seeking the impossible in love would only end up unhappy.”

My thoughts went back to the autopsy results.
Signs of termination of pregnancy carried out in the previous fifteen days.
A relationship that had been going on for some time—her period was late, a pregnancy test, then abortion. The conversation with Manfredi probably happened when the pregnancy was already discovered, several days before the abortion.

“Did you have sexual relations with Elisa Sordi?” I asked him point-blank.

Strangely, he had to stop and think. “I assume you’ve already considered that and determined it was impossible,” he replied sarcastically.

“You could always have raped her,” I said brutally.

“Captain Balistreri, that’s enough! I don’t approve of these tactics,” Teodori said. Then he turned to Manfredi in an attempt to seem impartial.

“Ignore that comment, please. But you do need to answer Captain Balistreri’s question.”

“No,” said Manfredi, “I don’t need to do anything. I’m not answering anymore questions. I didn’t kill Elisa Sordi. Whoever did was luckier than I am.”