The Marshal's Own Case (12 page)

The Marshal stood up. Carla was asleep, his mouth a little open. He picked up his hat and left quietly.

Seven

‘S
alva! If that’s you, answer it, will you? I’m heating some oil, I can’t leave it . . .’

He took his hat off and picked up the phone with one hand, unbuttoning his greatcoat with the other.

‘Yes?’

‘Is that the Guarnaccia residence?’

‘Yes. Guarnaccia speaking.’

‘I’ve got your son here. Totò. His real name’s Salvatore, isn’t it?’

His stomach gave an emptying downward lurch that made him clutch at the fragile table for fear of falling. Not this . . . Dear God, anything, but not this. Think! He of all people should know what to say, what to ask for. A signed newspaper, a photograph, or was it . . .

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes . . .’ But his mouth was so dry the word could hardly form itself. Why? Why him? They had no money, that must be obvious. A vendetta? Somebody they wanted out of prison? Why? He should be thinking fast, of road-blocks, of a tap on this telephone, of what? What should be done first? But all he could think as he clutched harder and harder at the receiver which was slipping through his sweating hand was Totò . . . Totò . . .

‘Hello? Are you sure you can hear me?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Hold the line. I’ll put him on.’

A silence that lasted for ever, that he daren’t interrupt. Then Totò’s voice, weak and far away.

‘Dad?’

‘Totò! Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Dad . . .’ He started crying and then his voice dissolved and there was another silence.

‘Totò!’ There were only faint, incomprehensible noises.

‘Who is it?’ called Teresa from the kitchen. He couldn’t answer. There were voices somewhere in the background. A lot of voices, then a bump and somebody picked up the receiver.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’ It was a different voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Your son’s a bit upset, as you heard.’

‘What do you want? What?’

‘Just to inform you. You’ve been lucky up to now. Worse could have happened to him if he’d tried to get away. This is the manager speaking.’

‘Manager . . . You’re—the boss?’

‘If you like. Anyway, we’ve decided to let the matter drop provided that you see to it that it doesn’t happen again. We won’t be lenient a second time.’

‘I—you’re letting him go . . .’

‘As long as I have your assurance that you’ll keep him under control. I’m calling all their parents and saying the same thing. In view of their age . . .’

‘Their age . . . I don’t understand. Who are you?’

‘Didn’t our detective explain?’

‘No.’

‘I see. I’m the manager of—’ He named the department store. The one where they’d bought all the children’s school things. He hadn’t been kidnapped. It was all right! He almost laughed, but the voice on the other end was still talking.

‘We’ve had our eye on this little band for some weeks. Every Monday at the same time. They’ve got away with a bit of stuff, so we had to put a stop to it. Your boy had a sweater hidden, stuffed up under his jacket when the detective brought him to me.’

The new blow made the Marshal’s heart thump so loud he could hear it, but this time he was able to think. He was coping.

‘He hadn’t tried to leave the store?’

‘No. We stopped him right there near the counter.’

‘Then legally speaking he hasn’t stolen anything.’

The voice at the other end grew angry. ‘I’m doing you a favour, I thought you’d have understood that. My detective could have let him get as far as the door and arrested him the minute he stepped outside!’

‘Yes, I do realize. I understand. Thank you.’

‘I’ll send him off home, then.’ The voice was still offended.

‘I—no! Don’t . . . I’d rather one of us came for him.’ What if Totò was so scared he tried to run away?

‘We’re already closed for lunch. If it hadn’t been for this I’d have been gone half an hour ago.’

The man must be placated. He mustn’t let Totò leave alone.

‘We’ll come in the car. I promise you we’ll be there in five minutes. You understand, I’m afraid he may be so frightened that he won’t come home.’

‘Hm. Well, you may be right. He’s in a bad state. Five minutes, then . . .’

The five minutes seemed to last an hour. Giovanni who was already home, came out of his bedroom to ask, ‘What’s happening?’ Teresa, terrified, her coat flung over her apron, refused to get in the car until he had sworn that Totò hadn’t had a road accident. But how could he tell her in the house with Giovanni listening in? So he told her in the car during that interminable five minutes. When they arrived she was white with shock and they collected the tearful Totò without her having said a word. The drive home went all too quickly. What should he say? What could he say? He was stunned and shaken, more from what he had first thought was happening than from what had really happened.

He was only too relieved when, on their entering the flat, Totò sprang loose from his mother’s grasp and shot into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Even so, it couldn’t be put off for ever, and this time there was no leaving it to Teresa who was staring at him, dumb with fear.

He took his coat off and hung it up slowly.

‘It’s all right. I’ll talk to him.’

‘You won’t . . .’

‘Won’t what?’ Surely she didn’t think he’d hit the child? He’d never laid a finger on either of the boys. It had always been Teresa who’d given them a slap when necessary. Nevertheless, she was looking at him fearfully.

‘You won’t get too angry? What an awful thing to happen . . .’

He knew exactly what she meant. To someone in his position it
was
an awful thing to happen. She looked anxiously into his face. ‘It’s just that you look . . . Don’t frighten him too much, Salva. It’s serious, but the main thing is to get to the bottom of it, to try and understand.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Just don’t come down too heavily, or else—’

‘All right!’

This was no time to explain to her that it was the fright he’d had that had reduced him to this state. He opened the door of the boys’ room. Totò was seated stiffly on the very edge of his bed, his face blanched and dirty with tears. He looked as if he were having difficulty breathing. Giovanni was standing looking at him. He must have been asking him what was wrong, but he turned when his father entered and fell silent. Without being asked to, he left the room, not having found out anything but sensing something dreadful that made him glad to leave. Once they were alone, it became even clearer that Totò was having trouble breathing. His thin chest was heaving and each forced shallow breath was audible in the ensuing silence.

‘Well . . .’ Where to start? Ask him why he’d tried to steal a small child’s sweater that could be of no use to him or anyone? What was the point? Then something occurred to him that he could and should ask. ‘How come you were there, in the centre of town. Why weren’t you at school?’

‘It’s Monday.’ His voice was shallow and tremulous.

‘So?’

‘We’re supposed to go to gymnastics last thing before lunch . . . it’s across town.’

‘You mean you were on your way there?’

Totò’s fear had gone beyond any hope of extricating himself with lies. ‘We never go. We hang around in the centre.’

‘Why?
Why?
’

‘It’s stupid! It’s miles to get there and then there’s only about twenty minutes of lesson left, running round in that stupid little gym with no equipment! And anyway, we’re always hungry. We get slices of pizza— well, it’s nearly half past two when we get back for lunch! It’s stupid!’

Where had he heard all this before? It brought to mind the face of a bossy woman with glasses . . . Parents’ night. Hadn’t she talked of some sort of petition? And yet he hadn’t seen it that he could remember . . .

‘It’s no wonder some of them are skipping off.’
The words came back to him with sudden clarity.
‘It’s no wonder—’

‘You’ve been skipping gymnastics every week, is that it?’

‘Everybody does.’

‘ “Everybody” being this group you go about with?’

Totò didn’t answer.

‘And does
“everybody”
steal from the department store?’

The child’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘We took turns.’

‘And today was your turn?’

He nodded.

‘What did the others pinch?’

‘Nothing much. Pencils, toffees off the stand near the cash desk.’

‘Toffees! But you had to do better than that and steal a sweater. For God’s sake—’

‘It’s your fault! It’s all your fault! I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for you! I’m fed up with being laughed at and tormented because my dad’s a carabiniere! I’m fed up!’ He was screaming hysterically, his eyes dry and bright. ‘And they laugh at Giovanni as well, they laugh at Giovanni! Everybody says we’re soft, that we’re such goodie-goodies that we daren’t even walk up a one-way street the wrong way.
It’s you!
They take the mickey out of us because of you! Why can’t you get a real job like everybody else’s dad? Other people’s dads earn stacks of money and have real houses. Real houses, not like this dump. I don’t want to live in a barracks where my friends won’t come because of you and your stupid horrible uniform. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

And he flung his small body at the Marshal’s great bulk, thumping with his fist at the offending gold buttons.

‘Totò!’ Teresa, unable to stand it any longer, burst into the room. Totò flung himself on the bed choking with dry sobs and she ran to sit beside him. ‘Totò! What’s happened?’

The Marshal walked out without a word. He went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the table that was set for lunch. He didn’t sit down but drank it standing at the window, staring out, seeing nothing. There was a bad smell and after a moment he opened the window. Rain came in, spattering the sink and sometimes wetting his face. He didn’t move. Only after a long time when the smell got worse despite the open window, did he realize that something was burning on the stove. He turned it off. It looked like olive oil but it was black and smoking. He went into the hall, got his hat and coat and walked out.

He walked for a long time, making automatically for the river, perhaps feeling in need of a more open space, more air to breathe, but without any real direction. He was vaguely conscious of some severe pain in his stomach. Not hunger; he felt as though he’d been kicked. He was walking much faster than usual through the rainy streets emptied for the lunch-hour. Walking like someone driven, conscious only of his feet thudding and splashing on the wet paving stones. His mind remained a blank until he reached a bridge and then he stood in the centre of it, looking over the low parapet at the swollen river, brown and oily, flowing fast towards Pisa.

The water churned and splashed below him as the rain fell steadily into it. He wanted to keep his mind empty, to block out Totò’s streaked white face, the eyes bright with hatred. He succeeded in keeping it at a distance but other distressing images came in its place: Lulu’s half-shaved head turning to reveal a creased and flattened smile; a puny child of ten with great circles under his eyes trying to sell cigarettes in the hot darkness of summer nights down home . . . at that age . . . At that age, when there was no school he sometimes got to go with his father to the market in the village. And when his business was done they’d go into the bar in the piazza where all the other men were sitting . . . what made him think of it now? That was it. The village marshal would almost always walk in at some point and the men would raise their caps, some of them half stand.

‘Good morning, Marshal.’

The marshal. A respected man. The priest, the marshal, the local magistrate, respected men. And now? He must have been aware, at least at the back of his mind, how much things had changed, but the image of the village marshal, whose name he couldn’t even remember, had remained fixed until the instant when Totò had demolished it with a few childish words. Totò . . . he didn’t want to think about it yet. Down river to the right the first trees of the Cascine were invisible, shrouded in rain. Somewhere beyond them Peppina’s sopping fur might still . . . Image followed image, each more miserable than the last in a miserable rain-sodden world, as if the whole city were weeping. The little black cat flung dead at his feet . . . Carla, sleeping by now, her misery kept away by drugs, waiting to attack as soon as she opened her eyes. Was there nobody who was happy? He thought at once of Ferrini. He’d never seen Ferrini depressed. He was cheerful even in the most unpromising circumstances. At the thought he turned away from the brown water and crossed the bridge. In a few minutes he was in Borgo Ognissanti. Dark blue cars were nosing out of the entrance, windscreen-wipers already on, turning right. The two men on duty were sheltering just inside the great doors. He stepped in and bent to speak through the glass window on the right where a youngster manned the switchboard.

‘Ferrini? Sorry, no. I saw him leave myself with his wife—probably gone out to lunch. He’ll be in his office at five.’

Of course. It was lunch-time. He hadn’t thought . . .

‘Do you want to leave a message for him?’

‘No, no . . .’

He didn’t go away but went along the old cloister. The thought of the cheery Ferrini out at lunch with his wife didn’t make him feel better at all, only accentuated his depression. The best thing might be to do something useful, or at least to turn his mind to someone worse off than himself.

It wasn’t so easy, at that time of day, to find someone to let him in, but he insisted. Peppina was lying face down on the bunk but his eyes were open. His tangled blond hair, darkening now at the roots, was stuck to his forehead with sweat. The hot little cell stank of sweat and fear and stale cigarette smoke. Peppina turned his head a little as the Marshal came in but didn’t raise it. His voice was hoarse and languid.

‘Are they going to move me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why are you here, then?’

He didn’t know that either but he pulled forward the only chair and sat down with his hat on his knees. His soaked greatcoat began to steam.