Authors: Giorgio Scerbanenco
That morning, from under the arcade, Davide saw a tall man in his fifties walk up to Livia as she appeared to be waiting for the lights to turn green. Livia’s conversation with the gentleman continued, rather than breaking off immediately like the others: obviously Livia had thought it was worth a try.
Indeed it was, and she crossed the Via Manzoni with the man, even smiling at him once, but in a very refined way. The very fact that Livia had accepted his company meant that the man had a car and that she had kindly consented to be given a lift. Davide walked to the Giulietta, now it was all a question of where the distinguished-looking street Casanova had parked his car, but Livia made it easier, slowing her suitor down until Davide was able to catch up with them.
It was all easy now: the man’s car, a beautiful black Taunus, was also parked by the Leonardo monument, only it was stuck in the middle of the anthill and Davide had time to smoke almost a whole cigarette before the other man managed to get out and he was able to follow him. The route, too, had been carefully chosen: Via Manzoni, Via Palestro, Corso Venezia, Corso Buenos Aires, Piazzale Loreto. The reasons were twofold: Livia would tell her companion
she had to go to the beginning of the Viale Monza, a long enough route to give her time to talk to him. If Livia judged that it was worth continuing, she would accept his gallant proposition and tell him to drive in the direction of Monza, where there were some fairly quiet spots. Otherwise, she would convince the man that she had made a mistake, that it was the first time she had accepted a lift and she would never do it again because men always tried to take advantage.
The Taunus followed the prearranged route under an increasingly hot sun, joined the compact river of vehicles streaming along the Corso Buenos Aires, reached the Piazzale Loreto, did a turn around the metro station, and stopped at the beginning of the Viale Monza. Davide, risking a fine, parked right behind them. He could see Livia and the man: the man seemed to be insisting, but Livia was shaking her head very sternly. The farce lasted a couple of minutes, then the gentleman resigned himself, got out, opened the door to his grouchy passenger, and helped her out, it was obvious he was still insisting, but Livia was unmoveable: virtue personified.
When the Taunus had left—another basic rule: take the number of all these men’s cars, even when the encounter led nowhere, and he had taken this one—Livia waited for a while, then got into the Giulietta next to Davide.
‘He’s a madman,’ Livia said, although with barely a smile, ‘either that or it’s the heat, he has business cards with him and gave me one. Look, give it to Duca.’
Armando Marnassi, exclusive representative for Alcheno food colouring
, there followed two addresses and two telephone
numbers. Davide put it in his jacket pocket, he would give it to Duca. ‘Why’s he mad?’ he asked, driving towards the Via Plinio.
‘He immediately offered me a job, two hundred thousand lire a month, he needs a trustworthy secretary. Then he told me he’s invested his money in various apartments, and if I wasn’t happy with the one where I’m living, he’d gladly give me one. If the journey had been longer and he didn’t already have a wife, he might even have asked me to marry him.’ If he hadn’t given her his business card, she might have thought that all these offers were bait, but a man of that age who gives his name, address, and telephone number is clearly quite serious. Maybe he was one of the few older, but still youthful, men who didn’t have a lady friend with an apartment or a boutique, and was trying to remedy the lack as quickly as possible.
In the afternoon, after a few hours’ break, they started again. At half-past three Livia Ussaro was in the second area: from the Piazza San Babila to the Piazza San Carlo, making the round of the shopping arcades, apart from the area of the Via Montenapoleone—not because it was sexless, but because it was given over to other equally demanding activities. At that hour, especially in summer, mature men sleep, the most active in heavy armchairs, the spoiled actually in bed. Only at four-thirty or five do they return to their desks, discreetly sprinkled with rare and refreshing colognes, ready to make important decisions. But at the same time, many young women, from Milan or from out of town, often pretty, who don’t need afternoon naps and are immune to
the heat, wander that area looking in the windows, making a few purchases or meeting friends. If a middle-aged man interested in such things knows of this habit, he knows that it’s at this time and in the areas richest in shops that he will find what interests him, so he gives up his own afternoon nap, and goes there. It’s actually a discreet hour, with nothing dubious about it: a man over fifty in the company of a slim young brunette doesn’t seem like a faun at that hour, but like her uncle. Assuming the person they were looking for still existed, and was still devoted to his activity, this was the area in which there was most likelihood of meeting him. That was why they combed the same area in the evening, too, from nine to ten-thirty, giving it the name Area 2b: it was the time when the cinemas and theatres were busy, they just had to keep away from the Corso Venezia, where the professionals worked, and concentrate a bit more on the Corso Matteotti, to have the best chance of having a few encounters.
The command post of this complex system is an apartment in the Piazza Leonardo da Vinci, Duca’s apartment, bought by his father. On the door there’s still a name plate saying
Doctor Duca Lamberti
, there used to be one by the street door which said
Duca Lamberti, doctor and surgeon
, which he had immediately removed, but as for the one on his apartment door, he had put a strip of tape over the word
Doctor
, and one morning found that someone had taken away the tape, the usual stupid delivery boy or local kid. He’d put on the strip again, but once again it was taken off, and he gave up.
Duca is in charge of the command post, he invented the
system down to its smallest details, and now he just has to wait for Davide’s evening reports. Until after eleven at night, when Davide arrives, he has absolutely nothing to do except wait for the phone to ring, Livia Ussaro might spot the target at any moment, and then the phone would ring. But is it likely?
While he waits, he devotes himself to family life, to his sister Lorenza, to his niece Sara. After three years in prison, spending all this time at home—he can’t leave because the phone call might come while he’s out—he’s discovered many things. He’s discovered, for example, that his sister has become fearful. When he had seen her the last time before being arrested, she had seemed triumphant, triumphant with courage, almost as if his arrest and trial were an honour. She had written to him in prison that all the newspapers were talking about him, that he was becoming a famous doctor, that she was sure he would be acquitted and after it he would have thousands of patients, and very soon his own clinic.
Things were very different now. He was with her from the time when, together, they got up and took care of the child, together cleaned the house, made something to eat, and the fear was constant. She was afraid of everything. She had been so happy when he had come back and told her he’d be staying for a while, but one afternoon, in the kitchen, while Sara was asleep, he had had to tell her why, talk to her about Livia Ussaro and the two girls who had posed for photographs and then died, and their search for those responsible.
‘Why are you doing it?’ she had asked apprehensively.
It was hard to explain it to her, Lorenza wasn’t like Livia
Ussaro who fed on abstract concepts. Lorenza needed facts, concrete concepts such as today is Monday and tomorrow is Tuesday. He replied, ‘I was given the task of treating a young man, Davide, and was even being paid for it. Now what’s wrong with Davide isn’t so much that he drinks, but something else, something deeper: he has to learn to live again, to deal with his fellow men, and to teach him how to do that, I need to give him something to do. What he’s doing now is a treatment on a large scale, which should certainly cure him: it’s hunting for the man who killed Alberta. If he manages to find him, if he manages to catch him and punish him, he’ll finally feel like a living, breathing man, and won’t need to drink again. To him, Alberta was like his first love: he has to avenge her, and revenge both feeds and cures.’ Maybe it was a bit too simplistic, but it was certainly concrete.
Lorenza had said nothing, but continued to be afraid. ‘What if something happens to that girl? You were the one who made her do this work.’
Yes, he was in charge, and something could indeed happen to Livia Ussaro. But he was almost certain that nothing would happen to her, for the simple reason that she wouldn’t find anyone or anything. The more time passed, the more often Davide arrived in the evening and reported that nothing had happened, the more far-fetched his plan seemed.
That evening, too, Davide called from the street and he threw down the front-door key. In the kitchen there was chilled beer waiting for him, but before drinking, he reported the few things that had happened during the day. Livia had accepted two rides that seemed likely, but in the
Viale Monza, as usual, she had got out: these were honest married men who had stayed in the city and were driving around in their cars, trying their luck, but without too much conviction.
In all these days of searching, Livia had come across everything, except what they were looking for. She had even found a lesbian and that had been extremely bothersome: the woman wouldn’t let her go, she had followed her along the street, doing so much propaganda in favour of what she called parisexualism that, as Livia had confessed to him over the phone, she had had to make a certain effort to refute all these arguments. ‘From a theoretical point of view, I assure you I was almost convinced, there are dialectically irreproachable reasons why parisexualism has the same rights as heterosexuality.’ Even over the phone, she couldn’t help indulging in her love of abstraction, and he let her talk: it was the only reward he could give her.
Everything had happened during these days, except what they were hoping would happen. Livia had even had to confront a violent drunk. She hadn’t realised until she was already in his car, and had had to give the danger signal: twice she had put her arm out of the window and Davide had overtaken the drunk’s car and boxed it in. Davide’s bulk had convinced the drunk not to protest and Livia had been taken safely home. On another occasion, two police officers had approached Livia one evening in San Babila and asked her for her papers. The word
schoolteacher
on her identity card had reassured them somewhat: they were well-brought-up young men who respected culture and couldn’t imagine that
someone who had graduated in history and philosophy was streetwalking in San Babila, but they had advised her to go home anyway.
But Signor A had not appeared. They called him Signor A rather than Signor X, because the man wasn’t an unknown quantity: he was something specific, the chief pimp. Duca didn’t know his name or physical appearance, but he knew he existed. It’s like when you say the fattest man in Milan: you’ve never seen him, you don’t know if he’s a chemist or a restaurant owner, if he’s fair-haired or dark, but you know he exists, it’s just a matter of finding him and weighing him, and then you’ll immediately recognise him because he’s the one who weighs more than anyone else in Milan. Of Signor A, though, there was still no sign.
‘Davide, please give me your list of car registration numbers.’ The transistor radio was playing dimly: Lorenza had left it on before going to bed. The good smell of warm concrete came up from the courtyard through the open window of the kitchen, the beer got warm even if you left it there for half a minute, you had to drink it immediately, which was what they did. He leafed through the notes that Davide had given him, there were exactly twenty-three car licence numbers, of which only four weren’t from Milan, one of them was French.
Mascaranti, who was participating secretly in the operations, unknown to Carrua, had checked these numbers one by one but only to make absolutely sure: they already knew from Livia that these cars belonged to people who were not involved, a fact which Mascaranti had only confirmed. One
by one, the owners of the cars had been checked, but Signor A wasn’t one of them. Mascaranti had even found someone being sought by the police in Florence, and had had him arrested, but not Signor A.
How long would they have to go on with this search? Every evening, he was tempted to wind it up. Carrua could handle the case perfectly well, it was his job, and he’d have the help of Interpol. Why had he, Duca, got so worked up about it, what did it have to do with him anyway, and why had he got Livia Ussaro involved? But then he would put it off for another day.
He gave the useless list back to Davide. ‘Have a whisky, then we can sleep.’ He still had to give him a bit of whisky, Davide couldn’t function only on beer. But he was a good boy, he didn’t drink surreptitiously, even now when he could, because during the day, following Livia, he was free to enter any bar he wanted, and in the evening he went back to the Cavour to sleep by himself and he could drink whatever he liked. But he didn’t.
In a small cupboard in the kitchen there were a couple of bottles of whisky, Davide took the one already opened, served himself copiously—Duca had ordered him to—and after drinking summed up his thoughts by saying, ‘Why does it have to be a man in his fifties?’ He waited in vain for a reply then said, ‘Usually it’s a young man, the type that women like, the type who can win them over.’
Duca switched off the transistor radio as it was starting to broadcast the latest political news. ‘Those young men you mention don’t take photographs, they work on damaged
goods, I’m sorry, I meant on women who don’t have much and are all too ready to prostitute themselves, and they’re all well known to the police. The person we’re looking for does something very different, and on a larger scale. He looks for new girls, of a certain style, like Alberta, he probably has to supply high-class brothels in Italy and abroad. It’s all highly organised, exactly like an import-export company. They need the photographs so that they can send them or take them personally to other people involved in the trade. All fifty photographs from a Minox roll can be fitted comfortably into an envelope or can be hidden in a packet of cigarettes, even a full one and from the negatives you can even make 30×45 enlargements. A lot of men are shy, they prefer to choose a woman by looking in a kind of album. Besides, keeping a dozen girls in an apartment is always dangerous, so instead they have the album, the man chooses, number 24 for example, and at the time and place arranged he’ll find number 24. But for this traffic they don’t need the usual girls who are already out there on the streets, the kind who’d listen to that nice young man of yours. And to win over this high-class merchandise, I’m sorry, I’m still talking about women, it takes a mature man, an expert. Think about Alberta, she would certainly never have let herself be persuaded by a young man with slicked-back hair just out of the hairdresser, it takes a mature man, someone who’s confident, a gentleman, the kind of man who always makes an impression on women. Unlike me, you haven’t been in prison for three years, so you’re a bit lacking in technical knowledge. In prison I enjoyed, without wanting to, the friendship of a
big procurer, who explained to me almost everything about his activity, that’s why as soon as I saw those photographs alarm bells started ringing, and when we found out that the two women who had posed had been killed, I had the proof that this was a large organisation. Small-time pimps don’t kill, or very seldom, but in a vast organisation you have to be ruthless.’