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,
“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,
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