bike and they’re for it. I even thought I might see it parked somewhere and get it back for myself, you never know. Then I remembered a friend of mine doing that when his moped was stolen, only it turned out that the one he found wasn’t his, just looked like it. Needless to say the owner caught him apparently stealing it and he was arrested. He hadn’t reported his own being stolen, thinking it was a waste of time, and he spent two nights in jail before it got sorted out. So, anyway, now I’ve told you, if you hear I’ve been arrested for stealing a small orange bicycle you can help to get me out of prison.’ She stood up, smiling, and tucked her bag of books under her arm. ‘It was kind of you to let me get it off my chest. I can’t tell you how angry I was, especially because it’s worth so little. I mean, aren’t the poor supposed to steal from the rich or something? Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to find myself another one second-hand.’
The Marshal stood up and saw her to the door. As she went she laughed and said, ‘You can get them quite cheaply but of course they’re probably stolen.’
‘Very probably.’
As the girl crossed the waiting-room an elderly woman got up with difficulty from her chair and approached the Marshal with an anxious face.
‘Marshal, you have to help me. I can’t go on like this. I’m frightened to go in and out of my own house. Right on my doorstep they’re doing it, injecting themselves! Why can’t you do something?’
‘Come in, Signora,’ the Marshal said. ‘Come in and tell me all about it.’
And so he passed the morning, patient, dogged, doing his job. But for all he tried to give a hundred per cent of his attention to the small problems of the people in his Quarter, he was aware all the time of that knot of anxiety which never loosened and which tired him more than any amount of work could tire him. Every so often, as he listened to a tale of woe or reduced its human content to a series of dates, times and places on his typewriter, his large eyes would stray to the silent telephone beside him. For most of the morning his glance was one of apprehension as he half expected a furious call from the public prosecutor. Later, when it was obvious that no such call would arrive, his expression changed. Nobody cared, it seemed, whether he went round there or not, whether he went through the motions of an HSA inquiry or not, provided that he turned in a report to their liking.
When the last of his visitors had gone, he sat for a while considering the idea of a telephone call to his commanding officer at Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters across the river. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man. But he was also an ambitious man, the sort who would one day be a general and one of the better sorts of general. With a sigh, the Marshal gave up the idea of turning to him for help. Go through the motions, that was all that was required of him, so go through the motions he would. And if he was being made a fool of, it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Lunch, then a rest, and the Palazzo Ulderighi.
He ate but he couldn’t rest. Making some excuse to Teresa about having a lot to do and not being tired, he buttoned up his jacket and left the building, slipping his sunglasses on as he came out under the stone archway into the dazzling brightness of the forecourt. Heat shimmered in the air above the parked cars and the piazza smelled of fresh pizza and coffee. The coffee attracted him, though he shouldn’t really have another. He resisted for a while, pressing his way as best he could along the narrow pavement thronged with tourists who paused in front of every shop and monument, consulting their maps, arguing, translating prices into marks or dollars. He wished for once that he were one of them, that he could stare up at the shrouded façade of the Palazzo Ulderighi like that couple were doing, consult the guidebook and then wander on to look at at a
The Marshal stood up and saw her to the door. As she went she laughed and said, ‘You can get them quite cheaply but of course they’re probably stolen.’
‘Very probably.’
As the girl crossed the waiting-room an elderly woman got up with difficulty from her chair and approached the Marshal with an anxious face.
‘Marshal, you have to help me. I can’t go on like this. I’m frightened to go in and out of my own house. Right on my doorstep they’re doing it, injecting themselves! Why can’t you do something?’
‘Come in, Signora,’ the Marshal said. ‘Come in and tell me all about it.’
And so he passed the morning, patient, dogged, doing his job. But for all he tried to give a hundred per cent of his attention to the small problems of the people in his Quarter, he was aware all the time of that knot of anxiety which never loosened and which tired him more than any amount of work could tire him. Every so often, as he listened to a tale of woe or reduced its human content to a series of dates, times and places on his typewriter, his large eyes would stray to the silent telephone beside him. For most of the morning his glance was one of apprehension as he half expected a furious call from the public prosecutor. Later, when it was obvious that no such call would arrive, his expression changed. Nobody cared, it seemed, whether he went round there or not, whether he went through the motions of an HSA inquiry or not, provided that he turned in a report to their liking.
When the last of his visitors had gone, he sat for a while considering the idea of a telephone call to his commanding officer at Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters across the river. Captain Maestrangelo was a good man, a serious man. But he was also an ambitious man, the sort who would one day be a general and one of the better sorts of general. With a sigh, the Marshal gave up the idea of turning to him for help. Go through the motions, that was all that was required of him, so go through the motions he would. And if he was being made a fool of, it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Lunch, then a rest, and the Palazzo Ulderighi.
He ate but he couldn’t rest. Making some excuse to Teresa about having a lot to do and not being tired, he buttoned up his jacket and left the building, slipping his sunglasses on as he came out under the stone archway into the dazzling brightness of the forecourt. Heat shimmered in the air above the parked cars and the piazza smelled of fresh pizza and coffee. The coffee attracted him, though he shouldn’t really have another. He resisted for a while, pressing his way as best he could along the narrow pavement thronged with tourists who paused in front of every shop and monument, consulting their maps, arguing, translating prices into marks or dollars. He wished for once that he were one of them, that he could stare up at the shrouded façade of the Palazzo Ulderighi like that couple were doing, consult the guidebook and then wander on to look at at a
Similar Books
