He had insisted, subtly, and in the end he had given her the address of his friend the photographer, even adding an extra twenty thousand lire.
‘Tell me the address,’ Duca asked his Livia Ussaro impatiently. He had signalled to Davide, who he could see through the open door of the kitchen, to come and write.
‘Publicity Photographic,’ Livia said.
‘Publicity Photographic,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down.
‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the tollbooth,’ Livia said.
‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the toll booth,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down. ‘And when do you have to go?’
‘He told me to be there between two and three in the afternoon, because after that his friend has some work to do outside the studio.’
It was a well-chosen time, Milan would be asleep at home, Milan overwhelmed by the heat but unable to sleep in the streets, on the trams, in offices, in factories: it was a more solitary and discreet time than any hour of the night.
‘And now the description,’ Duca said, signalling to Davide again to make sure he wrote everything down. ‘Height?’
‘At least one metre seventy-five, he’s taller than me and I’m one metre seventy,’ she said, adding innocently, ‘in high heels.’
‘Height one metre seventy-five. Build?’
‘Thin, his jacket hung on him.’
‘Complexion?’
‘A bit olive. He has a moustache, very thin, grey, almost white.’
‘Hair?’
‘Also grey, almost white, with a receding hairline, but he still has a lot of hair and he wears it quite long and well combed.’
‘Eyes?’
Livia hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the colour.’
‘Nose?’
‘A bit aquiline, but only a bit.’
It wasn’t much, but he’d pass this information on to Mascaranti, who would have an identikit made by the police draughtsmen. His hope lay in the photographer: if they managed to get him he would give them the name of his accomplices, including Signor A. They had a better chance to catch him now.
‘Livia.’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stay at home until I tell you otherwise.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never answer the phone personally. If they call, get a member of your family to answer, and have them say you’re not there.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never open the door yourself, send someone, and if they ask for you, same answer, you’re not there.’
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously nobody will come tonight, but from tomorrow morning at six, I’ll phone you every hour to make sure nothing has happened.’
‘What could happen?’
‘I don’t think anything will, but after what happened last year they may have become more cautious. They may be watching you to see if you have contacts with anyone.’ That wasn’t the only thing, but he didn’t tell her the rest. ‘Now go to bed, Livia. And thank you.’
‘I’m so glad I succeeded,’ she said, her girlish voice triumphant.
Only when he put down the receiver did he notice that Lorenza was standing in the square, bare, yet intimate hall, her eyes cloudy with fear.
‘Go to bed, don’t worry.’
‘Who was it?’ She couldn’t help worrying, she knew everything, Duca had told her everything, and it was a horrible business.
‘Livia. We found the man.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
He became nervous because he felt sorry, eaten up with remorse, because she was right: it was stupid, criminal, that instead of looking for a good job he should get involved in this disgusting affair. ‘Maybe I’ll go out, maybe I’ll stay here, but there’s one thing I’d like, which is for you to go to bed without worrying about me.’
Lorenza turned red, because of that tone, and because Davide was there, listening, she looked at him, she seemed to be about to say something, but she was dominated by her big brother, and she went back to her room.
‘A guide to Milan,’ he said to Davide. They went into the living room, which was a little larger than the hall, and where among the other so-called furniture in the so-called Rational style-chosen by his father, who had thought he would like it-there was a small bookcase with books and old magazines, the beginnings of a library that had remained unfinished when he had gone into prison, three years earlier. There was also dust, because Sara didn’t give her mother much time to see to the house, and there was also a guide to Milan, a little book with a nice map, a bit out of date, but it might still be useful. They went back in the kitchen, laid the map out on the table, looked at the list of streets: Via Egidio Folli, at the very edge of the city, just behind the Parco Lambro, the street then joined the main road that led to Melzo and Pioltello. ‘They’ve become very cautious,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Davide asked.
‘They’re not confident enough these days to set up their studio in the middle of town. They’ve moved out of the centre, just like the big companies. At the first sign of anything going wrong, they can jump in their car and they’re already on the main road.’
‘What do we do now?
‘I’m thinking about that.’ But it wasn’t true, in broad terms he had already made up his mind, he was only pretending to think in order to convince himself that he wasn’t working from a whim. It was all a lie.
If he had been an honest citizen, at this point he should have phoned Carrua, given him the information about the photographer, and let him deal with it. But he couldn’t be an honest citizen, his criminal record showed that.
‘How strange,’ he said, ‘if Livia Ussaro’s father hadn’t had a toothache, Livia wouldn’t have gone out to the pharmacy and maybe we’d never have found anything with our system.’
‘We have to do something,’ Davide said: he was an impatient man and didn’t realise he was basically saying the same thing for the second time.
‘Of course,’ Duca replied. ‘Can you ride a bicycle?’
‘I think so.’
‘All right, now let’s see what time the sun rises.’ He had a diary, a very wonderful one, there were many wonderful things in it, including the fact that this week the sun rose at 5:32. ‘That means that by five there’s already a bit of light, so you have to leave here at 4:30.’
‘And where do I have to go?’ Davide asked.
‘To the end of the Via Egidio Folli, to see where these Ulisse Apartments are, what they are, how far they are. If I went there by car I’d arouse suspicion.
‘And the bicycle?’
‘The caretaker’s son has one. I’ll wake the caretaker and ask him to let me borrow it, he’ll be a bit surprised, but he likes me, I really don’t know why.’ It was the dead of night, and there was complete silence in the kitchen, as if everyone was asleep, and even the things in it seemed to be asleep-the empty beer bottles, the whisky bottle about to become empty, Sara’s dummies and feeding bottles on a towel on the draining board by the sink-though he was sure Lorenza wasn’t asleep. But even Lorenza couldn’t understand.