“The police report,” she says quietly, “will state that your nephew was attacked in the territory of Torre — you understand about the contrade, okay? He is of Oca, and he was found in Torre, and naturally there must have been a fight.” “But you don’t think that’s the way it happened?” “His body was — changed places?” “Moved?”
“Sorry for my English — yes,” she continues urgently. “His car was found by the police outside the walls of the city.” “How far away from the district of Torre?” “Two kilometers. There were bloodstains around his car. Not so many. I believe the worst took place in the tunnel at Via Salicotto.” “He was taken to the tunnel to make it look like he was attacked by Torre?” She nods. “A nurse tells me she smelled ether on his clothes. It is commonly used in Italy for kidnappings, to subdue the victim. Probably they jumped him, he defended himself”—she raises a forearm to demonstrate—“they put a cloth over his face.” This is when I awaken from my romantic dream of Italy. My sister’s analysis of the stab wounds was accurate. Giovanni was targeted by professionals who tracked him outside the walls, and dumped him in Torre — for a reason.
“But it wasn’t a kidnapping, or a murder, although they could have killed him at any time. It was a warning. To whom?” I ask the inspector.
“Often it is to make an example for others. Witnesses. Informants. Anyone who resists.” “We are talking about the mafias?” “I am afraid that is a foregone conclusion,” she says soberly.
“Not necessarily,” I say, and tell her about the confrontation that I witnessed by the pool with members of Oca.
“Why would they be angry with Nicosa?” Inspector Martini shrugs. “I don’t know. He is well respected. Director of the contrada. His son is alfiere, the flag bearer—” “Yes, that’s the word they were shouting. They seemed to be upset for some reason about Giovanni carrying the flag. Could they have been angry enough to teach him a lesson?” “No. Never. No way. The contrada protects its own children. Everyone looks out for everyone else; that’s why in general we don’t have crime in Siena.” Still, how humiliating it must have been for Nicosa — the coffee king, whose son was alfiere — to be called into account on his own property by his own contrada.
I check the door. We are still alone.
“Is it possible Giovanni brought this on himself? Is he the type who gets into fights in school?” “He is liked by everyone.” “Does he do drugs?” “I would be surprised if he’s never tried them. Marijuana and cocaine are everywhere. But he is not an addict, no.” She brushes aside her bangs, damp from the night. “I am of Oca. I want to know who did this to Giovanni, and then I will hang that person by his balls from a tree. But I have to be careful. It is possible that the bloodstains near the car will never be on the report. My boss, Il Commissario, may not allow it.” “Because he is of your enemy, Torre?” I ask incredulously.
“He doesn’t want a crime investigation. It is Palio. The city is filled with tourists — you can see how the press is stalking him — and so at this time, simple answers are best. A fight occurred between the young men of two traditional rivals. Perfetto.” The door swings open and I almost have a heart attack. It is Nicosa! What the hell is he doing in the ladies’ room?
“Ana, we have to go,” he says, matter-of-fact.
In the Bureau, the sanctum sanctorum for female agents, the only place where two women can talk in privacy, is the ladies’ room. If two females close the office door they are accused of having a “knitting party.” Men, of course, have “meetings.” Italians don’t make that distinction, at least when it comes to personal hygiene. Their public bathrooms are gender-neutral, where men and women share the sinks.
Nicoli Nicosa has every right to be staring at us impatiently with the door wide open.
“I am afraid I have no more information,” Inspector Martini says, covering briskly. “Best wishes to your family.” She offers a comradely handshake. In her palm is a scrap of paper, upon which is written an address.
On the ride back to the abbey Nicosa says little, but I can see his fingers tight on the wheel, and I imagine he must be scared to death — not only about Giovanni’s survival, but also about the motive for the attack. He must understand that since two people close to him have been targeted so far, nobody in his family is safe.
“What do you think they want?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The people who attacked Giovanni.” “I couldn’t possibly answer that question.” “Do you think they are the same criminals who took your friend Lucia Vincenzo?” He gives me an accusatory stare.
“Why do you bring that up?” “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s all over the Internet.” “They are not the same. One is a fight between boys. The other — we may never know.” We drive in silence, then finally he asks, “Do you pray?” “No. Do you?”
“Of course. I will open up the chapel later.” If he meant that as an invitation, it is declined. That night, unable to sleep, I walk out to the corridor, breathing in the scents of pine and cold. The chapel is dark, but by the light of the electric torches in the courtyard below I see Nicosa, alone, playing with the flag, a square of silk about a meter wide attached to a pole: white and green with bands of red, emblazoned with the symbol of Oca, a crowned white goose with the Cross of Savoy flying from a blue ribbon around its neck.
His starched shirt is open, his chest shining with sweat. His moves are worthy of an acrobat. Like a flag attached to a fencing foil, the banner of Oca follows a split-second pattern, first clockwise at Nicosa’s waist, then tightly furled and thrown straight up, high enough to float by me on the second-story balcony, and then caught on one knee, behind his back. Unbound, it makes a figure eight, a butterfly of silk opening to glory — and then, unbelievably, it becomes a flashing green-and-white knot in the air, passes close to earth, and Nicosa leaps right over it, tossing it straight up again like a thunderbolt.
What is this? A private meditation? The rite of a man preparing for combat? Is he doing this practice for himself? For his youth? For his grievously wounded son? Does he see the visitor above the torchlight, watching breathlessly?
TEN
The following day, thunderstorms are expected. The hammocks and laundry have to be taken in. There are predictions of powerful lightning strikes. In the morning the wind bucks and swirls, the unstable atmosphere trying to rid itself of electric charge. Then it rains, hard, like winter rain in Los Angeles. Alone in the abbey, the kitchen feels cavernous and damp.
Someone made coffee and left the espresso pot on the stove. Someone cut bread and left the crumbs on the board. Pieces of a meal have been left for me to put together: plums in a bowl, muesli in a cupboard, a wedge of local pecorino cheese wrapped in white paper in the refrigerator. Irish tea in a canister. I put on a kettle of water.
I zip my sweatshirt over my pj’s and put up the hood — not so much from cold as unease. Cecilia came home at four o’clock that morning and said Giovanni’s condition had become critical. They fixed the artery and gave him transfusions, but the blood pressure in the leg had not come up, and they couldn’t figure out why. Today they will decide if it is necessary to amputate.
We spoke in the frank way of professionals, skipping the soft touch you’d use with a civilian, minimizing nothing.
“Is the medical information accurate?” “You mean, do I want another opinion? It is straightforward, my colleagues agree. If the circulation in the leg is insufficient, the tissue dies, gangrene sets in, and you risk an overwhelming bacterial infection. I would rather have him alive in a wheelchair than dead of sepsis.” We were in her bedroom. She had torn off her dress and thrown it on the bed, done an efficient thirty-second sweep with a washcloth that covered all the bases.