Free Big Italy by Timothy Williams Page B

phone me. She always phones at Christmas. No idea what’s got into her head. I haven’t seen her in years … at least fourteen years.” He glanced irritably at the flimsyblue paper of the telegram. “She hasn’t even indicated a flight number. I can only suppose she’s on the Amsterdam flight.”
    “Probably was in a hurry.”
    “A lot simpler to phone me.” Trotti’s face softened as he smiled at the young woman. “A coffee before you go, Bianca?”
    Signora Poveri was going to refuse, but then changed her mind. She slipped her arm in his and together they moved through the crowd towards the long granite bar. He liked her musky perfume and was glad that he had given up smoking over twenty years ago.
    Trotti bought a ticket from the woman sitting behind her isolated cash register. She did not look at him as she gave him his small change.
    A couple of barmen, their white jackets crumpled and slightly stained by a long morning’s work, served the customers. Efficiently and robotically.
    In a small recess, another man was working the Cimbali coffee machine, nodding in concentration as he took the orders and set out the filled coffee cups in a single row. The cups were speedily whisked away by the two waiters. One waiter brought the sandwich and Trotti’s brioche. The other waiter set their cups on to the polished granite of the bar and deftly spiked the receipt.
    “A Stakhanov approach,” Bianca said brightly, but Trotti did not appear to understand as he ladled two and a half spoonfuls of white sugar on to the dome of frothed cream.
    Rows of liqueur bottles stood before a tinted mirror behind the perpetual motion of the waiters. Attached to the top shelf was the black and red shield of Milan AC.
    “A coffee instead of a lunch.” Amusement in Bianca’s voice. “As good a way as any of keeping my weight down.”
    “There’s a restaurant upstairs, if you want something to eat.” Trotti could feel the warmth of her hand on his sleeve. “And you have a beautiful figure.”
    “Are you trying to flatter me, Commissario Trotti?”
    “I wouldn’t dare,” Trotti said and he could feel strange muscles pulling at his smile.
    Trotti liked Linate. It was more like a railway station than an airport. You got off the plane, stepped through the sliding glass doors and there waiting outside was the 73 tram, ready to run you down the viale Forlanini into the city center, to the Duomo, to the shops, clattering through the traffic jams.
    “At least Anna Maria says Linate,” he said.
    “I wouldn’t have run you to Malpensa, if that’s what you think.”
    “Malpensa.” He clicked his teeth.
    “All part of Tangentopoli.” The laugh was girlish and contagious. “You’re not telling me with a surface as flat as the Po valley, they had to build Milan’s bright shining new airport just beneath the Alps, almost into Switzerland.”
    “Everything’s Tangentopoli,” Trotti said simply. “Always has been, long before Mani Pulite. That’s why we have the highest taxes in Europe.”
    “You’re a cynic.”
    “A realist.”
    “I’m the realist, Piero.”
    “You’re materialistic, Bianca.”
    “If you were a realist, Piero, you’d be a lot richer than you now are. And you wouldn’t be retiring to some chicken coop in the hills.” She tapped the back of his hand. “I feel guilty about leaving you here, commissario.”
    “Good of you to bring me into Milan.”
    “Nice to be with you. You’re good company. Mellowing in your old age—like a good wine.”
    “Turning to vinegar.”
    “And it’s about time you bought a car.”
    Trotti sounded offended. “I’ve got an Opel.”
    “That you bought the year Nuvolari was world champion.”
    “Before my time,” he laughed. “Good cappuccino.”
    His young friend drank fast between bites at the prosciutto cotto sandwich. Dusty flour fell from the bread on to her coat.
    “My cousin was always a great admirer of Nuvolari,” Trotti mused, almost to himself.