Free Converging Parallels by Timothy Williams

in during the afternoon. A nice young man.” With her hand, she pushed Trotti gently aside and looked at the bank of name plates and electronic buttons, all in stainless steel and out of keeping with the drabness of the kitchen. A single red light was on, opposite a large number 37. “Dr. Clerice is in his room now. Why not go up and speak with him?”
    “A good idea.”
    She led him out of the kitchen. “The third floor.” She pointed towards a flight of steps at the further end of the hall. Her outstretched arm was laced with the pale lines of veins.
    He thanked her, crossed the hall and went up the stairs. A green carpet, thick with pile, covered the cold marble of the stairs. The walls had been plastered. He went up three flights of stairs and found himself on a landing.
    “Over here, Commissario.”
    A man beckoned to him; he was standing by the wooden balustrade. He was not very tall and rather stocky. Dark hair fell across the forehead. Black eyebrows, long dark lashes and a hint of expensive eau de cologne. A fresh face of a young man just out of adolescence.
    “Dottor Clerice.” He held out his hand.
    Taking it—the grip was firm, friendly—Trotti enquired, “How do you know my name?”
    “Your name?” Clerice’s face opened into a smile. “Because the concierge told me.”
    “Told you?”
    “Over the internal telephone.” He directed Trotti through an open door and pointed to a telephone attached to the wall. “That connects with the concierge’s office.”
    The room was small, tidy, with the same thick carpet of the stairway. The fittings were of dark mahogany. A bed with a spotless counterpane and above it, on the wall, a wooden crucifix. A reading lamp, standing on the desk, threw its circle of light on to an opened text book. Human anatomy; Trotti caught sight of a couple of flesh-colored photographs.
    “This is where I study and sleep.”
    “And pray?”
    Several devotional paintings, somber and in the style of the nineteenth century, hung from the far wall. And on the desk, another crucifix. The bare steel cross glinted in the light of the reading lamp.
    Clerice was wearing a beige, sleeveless sweater over his open-necked shirt. “I am a Communist, Commissario. Certain compromises are necessary—indeed, they can be very sensible. This is a postgraduate college for Catholic gentlemen. And rooms for Catholic gentlemen are a lot cheaper than any private lodging I can find in town. The beds are made, the rooms are swept and we can eat for a very reasonable cost in the refectory of the undergraduate section of Sant’Antonio.” He raised his shoulders, still smiling. “If Paris was worth a Mass …”
    Trotti frowned.
    “Can I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? I have some Earl Grey that my mother brought back from London.”
    “I have already drunk too much. The lady downstairs has some interesting homemade wine.”
    “She is a good woman.” Clerice’s lips were thick and of a dark red. “She works hard.”
    Trotti nodded.
    “How can I help you then, Commissario?” He gestured towards a couple of straight-backed armchairs. “Please be seated.”
    Trotti lowered himself onto the side of the bed and let his hands hang slightly between his legs. His head felt like putty. “Perhaps coffee if you’ve got some.”
    There was a little kitchen built into the corner of the room. Clerice spent the next few minutes screwing and unscrewing a tiny espresso machine. He poured in water from a sink and added several heaped spoonfuls of coffee.
    The window was open but not much daylight entered the room. The lace curtain fluttered outwards into the air.
    “Sugar?”
    “No thanks.” The coffee was good; black, strong and slightly bitter. Trotti placed the cup on the carpet and offered a sweet to Clerice, who shook his head. “I prefer to keep the taste of coffee in my mouth.”
    They smiled at each other. The doctor—he was twenty-four, twenty-five—was young enough to be