Free Converging Parallels by Timothy Williams Page A

Trotti’s son. It was the smile that Trotti liked.
    “I find that good coffee is necessary after a night in the emergency ward.”
    “You are working nights at the moment?”
    “You could say that, I suppose. More like standing in. As an observer. I haven’t got enough confidence in my skills yet. I don’t trust myself with a scalpel.”
    “You’ve been trained?”
    “I spent seven years at university—if that’s what you mean—but I wouldn’t say that I’ve been trained. Oh, I know about the circulation of the blood and the basics. But this is Italy, Commissario. Big classes at the university—sometimes four hundred students in an amphitheater built for fifty. And if there are four hundred students present, that means there are a thousand doing the course. University lecturers who haven’t got the time—or the inclination—to dedicate much time to teaching. You see, the best people want to be at the university becausethat’s good for their brass nameplates. Then—they can ask more for private consultation. Private practice, Commissario—that’s where the real money is.”
    “And what’s your specialty?”
    “Surgeon.”
    “And you had no practical training in seven years?” Trotti was puzzled. “On night duty—who does your work?”
    “What work?”
    “The cutting and the sawing and the sewing.”
    “Oh, that!” There was something sad about his smile. “The nurses.”
    “They’re not qualified.”
    “As I said, this is Italy. Do you want the casualties to die? Because that’s what’d happen if I got my hands on them. For the time being, at least. You see, I’m getting my first practical training now. And I’m one of the lucky ones—the professor seemed to like me and he managed to get me a place in the hospital. All students want to get into the hospital to get a real training. About one student in twenty is accepted. There just aren’t the places.”
    “I’ll make a point of not coming to the hospital for treatment.”
    “You’re better off at our Policlinico than in most Italian hospitals. In most places you can go in with a broken arm and come out with glandular fever.” He shrugged modestly. “And I’m not all that bad. I’ve done a few things—a few childbirths, even a caesarean. And …” He opened a bedside drawer and fumbled around. “I can’t find it but there should be an appendix around somewhere. All my own work.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “I’m sure I left it here. Perhaps Tania took it.”
    “Tania?”
    “A friend.”
    “She has strange tastes.”
    “She wasn’t going to eat it. She likes to tidy up.”
    They looked at each other without speaking. The corner of Clerice’s mouth twitched as though he wanted to laugh. “Commissario, how can I help you?” He paused. “Don’t tell me it’sabout somebody I’ve slaughtered. The old lady with cystitis? Or the Neapolitan with piles? Terminal hemorrhoids.”
    “I’m looking into the disappearance of a child.” He produced the photograph and while the young doctor looked at the picture, Trotti moved past him and went to the window. It looked down onto the intersection of via Darsena and vicolo Lotario. The three boys were still in the public gardens; the two older ones were striking the trunk of a tree. The small boy stood slightly apart, his head bowed. “Yesterday afternoon,” Trotti said, “at about this time, the girl you’re looking at disappeared from the gardens opposite. Were you at home?”
    “Yes.”
    “What were you doing?” Trotti turned round, his hand still holding the billowing edge of the curtain.
    “Sleeping. Or at least, I think so. I normally get back at about one. Then by the time I’ve eaten, I feel tired. I need to sleep.” He scratched at the side of his head where the dark hair met his cheek. “At this time yesterday I was sleeping.”
    “You’re not sleeping now and the bed is still made up.”
    “I’m waiting for you to go, Commissario.”
    The atmosphere