Free Converging Parallels by Timothy Williams Page B

had changed. It had suddenly grown a lot colder and Trotti knew it was his fault. A young man—an innocent, law-abiding doctor—and he was treating him like a criminal. He could hear the professional disbelief in his own voice, the flat, untrusting monotonous questions of a questurino.
    “You didn’t get up at any time to go to the window? You didn’t look out onto the public gardens?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You didn’t notice anything suspicious?”
    “I was asleep, Commissario.” The smile had lost its friendliness, the corner of the red lips remained still. “And with your permission, I’d like to sleep now.” Even as he spoke Clerice pulled back the bed sheets and started closing the blinds.
    “I shall go then,” Trotti said emptily.
    They shook hands. No smile. As the door closed behind him, Trotti heard the key turning in the lock.
    He went down the stairs slowly. In the main hall, the door tothe concierge’s apartment was open but she was nowhere to be seen. The smell of boiled vegetables was strong.
    Trotti was about to leave when he noticed the telephone call box in a shallow alcove. He took a token from his wallet, dialed. The phone was picked up immediately.
    “Gino?”
    “Questura.”
    “It’s Trotti.”
    Gino laughed. “Where are you?”
    “Never you mind.”
    “The Avvocato Romano phoned again for you.”
    “Is Magagna back?”
    “No.”
    “Well, who is there?”
    “Pisanelli. He came back half an hour ago.”
    “Okay.” Trotti clicked his tongue. “Tell him I want him. Tell him to take the yellow folder from my desk and to come in a car. I’ll be at the gypsy camp in twenty minutes and I don’t want him to be late. Understood?”
    “Understood.”
    Trotti hung up.
    He found another token in his hip pocket. He dialed and as the phone was picked up at the other end of the line, the token clattered noisily within the machine.
    “Pronto.”
    Pioppi.
    “Papa here. Is mother back yet?”
    “Where are you calling from, Papa? Are you coming home for supper?”
    “If I’m late, eat by yourself. Take something from the freezer.”
    Pioppi’s voice was lower. “Mother’s not here.” There was a note of reproach and Trotti did not know who it was directed at. “Please hurry back, Papa. You know I don’t like being alone.”
    “Do your homework. And if you want, you can watch television.”
    “I’m lonely.”
    “I’ll be back later, Pioppi. Ciao, ciao.”
    He lowered the telephone gently and moved out of the alcove.
    “Commissario!”
    With heavy splayed movements of her legs, the concierge was coming towards him. She brushed the hair from out of her eyes. She was smiling and in her hand she held a bulging plastic bag. “For you, Commissario.”
    “What?”
    She handed him the bag. “Freshly cut from the garden. Giovanni’s best—no insecticides and no fertilizers.”
    He looked into the bag; it was full of green lettuce.
    “It is for your wife. I’m sure she must be very beautiful, being married to a nice man like you. And a good man. Get her to make you a nice salad—with fresh eggs and olive oil.”
    Trotti took the bag, thanked her and left the college.

10
    T HE WOMEN OF Borgo Genovese wore black dresses and they used to come down to the river to wash their dirty linen. Now everybody had a washing machine and the women had disappeared. However, there were still the old photographs. They stood, their backs to the camera, beating the sheets against the pebbles of the Po; in the background, the city rising up from the river and on the horizon, the majestic dome of the cathedral. Now an enterprising baker used one of the ancient photographs as decoration on his packages. He had a smart shop in Strada Nuova and around Easter time, his sponge cakes—liberally dusted with icing sugar—could be bought in boxes and on the lid, a sepia tinted reproduction of the old women.
    Trotti could remember seeing them before the war.
    On leaving the college, he cycled along