The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 7

  The brother he’d pretended not to love for years in order to protect himself was sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. Each time they met up, Annibale felt naked before the pretence. He pretended, to himself most of all, not to love the kid who was almost a son to him. That’s how he’d treated him after their mother’s death.

  The place was humming and the music blaring, but all the better. Young men and women, students waiting for their trains with bags and rucksacks, laughter and hugging, hearts made lighter by the Christmas holidays about to begin. No one paid attention to him. Verde was right, Annibale thought: the country was changing, and now, Canessa could walk through a crowd of young people who only a few years ago would have been screaming insults at him or retreating from him as if he were contagious. He could walk in without being noticed, just another guy.

  Napoleone Canessa’s eyes shone with a sad light. He was sitting with his knees together, a worn leather bag between his feet. Annibale sat down without a hello, thinking that his brother would be a lousy terrorist: he’d placed himself in the most exposed spot in the entire self-service area, wearing the guilty look he’d had since he was a boy, even when he was totally innocent. Napoleone’s melancholy had forced Annibale to defend him constantly from the bullying of the older kids from the Cinque Terre, where they spent their summers with an aunt, always on the lookout for foreigners to pick on.

  ‘I’ve got some papers here for you to sign.’

  No greetings, no small talk. Annibale opened his bag and pulled out a pile of documents held together by an elastic band.

  ‘I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I asked for time off but they said no.’

  ‘I know. It was probably better that way.’

  Napoleone looked at him but without surprise. ‘You hate me that much.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I don’t hate you, Napoleone, quite the opposite: I can’t bring myself to hate you. I don’t know where we went wrong, what the breaking point was. Maybe I’ve always been too demanding. But we’ve drifted apart and I’m probably the one who’s suffered most.’

  ‘How would you know? Jesus, even now you’re being patronising.’

  ‘I said “probably”. But if you’d come to the funeral, I would probably have hugged you, defended you once more, and rekindled a relationship that’s only ever brought me pain. That’s what it is – pain – and I can’t stand it. Napoleone, I see everything you do as a form of rebellion, and I don’t get it. It makes no sense. It just feels like you’re punishing me and Dad. Maybe not. You’re actually probably very consistent in your beliefs. But I want to stop chasing after you, rescuing you, protecting you. From today onwards, to each his own.’

  He removed the band from the papers. ‘Dad removed you from the will entirely, leaving you only the legal minimum, but I convinced him to change it because even though I know you wouldn’t have argued, I want you to have half. I’m keeping some furniture, a few old colonial trinkets, the books and dioramas, but I have buyers for everything else. It’ll be a decent sum. It’ll allow you to get a house and live comfortably. If you know how to invest, you won’t even have to work. Just sign where I’ve marked.’

  ‘I don’t want the money.’

  ‘But you’ll take it, all of it. It’s not dirty money, it used to be Mum’s and now it’s yours. Don’t be an idiot, and don’t do as I would in this sort of situation. You might have a family someday, maybe kids, and the money will be useful.’

  ‘You’re still scripting my life, Annibale.’

  The waiter walked over with the coffee they’d ordered. The lieutenant colonel took his black, swallowing it down in one gulp and smiling to himself as he watched his brother add three spoons of sugar. Undrinkable, he thought.

  ‘If that were the case, then this is the last scene I’d write. But I know you better than you think. You’ve always been against everything, but once I’m out that door, you’ll be relieved to see life from another perspective. You’ll start building something, and you’re someone who can do that successfully. This is the irony that links us: I’m the antisocial one, despite my uniform. I bet you’ll be married with kids way before me.’

  Napoleone started signing. Annibale handed him the documents one by one, slowly. At the end of the pile, he gave his brother the ones to keep.

  ‘Good. That’s it.’

  But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Something was bothering him.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? I know you just as well.’

  ‘You’re right. Yeah. Before I go, I want you to tell me about your arrest.’

  ‘I was acquitted, you know. “Sorry, our mistake, case closed, forget about all this.” Nothing to add, really.’

  Annibale Canessa waved away the objection.

  ‘I’m interested in your version.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Personal reasons. I’ve never believed in coincidences. I don’t know how much coincidence there was between your arrest and Petri’s capture.’

  ‘Annibale, you’ll never stop believing the world revolves around you, will you? But like I said, there’s nothing to add. I’ve never been a terrorist or a sympathiser. Sure, like others, I praised the armed struggle, went to meetings where there might have been some fugitive passing through. But that’s it.’

  ‘So what happened that day?’

  ‘I was visiting a friend who was leaving for Greece, and he decided to go and say goodbye to his old comrades in Modena at a social centre in an occupied villa with a nice garden. I tagged along for the party. Eating, drinking, singing, making out. Joints. Lots of joints actually. Other than that, a very bourgeois thing. There were around forty of us. Suddenly, the police special unit was there, black suits, balaclavas, assault rifles, the lot. They shoved us against a wall and searched the house, claiming that it was a hideout for a new terrorist cell. We laughed, but a gun and some old leaflets turned up in the search.’

  ‘They could’ve been there for some time.’

  ‘True, but my friends said no, they’d been planted, and maybe by the police themselves. It wouldn’t have been the first time.’ He grinned at his brother, but the Carabiniere didn’t bite.

  ‘There were forty of you, so why did they hold only you and five others?’

  ‘We were the only ones on record as “autonomous”. The others were students, younger than us and there for fun. I got three months in jail. Then one day they call me to tell me there’s no evidence against me, the gun can’t be traced to any shooting, the leaflets were like, really old – we couldn’t’ve made them. “Nothing more emerged after a thorough investigation. You’re free and clear, but you’d better toe the line.” End of story.’

  Annibale Canessa slid his documents back into his bag and stood up. He put his coat and beret back on, and looked at his brother. ‘One last question: who was the magistrate in charge of the inquiry? You must’ve met them.’

  ‘Someone from Milan, the one who sent the police, apparently following an anonymous lead from a supergrass. His name’s Salemme, Giannino Salemme.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Annibale Canessa headed to the door of the restaurant without looking back. It was the last time he saw his brother alive.

  *

  Rome was beautiful as always, but around Christmas it had something extra, something magical. Annibale Canessa drove his Porsche towards the small hotel in via Sistina where he’d been a regular for several years now whenever he wasn’t in the barracks or some safe house. He handed the keys to the valet and locked himself in his room, exhausted from the trip. He showered, put on his civilian clothes and headed to a restaurant behind Piazza di Spagna, walking down the famous stairs. Compared to the snow and fog in the north, the weather was lovely. Cold, but clear. The streets and squares sparkled with festive
lights. It felt like forever since anyone had celebrated a proper Christmas.

  This year he’d leave his thoughts behind and not think about the future. Finally. But there was something to sort out.

  On 23 December 1984, at 10.30 a.m., Annibale Canessa was sitting outside the office of the commander general of the Carabinieri. His uniform, dry cleaned at the hotel, was impeccable. To his breast he’d pinned all of his ribbons, his carefully polished medals and the arms of the paratrooper branch of the Carabinieri.

  ‘Sir, the general will see you now,’ the secretary said.

  Lieutenant Colonel Canessa stepped into the office, clicked his heels and saluted the flag before bringing his right hand to his forehead and saluting the generals waiting for him. Verde sat in one of the armchairs in front of the commander’s desk.

  ‘At ease, Colonel Canessa. Please sit down.’

  Annibale didn’t move, though he relaxed his posture. He held his beret tight under his left arm, and pulled out a piece of paper with his right hand. The officers stared at him, bemused.

  Verde broke the silence and tension that had fallen over the meeting. ‘I was just discussing your future assignments with the general, Canessa. Maybe it’s too soon to talk about Sicily. With your résumé and experience, you could be an excellent ambassador for us. You might work abroad in a consulate, with your fame and pedigree. I’m told you speak many languages, is that right?’

  Canessa brushed past without looking at him and set the folded paper on the desk, addressing the commander general.

  ‘Sir, this is my official request for final discharge. I would like to thank you, General Verde and the force for everything you’ve given me. As of today, I am a civilian.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  The commander general was shocked, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  Verde interjected, switching to the informal, fatherly tone he’d often used with Canessa, especially in delicate situations like this.

  ‘Annibale, don’t be rash. Your brother’s situation has blown over. You can’t still be angry about the Petri situation…’

  ‘No sir, I’m not angry about the Petri case. You helped me to understand something. I’ve been thinking about what you said for the past five months: “There’s life out there”—’ he pointed to the trees along the Tevere ‘—and I think it’s time I looked into it.’

  ‘Annibale, what the fuck…’ Verde was furious, but the commander general waved his outburst aside.

  ‘If this is your decision, we will not force you to reconsider. I hope you don’t come to regret it. You were born to be a Carabiniere.’

  Annibale smiled. The commander general was good at his job. He’d always admired him.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You may be right, but I won’t go back on my decision. There are too many people in this country who regret their life choices.’

  He clicked his heels with deliberation, saluted the other two officers, the flag, and left the room.

  The moment he was outside, he undid his tie, unbuttoned his uniform and pulled out a plane ticket. Addressing the secretary’s curious look, he said: ‘For now, it’s the Maldives.’

  2

  The Third Millennium

  1

  The lobby boasted a couple of worn wooden benches, full of splinters, and a plastic ash tray half melted by countless cigarette butts. Visitors to the morgue obviously kept smoking despite the ban, but could anyone honestly deny the comfort of nicotine to the people in that sad place? Whichever way you looked at it, ending up here was a tragedy: you either came in for work, or your ‘work’ was a loved one.

  Admittedly, the décor was utterly depressing. On one of the flaking walls was a poster decrying the dangers of drug use. A bit ironic, thought the police officer standing guard at the door of the morgue: entry was forbidden to the unauthorised. It’s taking the piss, he thought, posting something like that here. Most of the bodies coming through over the past thirty years were those of junkies who’d OD’d or were otherwise drug-related. Maybe less true now. But the poster was undoubtedly from the 1970s–80s.

  He was about to share this with the woman, but then considered the young girl beside her and the sorrow that united them. Still, that didn’t stop him from taking in the light wool dress which buttoned in front and fell to her ankles. A blue cardigan was draped over her shoulders. He couldn’t help detecting her curvy shape through the sombre outfit.

  I mean, nothing wrong with that kind of attention in a place like this, is there? He tried to justify his thoughts. Faced with death, we should all be clinging to life. I’m hardly a monster! Fortunately, he set those thoughts aside in his effort to be kind. ‘Miss, would you like something to drink? There’s a vending machine in the other room.’

  Before she could reply, the door banged open and a tall man with short grey hair and a searing gaze charged into the room as if someone had shoved him. He had on a very dated jacket which seemed excessive for a warm afternoon in late April. Under it, however, he was wearing a blue polo shirt and a pair of canvas trousers.

  ‘Where are the victims from the Centrale station shooting?’ he asked with unquestionable authority.

  The police officer pointed to the door behind him.

  The man pushed through and walked into the morgue, taking a long corridor that turned onto a shorter one. Two beds stood against the wall, and the bloodstained sheets revealed the presence of the victims.

  A volley of laughter came from one of the rooms ahead. The man poked his head round and found three assistants playing cards.

  ‘How could you abandon those poor souls? Move them into the autopsy room. Immediately.’

  The assistants stood up quietly and followed orders, wheeling the beds into another room along the first corridor before walking away. One whispered something to the others, another tried hiding a snort, but the man’s look silenced any further comments.

  Alone at last, he lifted one sheet first, then the next. A spasm of pain ripped through his chest as he looked at those massacred bodies, opening up a sudden, destabilising abyss in his life. It was a revelation.

  2

  ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

  Two men had come through the door. The speaker was in his thirties, wore a leather jacket and clearly hadn’t shaved that day.

  ‘Who let you in? Can I see some ID?’

  The other, despite being better dressed in jacket and tie, must’ve been the subordinate. An old cop trick: the scruffy one is the boss, dressed down so he can discuss things more easily and unseat people’s defences by pretending to be their equal. He looks more like you, more approachable than his associate – but of course that’s not the case.

  The man wearing the dated jacket saw through them. He let the sheet fall back onto the body, and talking as if to himself, pointed his left index finger to the wall, almost as if at some other dimension beyond it. ‘They shot Petri first. That much is clear: he was the target. The spray went from right to left and it didn’t hit his right arm, whereas the other guy is almost shredded. He was trying to save Petri, move him aside, to no avail. AK-47, one of the recent mods – I’d need to see the bullets. Explosive, probably, given the damage. Undoubtedly used a silencer. I doubt you found any shells. They had a bag around the ejector.’

  The police officers were dumbfounded, their mouths gaping. The one in the jacket was the first to collect himself.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Knowledge, history… They’re power, my friends,’ a voice behind them proclaimed. The speaker was a stocky man, completely bald, with a belly so taut, it threatened to rip open his nice white shirt – clearly tailored and expensive, with the initials SC embroidered on it. He dabbed at his shiny head with a linen hanky and, falling into a chair by the wall, re
membered enough of his manners to speak.

  ‘Colonel Canessa, my sincerest condolences. I’m sorry to see you again in such sad circumstances.’

  Annibale smiled, nodding in return.

  ‘Thank you. You haven’t changed, Calandra. You must be commissioner, if not chief magistrate by now.’

  ‘The latter, Colonel, the latter. For what it’s worth. But I still act like the good old days, and you’ll remember I’m the type who prefers something of a free rein. In all things…’ He left the sentence hanging.

  The officers listened in on the conversation, not knowing whether to interrupt or not, and increasingly curious. Calandra went on to explain in a didactic tone.

  ‘Colonel Canessa – or do you go by something else, now you’re retired? Maybe a fancy inspector? – is the brother of one of the victims. Does his name mean anything to you? No? Your loss.’

  He gestured vaguely.

  ‘The wife of one of the victims is out there,’ said the well-dressed one.

  Annibale felt a pang of sorrow. Dull, but painful all the same.

  ‘The woman and girl are related to Napoleone Canessa?’

  ‘Wife and daughter,’ replied the rough-looking one.

  ‘I don’t think they should be let in right now. This is my brother, if you need to identify the body.’

  ‘Okay,’ the police officer replied.

  Canessa and Calandra left the room. Annibale leaned against the wall for support.

  ‘You got here fast.’

  ‘You too, Calandra. One of your planes?’

  ‘Touché. Though my channels are fresher, Colonel.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Chief Magistrate Sergio Calandra was a member of the Secret Service. He always had been. The two met in the late 1970s and it had taken Annibale some time to consider him an ally, especially after the via Gaeta affair. During the Years of Lead, even the institutions played dirty and, more often than not, fought with each other for a variety of reasons, sometimes even plotting against the State they’d sworn to protect. But he’d always liked Calandra. He was fun, a Sicilian with a love of life. In his heyday, he’d had a wife he called The Widow, as they spent only a couple of days a year together, and a string of more or less regular mistresses he fooled around with in hotels and fancy restaurants. He had even more casual lovers, all of them very young. He liked good food and nice clothes, and what he had on now was clearly a suit from Piombo, though a size up wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Annibale had always suspected that Calandra used service slush funds to pay for his vices. ‘Well no, it’s not ethical, but better used on this stuff than doing something awful or covering it up,’ he’d justified it to Repetto when the latter once expressed his concerns.