The Marshal and the Madwoman (2 page)

A horn was sounding repeatedly out in the road.

'It must take years off a man's life driving a bus in this city,' commented the barman, 'what with narrow streets and people parking in the middle of them, though there's little enough traffic today, I'd have thought—where are you going?'

The Marshal had jumped to his feet with surprising agility for one so heavy and the cold compress had fallen to the floor.

'My wife . . .'

She was in tears. He drove the car home himself, so she was able to give her full attention to telling him what she thought of him. By the time they were halfway home she'd finished and fell silent, except for an occasional snifffollowed by an application of the handkerchief. As they came up Via Romana, where every shutter was down and the street deserted, he risked opening his mouth:

'The shops were all open back there, did you notice?'

The hot weather continued unbroken, despite the weather forecasters who predicted a storm. There were storms all right, but only in the north, and for three nights in a row, the Marshal and his wife, watching the news over their supper, saw waterlogged fields, and cities brought to a standstill by the downpour with deep water swirling around abandoned cars. In Florence, not a cloud appeared in the sky. The hot air got heavier and steamier as though the sun itself were sweating at its efforts, and the heat shimmering from the stones of all the great palaces combined with the sweltering glare to distort the vision of anyone foolish enough to go out without sunglasses. The Marshal, whose eyes were allergic to sunlight—it made them stream with tears—never went out without dark glasses. He rarely went out at all, but stayed put in his office at the Pitti Palace Carabinieri Station dealing with dull paperwork, drinking too much mineral water which only made him sweat more, and changing his khaki uniform two or three times a day.

On August 14th, the eve of the national holiday of the Assumption, the temperature rose even higher. The news no longer showed floods in the north but overcrowded beaches and aerial views of the sea's edge thickly dotted with heads. The ferries, as usual, had gone on strike at the busiest period and distraught families were interviewed sweating in their cars as they queued for hours, or even days, under the burning sun, their children quarrelling and whining in the back seat.

'What's the use of turning back now?' shouted one red-faced driver into the microphone. 'We've booked a hotel for two weeks in Sardinia. Fifteen hours we've been sitting here, and if you want to know what I think of the strikers they're—' The interview was cut short before the word could go out on the air, and they were shown a deserted square in the centre of Rome. A lone car crossed it and stopped for the cameras.

'How do you survive in Rome in August?'

'With difficulty, but I'm managing fairly well. The wife and kids are in the mountains so I've only myself to think about. I can usually find a restaurant open if I drive round for a bit.'

'Tomorrow's the fifteenth. Will you find one open then?'

'I doubt it, but I've filled the house with tinned stuff from the supermarket.'

'You sound as if you're enjoying yourself.'

'Well, look around you! Some days I drive all over the city at top speed and park in five or six places just for the hell of it. After struggling with the traffic in this city all year, this is a real holiday.'

The Marshal was reminded of his first years in Florence when his wife had been obliged to stay down south with the boys because his old mother was too sick to be left or moved. It might be fun to be a grass widower for a month but not for years.

Even the film that came on after the news took up the same theme, as a famous comedian played the part of a husband left alone in the deserted city with dust sheets on the furniture and a stock of tins in the larder. Like the man on the news, he was having a glorious time on his own and soon fell in love with a pretty young tourist who was just longing to learn Italian. Each time the man's wife telephoned from the mountains he would put on a tragic face and moan, with a sob in his voice, 'If you knew how lonely it gets, sitting in an empty flat night after night, you wouldn't leave me like this . . .' Then the sorrowful look would melt into a grin as he rushed from room to room, spraying himself with perfume, smoothing the bed and waiting for the doorbell to ring.

The Marshal and his wife had seen the film more than once since it was shown practically every summer, but they watched it, even so, because they liked the comedian. When the film finished and the adverts came on, the Marshal's wife went in the kitchen to finish washing up, leaving him in the darkened living-room where the only light, apart from a small table lamp, came from the flickering images. When the telephone rang, it was she who went to switch the light on in the hall and answer it, her felt slippers making only the faintest swish on the polished marble floor. He went on looking at the television, slightly disturbed by the crack of bright light from the door into the hall and hoping it wasn't the lads on duty ringing through to his quarters because something had happened.

But when he heard her say, 'You'll have to speak up . . . that's better . . . How are they?' his shoulders settled back imperceptibly against the settee. Without bothering to listen further, he knew that it was his sister reporting on the boys as she did about once a week, telephoning at night because it was cheaper.

The late news came on and the Marshal reflected, as he was shown the crowded beach scene yet again, that the criminal population was off at the seaside along with the rest, and that working in August in the city had the advantage, in his job, of there not being anything much to do. He hardly need have worried about that call being for him. He hadn't been called out at night since the end of June, and that had turned out to be a false alarm.

Nevertheless, the telephone and the light had dispelled his somnolent tranquillity, so he heaved himself up and went to switch on the mosquito-killer in the bedroom.

'Salva!'

'What is it?'

'While you're in there, switch the mosquito-killer on.'

'I did.'

He appeared in the kitchen. 'What are you making?'

'Camomile tea. I've got a bit of a headache, it'll help me to sleep. Did you switch the machine on?'

'Mm.'

'If you wait until we go to bed there's always one manages to get me before it dies.'

'What did Nunziata say?'

'The boys are all right. I only hope they're behaving. It's far too tiring for her.'

'Did she say so?'

'Of course she didn't say so, but I know what a handful they can be and she's had none of her own so she isn't used to it. Do you want anything?'

'No. I bet she's enjoying herself. Are you coming to bed?'

'In a few minutes. When the machine's had time to work. I'll drink this first.'

When she came through to the bedroom the air was heavily perfumed by the mosquito-killer and he was already in bed, yawning and rubbing a big hand over his face.

'I'm tired, I must say.'

'It's this heat, it's wearying. I'm sure that's what's giving me these headaches.'

'At least that call wasn't for me. I thought for a minute it was the duty room.'

'At this time of night?' She had been married fifteen years, but so much of their time had been spent apart that although she was accustomed to the simpler facts of army life like uniforms and living in barracks, his occasional irritation with his captain and incessant worry about the National Service kids, anything that disturbed their daily routine like unexpected calls at night or his involvement in some serious criminal case caused her both surprise and alarm.

So it was fortunate for her that when a call did come for the Marshal at almost three in the morning, the boy on duty did not think fit to disturb him and redirected the call to Headquarters in Borgo Ognissanti on the other side of the river. The two of them slept through the hot night, only stirring in discomfort now and then when even the thin white sheet seemed an unbearable weight.

Would it have made any difference if the boy on duty had woken him? It was a question the Marshal was to ask himself more than once in the ensuing days. His feeling was that it probably wouldn't have made any difference at all. He wouldn't have got out of bed and gone round there. He'd have reacted just as the boy had. And, to give the lad his due, he had called Headquarters himself and got a patrol car to take a look. They'd reported everything quiet. So no one was to blame. Nevertheless, if the Marshal kept on repeating to the lad, 'Don't worry, you did your duty and you couldn't have known . . .' perhaps he was really saying it to himself.

At any rate, nobody knew that anything was really amiss until the following evening, and so the Marshal got a good night's sleep and woke up in a cheerful mood to the sound of church bells. In the ktichen, the window was open, the coffee was bubbling up and there was a warm smell of brioches with jam baked in them, his favourite.

'How did you manage that? Don't tell me there's a baker open this morning?'

'I bought them yesterday and kept them in a damp cloth. Five minutes in the oven and they might be freshly baked. I thought we might as well have a treat for the holiday, even if you are working.'

'There won't be much work to do.'

He was to remember that remark later, and the sweet, almost cloying scent of the brioches which was to cling on throughout the case because of the amount of time he was to spend in the bar where he had sat with a compress on his eye yesterday. In the meantime, he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, appreciating the light from the open window. The windows were still open in the sitting-room, too, and the sunshine filtered in through white muslin curtains. Even so, the rectangles of light on the floor beneath were already warm. By ten o'clock the shutters would have to be closed against the heat and the house would be in darkness for the rest of the day.

'Are we having something special for lunch, too?'

'Roast rabbit.'

He wouldn't have minded settling down in an armchair with an extra cup of coffee, perhaps because those warm patches of sunlight and the church bells ringing all over the city made such a relaxed Sunday atmosphere. But he looked at his watch and went back in the bedroom to get his uniform jacket.

When he went through to his office, it was Di Nuccio, on day duty, who greeted him with a cheery good morning. The night duty boys had gone off to sleep and the morning passed like any other, except that there was even less to do than usual. He read the night report which mentioned a call about a disturbance which had been referred to Borgo Ognissanti and resulted in a false alarm.

By midday, although he'd taken off his jacket before sitting down at his desk, the sweat was making his uniform stick to his body and he was glad enough to leave the remains of the dull paperwork that never seemed to diminish much, though he'd done little else recently, and go to look in on the boys in the duty room. Only Di Nuccio was there. He had his sleeves rolled up but he, too, had a large patch of sweat under each arm and a bigger patch between the shoulder-blades.

'You by yourself?'

'The lad's gone up to start the lunch.'

One of the boys on duty was responsible for shopping and cooking for the others. A constant complaint of the regulars about National Service boys was that, having never left their mothers before, they couldn't cook. Sodden spaghetti with sour, burnt tomato sauce could create an inordinate amount of ill-feeling in barracks, especially of an evening when the lads had nothing better to look forward to than a good plate of pasta in front of the TV in their little kitchen-cum-common-room. In this case, though, the problem boy was a newly enlisted regular. His first efforts had resulted in a sort of soup made of pasta disintegrated in its water and a sinister-looking brownish sauce obtained by burning the contents of a tin of peeled tomatoes. They'd had to throw away the pan. The Marshal, who had been obliged to survive on his own cooking for many years, took the boy aside and suggested he read the time indicated on the spaghetti packet, adding some encouraging if vague remarks about giving the sauce some flavour. The next day, the leathery yellow strands wouldn't bend round their forks and the sour brown sauce had the charred remains of a dozen cloves of garlic floating in it. So when Di Nuccio commented, 'Thank God he's on nights after today,' there was no need to ask why.

'He'll learn,' was the Marshal's only comment. 'Everything quiet?'

'As the grave.'

'I'm off, then.'

A rich smell of rabbit gravy scented with rosemary met his nostrils as he let himself into his quarters and he couldn't help feeling guilty at the thought of the boys upstairs.

'That you?'

'Mm.'

The bedroom shutters were closed. He switched on the light and undressed. What he needed was a cold shower, but even the cold water was tepid at that time of year. He felt rather better for it, even so, and when he pottered across to the living-room, the sight of their two places laid, in honour of the holiday, on a fresh white lacy cloth in the soft light filtering through the slightly opened shutters was enough to dispel the boredom of the morning and induce cheerfulness and a good appetite.

'Salva, fill the water jug, will you?'

He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

'What about a drop of this rose with the rabbit? I'd rather not drink red in this heat.'

'Open it, if you like. I won't have any.'

'You haven't got another headache?'

'No, it tends to come on in the afternoon but you know wine makes me sleepy at lunch-time.'

'There's nothing to stop you having a nap.'

'You know I feel worse afterwards.'

'Well, it seems a shame not to . . . it's lovely and cool. . .' He opened the bottle and took it through with the jug of water. It felt more like a Sunday than ever. The bells had stopped ringing so perhaps it was just the smell of the roast. . . Then he realized that it was the lacy cloth which normally appeared only on Sundays.

The rabbit, with a creamy puree, was so good that he couldn't resist a second helping.