LITMIR.BIZ

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was the old story. She knew it but didn’t want to hear it, and he was tired of telling her.

      “But what about Mum and Dad? And your mother on her own?” she shot back.

      It was true that it would be a wrench, a sacrifice for him too, but he had decided.

      “Paola, I’ve had enough! I’m going to grow old here trying to get a job in the university, don’t you see? I want to settle down. I want us to settle down and have children. Then we see. And I want you to be able to choose whether or not you want to go back to work, not get thrown on the scrapheap at forty because you’ve had a kid. If we go abroad you can have that chance.”

      There was a long pause. He could hear the random noises of a train station in the background. She’d called to wish him well but the conversation had turned sour. But he had to get it out in the open.

      “I’ll call you later, when it’s over,” he said, with little real conviction. He wanted to be alone.

      He finished his coffee and bit on a breakfast biscuit then went over again the possible questions they could ask him, trying to conjure the unforeseen from thin air, the unseen questions in the envelopes they would proffer him, smiling at him from behind the desk they so loved to interpose between themselves and the mere mortals in the other, real world. The uninitiated, the hopeful, the desperate.

      So this was to be the last Concorso. He had decided. The Concorso or “public competition” was, in theory, an open, transparent method of selecting candidates for positions in state bodies or for publicly funded research projects. You applied, sending off the forms and all the relevant paperwork and then you were called to take an exam. Then you got to the interview, which was when they could do what they wanted.

      He had been from pillar to post, to deliver conference papers, often at his own expense, to take low-paid temporary teaching positions in this or that university, to win a research grant, which meant he could live just above the breadline for a year. And then when the money ran out? Back to square one. In and out of offices. Up and down the country. Moving. Moving back. Working for free. This was the life of the researcher who could not count on patronage, or a powerful relative, or a favour due from on high. This was the life of that singular and sorry category of person who was not a raccomandato – not “recommended” for a job or a grant. Not useful for someone. Not worthy of being a token to flip across the baize in their feudal game.

      He didn’t want to leave Italy, but he had tasted freedom once and had liked it. For the six month post he had been awarded in San Francisco, after he had completed his PhD, the university had contacted him! They came looking for his expertise after they had seen his research. They had decided to go to the States together, and Paola had then had to persuade her parents, old-style Catholics that they were, that the cohabitation abroad would be a prelude to marriage. They went. The wedding, however, had remained on hold.

      They had not committed themselves to a longer stay as Paola was less keen to tear up her roots in the old country. So they had come back, hoping to make a go of it and use the experience gained to get a leg-up. He had been obliged to make the expected compromises – working for free, waiting, biding his time. But he had believed that it might just be worth it. That there would be an outlet in Italy for his ideas. Now the nagging fear always at the back of his mind had become the simple realization that he had been wrong.

      And it could all have been so different. He had done his compulsory military service in the carabinieri, the military branch of the police, and had enjoyed it, thriving on its culture of rigour and seriousness and dedication to duty. He’d also been drawn to the increasing use of technology, science, and psychology for the solving and prevention of crimes. So much so that after his initial one-year conscription he had signed on for another one as a paid, working recruit. He hadn’t wanted to fall back on his parents again. That would have been the easy way out; whereas he enjoyed a challenge, like when he was in the mountains with his friends and he would head for the highest peaks. He wasn’t content with the view of the top from halfway up.

      Francesco got up from the breakfast bar in the kitchen and began closing all the windows despite the heat. He was cautious, prudent, suspicious of the opportunist ready to exploit any weakness in their defences. His family had always expected him to pursue an academic career, their view being that the police force and the army were for those who didn’t have it in them to go any further. They were also institutions tainted by their association with the “regime”. They had been a well-respected and quietly influential family until the fascists had seized power before the war, something which had set in motion their gradual decline towards irrelevance. Yet they had clung on to some of the trappings, the values, the pride, the culture. As for what had actually happened back then, Francesco didn’t know the details but, according to his mother, it was something that had continued to rankle, at least for his father, while he had been alive.

       Five

      They left the bar and walked across the almost-deserted Piazza Verano, the nearby cemetery not visible but always a presence.

      “The park, perhaps,” she suggested, walking slightly ahead. “There are tables and it’s quiet now.”

      They stopped at a dark green art-deco kiosk and a wide esplanade where cast-iron tables occupied the space under the shade of several tall eucalyptus trees.

      “May we?” said Carrara, addressing a white-shirted and tieless employee moving about without particular urgency while a mop in a steaming bucket stood propped against some flower pots. The bar seemed in general disorder with teetering piles of ashtrays and cases of mineral water dumped here and there. His grudging nod of assent meant they were technically open for business.

      “The coffee’s not the best and gossip doesn’t travel well if it’s not in a confined space,” she commented. “So you can always count on getting some breathing space.”

      Rossi imagined that it was a commodity she was in need of.

      “Here?” he said, indicating the most isolated corner and the cleanest-looking table and chairs. Their new guest gave her approval and Carrara was first to pull out a chair for her.

      “Well, gentlemen, I suppose now I should introduce myself,” she said, placing her light, coffee-coloured handbag on the table. “My name is Tiziana Belfonte. And as I said, I work in the hospital.”

      “And you have something you would like to tell us?” said Rossi. “With regard to Dario Iannelli.”

      “Well,” she began, “yes, but indirectly. It concerns a murder victim. An as yet unidentified murder victim.”

      “Do you mean from the Prenestina fire?” said Carrara.

      “No, actually. An earlier victim. The African murdered last winter. I have reason to believe Dario Iannelli may be in some way connected.”

      “Go on,” said Rossi. “We know something of the case, among others. It was a busy time.”

      “Well, it all goes back to the winter and when your colleagues were trying to identify the victim. His body has not been identified or claimed but sooner or later he will have to be buried: in a pauper’s grave, if no one comes forward. It’s policy I’m afraid and it’s all to do with the demands of cost and space.”

      “The fate of many,” said Rossi. “In this day and age.”

      “Yes.” She nodded. “I am afraid so. And not only migrants or foreigners. But the point I want to make is that someone did come forward to identify him. At least I thought he would make an identification but, as it turned out, it wasn’t to be.”

      An accumulation of guilt, perhaps, or unresolved doubts seemed to surface now, as her voice began to betray more emotion. Rossi knew the signs. The secret knowledge that could devour the thoughts of the well-intentioned and conscientious, just as it could eat

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