reception area, where they confer privately before facing the cameras. In the crowded space and overly bright lights, the Commissario speaks closely into the lens, and the speech looks smoky and intimate. On the flat-screens at home it will seem huge and crisp.
I imagine he is saying how shocked he is that an innocent boy was brutally attacked on the eve of Palio, promising the Nicosa family that the provincial police will bring these thugs to justice.
A grief-stricken embrace between the two men, and then they disappear down the hall together and the TV lights go out.
“Il bastone ricco insieme,” mutters a reporter.
The rich stick together .
For the next two hours I pace the visitors’ lounge, picking up magazines I can’t read, trying to get e-mail where there is no service. Finally Nicosa appears, exhausted from a long interview with the police while his son was in the operating room. He is still wearing evening clothes, but the tie is gone, and gray stubble shows on his hollow cheeks. He reports in a flat voice that Giovanni made it through the surgery and there is nothing for us to do but go home. Cecilia will stay at the hospital. The police will arrange for us to leave quietly through a back exit. As he is telling me this, Inspector Martini passes and catches my eye. I ask Nicosa to give me a minute, so I can surreptitiously join her in the ladies’ room.
In the mirror over the sinks our reflections show a tall, olive-skinned police officer in a sexy blue uniform, and a shorter American in a brown party dress—two cops from opposite sides of the world who speak the same language. After making sure we are alone, Inspector Martini picks up where we left off when the paparazzi arrived.
“The police report,” she says quietly, “will state that your nephew was attacked in the territory of Torre—you understand about the contrade , okay? He is of Oca, and he was found in Torre, and naturally there must have been a fight.”
“But you don’t think that’s the way it happened?”
“His body was—changed places?”
“Moved?”
“Sorry for my English—yes,” she continues urgently. “His car was found by the police outside the walls of the city.”
“How far away from the district of Torre?”
“Two kilometers. There were bloodstains around his car. Not so many. I believe the worst took place in the tunnel at Via Salicotto.”
“He was taken to the tunnel to make it look like he was attacked by Torre?”
She nods. “A nurse tells me she smelled ether on his clothes. It is commonly used in Italy for kidnappings, to subdue the victim. Probably they jumped him, he defended himself”—she raises a forearm to demonstrate—“they put a cloth over his face.”
This is when I awaken from my romantic dream of Italy. My sister’s analysis of the stab wounds was accurate. Giovanni was targeted by professionals who tracked him outside the walls, and dumped him in Torre—for a reason.
“But it wasn’t a kidnapping, or a murder, although they could have killed him at any time. It was a warning. To whom?” I ask the inspector.
“Often it is to make an example for others. Witnesses. Informants. Anyone who resists.”
“We are talking about the mafias?”
“I am afraid that is a foregone conclusion,” she says soberly.
“Not necessarily,” I say, and tell her about the confrontation that I witnessed by the pool with members of Oca.
“Why would they be angry with Nicosa?”
Inspector Martini shrugs. “I don’t know. He is well respected. Director of the contrada . His son is alfiere , the flag bearer—”
“Yes, that’s the word they were shouting. They seemed to be upset for some reason about Giovanni carrying the flag. Could they have been angry enough to teach him a lesson?”
“No. Never. No way. The contrada protects its own children. Everyone looks out for everyone else; that’s why in general we don’t have crime in Siena.”
Still, how humiliating it must have been
I imagine he is saying how shocked he is that an innocent boy was brutally attacked on the eve of Palio, promising the Nicosa family that the provincial police will bring these thugs to justice.
A grief-stricken embrace between the two men, and then they disappear down the hall together and the TV lights go out.
“Il bastone ricco insieme,” mutters a reporter.
The rich stick together .
For the next two hours I pace the visitors’ lounge, picking up magazines I can’t read, trying to get e-mail where there is no service. Finally Nicosa appears, exhausted from a long interview with the police while his son was in the operating room. He is still wearing evening clothes, but the tie is gone, and gray stubble shows on his hollow cheeks. He reports in a flat voice that Giovanni made it through the surgery and there is nothing for us to do but go home. Cecilia will stay at the hospital. The police will arrange for us to leave quietly through a back exit. As he is telling me this, Inspector Martini passes and catches my eye. I ask Nicosa to give me a minute, so I can surreptitiously join her in the ladies’ room.
In the mirror over the sinks our reflections show a tall, olive-skinned police officer in a sexy blue uniform, and a shorter American in a brown party dress—two cops from opposite sides of the world who speak the same language. After making sure we are alone, Inspector Martini picks up where we left off when the paparazzi arrived.
“The police report,” she says quietly, “will state that your nephew was attacked in the territory of Torre—you understand about the contrade , okay? He is of Oca, and he was found in Torre, and naturally there must have been a fight.”
“But you don’t think that’s the way it happened?”
“His body was—changed places?”
“Moved?”
“Sorry for my English—yes,” she continues urgently. “His car was found by the police outside the walls of the city.”
“How far away from the district of Torre?”
“Two kilometers. There were bloodstains around his car. Not so many. I believe the worst took place in the tunnel at Via Salicotto.”
“He was taken to the tunnel to make it look like he was attacked by Torre?”
She nods. “A nurse tells me she smelled ether on his clothes. It is commonly used in Italy for kidnappings, to subdue the victim. Probably they jumped him, he defended himself”—she raises a forearm to demonstrate—“they put a cloth over his face.”
This is when I awaken from my romantic dream of Italy. My sister’s analysis of the stab wounds was accurate. Giovanni was targeted by professionals who tracked him outside the walls, and dumped him in Torre—for a reason.
“But it wasn’t a kidnapping, or a murder, although they could have killed him at any time. It was a warning. To whom?” I ask the inspector.
“Often it is to make an example for others. Witnesses. Informants. Anyone who resists.”
“We are talking about the mafias?”
“I am afraid that is a foregone conclusion,” she says soberly.
“Not necessarily,” I say, and tell her about the confrontation that I witnessed by the pool with members of Oca.
“Why would they be angry with Nicosa?”
Inspector Martini shrugs. “I don’t know. He is well respected. Director of the contrada . His son is alfiere , the flag bearer—”
“Yes, that’s the word they were shouting. They seemed to be upset for some reason about Giovanni carrying the flag. Could they have been angry enough to teach him a lesson?”
“No. Never. No way. The contrada protects its own children. Everyone looks out for everyone else; that’s why in general we don’t have crime in Siena.”
Still, how humiliating it must have been
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