Daughter of Silence Read online

  ‘And the more serious traumas are always persistent?’

  ‘Always. Though time and treatment may diminish their effects.’

  ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Professor, but does not the word “psychosis” describe a deep-seated, grave and more or less permanent mental disorder?’

  ‘In general terms, that’s true.’

  ‘So that a psychotic patient is always, in greater or less degree, handicapped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let us take some simple examples, Professor.’ Rienzi’s tone was mild, almost deferential. ‘A child loses a beloved parent. Would you call this an emotional shock?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘It would leave a scar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which might reveal itself through some psychic infirmity in later life?’

  ‘It might – yes.’

  There was a small silence in the court. All eyes were on Rienzi as he walked back to his table, picked up some papers and then returned to Galuzzi. There was a change in him now. His shoulders straightened, his tone became crisper, the tempo of his questions grew faster.

  ‘Let us take the case of Anna Albertini. She had lost both her parents by the age of eight. According to the evidence of the prosecution, her mother was executed by a firing-squad. How would you judge the scar inflicted on her young mind?’

  ‘A very grave one.’

  ‘Another question, Professor. You say you carried out tests on the prisoner. What was the nature of these tests?’

  ‘In general terms, they consisted of a medical examination, a neurological survey and a modified form of analysis.’

  ‘You know, then, that although she has been married for four years she is still a virgin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You would agree that this indicated an abnormality in her relations with her husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you diagnose the abnormality?’

  ‘As a condition of sexual incapacity in the accused related to and probably induced by her childhood experiences.’

  ‘In other words, by the trauma, or scar, we have been talking about? Would you describe Anna Albertini as a psychotic subject?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In other words, Professor, what you are saying is that she is mentally infirm?’

  The Prosecutor stood up, protesting: ‘I object, Mr President. The question leads the witness to a conclusion which is properly the function of the Bench.’

  ‘The objection is upheld. Counsel for the Defence must confine himself to eliciting information in terms of the brief before us.’

  ‘With respect, Mr President,’ said Carlo Rienzi firmly, ‘I am concerned to define clearly to the court the nature of the information elicited. However, in deference to the President’s wishes, I will re-frame the question. Tell us, Professor, is it or is it not true that a psychotic patient is mentally infirm?’

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘No more questions.’

  ‘You are excused, Professor,’ said the President.

  There was a moment of whispered consultation on the rostrum and Ascolini turned to Landon and Ninette with a grin of triumph. ‘You see? I told you he had cards in his sleeve! This is good – very good!’

  To judge from the murmur that ran through the court, most of the spectators had taken the point too. The pressmen were scribbling notes and the Prosecutor was conferring with his associates. Alone of all the people in the court Anna Albertini sat calm and unmoved, like a priestess presiding over some ancient rite which had long since lost relevance or meaning.

  The President rapped with his gavel and there was silence again while the Prosecutor stood up and addressed himself to the panel of judges: ‘Mr President, gentlemen of the court, the indictment which is in your hands is so clear and simple, the testimony of the witnesses so concise and unanimous, that I hesitate to waste any more of the court’s time by calling other testimony which is available to us. We have submitted proof of the crime, we have submitted proof of premeditation. Both are confirmed by the voluntary statement of the accused. It is not for me to comment on the new line opened by the defence, but we would point out that it has accepted or left unchallenged all our testimony. We should appreciate a direction, Mr President.’

  For a reason which Landon did not understand, the President seemed piqued by the suggestion. He said, acidly: ‘I fail to see any reason for new direction in this case. If the prosecution has no more witnesses to call, then the defence may present its own testimony. Mr Rienzi?’

  ‘With the permission of the court, I should like first to recall Luigi Albertini.’

  At the mention of the name, the girl in the dock seemed to waken. Her hands fumbled restlessly on the brass railing and her eyes, wide and troubled, followed every step of the weak, puzzled youth towards the witness stand. Rienzi let him stand there a few moments, then began to question him with cool deliberation.

  ‘Mr Albertini, how long have you been married?’

  The boy looked up, startled and irritated. ‘I said it before: four years.’

  ‘Has your marriage always been a happy one?’

  There was a pause, a shamed look towards his wife and then a mumbling, sullen answer: ‘It’s never been happy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I – I’d rather not say.’

  ‘You must say,’ Rienzi told him, flatly. ‘Your wife is on trial for murder.’

  Albertini flushed and stammered unhappily: ‘I – I don’t know how to say it.’

  ‘Say it as you know it – simply, bluntly. Why was your marriage not happy?’

  ‘We-we never made love together as married people should.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because whenever I took Anna in my arms she would start screaming: “They’re killing her! They’re killing my mother!”’

  ‘Do you understand why she did this?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ A sudden feeble anger flared out of him, and then died. ‘Anna understood it, too. But it didn’t help either of us. Four years that went on.’

  ‘During those four years – difficult years, I admit – did you ever seek medical advice?’

  ‘Many times and with many doctors. They all said the same thing.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘“Give her time and patience and she might get better.”’ He burst out, bitterly: ‘But she never did! What kind of life is that?’

  ‘And now, Mr Albertini?’

  The boy looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Cold as a swordsman, Rienzi moved in for the kill. ‘I think you do. Is it not a fact that ten days after your wife’s arrest you made application, first to the Archbishop of Florence and then to the civil authorities, for the annulment of your marriage on the grounds of non-consummation?’

  There was a moment of dead silence and then a scream of pure horror from the girl in the dock. ‘No, Luigi, no!’ The next instant, she was grappling with the guards and crying in a long, moaning ululation: ‘Don’t do it, Luigi! Don’t leave me! Don’t! Don’t!’

  The President’s voice cut across the tumult: ‘Remove the prisoner.’

  In the body of the court, Professor Galuzzi jumped to his feet. ‘With respect, Mr President, I suggest the prisoner be given immediate medical attention.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor. The court would appreciate your attendance on the accused and your later advice on her fitness to continue the hearing.’

  As Anna was wrestled out, moaning and struggling, her husband stood, downcast, in the dock and Carlo Rienzi turned a pale, composed face to the judges. ‘I am finished with my witness, Mr President. I regret the disturbance, but I had no choice.’

  For the first time, a wintry smile of approval showed on the old man’s face. ‘You are new to this court, Mr. Rienzi. I hope we may see more of you.’ He picked up his gavel. The court is adjourned for thirty minutes or until such time as the prisoner is fit to atten
d.’

  In the disorder that followed his exit, Ninette and Landon sat with Doctor Ascolini and waited for the chattering crowd to disperse. Carlo picked up his papers and walked out of the court towards the remand cells.

  Ascolini was as excited as a schoolboy, bouncing in his chair and making a whirlwind pantomime for Ninette’s benefit. ‘You see where the instinct shows, child? The method, the dramatic sense? This is the talent of great advocacy. You saw what he did. First he takes a hostile witness and borrows straw from him for his own bricks. He takes the specialist word “trauma” and all of a sudden it is a new one – “mental infirmity”. We have the first brick laid. But Carlo knows and we all know that each of us is infirm in one fashion or another. So he stages a big drama, tears, shrieks and disorder, to show what infirmity may mean – a pretty girl who can’t enjoy a tumble in bed. This is another brick: sympathy. And we all ask the same question: “How can this happen to a pretty girl that we’d all like to sleep with?” For the moment we forget that she has killed a man and that another woman sleeps lonely because of her. Two bricks I They are not yet a foundation for any defence. But the promise, girl I The promise in the man! I’m proud of him!’

  ‘Then go and tell him so, dottore,’ said Ninette firmly. ‘A dozen steps and a dozen words and it is done. Go on now.’

  ‘It’s not time yet.’

  ‘There will never be a better time, dottore. Swallow your pride.’

  For a moment he hesitated, then he stood up, smoothed down his coat and walked with firm steps towards the far door of the court-room. Landon was dubious and said as much, but Ninette was jubilant over the success of her manoeuvre. ‘It’s important, don’t you see, Peter? To Carlo, if he can call on Ascolini’s support and advice for the rest of the case. To Ascolini, who has come to his own crisis. The best things we do are done quickly, from the heart.’

  ‘We know what’s in our own hearts, darling: I’m not sure we understand what’s in theirs.’

  ‘You make mysteries, Peter, where none exist. These two are ready for friendship. There is a respect on both sides. Let a good moment pass and there may not be another for a long time.’

  To which he had no adequate reply, and besides it was easier to kiss her than argue with her. He surrendered with a shrug and a smile and they walked out hand in hand to the babble of the ante-room. The talk was deafening. It rose on high waves of emphasis and tumbled into frothing troughs of confusion. Words, phrases, scraps of interpretation were tossed up like spume-flakes and blown away. Women laughed, men looked subtle and knowing. Secrets were touted as freely as backstage gossip at an opera.

  It was a bitter little commentary on the need of human nature to make a circus out of death and spectacle out of the scapegoat driven into the desert. Pity is a comforting indulgence, easily turned to contempt or ribaldry, but compassion is a rare virtue, founded on the admission that each hides in his own heart the weakness that he damns in his fellows, and that pain or thwarted desire may drive him to greater excesses than they have committed. The cruelty of a crowd is less terrifying than the fear which it hides, the despair of personal forgiveness which inhibits the forgiveness of others.

  ‘Peter, look!’

  Ninette’s fingers dug into his palm and he glanced up to see Valeria Rienzi pushing her way through the crowd towards them. Her face was white and strained and she accosted them abruptly: ‘I want to talk to you two. Come and have a cup of coffee with me.’

  Without waiting for an answer, she linked arms with them and hurried them to a little bar a hundred yards down the street. They had hardly settled themselves at the table before she burst out: ‘I thought you’d both like to know. Basilio’s left me. He told me so at lunch. Just like that…the comedy’s over!’ She gave a sharp, hysterical laugh. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking! He would have done it sooner or later, just like he did it to you, Ninette. But it wasn’t like that…it wasn’t like that at all. You know who organized it? My wise, loving father. He likes people of breeding, you know. Only the best stallions come to the Ascolini stud I So he telephoned Basilio and threatened to make trouble in his business if he didn’t stop seeing me. Clever, isn’t it? Everybody’s mated now except me and Father. Carlo has his little virgin, you have each other. That leaves Father and me. What do I do now, Peter? Where do I look?’ Her voice rose higher and heads were turned in their direction. ‘You know how I am in bed. What’s your prescription?’

  Under the astonished eyes of the drinkers at the bar, Landon leaned across the table and slapped her hard on both cheeks so that the rising wave of hysteria broke into weeping. Ninette said nothing, but sat, shamed and blushing, while Landon fished a handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it across the table to Valeria. He said calmly: ‘Dry your eyes, girl. You’re making a fool of yourself!’

  His tone sobered her and she began dabbing at her cheeks while Ninette and Landon looked at each other and at the stark revelation between them. Landon was the first to speak. He said quietly: ‘I think you’d already guessed it, Ninette. I’m sorry you had to hear it this way.’

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. But she stretched out an impulsive hand and laid it over Landon’s. In the same calm voice Landon spoke again to Valeria: ‘Why don’t you say the rest of it? You want revenge. You know the way to get it. Tell the story to your father. Then tell Carlo. This is the best time, isn’t it, right in the middle of this case?’

  ‘I want to.’ Valeria’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘You don’t know how much I want to.’

  ‘But you won’t,’ said Ninette sharply.

  ‘Why not?’

  They faced each other like duellists across the table and Landon felt himself as far excluded as if he stood on the moon. Ninette Lachaise said quietly: ‘You won’t do it, Valeria, because, whether you know it or not, Carlo’s your last hope. I know it because I’ve been part of the way you’ve gone. You can’t survive too many men like Lazzaro. And after a while that’s all we get, any of us. It doesn’t really matter whether Carlo wins or loses, but if you break him before he has had his chance you break yourself too.’ In the same breath she turned to Landon, and said with a twisted little smile: ‘You go back to the court, Peter. It’s women’s business from here on.’

  When he walked out into the flare of the midday sun, he felt like a man reprieved from the noose. Five minutes later he was back in the court with Ascolini at his side, waiting for the prisoner to be brought in and the judges to make their entrance. The old man was curiously subdued. When Landon questioned him about his meeting with Carlo, he answered absently: ‘We talked a while. He was quite friendly. I made some suggestions. He seemed grateful.’

  ‘But it was a progress?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I should call it a progress.’ After a moment he added: ‘Carlo took me into the cell to see the girl. I talked with her and with Galuzzi.’

  ‘How did she impress you?’

  ‘A pathetic child – a tragic woman. What else can one say?’

  Landon would have said that the old man had matters on his mind that he was not prepared to discuss, but he made no comment and a few moments later Anna Albertini was brought into the dock and the judges filed in to continue the hearing.

  The girl was a pitiful sight. She was sitting bolt upright in the chair, her hands gripping the brass rail of the dock. Her face was pinched and elongated, her eyes ringed with deep shadows, her hair no longer sleek but damp and clinging about her cheeks and temples. But when the President asked her whether she felt well enough to continue, she answered in a firm, flat voice: ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Rienzi confirmed her assent and then called his first witness for the defence: a countrywoman in her late thirties with a faded, sensual charm that contrasted vaguely with the dress of a peasant matron. She took the stand serenely and smiled self-consciously as the Clerk administered the oath. The President’s method with her was brisk and businesslike.

  ‘Tell the court your name, please.’
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br />   ‘Maddalena Barone.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Pietradura. Ten kilometres north of San Stefano.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you any children?’

  ‘Yes. One son.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Who was his father?’

  ‘Gianbattista Belloni.’

  There was an anguished cry from Maria Belloni: ‘It’s a lie – a dirty lie!’

  The President slammed the gavel on the bench. ‘If there is any more disturbance, I shall have you removed from the court!’

  The Prosecutor jumped to his feet. ‘Mr President, I protest! A man is dead – murdered. His past sins can have no relevance in this court.’

  The President shook his head. ‘We must overrule the objection. The Public Minister has been at pains to elicit facts about the character and reputation of the dead man The defence must have the same latitude.’ He went on questioning the witness. ‘Did the father of your child ever make any contribution to his maintenance?’

  ‘Yes. He paid every month. It wasn’t much, but it helped.’

  ‘How was this money paid to you?’

  ‘By Sergeant Fiorello.’

  ‘Did he deliver it personally?’

  ‘No. It came through the post.’

  ‘How do you know it came from Sergeant Fiorello?’

  ‘After my boy was born, I wrote to his father asking him to help me. He didn’t answer, but then Sergeant Fiorello came to see me.’

  What did he say?’

  ‘He said I would get regular money. He would post it to me every month. But it would stop if I opened my mouth about who the father was.’

  ‘Why are you now prepared to reveal this fact to the court?’

  ‘Fra Bonifacio came to see me and told me it was my duty to tell the truth.’