Daughter of Silence Page 20

  ‘I’m grateful,’ said Carlo Rienzi.

  Galuzzi looked at him for a moment, hesitating over the lines of fatigue and strain in his young, handsome face. Then he said, in meditative fashion: ‘One day, Mr Rienzi, I think you will be a very great advocate. You have the mind for it: the dramatic quality, the single-mindedness amounting almost to obsession. All the great ones have it – surgeons, philosophers, inventors, jurists. But, like all greatness, it requires discipline.’

  What are you trying to tell me, Professor?’ asked Rienzi quietly. ‘Has it something to do with my client?’

  ‘A great deal, I think,’ said Galuzzi in the same thoughtful vein. ‘You’re not content with what you’ve done in court – and I doubt whether any other advocate could have done half as much. You want to go further. You want to reshape her life after the trial.’

  Rienzi was nettled. He said sharply: ‘Someone would have to do it.’

  ‘Why you?

  Rienzi made a small, shrugging gesture of puzzlement. ‘Put it that way and I hardly know how to answer. But, don’t you understand, until this point I’ve held the life of this girl in my hands. She has depended on me utterly. I can’t just drop her like a stone in a pool and forget her. Surely you see that?’

  Galuzzi ignored the question and asked another of his own: ‘This is your first big case, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a moment Galuzzi said nothing more, but walked back to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping girl. Then, very softly, he began again: ‘There will be so many others, Mr Rienzi. Can you carry them all as you propose to carry Anna Albertini?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Take the surgeon – and I myself practised surgery for a long time. How often does he stand with a human life held literally in his own two hands? Sometimes it slips away. Sometimes, mercifully, he holds it safe. Can he regret what he has lost, or carry for the rest of his life the burden of what he has saved?’ He swung round and faced Rienzi with the sharp challenge: ‘Are you in love with this girl, Mr Rienzi?’

  ‘I – I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  For a long moment Rienzi did not answer. Finally, he made the reluctant admission: ‘No, I’m not sure.’

  Galuzzi turned away and walked to the window. After a while he came back to face Rienzi. His eyes were touched with pity and his voice was gentle: ‘I should have guessed it. No one could have made the case you did without a touch of passion.’

  ‘I told you I’m not sure.’ Rienzi’s voice was edged with anger.

  ‘I know. But she is sure.’

  Rienzi stared at him, startled. ‘You mean she’s in love with me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I don’t think she knows what love is. But the only objects of passion in her life – her mother, her husband, even Belloni – have dropped out of it. Her obsession has fixed itself on you.’

  Rienzi took a deep breath. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  Galuzzi looked at him with a half-smile on his thin, fastidious lips. ‘But flattered too, eh?’ He gave a little, humourless chuckle. ‘If I have learnt one thing in twenty years of psychiatric medicine it is this, Mr Rienzi: the human mind never works simply. When it appears to do so, then it is at its most complex. It is like those ivory balls which the Chinese carve so skilfully, one inside the other. No matter how deep you probe there is always something else to surprise you.’

  To Galuzzi’s surprise, Rienzi smiled and quoted lightly: ‘“I went to my uncle the Mandarin to question him about love. He told me to ask my wayward heart.” Don’t worry too much, Professor, it may never happen.’

  ‘If it does happen,’ said Galuzzi in his grave, academic fashion, ‘if you do commit yourself to any involvement, the consequences for both of you may be more terrible than you can imagine.’

  He turned on his heel and left, and when the door closed behind him Carlo Rienzi sat down by the bed and took the hand of the sleeping girl in his own.

  * * * * *

  The police were taking no chances of a disturbance at the dose of the trial of Anna Albertini. The approaches to the court were picketed with motor-cycle police. There were guards on every door, stocky, tough fellows with short batons and pistols in holsters of black leather. Justice was about to be done and folk could either like it or lump it; but either way they would keep their mouths shut or have their heads broken.

  The court was full of whispers. Even the character of the light seemed to have changed so that every feature of every personage was etched sharply, like mountains under a storm sky. Rienzi was standing by the dock, talking in low tones with Anna Albertini. When the judges came in, he gave her an encouraging smile, patted her hand and walked back to his table. Silence, tense and explosive, settled on the room as the President sat down and began, with maddening deliberation to arrange his papers. Then he began to speak:

  ‘I have presided over many cases in this court, but I say now that none of them has laid so heavy a burden on me and on my colleagues. We are not monsters. We are men of average understanding, pity and sympathy. But, as the prosecution has so justly stated, we are also the representatives of the law – its keepers, its interpreters, its arbitrators. Upon our decisions later decisions will be based. The precedents we create will influence the course of justice long after we are dead. If we judge falsely or foolishly, we may pervert justice for many, many others.’

  He paused and looked around the court a white-haired image of temperance and orderly reason.

  ‘If you want an example of how this may happen, you have it in the present proceedings. There was a time when the law no longer functioned in this country. There was a time when men were confused by what were called “the necessities of war” – when the only court was the drumhead, when those who claimed to mete out summary justice were, in fact, using their accidental power for revenge or private gain. The law was perverted by politics, by power, by deliberate conspiracy. The crime for which Anna Albertini has been tried began in this time of disorder, but …’ he waited a moment, and then went on firmly: it ended in another when the rule of law had been re-established. Now, Anna Albertini must be judged according to the codex.’

  No word was spoken, but one felt the ripple of interest moving through the room like a shock-wave through water. The President turned over a page of his notes and continued soberly: ‘However, as Counsel for the Defence pointed out in his most eloquent plea, the law takes consideration not only of the act itself, but of the intention, the provocation, the responsibility of the person committing it. To all these things my colleagues and I have given the greatest reflection. The intention, in this case, was quite clear: murder for revenge. The provocation was great – greater than any of us might care to sustain. But to say that provocation excuses the act is to open the door to every sort of violence, to bring back to this country the ancient and horrible practice of traditional vengeance.

  ‘The question of responsibility is much more complex and on this we have debated long and studiously. At no time has the defence suggested that Anna Albertini was insane at the time of the act. At no time was it intimated that she was incompetent to stand trial in this court. Counsel has argued with considerable weight that the traumatic shock of her mother’s death left her in a state of mind in which time and the change of circumstances did not exist for her. Ins view is supported, at least in part, by expert medical testimony.

  ‘From this point, he developed – with considerable forensic skill – a double plea. His first submission was that the act of murder committed by Anna Albertini had the same character in law and morals as if it were committed at the time of her mother’s death. A psychiatrist might build a feasible hypothesis on this point, but,’ he laid it down with singular deliberation, ‘it is my view and the view of my colleagues that this hypothesis has no value in law.

  ‘His second argument, that the state of the accused represented a mental infirmity and that her criminal respons
ibility was diminished thereby, was much more cogent and, in arriving at our decision, we have given full weight to it. We have taken note also of the terrible provocation which preceded the act, albeit by many years. We have taken into account also the many years of mental torment which this young woman has suffered, the wreck of her marriage and the dubious future which she now faces.’

  He turned over the last page of his notes, gathered himself for a moment and then, more dispassionately, began to deliver his decision.

  ‘The prosecution has requested a verdict of premeditated murder. It is our view that this charge is too grave to be sustained. We have, therefore, found on a lesser one.’

  He turned towards the dock and made the cold official pronouncement: ‘Anna Albertini, the decision of this court is that you are guilty of the lesser charge of homicide while in a state of partial mental infirmity, for which the law prescribes a sentence of imprisonment from three to seven years. In view of all the mitigating circumstances, we have decided to award the minimum penalty of three years, which you will spend in such place or places as may be determined from time to time by our medical advisers.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before Carlo Rienzi slumped forward in his chair and buried his face in his arms. Anna Albertini sat in the dock, pale, cold and virginal, while the court broke out into a tumult of cheering that even the scurrying police were powerless to stop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘TOMORROW,’ said Ninette firmly, ‘tomorrow we pack and go. We’ll get ourselves married in Rome and find ourselves a villa out near Frascati, a place with a garden and a view where you can study and I can paint. We need it, chéri! We’ve spent too much of ourselves in this place. It’s time to go!’

  They were walking in the garden of Ascolini’s villa, watching the light spread westward over the valley, while the cicadas made their crepitant chorus and a languid bird chirped in the shrubbery. Carlo was asleep. Ascolini was drowsing in his library, and Valeria was playing the diligent chatelaine, arranging flowers, bustling the servants about the kitchen in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.

  In spite of protests from Landon and Ninette, Ascolini had insisted that they come directly from the court to the villa. Valeria, too, had pleaded urgently for their presence. It was as if they were afraid of being alone with one another, as if they needed a catalyst to start the slow process of restoration and reunion. Landon and Ninette were tired and resentful, but they comforted themselves with the thought that on the morrow they should be quit of courtesies and free to address themselves to their private affairs.

  After the drama of the court and the confusion of the aftermath, the countryside imposed a welcome calm on them all. Valeria drove, Carlo sat beside her, spent and taciturn, while Ascolini sat in the back seat rehearsing the morning’s triumph. Then he, too, lapsed into silence while the vineyards and the cornfields swept past and the olive leaves drooped, dusty and listless, on the hillside.

  They lunched on the terrace, chatted vaguely for a little while and then dispersed. Carlo was in the grip of a fierce reaction. Valeria was conducting herself with self-conscious discretion and Ascolini was simply watching the gambits like a wary old campaigner. Landon’s own position was summed up in Ninette’s verdict: ‘Finita la commedia! Time to be quit of all others but ourselves. Let them play out their own epilogue. We mustn’t wait for the curtain call.’

  So, in the long decline of the afternoon, they strolled in the pleasances of the villa and talked in the happy, inconsequent fashion of new lovers. They talked of Frascati and how they should live there: not penned in the town, not among the princely villas of the Conti and the Borghese and the Lancellotti, but in some small estate in the folds of the Alban hills, with a vineyard, perhaps and a tenant form with a green garden to walk in and watch the sun go down on the distant sprawl of imperial Rome. They talked of an exhibition for Ninette, of friends who would come to share their pastoral, of how their children might be born citizens of the Old World and of the New.

  Then, as the shadows lengthened, Ascolini came out to join them, chirpy as a cricket after his siesta. ‘A great day, my friends! A great day! And we owe you a debt for your part in it. You know what we need now.’ He jerked an emphatic thumb in the direction of the house. ‘A love-philtre for those two. Don’t laugh. The grandmothers in these parts still make them for peasant lovers. We, of course, are too civilized for such nonsense, but…it has its uses.’

  Ninette laughed and patted the old man’s arm. ‘Patience, dottore! No matter how much you prod him, that little donkey will trot at his own pace!’

  Ascolini grinned and tossed a pebble at a scuttling lizard. ‘It is not I who am impatient, but Valeria. She is eager now for reunion. She demands proofs of forgiveness. But I tell the same thing: “Piano, piano! Soft words, soft hands, when a man is tired like this one.”’ He chuckled happily. ‘With me, it was different. After every big case, I was wild and roaring for a woman! Maybe Carlo will come to it, too – when he gets Anna out of his blood.’

  ‘Where will they put her, do you know?’

  ‘It’s not fixed yet. They’ve taken her back to San Gimignano, but I understand Galuzzi has hopes of transferring her to the Samaritan Sisters at Castel Gandolfo. They have a big hospice there for mental cases. It’s very beautiful, I believe. Very efficient, too.’ He shrugged off the subject and asked: ‘What will you two do now?’

  ‘We’re going to Rome,’ Landon told him, ‘just as soon as we can pack and close Ninette’s studio.’

  ‘I hope we may see you there. We, too, will be leaving in a few days. I want Carlo to begin taking over my practice.’

  ‘How does he like the idea?’

  ‘It appeals to him, I think, now that we can meet on equal terms. For my part, I need leisure to set my life in order. If these two can content themselves together, then I, too, can begin to be happy.’ He plucked a twig from an overhanging bush, sat down on a stone bench and began drawing slow cursive patterns in the gravel. ‘Life is a twisted comedy, my friends. Had you told me six weeks ago that I should come to this – that I should be playing cupid and dreaming of grandchildren and even thinking of going to confession – I should have spat in your eye! But this is what has happened. I wonder, sometimes, whether it is not too easy, and whether there is not a fellow waiting round the corner with a bill of reckoning in his hand.’

  ‘Why should there be, dottore?’ asked Ninette warmly. ‘Life is not all debit and credit. Sometimes there are gifts for which the only price is gratitude.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Ascolini, drily, ‘Perhaps I’m a suspicious fellow who doesn’t deserve his good fortune.’

  ‘Then let me tell you ours,’ said Ninette with a smile. ‘We’re going to be married.’

  Ascolini stared at her for an instant. Then his shrewd old face lit up with genuine delight. He threw his arm around her and waltzed her up and down the path. ‘Maraviglioso! Wonderful! And you will have a sack of children, all beautiful. And you will be the most beautiful mother in the world! All this and talent, tool Landon, you are a fortunate fellow! Fortunatissimo! And you owe it all to us. If we hadn’t sent you back to Siena with a flea in your ear, you’d still be playing kiss-me-quick with the models and the telephone girls. But what an omen! There is double reason for a festa tonight.’ Breathless and excited, he grasped their arms and trotted them both up the gravelled path towards the house. ‘You must tell Valeria, child. And you, Landon, will read Carlo a little sermon on marriage and the joys of fatherhood and all the fun you have arriving there. When the first baby comes, we’ll have a great christening and I’ll guarantee a cardinal in a red hat to do the job for you. Then you must make me godfather so that I can look after his faith and morals!’

  ‘We’ll have to reform you first, dottore!’

  ‘By that time, child, I shall probably be wearing a hair shirt and beating my chest with a brick, like San Gerohimo!’

  It was a comic picture and it made them
laugh. They were still laughing when they reached the terrace and Ascolini shouted for a servant to bring wine and glasses. Valeria came out to join them, and when Ascolini told her the news her eyes filled up with tears and she embraced Ninette ardently.

  Her friendliness surprised Landon. Ascolini’s conversion was easier to accept. He was getting old and, faced with the great ‘perhaps’, he was clinging to the simple certainties of life: pride and irony were too thin a diet for the winter years. Passion was being disciplined by the sheer diminution of age; native shrewdness and perverse experience were maturing into wisdom. But Valeria was a different case. She was still young, still wayward, initiated too early to the taste of truffles for breakfast, and Landon could see no good reason for so swift a reform.

  Then, slowly, understanding began to dawn. This was the whole nature of these people. This was the essential paradox of their character and history. Old Cardinal du Bellay had called them ‘peuple de grands enfants… C’est une terrible beste, que cette ville-là, et sont estranges cerveaux’ a terrible beast of a city…great children…strange brains… Their own San Bernardino, a very modem psychologist in the fifteenth century, had characterized them even better: ‘I understand the weakness of your character. You leave a thing and then return to the same thing; and seeing you now in so many divisions with so many hatreds, I believe that, had it not been that you are very, very human, you would have ended in doing yourselves some great harm. However, I say that your condition and you yourselves are very changeable. And how very changeable you are, also with evil, for you soon return to good.’

  They were very human people: too human for colder spirits to live with in comfort. They were violent by nature, incapable of compromise. The same mould produced the mystic and the murderer, the political assassin and the ascetic who took the Kingdom of Heaven by storm.

  The valley below was filling with shadow, but the place where they stood was still bathed in sunlight, a symbol, Landon thought, of the gentler feelings which seemed to pervade the Ascolini household. He asked himself whether he had discovered, at last, the root of Carlo’s problem: that he understood Valeria and her father too little and demanded too much – a Roman constancy, an urban rectitude – when all they had to offer was courage, a fluent passion, and the high, visionary folly of an older day.