The Memory Key (7 page)

Blume was appalled at the comment. The woman was right in front of them, smiling, trying to be welcoming and dignified.

He tried to square his protective feelings with what he knew of this woman’s history. When he lifted his eyes again, Stefania’s blue-grey eyes regarded him levelly, a slight twitching preliminary to a smile was evident at the corner of her mouth, as if she knew him and was on the point of greeting him with a beam of happy recognition. She then turned her gaze to Principe, who had dragged over two chairs. Once again, she seemed poised on the cusp of recognition.

‘You are wet, both of you. That is a terrible storm outside, isn’t it? I can’t remember it ever being quite this bad.’

Blume gazed questioningly at Principe. He had imagined flickering eyelids, tubes, a respirator, a waggling small finger that proved she was not brain dead. He had not expected small talk.

He noticed a book beside her on the bed, a biography of Garibaldi.

‘This is Commissioner Blume,’ said Principe, stretching out his arm. ‘He’d like to ask you some questions, wouldn’t you, Commissioner?’

Blume shook his head. He had not planned to ask her any questions at all.

‘And I am?. . . do you remember who I am?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Stefania Manfellotto with a smile. ‘You are . . . I’m sorry, your name escapes me. But we have met, of that I am quite sure.’

She turned to Blume and gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Don’t be offended if I forget your name. I’ve recently been subject to fits of absent-mindedness.’

She touched her forehead with her fingers, and seemed surprised to feel the bandages there. For a moment, a look of panic swept across her face, then she relaxed.

‘What day is it?’ asked Principe.

‘I’m afraid I’ve rather lost track of time.’

‘Can you tell me what month it is?’

Blume saw her eyes wander over to the dark window. The rain had eased off a little.

‘December?’

‘Close. But it’s November,’ said Principe.

‘Silly me,’ she turned and Blume expected another wink, but this time he seemed to cause her to hesitate.

‘Now, then, can you tell me your name?’

‘Of course. I am Stefania Manfellotto.’

‘And,’ Principe glanced over at Blume, ‘what have you done with your life?’

‘My life’s not over yet!’ she said laughing. Blume realized her voice had a light timbre, more suited to a younger woman. Then she became serious and, for a moment, frightened, as she looked about the room. ‘Unless I have some serious disease.’ She cheered up. ‘Which I don’t, obviously, or I would remember!’

She looked over at Blume again, and he expected a wink, but, to his dismay, he realized she was looking at him with the same expression of contingent welcome of a few minutes ago, her eyes giving him cautious acknowledgement.

‘What are you reading?’ asked Principe.

Stefania glanced at the bedside chest, then at the book on her sheets. She picked it up and read the title. ‘Giuseppe Garibaldi,’ she said.

‘Are you interested in history?’

‘Evidently.’

‘What about politics?’

‘Oh yes, I am very political. I am afraid my beliefs are not shared by many.’

‘Can you think of any recent political events? Here or abroad.’

Stefania nodded. ‘A journalist got shot.’

‘Who?’

‘Mino Pecorelli.’

‘Do you approve of his assassination?’ asked Principe.

‘He was hateful, wasn’t he?’

‘Who is the prime minister?’

‘Giulio Andreotti, of course. It’s always him. Foreigners always accuse Italy of having unstable governments, but it’s always the same people moving around in a tight circle. We have fewer elections than most countries. Foreigners know nothing about Italy.’ As she spoke, the confusion cleared from her face, and her eyes took on a more focused and intelligent look. She looked at Blume and said, ‘Are you foreign?’

‘No . . . I am, well . . .’

She cut him short. ‘Good.’

Now it was Principe who winked at him as he said, ‘Stefania, who’s the president of the United States?’

‘Jimmy Carter.’

‘Who’s the president of the Chamber of Deputies?’

‘Nilde Iotti. She’s a Communist.’

‘Do you hate her?’

‘I don’t hate anyone . . .’ She cast around for Principe’s name but it was gone.

‘Did you have anything to do with the kneecapping of the women journalists in Radio Città Futura?’

‘Of course not. What a silly question.’

‘Who is Emilio Alessandrini?’

‘A judge, he got killed.’

‘By a neo-Fascist group. Are you pleased at this?’

Stefania shook her head sadly, but her lips, still fleshy and inviting, tightened.

‘Any recent news from abroad that concerns you?’

‘The Communists have taken over Nicaragua. That is disturbing.’

‘The Sandinistas, you mean?’

‘Why, are you trying to tell me they’re not communist?’

‘No. I agree with you. Remind me when it was.’

‘Last week.’

Blume had to stand up. He went over to the window, intending to open it, but the rain outside was still beating down, and the plant was in the way. Principe joined him.

‘Where is she?’ asked Blume, keeping his voice low. ‘1980?’

‘No, 1979. I used an old almanac last time I was here. Cossiga was never prime minister, but she remembers the Sandinistas going into government. That puts her somewhere between July and August 1979. Close to 19 July, since she seems to remember the news from Nicaragua as being from the other day.’

Blume glanced back at the bed, where Stefania, smiling to herself, had picked up her book on Garibaldi. Principe followed his glance. ‘Yes, she always goes back to page 1. A doctor told me that he found her reading page 64 the other day, which is apparently a record. But as soon as she’s interrupted, it’s back to the beginning.’

Stefania had glanced up from her book and smiled at them. Clearly, she did not recognize them any more.

‘I take it you now accept that she is not malingering?’ Principe said to Blume. ‘Apart from the fact, it’s kind of hard to fake being shot in the head. And she has no need to. She’s not under arrest. She was released on condition that she signed in at a police station once a day, and that’s now been waived pending her discharge from here. If she ever is discharged. No, she’s not pretending.
Cui prodest?
That’s the real question. If we can work out whose interests are served by her death, then we can make some progress.’

Blume was only half listening to the magistrate. His eyes were fixed on the woman who returned his stare much as a baby might do, without any embarrassment or looking away.

Principe followed his gaze. ‘Yes, I know. It’s hard to fathom. I don’t even know whether to say she is trapped or living free in the past. There’s a doctor, called Ferraro, who comes to visit her. He’s loving every moment of this. He told me, without any embarrassment, that he’s going to get at least one best-selling book out of her story. He’s already organized a conference and invited leading neurosurgeons, psychologists, neurologists, and so on. A group came over last month. I think she’s due to get a steady stream of visitors. But it will make no difference to her how many men in white coats peer and prod at her. She can’t form any new memories. Her perceptions hang around for only a few minutes, then fade without trace. So she can hold a conversation together for a while, though it soon veers into the surreal, and then moves into the impossibly boring, but there is a fun game of political trivia you can play with her. Or
I
can because you’re too young, and weren’t even here.’

‘You treat her like an animal in a zoo,’ said Blume, hearing something of Caterina’s moral tone in his words.

‘Nah. I treat her like a sort of magic window into the late 1970s. Talking to her is like conversing with a time-traveller. Well, up to a point, because you can’t really show her the future. She doesn’t take it in. It’s fascinating, but then it becomes hard to bear.’

‘Why?’

‘She makes me think too much about my younger self and how things used to be. I get pretty depressed after a while,’ said Principe. ‘That’s why digital cameras, video, Facebook, and all that stuff is going to turn an entire generation into unhappy neurotics, trying to climb back into the perfectly preserved memories. Luckily, I won’t be around to see it.’

Principe took off his glasses, which had fogged up again. Blume looked down and laughed. In the heat of the room, Principe’s heavy knit trousers were steaming as the damp evaporated. ‘You look like Lucifer standing there with smoke coming out of your ass,’ said Blume.

‘Excuse me?’ It was Stefania. ‘Are you planning to be here long?’

‘No, I think we’re going now,’ said Blume.

‘Why, are you expecting someone, Stefania?’ asked Principe.

Her brow creased and then she laid down her book. ‘My father is on his way.’

‘Is he, now?’ said Principe. ‘From the print shop where he works?’

‘So you know him!’ She sounded delighted. ‘Did he say when he was coming?’

‘Soon enough. Maybe in the next half hour.’

Stefania nodded happily, as if Principe were confirming a certainty. She relaxed her rigid posture a little and leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes.

‘The father,’ Principe said to Blume, ‘was a monarchist. He fought on Mussolini’s side at Salò.’

‘Keep your voice down, damn it!’ hissed Blume. He had never seen Principe this cruel.

‘You still don’t get it, Alec. It’s in one ear, out the other with her.’

‘Your words will still hurt going in,’ said Blume, though he had no idea what he was taking about. ‘Just lower your voice,’ he motioned Principe to the far end of the room away from the bed.

‘Have it your way,’ said Principe. ‘Her father’s employers tried, and failed, to have him fired for using their presses after hours to print propaganda leaflets. He fought a hopeless campaign to hold a new referendum to bring back the monarchy. Essentially he was a nonentity, but it’s where her politics came from.’

‘What about her mother?’

‘Touchy subject that. If you’re having difficulty believing that woman over there is capable of so much violence, just mention her mother and watch her face. The transformation is remarkable.’

Blume looked over at the bald head resting against the pillows, eyes closed, and was reminded of a sleeping infant. ‘No, I don’t think I will.’

‘Both her parents are dead, of course. Here’s an interesting thing. Her father died in December 1979.’

‘A few months ahead of where she is now,’ said Blume.

‘Yes,’ said Principe. ‘More to the point, she is living in a reality a few months before she went out and bombed that train station.’

‘Are we absolutely and completely sure she is the person who did that? A lot of the evidence in court was contradictory, wasn’t it?’

‘Seeing her now makes you doubt it. I understand that. Look, it pains me as a magistrate to say this, but the trials were farcical for how much leeway she and her defence team were given. The evidence against her was overwhelming. The courts of the first and second instance found her guilty. The doubts, reversals, technicalities, and all that shit began with the Court of Cassation, when the political interference and back-room dealing really kicked in. She promised not to mention certain things, the Court went as easy on her as it could. I know how it works, especially in those days. She still served 27 years. It was her.’

‘Back then I was an American kid living in Seattle.’

‘So you were. But the trials went on for decades.’

Blume went quietly back to the bed, thinking he might leave the woman to sleep in expectation of a visit from her father, but as he approached, she opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize we had been introduced. I’m afraid I can’t quite remember your name.’

‘Alec.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Alec. You’re quite tall, aren’t you?’

Blume blushed, and she laughed. ‘You’re easily embarrassed, I see. I like tall men.’

‘Thank you,’ said Blume, feeling like a fool.

‘You’re welcome.’ She winked at him. ‘I hope you like blondes. Most men do.’ She tossed her head, then frowned in puzzlement. He could hardly bear to watch as she raised her hand to her shaved and bandaged head.

Chapter 8

The rain had stopped by the time they left, but not before mixing the loose asphalt and crabgrass borders of the car park into an undifferentiated mass of water and mud that had soaked though their shoes. The wind seemed to have snuffed out the street lights, and a heap of black clouds in the sky blocked out the moonlight.

‘I am assuming you looked into the families of the Carabinieri she killed before the bomb attack,’ said Blume.

‘Of course. The parents are dead in both cases. One of the Carabinieri was an only child. The other had two older brothers. One lives in Australia, the other in Canada. I even spoke to a woman who was the girlfriend of one of the young men at the time. She is married with three grown-up children, and lives in Livorno. All she could talk about was that she was about to become a grandmother. Not too many delayed-action killers there.’