A Cold Death. Antonio Manzini

turned around and smiled. “If we all just paid our taxes, the tax burden would be much lighter. You know that, I know that. But it seems as if the Italians aren’t interested in the fact. This really is a strange country, isn’t it?”

      Rocco braced himself for another pearl of wisdom from Judge Baldi, who always seemed to have some solution for the nation’s political and economic problems on his mind. His notions ranged from drafting cabinet ministers and secretaries from other countries, more or less the way that soccer teams are assembled, in order to have serious, well-trained, honest people running the government, to the elimination of banknotes so that all transactions would have to be conducted through credit cards. This would make all purchases traceable and make it impossible to conceal one’s income and evade taxes. “It’s a strange, deeply wasteful country,” Rocco said, encouragingly.

      Baldi didn’t have to be asked twice. “True. Let me give you an example. Public funding of the political parties. Right now, they take the money as an electoral reimbursement, right?”

      “Right.”

      “And I don’t actually disagree with the idea. Better for them to receive public money than get funds from some powerful, manipulative lobbyist or other. But follow me closely here.” He turned away from the window and went back to his seat at his desk. “I say what we do is take parliamentarians, cabinet ministers, and undersecretaries off the state payroll, because that’s clearly a waste of public money. Instead, we should have deputies, senators, and everyone else paid directly by the parties that run them for office. In that case, politicians would get the proper salaries. And just think of how much money the treasury would save. What do you think? Wouldn’t it be a great idea?”

      “But that would mean finally just giving up and bending over to take it from behind, and admitting that this country is in the hands of the political parties.”

      “Well, are you saying it isn’t? Deputies and senators, commissioners and outside consultants, none of them are civil servants, Schiavone. They’re servants of the parties they belong to. And in that case, let the parties pay them!”

      Rocco raised his eyebrows. “I’d have to give that some thought.”

      “By all means, Schiavone. Think it over. And please, help me understand what happened to Esther Baudo. I leave that case in your hands. After all, it’s clear that I can rely on you.”

      Baldi’s expression had changed. Now a sinister light glittered in his eyes.

      “Of course I can rely on you.”

      The magistrate’s mouth stretched out in a false, menacing smile. “And since I want to rely on you, look, I’d really like to get your version.”

      “My version of what?”

      “Of what happened in Rome.”

      Oh my God, what a pain in the ass, thought Rocco, but he kept it to himself. “You know everything that happened; there are reports and documentation. I’m sure you’ve read them. Why dig into it again?”

      “It seems to be an occupational hazard with me. I’d just like to hear your version. You’ve been here for six months now. You can tell me, can’t you?”

      “All right then.” Rocco took a deep breath, got comfortable, and began. “Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, age twenty-nine, had a bad habit: he liked to rape young girls. I followed him, I stopped him, but there was nothing I could do about him. It just so happens that his father, Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo, is the undersecretary for foreign affairs. You may have seen his name in the news.”

      Baldi nodded, brow furrowed in concentration.

      “Okay. Giorgio didn’t shake his bad habit, and he kept it up until one day he practically killed a certain Marta De Cesaris, age sixteen, who lost her sight in one eye; a hundred years of therapy will never turn her back into the pretty, carefree high school student who attended the Liceo Virgilio in Rome. So I finally had my fill, I went to see Giorgio, and I gave him a serious beat-down.”

      “Translate beat-down.”