Giorgio Scerbanenco - A Private Venus

Livia Ussaro even did overtime. She had worked until eleven with Davide, then had seen an interesting man, and had carried on working.

‘He followed me.’ She had done nothing to make him follow her, she had been only the innocent prey, she had given him the impression that she was what he was looking for.

‘Tell me everything.’

‘Outside the pharmacy, I stopped at the curb to let the cars pass. Then he said that everyone was getting headaches in this heat.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t reply, just smiled a little, but as if I was annoyed.’

Perfect. Then his Livia Ussaro had crossed the Corso Buenos Aires to where the taxi stand was. Obviously, the stand was empty, you never see a taxi stand with lots of taxis, except when you don’t need them. Signor A had tactfully followed her, without saying another word, as if he wasn’t following her, as if he had also had to cross the street, but when he had seen her stop at the taxi stand, he must have thought he was a lucky man.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait,’ he had said.

Another smile from her, without words, but less annoyed, more words from Signor A, and finally she had followed him, accepting the lift he had so politely offered her, and had got into Signor A’s dark blue Flaminia.

‘The number, Livia.’ The licence number. Even if it had been a twenty-figure number, she was sure to remember it, without needing to write it down.

‘Duca, maybe I’m stupid, but I didn’t catch it.’ She sounded as if she wanted to cry.

She hadn’t caught the licence number, his ace of spies had failed in the simplest of operations. ‘How can that be?’ ‘Duca, cars have number plates on the front and the back, but when you get in, you get in from the side, where there are no number plates,’ she excused herself timidly, without hope, as if knowing she had already been condemned. ‘All the time I was with him, I tried to find an opportunity to look at the number, but it wasn’t possible, he kept me inside the car, I couldn’t get out and look at the number plate without making him suspicious, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t.’

He wasn’t going to let her off that easily. ‘But when he left you and drove off, you could have seen the number plate at the back as the car was leaving.’

‘No, I couldn’t do that either. He insisted on driving me all the way back to the front door of my building, and he waited until I’d gone inside, I don’t know if he did it only out of gallantry, but I had to close the door behind me after going in, I opened it again as soon as I heard him leave, but the car was already some distance away and the street isn’t very well lit.’

It happens. The great chef calmly cooks venison all’imperiale with California oranges soaked in rum, and then messes up a scrambled egg.

‘So what do you know about him?’ he asked, almost roughly.

‘The photographs.’

Signor A had taken his Livia towards the Parco Lambro, not precisely into the park, which at that hour would have been a little dangerous, but into a quiet avenue next to it, and besides, for what he had to do, he could have parked in the Piazza del Duomo at midday, because he hadn’t done anything except talk, although it was quite an erotic conversation. He had asked her a lot of questions, but discreet ones: how old was she, what region was she from, did she have a boyfriend? He’d been pleased to hear that she was a schoolteacher, even though she wasn’t teaching at the moment, he said that culture in a woman was the thing that excited him the most. He had indulged in a few weary caresses, then had confessed sincerely that at his age, inevitably, things changed in your body, things you couldn’t do much about. Of course if he was twenty, he had said with a smile, everything would have been different, but now he only came alive when he saw photographs of beautiful women, obviously with not too many clothes on, in fact, with no clothes at all, she had to understand his plight, a photographic nude had more effect on him than a real nude, especially if he had met the girl in the photograph and talked to her a bit, nude photographs in the specialised magazines left him indifferent, because he had never met the women in them; he would have liked, for example, to have a nice series of photographs of her, now that he had spoken to her and seen what a nice, attractive person she was. Of course, she didn’t have any photographs like that, but this was a small inconvenience which could immediately be remedied. He had a friend, a completely trustworthy friend and an expert photographer, that she could go and see. As an expression of his gratitude, he would be happy if she would accept fifty thousand lire, and last but not least he had reassured her that nobody would ever know about it, she would pose with her face in shadow, and anyway it was in his interest to keep this weakness of his a secret. Livia had told him she didn’t like the idea, she didn’t even like what she was doing with him now, and she didn’t want to do it any more even though her financial situation was difficult. Signor A had praised her for this stand of hers and had even expressed the fervent hope that she would find a good job and then a nice young man and get married, but a few photographs wouldn’t make any difference, would they?

He had insisted, subtly, and in the end he had given her the address of his friend the photographer, even adding an extra twenty thousand lire.

‘Tell me the address,’ Duca asked his Livia Ussaro impatiently. He had signalled to Davide, who he could see through the open door of the kitchen, to come and write.

‘Publicity Photographic,’ Livia said.

‘Publicity Photographic,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down.

‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the tollbooth,’ Livia said.

‘Ulisse Apartments, beyond the Via Egidio Folli and beyond the toll booth,’ he repeated and Davide wrote it down. ‘And when do you have to go?’

‘He told me to be there between two and three in the afternoon, because after that his friend has some work to do outside the studio.’

It was a well-chosen time, Milan would be asleep at home, Milan overwhelmed by the heat but unable to sleep in the streets, on the trams, in offices, in factories: it was a more solitary and discreet time than any hour of the night.

‘And now the description,’ Duca said, signalling to Davide again to make sure he wrote everything down. ‘Height?’

‘At least one metre seventy-five, he’s taller than me and I’m one metre seventy,’ she said, adding innocently, ‘in high heels.’

‘Height one metre seventy-five. Build?’

‘Thin, his jacket hung on him.’

‘Complexion?’

‘A bit olive. He has a moustache, very thin, grey, almost white.’

‘Hair?’

‘Also grey, almost white, with a receding hairline, but he still has a lot of hair and he wears it quite long and well combed.’

‘Eyes?’

Livia hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the colour.’

‘Nose?’

‘A bit aquiline, but only a bit.’

It wasn’t much, but he’d pass this information on to Mascaranti, who would have an identikit made by the police draughtsmen. His hope lay in the photographer: if they managed to get him he would give them the name of his accomplices, including Signor A. They had a better chance to catch him now.

‘Livia.’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Stay at home until I tell you otherwise.’

‘Yes.’

‘Never answer the phone personally. If they call, get a member of your family to answer, and have them say you’re not there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Never open the door yourself, send someone, and if they ask for you, same answer, you’re not there.’