The Liberation

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Our business was respected in Sorrento. No longer.’

  She showed no emotion. Just a slide of her tongue over her teeth, as though the words stuck there.

  Jake turned to Stefano Cavaleri. ‘You are now the chief craftsman of the Cavaleri business, I am told.’

  ‘Go to hell, you Yankee bastardo.’

  ‘Stefano!’ his mother hissed. She inclined her head a fraction towards her visitor. ‘When my eldest son, Roberto, ran our business we were one of the finest producers of inlaid wood in Sorrento. Roberto was an inspired craftsman.’ A smile of maternal pride softened the harsh lines of her face and Jake caught a glimpse of the person she might once have been.

  ‘Was he a friend of Antonio Lombardi?’

  ‘Oh yes. They were friends. And rivals.’ She laughed with bitterness.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That bitch, Antonio Lombardi’s wife, happened. She seduced and bewitched my son, God curse her. They ran off to Rome eleven years ago and I have not seen my son since. His wife hanged herself the same day.’

  ‘You still have me, Mamma,’ her other son pointed out in a surly voice.

  Signora Cavaleri regarded her middle-aged son for a full half-minute in a silence that chilled the room. ‘You will never be the man Roberto was,’ she stated finally. ‘We both know that.’

  Stefano lunged to his feet, snatched a glass from a cupboard and filled it to the brim with Marsala. He threw the liquid down his throat in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stormed out of the house, slamming the front door.

  The dog trembled on its chair, but Signora Cavaleri did not even flutter an eyelid. There was a frozen stillness to her that was as unnerving as it was unnatural. Where was the Italian mamma with the torrent of words, the hands flying around her head and the emotions knocking holes in the wall? Isn’t that what Italian mammas did, for Christ’s sake? Did her eldest son steal that from her when he left, leaving only a shell behind for his brother? Jake felt a shudder pass through him and knocked back his own drink.

  ‘You are hard on your son,’ he told her.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘It is none of your Yankee business, Major.’

  ‘It is my business if you drive Stefano to try to prove his worth to you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By working on stolen artefacts himself.’

  ‘I would not permit that.’

  ‘He is a grown man. He does not need your permission. Any more than he needs your permission to stick a knife in my chest.’

  Her dark eyes glared at him. ‘You take liberties in my house, signore.’

  He noticed the demotion from major to signore.

  ‘It is my job to discover the truth,’ he responded.

  He stood in front of her, crowding her in her chair. ‘Have a word with Stefano, Signora Cavaleri. Instruct him to give me the information I need. It is for the good of Italy. Get him to tell me what he knows about the people involved in this criminal racket, because I feel sure he must know something.’

  Anger rippled across her face, but whether at him or at Stefano, Jake couldn’t tell. She pushed down hard on the arms of the chair to raise herself to her feet and the physical effort required was obvious. He wanted to put out a hand to help her up, but he knew she would despise such a gesture. He stepped back.

  ‘Why should I do that?’ she demanded. ‘Why should I have this word with Stefano?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I will.’ He paused to inspect her stern eyes. ‘At the police station.’

  ‘Leave us in peace, Major.’

  ‘Maybe it is your other son, Roberto, I should be talking to.’

  Jake saw her suck in air like a drowning person, heard it rasp at the back of her throat.

  ‘Roberto is dead,’ she stated baldly. ‘Shot in Rome by a German bullet.’

  Caterina waited outside Sorrento railway station, exactly as agreed. But she didn’t want to be there. Instead she wanted to be inside Jake Parr’s pocket, eavesdropping on what the Cavaleri family had to say. She hadn’t set foot inside their house for eleven years, despite young Carlo Cavaleri being her friend, but she occasionally saw the old grandmother at market, still as upright as ever, still unbroken by sorrow, though garbed in black from head to toe. Years ago Caterina had made the mistake of greeting her when they came face to face among the melons and the purple aubergines, but Signora Cavaleri looked straight through her as if she did not exist.

  She paced back and forth, ducking into the shade of a wall, while a steady flow of travellers passed in and out of the station. That’s why she had chosen it as the place to meet with Major Parr after he’d finished with the Cavaleris. She avoided empty spaces now. Steered clear of dark streets. In the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, spoiling the line of Leonora’s elegant white dress, lay her grandfather’s old Bodeo revolver. This time she would be prepared.

  A couple of American jeeps, hot and dusty, were parked on the short hill up to the station, surrounded by a huddle of street children in ragged shorts, fingering the headlamps and the utility spade on the side of the vehicle. Anything that wasn’t bolted down would surely vanish. The sudden growl of a motorcycle drew their bright eyes when it peeled off the main road and accelerated up the hill, the raucous sound of it ricocheting off the station walls as it approached. The grinning urchins crowded round when it swung to a halt, spitting gravel.

  ‘Hey there!’

  It was Major Parr on a Harley Davidson motorcycle, US Army issue, revving the engine and smiling at her.

  ‘Hop on,’ he said. ‘I have something to show you.’

  Caterina didn’t hesitate. She hitched up her wide pleated skirt and swung a leg over the pillion seat fixed above the luggage rack. The bike’s leather saddlebags lay snug against her calf.

  ‘Ready?’ he called above the roar of the engine.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  Caterina’s hands were on his waist. It was not unpleasant, gripping tight to the muscular frame of him under the olive drab material of his US Army officer’s jacket, but she was well aware of the inappropriate intimacy of it. How could she even think of holding on to a man she scarcely knew? One who was accusing her father of unthinkable crimes?

  It felt like betrayal.

  The wind snatched at her short hair, fraying the edges of her thoughts, as the motorcycle roared through the streets to the edge of town. She had never ridden one before and each bump in the road rattled her bones, pummelling the air in her chest, but the freedom of movement, the joy as it swayed and swerved, seduced her. The onrush of air robbed her of breath, but she ducked her head behind the broad shoulders in front of her and she leaned when he leaned, trusting him, even when the roadway came leaping up at her.

  Why trust him – this man with the guarded eyes and the words that had brought a hornet’s nest to her door? What possible reason did she have to trust him?

  She unfastened her good hand from his jacket and tapped his shoulder.

  ‘Stop,’ she shouted against the noise of the engine.

  ‘What?’

  But he’d heard. She knew he’d heard. She caught a glimpse of his profile, the fine nose and firm jawline, and she knew that manipulating this man would never be easy.

  ‘Stop.’

  She tapped his shoulder again. Harder.

  Major Parr pulled over at once and Caterina swung herself off the motorbike before he could offer her a hand. They were on a tiny patch of sandy scrubland just where the last straggling houses of Sorrento gave way to lemon groves that were wrapped in an armour of netting and tall poles. The American didn’t dismount. He remained astride the motorbike, the engine idling.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Yes. Everything is wrong.’

  She strode in a circle around the khaki Harley Davidson until she came to a halt in front of him once more. He removed his sunglasses.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘You and I want
the same thing,’ she stated flatly. ‘To find the people who are committing these crimes. Isn’t that true, Major Parr?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘Then why is it,’ she demanded, ‘that you expect me to tell you everything that I know but you tell me nothing. I want to know who these people are who are trying to kill me. I want the names of the people who accuse my father. You owe me that much.’

  The muscles of his face tightened under his skin. For a second she thought he was going to rev the engine of the motorcycle, ride off and leave her standing there among the lizards.

  Instead he said, ‘We are here to help each other find out what we need. Don’t be impatient. We have to proceed step by step.’

  ‘Before or after I’m killed?’

  He shook his head. ‘I am taking you to Naples to . . .’

  ‘Naples?’ That caught her by surprise.

  ‘Sure. To see something that might clarify whether or not your father was involved.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘So let’s prove it.’

  She hesitated, uncertain how far to trust him. ‘Give me one name,’ she said. ‘One name. In exchange for my help.’

  An American Army truck swept past on its way to Naples, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled between them, and the driver raised a hand in greeting, but Major Parr’s attention was fixed on Caterina. On her bandaged arm.

  ‘In an interrogation room at headquarters,’ he said, ‘I have incarcerated a man right now who was caught guarding a secret stash of stolen artefacts, including an early Tintoretto sketch of Belshazzar.’ His voice had sunk low, hissing between his teeth, barely audible above the sound of the engine.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  A full ten seconds passed before he answered, ‘Sal Sardo.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  It was what she’d wanted. Somewhere to start. A name, but it wasn’t a name she had expected. In one smooth movement she swung herself back on to the motorbike behind him.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked drily.

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what happened at the Cavaleris’ place?’

  He gave a sour laugh. ‘Other than Stefano Cavaleri holding a knife to my throat and the old woman wanting to silence my tongue with her foul Marsala, do you mean?’

  Caterina remained silent.

  He sighed and took off his jacket. ‘Stefano Cavaleri claimed there were rumours that your father was deep into it all.’ He turned to face her. ‘Do you know anywhere that the Cavaleri family themselves might hide stolen artefacts?’

  ‘Really? You think they’re caught up in this?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  But his eyes gave him away. It was obvious to her that he thought it was more than just possible. She considered for a moment and nodded.

  ‘Stefano and Roberto have a younger brother, Vito, who was not interested in joining the family business of intarsia work.’ She glanced ahead where the road doglegged up to the cliff-edge route. ‘He runs a garage just this side of Naples. There is storage there.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ He flicked his jacket over her shoulders. ‘You’ll need this. I don’t want you getting chilly and falling off.’

  ‘No, I don’t need it. No.’

  But he had already turned away. Reluctantly she slipped her bare arms into the sleeves and became aware of the scent of him wrapped around her, fresh and male in the weave of the material. She could smell his American cigarettes.

  He gunned the engine. She gripped his waist.

  ‘One thing,’ he added without glancing round. ‘The old woman told me that her eldest son, Roberto, was shot dead by Germans in Rome.’

  Caterina had opened her mouth to urge ‘Avanti’ but his words stopped her cold.

  ‘Mamma, oh Mamma,’ she murmured.

  But it was lost in the roar of the engine and in the thud of her pulse as they rode north.

  The cliff edge hurtled towards them. Far below, the sea climbed higher up the rocks, as though it had caught the scent of them, but each time on the tight bends they swept around with a squeal of rubber, their right knees almost grazing the limestone cliff wall. Caterina didn’t even bother to breathe as she saw the next switchback already charging towards them.

  The coastal road between Sorrento and Naples was like no other. It had been hacked out of the flank of the cliff, hundreds of metres above the glistening blue Bay of Naples and at each twist and turn a new vista opened up, offering breathtaking views. Even Caterina, who had lived there all her life, could not resist the exhilaration that came with racing round the corkscrew bends and through the small villages of white-painted cottages where lush gardens of flowering shrubs flashed by in a blur.

  She felt no fear. Her heart was hammering with excitement, and as her fingers clung to the soldier in front of her, she wondered if his was hammering too.

  Did he always drive so fast, pushing himself and the bike to the limit?

  She saw the bunching of his back muscles under his shirt, the way he leaned and swayed as if he were part of the machinery. She saw the rush of air whipping his hair into a tangle and how every now and again he lifted his head to face the world that was hurtling towards him.

  Right now he had forgotten she even existed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Good morning to you too, Vito Cavaleri,’ Caterina responded with a dry edge to her voice. ‘Not exactly busy, I see.’

  The Harley Davidson had pulled off the highway to roll up on the Cavaleri garage forecourt. There was no shade and the sun beat fiercely on the metal roof of the work shed, which stood open. There was one car inside, a big burly Lancia, its bonnet up, but Vito was not working on it. He was lounging in a wicker chair near the pumps, reading a newspaper, a rough-rolled cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He didn’t bother rising to his feet.

  Vito was the youngest of the three brothers. He had wild black hair and was wearing oily dungarees with no shirt underneath. On his bare shoulder a tattoo was clearly visible, snaking down onto his arm – the words in italic script, Prima la Famiglia. Family first.

  ‘Get your Lombardi arse off my property,’ he said bluntly. ‘Pronto.’

  Major Parr ambled over to the chair, an easy rolling stride, and stood over the smaller man, his tall shadow with the gun holster on its hip, hunkering down on top of Vito.

  ‘That’s no way to talk to a lady, signore.’

  It wasn’t the voice of the man who had said ‘Hop on’ so invitingly. It was the voice of the police officer he used to be – hard, street-tough, the kind of voice that could have you face-down in the dirt before you even blinked. Vito Cavaleri spat out his cigarette and jumped to his feet. He was a head shorter than Jake Parr.

  ‘Hey, Major,’ Vito said placatingly, ‘I meant no harm.’ He shrugged and backed off a step, scratching the hairs on his forearm. ‘You got trouble with that?’ He nodded in the direction of the Harley.

  Jake Parr draped a heavy arm around the man’s shoulders, switching from hostile to friendly so fast it made Vito’s eyes roll. ‘Come take a look at it, amico mio.’ He steered Vito towards the bike. ‘It was misfiring all the way down the mountain.’

  At the prospect of American dollars, Vito’s face broke into a broad smile.

  The American bumped the big motorbike off its stand and started to wheel it towards the workshop shed, with Vito scuttling alongside.

  ‘It could be the spark plugs,’ Caterina heard Vito suggest. ‘Or the carburettor . . .’

  They vanished inside the shed, the Italian still talking. The major had done his job well. Caterina drifted casually to the side of the rough wooden wall of the building, but the moment she was out of sight, she hurried. Through the thin timber wall she could hear the murmur of male voices and then the Harley’s engine kicked into life and died again. She felt sweat gather in the crook of her elbow where the ma
jor’s jacket still hung over her arm.

  She turned the corner and came to a halt. The old brick building she had been heading for was gone. Where there had once been a beautiful old building that used to be a small mill for glove-making, there was now nothing but a heap of twisted rubble.

  ‘It’s gone.’

  Caterina swung around. Young Carlo Cavaleri was standing at the back of the work shed, watching her. He was wearing dungarees like his uncle, his swarthy skin even darker in the shade, his usual easy smile of greeting missing.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think? An American bomb dropped off target.’

  Caterina sighed. ‘We had good times there, you and I.’

  She and Carlo used to play among the old car parts and dismantled engines, days of innocence, long gone. Rheumatic fever at the age of ten had damaged Carlo’s heart and kept him out of the army. It had dented his macho image but had ironically kept him alive.

  ‘Well,’ Carlo whistled softly, ‘look at you, signora.’ She heard the admiration in his voice. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’

  ‘I do have somewhere to go.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Caterina.’ He shook his black curls in dismay. ‘Not just your hair and your fancy dress.’

  ‘We all change, Carlo.’ She smiled fondly at him. ‘It’s what life does to us.’

  She glanced at the gleaming vehicle parked behind him, as black as a beetle and even Caterina, who knew nothing about cars, couldn’t fail to recognise the mascot with its flying wings on the long elegant bonnet. A Rolls-Royce. She looked down at the polishing cloth in Carlo’s hand.

  ‘You work for your Uncle Vito now?’

  ‘Some days.’

  Keeping it casual, she asked, ‘Where does he store all his junk now that the millhouse has gone?’

  ‘Just throws it at the back of the shed. He’s an untidy bastard.’

  Just then an engine kicked into life somewhere behind the wooden wall. It shattered the sunny stillness and sent a crow lifting up from the roof, spiralling lazily into the sky and trailing its shadow across the citrus groves below. Carlo regarded Caterina with a frown.