‘Good luck with your race,’ she said as the bus neared Stadio Olimpico.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘How’d you go, anyway?’
‘I was only in one event, the 100 fly, and I got disqualified in the heats,’ she said.
That’s right: she was a swimmer.
‘Disqualified?’ I said.
‘Jumped the gun,’ she said, giggling.
‘That’s a bummer,’ I said.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It means I’ve been able to go along and cheer everybody else on.’
The bus pulled up outside the entrance. We both thanked the driver, and got out.
The girl-whose-name-I-didn’t-remember said, ‘I’ll be cheering for you,’ and made for the general entrance.
‘Thanks,’ I said as I walked towards the athletes’ entrance.
As I got changed I kept expecting some official to come up to me and tell me that there had been a mistake and I wouldn’t be running after all.
But no official came; there’d been no mistake.
Outside the change rooms, Coach Sheeds was waiting for me.
‘How are the legs?’ she said.
‘Much better,’ I said.
Then it was time for her pep talk.
With no other runners in the race it was for my ears only.
She’s going to say what she always says, I told myself. She’s going to tell me to sit and kick.
But instead she said, ‘That heat run’s going to make it tricky.’
‘They’ll be gunning for me, you reckon?’ I said.
‘I’d say so.’
I made out as if this was all news to me. ‘So sitting in the pack’s not going to work?’
Coach Sheeds shook her head.
Again, I made out as if I was giving this some pretty deep thought.
Eventually I said, ‘Why don’t I just go for broke then?’
‘No guts, no glory,’ said Coach, slapping me on the shoulder.
I could tell from the predatory looks on the other runners’ faces as we waited trackside that both my coaches were right: they were gunning for me.
Only one of my competitors said anything to me.
‘Mate, good luck,’ said Rashid.
I still wasn’t used to him wearing the Afghani colours.
‘Good luck to you too,’ I said, smiling at him.
Even as we took our positions I copped a couple of elbows in the ribs.
So when the starter gun went off, I bustled past Rashid and shot to the front.
No guts, no glory.
And I piled on the pace.
At the end of the first lap I was still there, the other runners strung out behind me.
As far as tactics go, it had been simple but effective.
Nobody had expected it, and they hadn’t had time to regroup, to work out tactics of their own.
It all pretty much depended on me now, whether I had the stamina, the endurance – the guts – to keep this going.
Right now, I felt as if I did. Yes, I was hurting, but it was the sort of hurt you could push through.
And that’s exactly when the girl-whose-name-I-didn’t-remember yelled out, ‘Go you good thing, Dom!’
When you’re running, you think a lot. Mostly it’s about how much it hurts, or when exactly you’re going to kick.
At other times, however, you do other types of thinking, unconnected to running.
It’s like the physical strain releases something into your bloodstream that makes the synapses in your brain spark in different ways.
When the girl-whose-name-I-didn’t-remember yelled that out, I didn’t think how much I hated that phrase – which I did – or what a bummer it was that she’d been disqualified for jumping the gun – which it was.
No, what I thought was: Dom, you’re a prize a-hole.
Every day the girl-whose-name-I-didn’t-remember had dressed up in that hideous green-and-gold outfit and yelled her heart out for her teammates.
Me, I didn’t even know who had come where in what event. In fact, I hadn’t even been to any other events.
Hey, I didn’t even know her name.
Yes, there was The Debt, but could I keep blaming everything on The Debt?
Coming up to the third lap, I was still out front.
I looked behind.
They’d organised themselves into a pack now.
There were Kenyans, Ethiopians, a Spaniard maybe, and – no, it couldn’t be – an Afghani.
‘Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!’ yelled the girl-whose-name-I-didn’t-remember.
If I hated ‘go you good thing’ I detested ‘Oi! Oi! Oi!’ but I looked up at the stands and I caught a glimpse of her. It was hurting like hell now, but I still managed to keep up the pace.
The pack was nearing, but I still had fifteen or so metres on them as we approached the bell lap.
‘Go, Dom, you good thing! Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!’ yelled the girl-whose-name-I-couldn’t-remember.
My eyes searched for her in the stands, and when I found her, a blaze of green and gold, I considered acknowledging her and her support somehow: a big old thumbs-up, maybe.
I didn’t, of course – no runner does that.
But somehow the trailing runners had managed to catch up and I was engulfed by the pack.
It was rough going in there, elbows flying everywhere.
But we were on the home straight and I was still in the hunt for a medal.
I just needed to find some space, and kick.
But every time I went to move out, another runner blocked my way.
And by the time I did eventually kick, I had nothing left to kick with. Nothing. The tank, finally, had run out of fuel.
The official placings:
Gold medal to Nixon Kiplagat of Kenya.
Silver medal to Mohammed Gebremedhin of Ethiopia.
Bronze medal to Rashid Wahidi of Afghanistan.
Fourth place to Dominic Silvagni of Australia.
Coach Sheeds was coming towards me and I thought: Here we go!
‘You almost pulled that off,’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘If only you’d had a bit left.’
I thought of everything I’d been through – the chase through the hypogeum, the skate down the mountain, the scramble into the Colosseum, the pedal boat across the lake, the climb up the rock face – it’s a wonder I’d had anything in the tank to start with.
‘But the fact is that you still ran the fastest fifteen hundred metres in these games,’ she said, her voice brightening.
I hadn’t even bothered to look up at the winning time, but when I did I realised that she was right: it was a full five seconds slower than my heat time.
‘We’ve got something to work with in the future.’
I realised what Coach Sheeds was doing; she was asking me for a commitment, she was asking me if I was going to continue running.
‘We sure do,’ I said.
As she moved away, she passed Mrs Jenkins coming in the opposite direction.
Laminated passes jiggling, chins wobbling, tracksuit swishing; she was a woman on a mission.
‘Your behaviour at these games has been unprecedented,’ she said. ‘You are a disgrace to your country.’
Here we go, I thought. Next she’s going to say my behaviour was un-Australian.
‘Your behaviour was un-Australian.’
I knew she was just doing her job, but right then I really wanted to visit some ultraviolence on Mrs Jenkins.
If I was a shot-putter I would’ve put a 7.26 kilo shot in her mouth.
If I was a discus thrower I would’ve inserted a discus into each of her lips so she ended up looking like a member of one of those African tribes.
If I was a javelin thrower I would’ve jammed a javelin into her neck, shish-kebabing some of those laminated passes in the process.
But I was none of these, I was a runner and I had only one weapon.
So I used it.
I ran.
Very slowly, but I ran.
Away from her, off the arena, out of the Stadio Olimpico and onto the Viale dei Gladiatori.
I ran past the Pantheon.
I ran through the Piazza di Spagna.
And when I’d finished running I sat down and I realised there was one more thing I had to do before I could leave Italy.
THURSDAY
BACK TO SAN LUCA – AGAIN
My mind kept changing: Droopy Eye was lying, Droopy Eye wasn’t lying.
As for my mother: she was American, born and bred.
She’d auditioned with the great Pacino.
But what about that girl serving in the shop? She’d looked so much like my mum in the photo.
And what about the book in the cell: had it been my father’s?
Really, there was only one way to find out the answers to all these questions: I had to go to San Luca for a third time.
I knew how dangerous that would be, but I had to put an end to this uncertainty, because if I didn’t it would drive me mad.
I went to the same station, the same ticket office, asked for a ticket for the first fast train to Siderno.
‘Il treno è pieno,’ said the ticket seller. The train is full.
‘The next train?’
‘Pieno.’
Then I had a thought. ‘What about first class?’
‘Ci sono biglietti,’ he said, smiling.
The ticket cost my dad about as much as a return ticket from Sydney to Singapore, but what did I care? It wasn’t my money and now, at least, I was on my way to San Luca.
As I boarded the first-class carriage, all shiny wood and old leather, I felt like I was in one of those old, old movies, the ones set on the Orient Express. Where there’s a murder and a detective with a serious moustache.
It seemed that I was the only passenger in the carriage.
The train gave a whoo-hoo – we were about to choof off – and I went for my phone.
It wasn’t there!
Now I remembered I’d put it on the charger for one final boost and I hadn’t taken it off.
I couldn’t possibly go to San Luca, to anywhere, without a phone.
I was making my way down the aisle to get off the train when somebody entered my carriage.
Somebody I knew.
Dr Chakrabarty.
You could’ve knocked me over with a piece of wet fettuccine.
But if I was surprised to see him, the look on his face told me that he was equally surprised to see me.
The train gave a final whoo-hoo and started rolling.
I couldn’t get off now.
And I suddenly felt very naked and very vulnerable – I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been anywhere without my iPhone.
‘Are you unwell?’ Dr Chakrabarty asked.
I didn’t think somebody of his advanced age was going to understand just how serious my iPhonelessness was, so I didn’t bother trying to explain.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘So where are you off to?’
‘San Luca,’ he said.
Jaw. Drop. I thought I was the only person in the world stupid enough to go to San Lucas. ‘But what for?’
‘The Festival of Our Lady of Polsi,’ he said. ‘It’s supposedly the best festival in Calabria.’
I remembered that Father Luciano had mentioned this festival.
‘Oh,’ I said, even though I couldn’t get my head around the idea that it might just be a coincidence that we were headed to the same godforsaken place.
‘And you?’ he said. ‘May I ask what brings you on this train?’
‘The same,’ I said, but then I thought some further explanation would be advisable. ‘San Luca is where one of my ancestors is from.’
‘You don’t say?’ said Dr Chakrabarty as he made himself comfortable in the seat opposite me.
I thought he’d be off then, one of his trademark discourses taking in the history of Calabria and various associated and not-so-associated topics.
But instead he took an iPad out of his bag and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I have some correspondence to catch up with.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, reaching for my iPhone, the iPhone that wasn’t there!
For the rest of the trip Dr Chakrabarty was engrossed in his iPad and I basically looked out of the window at the changing scenery.
By the time we pulled into Siderno I was feeling nervous again; San Luca had never been the most relaxing destination.
The bus wasn’t an option on my own. I couldn’t risk having the same driver who would, no doubt, inform the Strangio clan that Silvagni was on his way.
I’d thought that as we were both heading to the same place, we could share a taxi. I didn’t even care if Dr Chakrabarty couldn’t overcome his innate stinginess enough to pay half the fare. I would just feel safer with somebody else.
But Dr Chakrabarty rushed off the train before I could suggest this and I lost him in the crowd.
Out on the street, I put out my hand. A taxi stopped.
‘San Luca,’ I said to the driver.
‘San Luca?’ he said. ‘Long way.’
‘I will pay with card, is that okay?’ I said.
‘Si,’ he said. ‘Card is okay.’
I got in, and for the third time in a few days I was heading high into the Aspromonte Mountains.
As I did, I wondered how I would return this time.
In a car, careering around each bend?
On a skateboard?
There was another option, of course.
That I wouldn’t return, that I would be third time unlucky.
For a second I considered telling the driver to turn around.
But I knew I couldn’t.
I knew I had to find the answers to at least some of my questions.
The San Luca we pulled into was a very different place to the miserable one I had previously visited.
The sun was shining, for a start. Colourful bunting was strung across the streets. There was a real air of festivity.
After paying the driver I walked over to the piazza where there was some sort of fair – food stalls and rides for kids and face-painting. There were also a lot more people around, not just the scuttling cockroaches. Whole families with mums and dads and kids demanding stuff. It was just like at home.
It felt good, like a normal place, and I wondered whether I’d imagined half the things from last time, all that godforsaken business.
I bought a slice of pizza and sat down next to a fountain and thought about what I was going to do next.
Just rock up at the supermarket and hope the girl was working there?
Or maybe back to the church and check their records, especially the births on the day my mum was born?
If she was even born that day.
Doubt was breeding more doubt – what was real about my family? Obviously we were real: Gus, Dad, Mom, Miranda, Toby and me, but what of our history could I believe, could I trust?
Back to the supermarket?
Or the church?
I promised myself that by the time I finished the slice of pizza I was going to make a decision.
But I still had a piece of the crust to go and the decision was made for me.
Because she, the girl from the supermarket, was coming towards me.
And she looked even more like my mother in that photo than I remembered.
With her were two other girls, around the same age. One short and blonde, the other tall and dark.
Each of them was holding a gelati cone, and they were licking and laughing.
As they came closer I thought about what to do. And then they sat down on the same little stone wall that I was sitting on.
The girl from the supermarket looked at me and smiled.
‘Kangaroo?’ she said.
She remembered me!
‘Kangaroo,’ I said.
The girl said something to her blonde friend in Italian.
‘
So you are from Australia?’ said the friend.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘My friend says she is ashamed because her English is not very good. But she remembers you because you came into the shop where she works.’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘What is your friend’s name?’
‘Elisa, but we all call her El.’
‘My name’s Dominic,’ I said. ‘What are your names?’
‘I am Donna and this is Isabella.’
At any other time this would have been about as good as it gets: in Italy, eating pizza, flirting with three beautiful Italian girls.
But that wasn’t why I was here.
‘Elisa seems to be interested in Australia,’ I said.
Donna translated this for Elisa.
Elisa said something back.
Donna said, ‘Her relatives went to live in Australia.’
‘That’s fascinating,’ I said. ‘Which relatives and where did they settle?’
‘Settle?’ said Donna.
‘Where did they live?’
Again, she translated this for Elisa.
Again she answered in Italian.
‘It was the sister and the brother of her mother,’ she said. ‘She is not sure where they live, but maybe it is something like the Golden Coast.’
It took me a while to process this, but when I did, the final product of this processing was almost too incredible for me to comprehend.
Was Elisa’s mother’s sister my mother?
Was this girl my first cousin?
And if she was, who was her brother?
A phone rang, Elisa’s phone.
She answered it.
I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but I could detect a change in her tone.
As she talked she shot me a couple of looks.
She ended the call, said something to her friends, and they got up.
Donna gave me a not-sure-what’s-wrong-with-her look and said, ‘Nice to talk to you.’
The three girls hurried off.
The feeling I’d had the last time I was here, that it was a godforsaken place, had suddenly returned.
Despite the other unanswered questions, I had the feeling that I needed to leave.
So for the third time in a few days I had to find a way to get off this mountain.
A taxi was the most obvious way.
But there were none around.
A skateboard?
I’d done it before, I could do it again.
Fetch the Treasure Hunter Page 21
