The Savage Shore

by David Hewson

  ‘Then we bring up workers from the coast. Africans. Clandestini in the main,’ he said, using the slang word for immigrants. ‘They’re good men mostly and grateful for the pay. Here …’ He pulled a fruit off the tree and ran a thick nail through the pith. ‘Smell.’

  The fragrance was nothing like he expected. Musky, smoky, with only the faintest hint of citrus.

  ‘Where do they go?’

  ‘All over the world they tell me. I’m a farmer. What happens when these green jewels leave our land concerns me not one whit. Some go to perfume. Some go into a tea the English like and name after some lord … I don’t know. Food and syrup and drinks … Ask Rocco. If you’re lucky you may even get an answer. Now. We work.’

  Four hours they spent pruning the trees, picking off insects – Vanni would use no products – and once dealing with a wasp’s nest lodged between two branches. Then lunch, bread and cheese eaten in the field with water and that same rough wine. Then more work.

  He went to bed gratefully at nine that night and if the owl came back he didn’t hear.

  At breakfast the third day Vanni announced it was time to learn to burn charcoal like the carbonari of old. On the eastern side of the hill the site was almost ready and looked much like an ancient burial ground unearthed. An inner circle of logs, each cut precisely, the same diameter, a metre and a half high, stood upright. Then there was an empty circle for the flames. Finally an outer ring of logs to be completed. Vanni had strong arms, the rolling gait of a farmer, and set about the task in a familiar and determined fashion.

  ‘Come on, Maso,’ he cried, pointing to a pile of logs stacked beneath the trees. ‘There’s a feast a-coming and they’ll need this for sure.’

  All day long they worked until they’d completed a log mound, ten metres across, pretty much airtight or so it seemed, though when, close to six in the afternoon, Vanni lit it, holes appeared and needed to be sealed quickly with sand and dirt.

  Another hour they spent at that. He felt exhausted.

  ‘Are we done?’

  ‘Done?’ Vanni cried with a laugh. ‘We haven’t yet started. Go back to the palace. There are two sleeping bags in the room next to the kitchen. Some insect nets and poles. Bring them. Fetch us some food and drink. Some water. Whatever you want.’

  ‘I can’t carry all that myself.’

  In the dying daylight, his face outlined by the flames of the fire, Vanni stared at him, baffled.

  ‘Of course you can’t. That’s why you and Silvio will make three journeys. Maybe four. Off you go. No time to waste.’

  It was a good kilometre up the hill to the palazzo, the donkey grumbling by his side. Four trips they made and then, laughing for no good reason, the two of them ate and drank and talked of nothing much at all around the fire.

  There were insects everywhere, all of them seemingly with stings and teeth, but most stayed clear when the smoke from the mound turned dense and enveloped the clearing in the woods. At some point – Vanni had said to leave his watch behind because of the heavy labour they faced – he fell asleep on top of the bag. Then Vanni shook him awake and said a carbonaro could rarely sleep on the job. There was work to do, tending the charcoal mound, filling in gaps, damping down areas that Vanni deemed too hot, opening up those he thought too slow to take.

  The moon was bright and the hillside so lacking in artificial light the stars seemed alive above them. For the first time since they came south he found himself thinking of his surroundings alone, not Rome, not the team in Cariddi even. They said he was to become a mountain man and perhaps that transformation had begun.

  He slept for a while until Vanni woke him and said he needed help stoking or damping or just looking round the glowing mound, poking at places, seeing all was well.

  ‘You don’t make charcoal in Rome, do you?’ he asked idly as they watched the inner timber starting to turn from livid red to a dullish shade inside.

  ‘I’ve never been to Rome,’ he said and was surprised how easy he found it to lie. ‘I’m from Canada.’

  The old man nodded, a smile on his face, dark red on one side from the warm flames of the fire, cold silver on the other from the light of the moon. ‘What was I thinking? I must have mistaken you for someone else. In Canada … you make charcoal there?’

  He poked at the nearest timber with a spare branch. ‘I live in a town. I guess someone must. In the country. Maybe if I go home one day I’ll find out.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Vanni agreed.

  What time it was he didn’t know. Or much care. Between sleeping and working they spent the night by the charcoal mound. Then Vanni shook him awake one last time and he asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  The old man laughed. ‘Just look, Maso. This is your first time in Manodiavolo. We have miracles here. You must see. The dawn. You see? The beautiful dawn. There’s none better anywhere in the world. Or so I’m told. I’m a foolish old man who’s guardian to this magical place. What do I know? You tell me.’

  Vanni half-dragged him to his feet and guided him to the edge of the clearing, by a stand of trees, their leaves rippling in the soft morning zephyr. Dawn was breaking over the tip of Italy, a sliver of light rising in the east from where the Greeks once came to rule this land. The rays ran like liquid gold across the Ionian, a stream turning first into a river and then becoming the sea itself. The two of them stayed by the ridge and watched as day broke over the Strait of Messina, over Reggio and the coast, over Sicily and the giant cone of Etna across the water, extinguishing the dim circlet of fire he’d seen at the summit the night before.

  ‘This is our land and there’s not a man among us who wouldn’t die for it,’ Vanni said. Then he reached up to the tree and pulled down some fruit. It was still dark. He didn’t know what was in his hand when the old man offered it to him.

  ‘Just an apple, Maso. That’s all. Not poisoned. Nor does it come with consequences as far as I know.’

  The fruit was hard, a little sour and like everything else around here seemed to carry a perfume of its own.

  ‘Now back to the fire.’

  Three or four more hours they laboured until, in what must have been the middle of the morning, Vanni declared the charcoal mound well prepared, and ready to sit cooling for twenty-four hours after which it might be used.

  They trudged back up to the palazzo, filthy, sweaty, stinking of wood smoke. Maso’s expensive Paul and Shark clothes would probably never survive this. Just as well he had some more.

  As they approached the village square from the side he heard the insect whine of a two-stroke engine toiling against the steep slope of the track as it led into Manodiavolo. It had stopped by the time it emerged. Someone was by the dead fountain, a figure in blue jeans, blue jacket, blue helmet with a smoky visor.

  ‘Lucia,’ Vanni cried and waddled towards her, arms out ready for an embrace.

  She removed the helmet, climbed off the scooter and retreated from him in horror.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me with those filthy hands. Don’t. Don’t.’

  He agreed, though visibly disappointed. ‘We’ve been working. Don’t be harsh.’

  ‘The same goes for you, Maso. Keep your distance. You look like two mountain goats straight out of the midden. What have—?’

  ‘We needed charcoal. So the two of us obliged.’ He gestured at Maso. ‘Meet my new carbonaro. A sharp apprentice, learns quick. I’ll keep him if I can.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was hard to tell if she was impressed or not. He tugged at his shirt, stained with smoke, torn in places from the branches.

  ‘Sorry. It’s ruined.’

  ‘Then I’ll bring another. I know your size. The colour wasn’t right anyway.’

  ‘Thanks …’

  She sniffed at him. ‘You need a bath. Some food. Some drink. Be quick. I’ve something to show you and it’s best we’re moving before my brother gets here.’

  Vanni walked over to the well head at the edge of the square, took off the
wooden cover and grabbed the bucket that sat there at the end of the rope.

  ‘You know how to do it,’ he said. ‘You first.’

  As a man who called himself Maso Leoni struggled with a tin bath and an iron bucket, thirty kilometres away on the upper slopes of Aspromonte, a chubby officer of the state police, half-spilling out of his misshapen blue uniform, rang the bell of the rented house in Cariddi where Falcone’s team had fallen into a routine of idle, restless days, staring at computer screens, waiting on messages from Rome that never came.

  Teresa Lupo pulled back the curtain, saw the officer there and muttered a low and powerful curse. They all came and looked, then shrank back not wishing to be seen.

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ she said before anyone else could move.

  They stayed upstairs in the dining room with the pale blue furniture that was starting to get on Peroni’s nerves. It clashed somehow with the perfect sea and sky beyond the bay windows. Across the terrace he could see the bar. No customers. Roberto sitting on a cheap plastic chair at the front peeling potatoes or something. His mother inside presumably. Making no money. Wondering when the idiot with the battered black Fiat might come back.

  ‘You know the story,’ Falcone said. ‘If he comes in stick to it.’

  Business people from Rome celebrating a deal. Thinking about what to do next with the money. There hadn’t been time to fix fake IDs. Lombardi was supposed to come up with them later but it never happened. If the local police waded in demanding to see their cards it wouldn’t take long before what cover they had was blown. As far as the local Bergamotti clan was concerned that was long gone, perhaps had been from the start. But they didn’t want the police or the Carabinieri in the loop, not unless it was necessary at the last moment. The news that the biggest pentito in years, a man whose true identity was known only to an inner circle of confidantes, was about to give himself up, could break safely in one way only: after the event.

  Peroni thought he had an idea why the uniform man was at the door, probably knocking up people all over this part of Cariddi. He hoped he was wrong.

  Ten minutes later Teresa came back, sat down, said nothing, just kicked the basket full of washing waiting to be ironed if anyone could be bothered. They hadn’t brought so many clothes with them. No one had expected to be in Calabria so long. The day before she’d declared they needed to start using the washing machine. Silvio was first in line, then Peroni. Then she did Falcone’s for him since he seemed to have no idea how to manage it himself.

  ‘What did he want?’ Peroni asked.

  ‘He wanted to know who we were. What we were doing here.’ She stared straight at him. ‘If any of us were police officers. Seems someone accessed their network from outside and something pointed to Cariddi.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s alright, Leo. I looked baffled and told him the story. He didn’t seem particularly bright. All they know is someone went into their network through a mobile connection. Could be from anywhere in town. I think he was the station idiot sent out on a hopeless job—’

  ‘You,’ Falcone yelled at Silvio Di Capua, ‘are supposed to route everything through Rome. Christ. Communications. That’s the only reason you’re here—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Silvio cut in. ‘I’m flattered. I am routing everything through Rome. There’s no way anyone in Reggio can see our traffic.’

  ‘Then how—?’

  It was another hot and stifling day even with the breeze off the sea but it seemed to Peroni perfectly capable of turning hotter.

  ‘It was me,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  They fell quiet and stared at him. He guessed he ought to take that as a compliment. Gianni Peroni, once an inspector, a man who made a big mistake and paid for it, was supposed to have turned into an old, wise hand, always cautious, never rash, the kind of officer you needed in a difficult corner.

  ‘Gianni,’ Teresa said and something in her voice hurt him most of all. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I was trying to find out something. Something local. There seemed no other way—’

  ‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ she interrupted. ‘That woman from the bar. You can’t leave that place.’

  That threw him. ‘She’s in trouble—’

  ‘That’s all it is?’

  Her tone of voice had silenced Falcone too.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, trying with some difficulty to stifle his temper. ‘Of course that’s all it is. I made one brief inquiry into their records system. Can’t have been in there for more than a couple of minutes.’

  ‘If it had been longer they might have got a fix.’ They all relied on Silvio for technical issues. He was trying to get Peroni out of a hole. ‘They can’t have done that, Gianni. We’re fine.’

  ‘We’re not fine,’ Teresa muttered.

  ‘I said I’m sorry. It was a mistake. Won’t happen again. It’s just … sitting around here …’

  ‘We don’t have much choice,’ Falcone pointed out.

  ‘Maybe not. But you think about it. The mob, these Bergamotti … we don’t know who the hell they are. We don’t even know the real name of the man who’s supposed to be about to surrender to us. How or when we take him in.’

  ‘We don’t have much choice,’ Teresa repeated.

  ‘They know who we are. Where we live. What we do. The people we’re hiding from are our own. The police. The Carabinieri. It’s like someone flipped a switch and everything’s the opposite of the way it should be.’

  Falcone struggled to his feet. He shook his head, glanced at Peroni just the once and said, ‘Don’t step out of line again. I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Me too,’ Teresa grumbled and the two of them walked out.

  When he came out of the bathroom clutching nothing but a towel Lucia was waiting by the bed, a pile of fresh clothes in her hands. She smiled at his embarrassment and patted the shirt and trousers on the thin cotton sheets.

  ‘Wear thick socks and tuck the bottom of your jeans into them. We have bugs and spiders and snakes where we’re going.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  A wink. ‘Somewhere a man like you has never been before.’

  ‘If you don’t mind …’

  He nodded at the door. She sighed theatrically and walked out.

  Ten minutes later he was downstairs, dressed as she’d ordered. Lucia had changed too. Rough khaki trousers and a chequered shirt, her black hair tied back in a practical bunch behind her head. She looked older like that. Looked as if she belonged in these sparse and inhospitable peaks and valleys high above the coast. The tattoos apart. He didn’t mind them. But somehow they didn’t fit.

  Vanni had brought two of his donkeys but she declared they weren’t needed. Beasts of burden were for old men like him. They were young. They could walk the hills.

  If her uncle was offended he didn’t show it, just passed over a couple of water bottles which she stuffed in a rucksack and handed over for Maso Leoni to carry. The day was hot even with the breeze that came from altitude. They’d need it.

  ‘There’s one path up where we’re going. One way only. Stick to it,’ she ordered. ‘Stay with me. Do as you’re told. Be grateful.’

  And then, his arms aching from lugging and turning logs all night, his legs weary, they set off.

  The path was made for beasts of burden, strewn with their droppings in places, rocky and hard. It snaked upwards from behind the ruined church of Saint Dionysius, through a cleft in the rock that formed the index finger of Manodiavolo, into a long and shadowy passage that stank of mould and damp and something else. Creatures were chittering above them, flying swiftly through the dark, some close.

  ‘Bats,’ she said. ‘They don’t scare you, do they?’

  ‘No,’ he replied as they emerged on the other side.

  Here the way ahead became narrower, steeper, and the fist of Manodiavolo hid the coast completely. They were in a sloping rocky bowl on the high slopes of Aspromonte, a bleak, bare peak
which seemed to be earning its name, the harsh, the rugged mountain.

  A thin plume of smoke was rising above the low pines, from the charcoal mound out of sight somewhere below. He could tell that from the smell and in his imagination see the thing they’d created: like a blackened prehistoric funeral chamber where a long-dead king of fable rested on a smouldering pyre.

  ‘Do you live in Manodiavolo?’ he asked as she forged ahead, not pausing once for breath.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No one lives there all the time. Except Vanni. He loves it. He looks after the orchards and the vegetables. He keeps the place in order as much as he can. And when we have … guests to be housed … he sees to them as well.’

  ‘Is he really your uncle?’

  ‘Of course. Why would we lie?’

  He joined her by the rock. Lizards scurried at their feet and he saw a slender green snake slide into a patch of thorns close by. ‘You’re about to tell me I’m asking too many questions.’

  ‘No. Ask what you like,’ she said and passed him the water. ‘Just don’t expect answers to everything.’

  Something cast a shadow over them briefly. The vast spreading wings of a mountain bird, an eagle or a buzzard, gliding over the tree tops.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because … people are shaped by places. For good. For bad.’

  Lucia scowled, at the view, not him.

  ‘I want to smoke but it feels wrong up here.’ She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, glared at them, then put them away. ‘My father’s big on education. He had none. His own father had none though he still managed to read a lot and write the book Vanni left you. Kind of. He always pulls it out when we have … guests.’

  She waited.

  ‘It doesn’t seem the work of an uneducated man.’

  ‘I said he didn’t have an education. That’s not the same. There’s a lot you can do for yourself. Not me. After that little incident on the coast – my tattoo phase – Father sent me to Lausanne in Switzerland. Business Studies.’