by David Hewson
After which he stood up and sniffed the air. ‘I’m told we must return you to the shore, foreigner. You’ve other duties to fulfil. What the Bergamotti want they get. We’ve hours left in this day and other gladiators to pursue. Come …’
He put a boot on the fish’s flank and yanked the harpoon barbs out of the flesh. Dark blood spilled from the wounds as the man bent down, went to work with his knife once more, and carved out a hunk of pale, fresh flesh from the nearest laceration in the shining skin.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out the lump. ‘If you want to be a man of Cariddi you eat this now. Not the skin. Just the flesh. Up to you.’
He bent down and washed the blood off in a bucket of seawater someone had scooped from the side.
‘Come on, Maso,’ Santo Vottari said, nudging his arm. ‘This is no trick. Not some stunt we play on outsiders. Eat. Fresh fish. The best pisci spata you’ll ever get.’
It was the size of a chicken’s egg. He was in his teens when he’d infuriated his father by telling him he was a vegetarian. Barely a piece of meat had passed his lips in all that time.
But Costa wasn’t here, not now. The swordfish at his feet, its blood dripping back into the ocean whence the creature came, the man who was beginning to think of himself as Tomasso Leoni brought the morsel of its pale and slippery flesh to his lips and took it between his teeth.
‘Taste good?’ the captain asked.
‘Tastes wonderful,’ he said and took another bite.
They all watched him, approving or so it seemed.
‘You could make one of us maybe,’ the skipper said with another slap of the arm. ‘In a year or ten. Now.’ Someone started the engine. ‘The shore.’
Silvio sat in the back of the scarlet Alfa determined not to say a word. Just listen. The man in the passenger seat in front of him was called Fredo. He gathered that from the driver, Rocco, the one who was in charge. Fredo sounded worried, scared maybe, from the moment they set off.
Then the car worked its way along the winding local road that led beneath the main north-south autovia and found a narrow track up into the hills. There were homes for a while, little more than shacks, most with tidy gardens full of summer vegetables: tomatoes, peppers, aubergine and the long gourd they liked in the south, the snake courgette some called it, the cucuzza.
It all seemed so mundane. Like somewhere in Campania, the area he came from. Where his mother still lived; not that he visited as much as he ought. But this seeming normality was, he understood, an illusion. Soon the shabby bungalows vanished and in their place came wild and rocky hillside, the track forever winding its way upwards, past hairpin bends that leaned over dizzying chasms and left him clutching at his stomach. Rocco drove so fast the car lurched towards the edge from time to time. This was, he felt, deliberate. He was angry, with Peroni but with the man in black too. And Fredo felt that anger.
Thirty minutes in they stopped on a bend that had been widened as a passing point. There was nothing around but bare mountain, a few trees and, on the left, a dizzying way down, a dry torrent, a line of rock and shingle that would surely be overflowing in winter when the snows came.
Rocco switched off the engine then turned to the man in the passenger seat beside him and said he wanted a conversation.
‘Sure, boss,’ Fredo said but nodded at the back of the car. ‘With him around?’
‘He’s a guest. I’ll be driving him to his manutengolo soon. We’ll feed him. Keep him. Give him a little holiday in the hills for free.’
‘Thanks,’ Silvio said and the man behind the wheel barely noticed. ‘Do you want me to step out?’
‘No. Don’t. Fredo. Elena Sposato’s the widow of one of our men.’
Nothing.
‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Paolo was a good guy. Should still be here.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you’ve been picking on her. Getting money out of her. Messing with her. She’s got nothing anyway, her and the kid.’
Silvio watched as the man in black shrank in front of him, crouched down in the front of the big Alfa, put his hands together as if to pray.
‘I’m sorry, boss. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it right. I’ll pay her back. You tell me what you want.’
Rocco wound down the window and lit his cigar again then sniffed the mountain air. ‘You get no wages for the next two months. Every cent goes to her.’
A pause then: ‘Sure.’
‘You don’t go near Cariddi. You can go back to running crap to the immigrants down the beach. Hell. I ought to put you shifting that shit yourself.’
Fredo didn’t say anything at that. Not a word.
‘Also,’ Rocco added, ‘you can get the hell out of my car and walk all the way home from here. I’m sick of the sight of you. The smell of you. Damn. I don’t believe I’m not doing more than this.’
‘Gonna take me hours, boss,’ Fredo whined. ‘From here.’
‘I know where we are. I know what I’m saying. Get out and start walking. You might get home before dark. If not who cares?’
A pause then Fredo said, ‘She’s a widow. Looked lonely. Pretty woman when she could be bothered to smile. I was just offering company—’
‘Get the hell out of here!’ Rocco bellowed and for a moment he looked ready to stamp out the cigar in Fredo’s eye. He leapt across and grabbed for the passenger door. ‘Get your stinking hide gone …’
Silvio had rarely seen anyone move so fast. The man in black tore off his seat belt and slid outside the Alfa, then stood on the dirt road by the hairpin bend shaking, looking ready to piss himself. After that he kind of saluted, turned and began to shamble slowly down the road, back the way they came.
Rocco was looking at him in the mirror. ‘That big friend of yours.’
‘Peroni. Gianni Peroni.’
‘He’s got a temper.’
‘I never saw that before,’ Silvio replied. ‘It’s like we’re different people here.’
Rocco nodded. ‘But he’s a smart guy. He knows what’s best. He’ll do the right thing.’
‘I don’t know anyone I’d say that about more,’ Silvio told him honestly. ‘He’s the straightest man I know. That’s why he …’ Rocco’s eyes were burning in the glass. ‘That’s why he couldn’t do nothing,’ Silvio went on. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’ He was glad he said it, glad he didn’t back down.
‘Maybe not. All the same you do as you’re told.’
With that he brought the Alfa back to life, jabbed the pedal, made the powerful engine start to growl and hum. Then looked behind, through the rear window, beyond Silvio, at the man in black ambling down the road, hands in pockets. Fredo was by the corner, beyond him nothing but the blue horizon of sea and sky over the ravine below.
‘The little shit,’ Rocco murmured, then stabbed his foot on the pedal and hit reverse. The scarlet machine screamed back on the rocky, pebbled road, angling towards the edge above the chasm. Silvio closed his eyes and tried to remember what it was like to pray.
The man in black screamed as the rear end took him, screamed more when he realized where he was headed. Then he was gone and Rocco was fighting to get the car back into gear as the wheels fought for purchase on the crumbling edge of the hairpin.
Silvio looked. He had to. There was nothing but space beyond the shrieking wheels, a ragged gap in the mountainside, trees and maybe a stream far, far below. And a black shape wheeling downwards, arms flailing, body bouncing against the craggy sides. Until finally the man called Fredo vanished into the trees that ran in a crooked line down the little valley towards the coast.
The tyres took. The Alfa pulled away. Rocco seemed to settle into a steady pace after that, as if it had all calmed him somehow. Ten minutes later they stopped in the middle of a high plain. Prickly pears struggled by the side of the road alongside patches of flowers he didn’t recognize. There was what looked like a shepherd’s hut made of coarse stone at the end of the trac
k. A man in rough clothing was standing there leaning on a stick, a huge dog by his side, an alpine hat on his greying head.
‘It’s not exactly five stars,’ Rocco said. ‘But then this isn’t a holiday. For any of us. His name’s Mirco. I hope you like eating meat. He does.’
Silvio Di Capua didn’t need to hear more. ‘Thanks,’ he said and got out.
‘Hey, Maso. You got stupid people in Canada too?’
Calabria as well.
Rocco had made sure Santo Vottari saw very little of what had happened outside the back street bar in Reggio. Two men viewed almost entirely from behind. Then a brief performance. Finally their bodies, seemingly bloody on the grubby ground. A scene from the kind of tragedy that might have played out on the Greek stage hereabouts a couple of millennia before. The Calabrians seemed good at play-acting. They knew their lines, their props, could manage all the acts and stages.
He’d done exactly as he was asked. Fired blanks, not at Falcone and Peroni directly because a part of him wondered if they were blanks. But they didn’t even generate a tiny cloud of dust. Rocco, thus far, was to be trusted it seemed. When Santo scuttled off as ordered, a little puzzled but disinclined to argue, Peroni and Falcone got off the ground, discarded the heavy coats now stained with fake blood rubbed as Rocco had ordered. Then looked round, brushed the dust off themselves and wondered what came next.
‘Next you go home and wait,’ Rocco said. ‘That was good. Now they can see Maso here is one of ours. If I let him come and go no one will take much notice. He does my bidding.’
‘Maso?’ said Peroni.
‘Tomasso Leoni.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘When does your man hand himself over?’ Falcone demanded. ‘Mancuso and the others? This is going on too long.’
‘When we say,’ Rocco replied and glanced at his watch. ‘If all goes well in our discussions with the Sicilians, perhaps a day or two. We have their go-between here. He’ll go home this evening. If he’s convinced … Maso here will let you know.’
‘Why the delay?’ Falcone wondered.
‘How long will it take for you to understand this? Because I want my family to come out of this alive. So you wait until I say. The locals would come tomorrow if my father summoned them. Mancuso isn’t one of us. He’s as cautious as a cat. Got reason to be, hasn’t he?’
‘True,’ Peroni said. ‘How are they treating you, Maso?’
‘Well.’
‘I trust Silvio will get the same.’
‘Silvio?’
‘He’s enough to think about already,’ Rocco cut in. ‘Your men are our guests. Safe with us as long you two keep your heads down and your temper. You have my word. Now. Go home …’
One more glance around to make sure no one was looking.
‘We got some money from the safe,’ Peroni said, holding out the cash. ‘Lots of interesting things in there.’
‘We’re busy people.’
‘So I gathered. The African. Your slave. I gave him a wad and told him to get the hell out of here. An act of charity. It always bodes well, don’t you think? I mean … we don’t want witnesses. Your usual way of ensuring that doesn’t work for us.’
Rocco took the cash. ‘Plenty more where he came from. So long he’s out of the way and silent that’s fine with me. When there’s news Maso will bring it. The day we move he can be the runner between us. Don’t tell anyone until the last moment. Don’t go near Elena Sposato. Don’t make me think of you till I want to. Otherwise my patience may run out.’
‘Sure,’ Peroni replied. ‘Leo?’
Falcone looked a little lost.
‘I don’t want tricks, Bergamotti,’ he said. ‘If you screw around …’
A sudden anger flared in Rocco’s swarthy face. ‘You Romans talk too much.’
‘If—’
‘Leo …’ Peroni had his hand on Falcone’s arm. ‘It’s time we left.’
Falcone was about to say something but thought better of it. The two of them walked back to their rented Lancia.
‘That big man I like,’ Rocco said as it drove steadily out of the estate. ‘The other I don’t know.’
Maso watched them leave. ‘Why?’
‘He seems … out of his depth. A dangerous habit round here.’
There was a charcoal grill set up in the piazza of Manodiavolo when they got back, a table with a white lace cloth by the side, Lucia fussing over the plates and cutlery, Gabriele Bergamotti drinking wine in a silence. Vanni was roasting long red peppers and aubergine on the embers, turning them until the skin was black, then putting them on foil, peeling them, pouring dark olive oil on the pulp. Slices of raw swordfish from the catch and fresh bread accompanied it.
Santo Vottari broke off from lugging wood to pat Maso on the arm and say congratulations.
‘One last thing and you’re a man of honour,’ he said with a wink. ‘Almost one of us. In twenty years maybe …’
‘One last thing?’
Lucia seemed to hear. She glared at Santo and he went back to the wood pile. The Sicilian, Sciarra, was there. From the sound of it he was advising Vanni on the imperfections of his charcoal, something that didn’t go down well.
Gabriele came over, added a few languid words of congratulations and said it was time to eat.
‘Are you done with him?’ Lucia asked, nodding at Sciarra. He was in conversation with Santo now. She didn’t seem to like that idea.
‘The Sicilian you mean? Or Rocco’s idiot friend?’
‘Sciarra.’
‘I’ve told him we have a mass to be held in the chapel at a time that suits his uncle. His safety’s guaranteed. After which we will talk business. That’s as much as I can do. It’s their decision now.’
Not long after Gaetano Sciarra left and they had a kind of improvised banquet. Raw swordfish, sharp and fresh with lemon juice, roast vegetables from the fire, bread and wine. He tried them all. He was the man they wanted now. Santo was allowed food from the spread but had to eat it with Vanni at a separate table by the old wellhead. Not that there was much talk between the old man, his children and their guest.
When Lucia was clearing plates from the table Rocco got up and told Santo to take a couple of days off. He wouldn’t be needed for a while.
Santo didn’t move. ‘For nothing? I thought maybe we’d got some business coming. That Sicilian guy seemed to think so …’
‘Leave the Sicilians to us.’
Santo nodded and said, fine. Then went off to look for the scooter that they kept at the stables down the hill.
Lucia didn’t talk much at all. Except when all the fish was out of the way and they were eating prickly pear scavenged from the hills. Then she turned to him and whispered, ‘You smell. Fish. And the sea. Which is not unpleasant but I think it’s time you lose it.’ She nodded at the palazzo. ‘There’s water inside. Cold as ice. Off you go.’
The light was fading as he came out of the bathroom, shivering from the cold water. A loud roar of the Alfa signalled Rocco driving out of the piazza, his father in the passenger seat. It seemed that Manodiavolo was left to Lucia, Vanni and him alone.
He felt tired, odd, different. A key had been turned, a lock freed. He was, if not accepted, at least no longer quite such a target of suspicion. Finally they seemed to be moving towards their goal, the defection of Gabriele Bergamotti and the capture of the mob kings he was luring to the chapel in the hills.
‘Get dressed,’ said a soft voice from the shadows. ‘We’re not done yet.’
He blinked and tried to peer into the dark.
‘I’m naked.’
‘Most people are straight out of the bath.’
‘This habit of yours of wandering in and out of my room—’
‘Whose room? This is our palazzo. You’re our guest. I come and go as I please.’
There was a set of clean clothes on the bed. New, a designer brand he’d never have picked for himself. She’d been shopping for him again. He grabbed
them, retreated to the bathroom and put them on.
Lucia was standing by the door when he came out. She was in a casual cream shirt and jeans looking very pleased with herself. A small purple leather bag hung over her shoulder.
‘Is it the cocktail party now?’ he asked.
That made her laugh. ‘I don’t do that kind of thing. Any more than you.’
‘Back in Canada,’ he said carefully, ‘cocktail hour’s a ritual.’
She came right up and looked him square in the eye. ‘It’s alright. There’s just you and me here. Vanni’s downstairs but you can forget about him. Rocco’s off to see some woman of his in Reggio. My father … well, he’s gone as well. I don’t know where and I don’t want to. That creep Vottari too, thank God. You can … you can drop the act for a little while. If you like.’
But that, he thought, was dangerous. It was allowing that it was an act at all.
‘Where are we going?’
She didn’t look at him when she said, ‘For a little walk.’
‘One last thing …’
‘Santo Vottari’s a loud-mouthed idiot. Come on.’ She took his arm. ‘Let’s get it done.’
There were a couple of solar panels on the palazzo roof but they powered nothing more than a few bulbs downstairs. The rest of the building was given over to candles and oil lamps that now lit the stairway and hall, sending a warm, soft aura swimming over the crumbling plaster, the stone floors, the lighter spaces on the walls where paintings must once have hung. Portraits of a lost family of aristocrats ruling Manodiavolo he guessed, the Abenavoli. Long dead from one more Aspromonte feud.
Hands running through dust on the ancient balustrade, they descended and walked out into the empty piazza by the church. The last of the summer sun dappled the snaking, shimmering channel that stood between Calabria and Sicily, a distant necklace of street lights defining the shore. Across the strait stood the mound of Etna, the only clouds around clinging to its side like needy children, the red haze of its volatile summit a dim rim of fire against the darkening sky.
She took his hand for a moment and he felt her fingers close on his.
