by John Harris
There was a noticeable sense of readiness in the Piazza del Popolo. A few policemen in their black and red uniforms were standing by the Town Hall and, as the crowd appeared, they split up and seemed to flex their muscles. The shopkeepers had already begun to put up their shutters and a few fruit-sellers who had been sitting hopefully under the arcade of the Archivio, chattering in agitated bursts about the mountain, picked up their baskets and moved out of the way hurriedly. The balconies overlooking the square were crowded already and a few clerks had appeared at the windows of the Town Hall, attracted by the noise.
The policemen hitched up their belts and spread out as the crowd surged into the piazza and gathered in front of the Town Hall, oozing to right and left of the steps like a heavy liquid. Noticeably, Bosco, had disappeared from the front and had picked a spot on the pillars at the entrance to the Archivio where the families of the farmers camped out when it rained, surrounded by all the gaudy arguments on the posters. As he climbed up, the women and the children rose from among the baskets and bundles and crowded to listen.
He was chattering gaily with his followers while the crowd swarmed round the steps of the Town Hall, shouting.
‘The Lord Himself’s on our side today,’ he was saying to Deputy Sporletti. ‘In spite of what the priests say, in spite of Don Alessandro’s Masses and his Hail Marys for a win for Pelli. This is too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘Come on, Mother,’ he shouted to a group of women standing among the baskets of vegetables and the crates of chickens. ‘Unpack your goods, again! You won’t be going home yet! Your men are staying till the Mayor does something.’
There was more laughter and several of the farmers began to spread their belongings more wholesale on the pavement, much to the annoyance of the shopkeepers alongside the Archivio, who began to shout and push people away from their doorways.
The crowd was chanting now. ‘Where’s Pelli? We want Mayor Pelli. We want action.’
Someone threw a fish towards the Town Hall and a policeman ducked hurriedly. It landed at the top of the steps and slithered out of sight. Then Pelli appeared, a cigarette in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other, and waved for silence. He looked pale but confident. Two or three of his followers were with him, and Patch noticed Piero Tornielli standing in the shadows just inside the doorway.
‘Quiet! Quiet, everybody!’ Pelli shouted. ‘Please don’t panic. The situation’s completely under control.’
‘Under control? What about the mountain?’
Pelli swung dramatically and pointed over the roof tops towards Amarea. The drifting column of smoke was mingling with the low clouds still.
‘What about the mountain?’ he asked. ‘It’s doing no harm. It’s holding your houses up as it’s been doing for centuries.’
‘It’s killing the fish,’ Meucci yelled, waving his codling. ‘If it goes on there’ll be no fish left in the Tyrrhenian.’
‘Nonsense! There are more fish than that. And besides, if the fish are floating, you don’t have to search for them. That makes your job easier, doesn’t it?’
There was a laugh from somewhere among the farmers and Pelli smiled, the politician getting the mood of the crowd.
‘It’s giving us signs,’ Leonardi shrieked suddenly. ‘It’s warning us.’
‘Hello, old Leonardi,’ Pelli said. ‘You there again? You still issuing your warnings? When was the last one? Six months ago? And what happened then? Nothing? Is nothing going to happen again?’
The angry faces were thawing out and a few of the men were grinning at old Leonardi, whose reputation was well known.
‘Listen to me,’ Pelli called. ‘What damage has the mountain done?’
‘It killed Givanno,’ Leonardi screeched.
‘Did it? The inquest said he died naturally.’ There was a confused babble of conversation as the crowd began to discuss the old man’s death, and Patch could hear young Givanno’s voice yelling indignantly.
‘Look at the mountain now,’ Pelli shouted, interrupting them. ‘Look at it. Does it look dangerous? It always looks like that.’
‘It’s smoking,’ someone shouted.
‘So am I!’ Pelli held up his cigarette and there was a flurry of laughter. ‘It’s often smoked. It was smoking yesterday and the day before. You’re worrying for nothing. Didn’t I arrange for someone to climb to the crater and inspect it? What did they find? Nothing. You’re being stirred up by troublemakers. But contrary to what your clever friends tell you, Mayor Pelli doesn’t sit all day doing nothing. A scientific commission’s already on its way up the mountain. Did you know that? What they discover will be available to you as soon as I receive their report.’
Leonardi began to dance on tiptoe and shout.
‘Who are these experts? Name them!’
‘You’re certainly not one, old Leonardi,’ Pelli shouted back. ‘According to you, we’ve had a disaster here every six months since 1922. But there are a remarkable number of people in this piazza for a town that’s been wiped out every six months for thirty-five years. We all look remarkably well and our buildings look excessively strong!
The crowd laughed again and old Leonardi grew more furious.
‘Name them! Name these experts!’
‘I don’t even know them myself. They were met at the boat and taken straight away to work. Your Moscow friends were so busy meeting their political masters from Rome they failed to notice the rest of the passengers. They were driven up the mountainside with their instruments. They’re there now.’
‘The bastard’s lying,’ Hannay exploded indignantly. ‘Nobody came off that flipping ship looking like a geologist!’
‘I have one other thing for you!’ Pelli’s shout interrupted him. ‘One other thing to reassure you. You’ve all heard of Signor Forla.’
There was a chorus of boos and Bruno Bosco began to yell abuse from his pillar.
‘Traitor! Fascist! White House toady!’
Pelli grinned. ‘Signor Forla’s here on the island. He’s here in the Town Hall, in fact. He’s here on your behalf. He’s just handed me a report from his own observatory. It was brought to his yacht this morning when he arrived.’
He held up the sheet of typewritten paper he had in his hand. ‘The instruments he has there have reported nothing unusual.’ He grinned again, sure of the crowd now. ‘Listen,’ he said, his tones warm and bantering. ‘One thing more – how often does Signor Forla come to this island?’
‘Never,’ Bosco yelled. He was puzzled now and watching Pelli’s moves, his mind working quickly to counter them.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Pelli said smoothly. ‘Then why would he come now if there were any danger? Surely with all his money and all the houses he has to choose from he’d stay away from this one?’
The crowd had grown quieter. Even under the arcade of the Archivio the shopkeepers had stopped quarrelling with the farmers and were listening. Pelli had obviously made them think.
Then Forla appeared at one of the windows by the balcony and waved. There was a chorus of boos but they died quickly and dissolved into muttering.
‘By God, he’s got it across,’ Patch said, admiring in spite of himself.
‘One last thing!’ Pelli’s voice rang out across the square, strong and confident. He knew he had them on his side now. Bosco and his small coterie of followers were shouting on their own and politics were forgotten.
‘One last thing!’ Pelli raised his arms for attention once more. ‘We are taking steps at this very moment to inform the authorities on the mainland by telephone.’
For a second, there was silence, then a storm of cheering, and Pelli grinned.
‘You’ve no need to fear,’ he said. ‘I always maintained there was no need to fear. I promised long ago that at the first sign of danger, I should act. Well, although I don’t believe in this danger we hear so much about, I have acted. Because you were anxious and many odd things have occurred, and my enemies were trying to make political capita
l out of them.’
There was a burst of ragged cheering and a definite appearance of relief among the crowd as they began to turn away. The policemen seemed to relax visibly and started chattering among themselves. Then Pelli, obviously determined not to lose a perfect opportunity, started to harangue the crowd.
‘You have been stirred up, friends,’ he shouted, ‘by that rabble-rousing faction who call themselves politicians. Believe me, people of Anapoli, their only idea is to stir the people against authority–’
There was a thin burst of cheering and Hannay pulled at Patch’s arm in disgust.
‘Come on, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, and they pushed their way out of the crowd.
Twenty-seven
Before dark, someone saw a taxi draw up at a side door of the Town Hall and Forla appeared with Pelli. There were quick handshakes then the taxi drew away and roared out of the piazza. There were a few boos but somehow the sight of Forla heading up the hill to his vast, expensive palace reassured everyone more than anything else and the farmers started to pack the few belongings they had brought with them once more and the first family set off out of town, in an ancient van that groaned from the square in a cloud of blue smoke. Behind them followed a mule cart and another straggling family carrying parcels on their heads like Arabs.
Mayor Pelli, standing on the balcony of the Town Hall, watched them leave.
‘They’re going, Piero,’ he pointed out to Tornielli. ‘Forla did the trick. I wonder why he came.’
‘Orlesi,’ Piero said shortly. ‘He’s having trouble with the sulphur workers. They say he sent a radio message to the yacht in Naples and asked him to put in an appearance. It’ll quieten them down. He’ll be gone in a couple of days.’
Pelli turned round. ‘Piero,’ he said. ‘I saw the man Patch in the crowd again. He was with the fisherman, Meucci.’
‘He lives with Meucci,’ Piero said.
‘Do you know him well, Piero?’
‘I live in the same apartment building.’
‘You must know something then. I’ve heard it said that he was once a Communist.’
Piero took a deep breath. In his heart was an intense hatred for all the condescension with which Patch treated him, for all the humiliating incidents on the staircase that made him feel like a small boy, for the studied indifference with which he had been received on the mole that morning.
‘He’s a born trouble-maker,’ he said.
Pelli puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. ‘Bosco was quick over the fish,’ he said. ‘It was a good job Forla was here. I didn’t like telling that story about the scientific commission.’ He was a little ashamed at the untruth, but he consoled himself that even if it weren’t correct, it was nearly so. It was his intention to ask for a commission. He had found himself driven on to the defensive by Bosco and had seized on the idea to get back the initiative. He told himself for the hundredth time he had done right. There could be no immediate danger – if there were danger at all. It didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t somehow associate disaster with himself and his home and his island.
‘We’ll get in touch with the universities on the mainland, all the same,’ he said uneasily. ‘I’ll write at once. We can put everybody off until they send someone. I’ll put out a proclamation of some sort this evening, in fact. Even if they come straight away, they’ll not arrive before the eve of the election and anything they do the following day can’t affect the voting. It’s all so ridiculous, having to indulge in these antics. Everyone’s getting worked up over nothing. It’s happened before. Look, it’s quiet now!’
‘The calm before the storm,’ Piero said.
Pelli looked at the young man quickly. ‘Don’t you believe it’s quiet, Piero? He asked.
Piero frowned. There were many things on his mind just then, and the mountain seemed just one more barb in his flesh.
‘It sounds quiet,’ he said sullenly.
‘Don’t you think it is quiet?’
A dreadful feeling of doubt began to rise in Pelli’s mind, and for a moment he felt the decisions that were cropping up were too big for him to face alone.
He lit a cigarette and drew on it nervously. ‘Anyway, thank the Lord there’s no sign of danger now,’ he said.
He glanced up the road out of the town, satisfied with his plans, content that he had done all he could according to his political conscience. There was nothing to indicate the unquiet earth that had killed old Givanno and the thousands of fishes off the cape. Nothing but the thin column of smoke rising steadily into the darkening sky.
Twenty-eight
That evening Pelli’s proclamations appeared – after dusk so that few people would be around to ask awkward questions, and the streets were emptying by the time Piero Tornielli began to make his tour of the town notice boards in the three squares.
The Piazza del Mare was deserted when he stopped outside the Customs House, but five minutes after he had gone, Hannay halted on exactly the same flagstones Piero had occupied. as he paused to read the public notices and documents, a habit he had always followed in foreign ports to improve his linguistic abilities. His eye caught the slip of paper Piero had pinned up a few moments before and his lips moved as he read it through carefully. Then he jerked his jacket straight on his taut square body and set off up the hill towards Mamma Meucci’s.
Patch was painting when he arrived and he looked up as Hannay opened the door.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he said wearily. ‘Not you again, for God’s sake! What’s happened now?’
Hannay ignored him and crossed the room towards the easel, staring at the painting critically enough to put Patch off his work.
‘I should say you still got that bloke’s leg wrong,’ he said, jabbing a horny thumb at the canvas.
‘And I should say,’ Patch retorted, ‘that you don’t know the first god-damn thing about it.’
Hannay seemed quite unmoved and Patch began to work again. He knew Hannay hadn’t come to discuss art and he was suddenly sick of his agitating and old Leonardi’s parrot cries about the mountain, and the whole political set-up, all the evasions and equivocations, all the semi-truths that were fed to them and the super-truths that led to nowhere. Mrs Hayward had been to see him again and his head ached from the ugly scene that had ensued, the pleading, the misery and the vindictiveness. He felt he wanted to run downstairs and find Cecilia and take her off to the mainland again, away from the fantastic comic opera atmosphere that had begun to exist on Anapoli.
Hannay said nothing for a while, watching him paint, then he dragged out his pipe, lit it and started blowing rings of acrid smoke into Patch’s eyes as he worked.
‘Bosco’s meeting didn’t go so well,’ he said conversationally. ‘His deputy pal didn’t fancy being chased into the sea by a red hot volcano and he discovered he’d got to get back. He caught the boat again. Bosco’s playing hell in Emiliano’s about it. Dead smart, the way Pelli got one up on him.’
‘Fair’s fair,’ Patch said indifferently. ‘He was one up on Pelli before.’
‘Pelli’s got some proclamations out,’ Hannay went on. ‘About the mountain and them experts he said he’d got. I’ve just been reading one. It’s a lot of tripe.’
‘Like the paper he flourished on the Town Hall steps,’ Patch said cheerfully. ‘That was tripe too. It was a letter of instructions to the polling officer in Corti Marina.’
Hannay’s heavy face was shocked at the suggestion. ‘How do you know?’ he demanded. ‘You couldn’t see.’
‘The old dear opposite!’ Patch indicated the old woman sitting in the window across the street observing the inhabitants of Mamma Meucci’s with interest. ‘She’s got a granddaughter Donatella working in the Town Hall. She was carrying a pile of letters across the corridor when Pelli went on to the steps. He snatched the top one as he passed. She’s only fifteen and she was scared at losing it. Nobody saw it happen but her. She told Grandma and Grandma told Mamma Meucci. Mamma Meucci told me. Poor little P
elli. Bosco’s pushing him into things I’m sure he wouldn’t do if he weren’t so scared of losing.’
Hannay scowled. ‘He never sent no message to the mainland either,’ he said. ‘Did you know that?’
Patch started to paint again, still cheerful, still unmoved by Hannay’s excitement. ‘No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. He only said “steps were being taken” and that’s a political phrase to mean they’re still only thinking about it. How’d you find out?’
‘My Number One, Anderson.’
‘Has he got a grand-daughter Donatella working in the Town Hall too?’
Hannay grunted. ‘He’s been knocking off the girl on the switchboard – you know what he is. The whole business is beginning to whiff like a ten-day-old kipper. You know what I’ve been doing all day? I’ve been loading crates on my ship for Forla.’
He brought out the item of news quite casually, but he had waited deliberately to produce it and it made Patch drop his mask of indifference at once.
‘For Forla?’ He put down his brushes at last.
‘That’s it. On ‘Annay’s ship.’ Hannay puffed on his pipe as though he were working up a head of steam. ‘You shoulda seen the panic. Orlesi came to see me personal. I had to radio the agents for approval. It means a special trip, see. But Forla’s paying through the nose and it’s only a small deck cargo. They gave me the OK. He had the stuff on the mole by the time I gave him the go-ahead. He said it was machinery.’
Patch was looking puzzled.
‘Only it isn’t machinery,’ Hannay said.
‘Well, what is it, then?’
‘Furniture. Paintings. Some damn’ fool let go the brake on the winch and one of the crates landed on the deck with a bang. It was full of pictures. He’s getting rid of his collection. In fact, that’s what he came for, I’ll bet.’
Patch found it hard to believe what Hannay was trying to suggest. ‘Perhaps he’s loaning them to a gallery,’ he said. ‘They’ve left the island before.’
‘Would he loan silver and furniture as well?’ Hannay asked. ‘Some of them there cases have got marble in ’em. There’s a bloke in one with a helmet and no drawers. I’ve had a look on the quiet. And they’ve been loading silver on the Canone del Mare all evening.
