Blood rain az-7

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘Of course they will!’ the other man exclaimed. ‘So will their erstwhile hosts in Messina. They’ll also know that their explanations and excuses will never be believed. So with the Corleonesi going nuclear west of the mountains and the Calabrians moving in from the east, our friends in Messina will finally be forced to ally with us or face a classic pincer attack on two fronts.’

  Silence fell. At length the other chess player broke it with a sharp intake of breath through his rotten teeth.

  ‘How do you do it, Gaspare?’ he repeated wonderingly

  The other man sucked complacently at his cigar.

  ‘I think,’ he said. ‘I think, and then I think again. Then I review my conclusions with my friends here in my home town, and occasionally even have the pleasure of discovering that one of them has a streak of imagination to add a detail to my scheme, like young Saverio here.’

  He bent forward and stared at the man across the table.

  ‘You used to be like that, Rosario. That’s why I always talked things over with you first. You were intelligent and creative. What happened, Rosario? Where did all that energy go?’

  There was no reply. In the intense silence which had fallen on the group of men, a precise pattern of sound made itself heard. No one looked round, but each person seemed to become marginally denser and more still. The footsteps tapping rhythmically across the cobbles grew ever closer, passing beneath the statue of a nineteenth-century native of the town who had briefly achieved limited fame as a poet, then shifted to a rich crunching on the gravel strewn under the trees in the centre of the square.

  The newcomer moved at a steady pace through the men gathered about the table with its chessboard. He was tall and imposing, in his eighties perhaps, his face collapsed on to the bones beneath, but with eyes of a startling blue clarity. He wore a brown blazer over a check shirt, with a dark red tie and grey flannel trousers. His feet were clad in beige socks and open leather sandals and he carried a briar walking-stick in one gnarled hand, with the aid of which he favoured his left leg. No one said a word to him, or gave the slightest impression of being aware of his presence. The man stopped in front of the green-painted table. He looked neither at the players, nor at the attendant entourage, but at the chessboard.

  He stood there for over a minute, completely absorbed in his study. No one spoke, no one moved, but a sense of unease seemed to have come over the company. At length the newcomer straightened up and sniffed deeply.

  ‘Black to win in five moves,’ he announced in an Italian whose flexible spine had been replaced by a steel pin.

  Only now did he look at the two players. The one called Don Gaspare glanced up at him in a curious way, simultaneously contemptuous and apprehensive.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course you know all about winning, Herr Genzler.’

  The other man looked back at the board for an instant, then turned implacably back to Don Gaspare.

  ‘Black in five,’ he repeated. ‘Unless one of you makes a mistake.’

  There was a subliminal gasp all around the table. No one talked to the capo like that. But Don Gaspare simply puffed contentedly on his cigar.

  ‘I don’t make mistakes,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Perhaps. But I hear that Rosario is not as good as he used to be.’

  The intruder bowed vestigially.

  ‘At your service, Don Gaspare.’

  The chess player returned an even more sketchy bow.

  ‘And yours, General.’

  The intruder turned his back and stalked off. The men around the table listened with communal intensity to the crunch and then the slapping of his sandals as he made his way across the square to what was to all appearances the town’s only commercial enterprise, a combination bar and grocery store, into which he disappeared.

  Back in the public garden in the centre of the square, the silence continued for some time.

  ‘Black in five moves, eh?’ Don Gaspare remarked at length. ‘Can you see how, Rosario?’

  The other player performed a pantomime shrug and grimace.

  ‘It’s easy enough to say something like that to make yourself look good!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Can you see how?’ Don Gaspare repeated emphatically.

  Rosario did not reply. The other man took out a cellphone and punched buttons.

  ‘Turi? Don Gaspa. Put the general on.’

  A pause.

  ‘Herr Genzler? Black in five, you said. How, exactly?’

  He took out a pen and started scribbling on the back of an envelope.

  ‘To Queen’s pawn seven? But that’s… Right. And then? Ah! I understand. Thank you. What are you drinking? Fine, tell Turi that it’s on me.’

  He put the cellphone away. Gripping the chessboard, he turned it around so that he was behind the black ranks. After a moment, he sent a bishop sliding forward two squares. Rosario regarded him with anxiety, then taking the white pieces he replied by capturing a forward pawn. Don Gaspare immediately moved again, a crab-like advance by a hitherto unregarded knight. Rosario sat staring at the board until his opponent suddenly hammered his fist down on the table.

  ‘People come to me with their problems!’ he shouted furiously. ‘I don’t need more problems. What I need is solutions! Is that clear?’

  He stood up, surveying the men assembled there.

  ‘Is that clear?

  ‘Si, capo,’ everyone muttered, like a congregation responding to the priest.

  Don Gaspare stared around the circle, making eye contact with each man. Then he looked back at the chessboard. Without glancing at his opponent, he made three further moves and then flicked the middle finger of his right hand against the white king, which went flying on to the gravel under the trees.

  ‘Carla?’

  ‘Papa! Where have you been? I was worried about you.’

  ‘I’m in Rome.’

  ‘What’s this music?’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Muzak. Elevator music’

  ‘I don’t hear anything.’

  ‘Well, I certainly do. So you’re in Rome? Why?’

  ‘I had to leave suddenly.’

  ‘Can you speak up, please? This music…’

  ‘I had to come to Rome. Unexpectedly. A personal matter.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I see.’

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, exactly. I’m taking a few days’ leave.’

  Quite apart from the underlay of soft pop, the connection was poor, fading in and out, but always dim and drained.

  ‘What’s the weather like there?’ a voice like her father’s asked.

  ‘Much the same. And in Rome?’

  ‘Sandy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Listen, it may be a while before I get back. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course. I just wish you were here, though. They searched my room.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But someone has been here. They left a message on my computer.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My laptop. My whole life’s on it, and someone has been messing about with it. I’ve got back-ups, of course, but…’

  ‘Back-up lives?’

  Carla laughed.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot you don’t speak the language.’

  ‘Look, Carla, if someone broke into your apartment, call the police. I’ll give you a number. A name, too. Baccio Sinico. He’s a good man and he’ll…’

  ‘I don’t have time now. We’re going away for the weekend and I’m just about to leave. I’ll do it on Monday. Will you be back by then?’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘To Taormina. It’s supposed to be lovely, and the person I’m going with knows this wonderful hotel. It’s quite high up, too, so perhaps it’ll be cool. It’s difficult for me here, Dad. I haven’t really made any friends yet, and it’ll be nice to get out and meet some people.’

  A pause.

  ‘Well, have fun.’

  ‘You too
. When will you be back?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Look after yourself.’

  ‘You too, Dad. After all, as you told me that time in Alba, you’re the only one I’ll ever have.’

  Her voice broke slightly on the last phrase. She clicked the phone shut and turned back to the half-packed suitcase resting on the bed. Then she pulled a few more clothes off their hangers and folded them neatly into the suitcase between layers of tissue paper. She had heard that Taormina was an international resort for the rich and beautiful, and you never knew who you might run into in a place like that, maybe even Mr Right.

  By now, Carla had a strong suspicion that Corinna Nunziatella wanted her to be more than just a ‘girlfriend’. The scenario Carla had in mind consisted of a few martinis too many at a bar, followed by a slow, delicious dinner at a restaurant, a walk back through the twilight to this fabulous hotel, and then the pitch. Well, fair enough. She had never made love with a woman, but there was a first time for everything and she was all grown up now. Anyway, she was planning to pay for her side of things, so she could always just say no. Or not, depending.

  It was only when she closed the case and lifted it down off the bed that Carla realized she was going to have to carry the damn thing all the way. It was all very well for Corinna to tell her it was just a couple of kilometres along a very pretty path with classical associations. She had a car. Carla thought of calling the judge and explaining the problem, and then had a better idea.

  Outside in the streets, even at twenty past nine, the heat was starting to gain the upper hand, although barely flexing the gigantic muscles which would throttle the city by noon. By the time she reached the corner of the block, Carla’s suitcase felt as though it was filled with bricks. It took another ten minutes to flag down a passing taxi.

  ‘Do you know a hotel called I Ciclopi at Aci Trezza?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Hop in.’

  ‘No, it’s not for me. But I need this case taken there and left at the desk. It’s to be collected by someone called Carla Arduini. Do you understand?’

  The driver punctiliously estimated the distance to Aci Trezza and back on his map, worked out the fare on an electronic calculator and refused Carla’s offer of a tip. It took her a huge effort of will not to climb into the air-conditioned cab there and then, but Corinna had told her to walk, so walk she would. With regret, she handed her suitcase and the money to the driver, and watched the taxi drive away.

  The usual elderly crowd had gathered at the bus stop: women whose nubile fruitfulness had shrivelled up like a sun-dried tomato, and men who looked diminished in a different way, plucked by age or ill-health from the vine of productive and meaningful labour. The only people in Carla’s age-group were a pair of punk-goths with spiked hair and extensive body-piercing, and an overweight figlio di mamma in a blazer, jeans and yellow pullover.

  The 36 bus finally arrived, and Carla rode down to Piazza Giovanni XXIII, where she bought a ticket on the AST service north along the coast. Thirty minutes later, she got off in Aci Castello, a small bathing resort dominated by the Norman castle for which it was named. A lot of other people, mostly young, also got out here, all kitted out for a day at the seaside.

  Carla followed them down to the sea, along the wooden walkway set out over the rocks and on to the rough path leading north. Here, outside the city, the bright sun seemed a benign presence, while the sea breeze was blissfully invigorating. People swam and sprawled on the lava rocks, while itinerant salesmen with flawless skin the colour of cooking chocolate hawked contraband gadgets and faked designer goods in a lazy, unthreatening way, as though they had no interest in making any money but were just passing the time.

  Carla stopped to chat with one of them and haggled casually over a shoulder bag she quite liked but had no intention of buying and then carrying all the way along the coast. As she turned away from the vucompra she noticed the man standing beside the path twenty metres or so behind her, seemingly looking out to sea. He was wearing jeans, a canary-yellow pullover and a blue blazer with gilt buttons. The outfit was as conspicuous and inappropriate for a day at the beach as it had been at the bus stop outside her apartment an hour earlier.

  Carla walked quickly on for some time, then sat down on one of the benches which were placed along the path, overlooking the Isole Ciclopi: the tall, jagged rocks which did indeed look as though some angry giant had just tossed them down from the smouldering bulk of Etna, like a child wanting to see how big a splash he could make. Glancing behind to her right, she noted that Blue Blazer had suddenly felt the need to rest too. There was no other bench nearby, so he was sitting on a ledge of the solidified lava flow, dusting the designated spot fastidiously before entrusting it with the seat of his Levi 501s.

  Carla got up and continued on her way, pausing after a few minutes to look at the view behind her. Blue Blazer had also decided that it was time to get a move on, but now he too was brought to a halt, apparently by some problem involving his shoes. When Carla reached the next miniature headland, she left the path and walked to the tip of the rocks razoring out into the sea. Turning as though to take in the whole panorama, she discovered that her understudy was admiring the view of Etna on the other side of the path, while making a call on his mobile phone.

  Carla squared her shoulders and walked quickly back to the path. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time or she’d arrive late. On the other hand, Corinna had been very specific about taking care that she was not followed, and clearly she was being followed. Confrontation, she decided, was the only way to resolve the situation. She hurried on along the path, which sloped up to a low rise formed by one of the jagged promontories thrust out into the sea. As soon as she was out of sight on the other side of this, she stopped. There was no one on the path ahead except for an elderly gentleman inspecting the seabirds through a pair of binoculars. A few moments later, Blue Blazer appeared at the top of the rise, panting slightly. He froze as Carla moved resolutely towards him.

  ‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded.

  The man made a vague, sheepish gesture.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t try to deny it! You took the same bus I did, just down the street from my apartment building, then the AST service to Aci Castello, and ever since then you’ve been following me along this path, stopping whenever I stop and…’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ the man protested in a panicky tone. ‘I’m just out for a walk, that’s all, the same as you. This is a public path, lots of people come here. You’re not the only one allowed, you know.’

  A shadow fell across the lava cinders between them.

  ‘May I be of any assistance, signorina?’

  Carla turned. It was the elderly bird-watcher. He had a shock of carefully groomed silver hair, an elaborately waxed moustache, and was wearing a linen suit against which a pair of Braun binoculars dangled from their leather strap.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Carla replied warmly. ‘This man has been following me ever since I left home this morning.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Blue Blazer protested. ‘She’s imagining things. It’s a complete coincidence. I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  The older man walked over to him at a deliberate pace. His face had become very grim.

  ‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he said in a low, chilling voice. ‘You were biding your time, weren’t you? Waiting for a suitable opportunity to present itself, and to get up enough courage to make your move. We all know about people like you, my friend. We know how to deal with them, too.’

  He added three short sentences in Sicilian. Carla could not understand the words, but there was no mistaking their lapidary brutality. Blue Blazer took several paces back and started to tremble. He mumbled something incoherent, then turned and walked off rapidly, almost running, in the direction from which he’d come.

  ‘Allow me to apologize unreservedly for that unpleasantne
ss, signorina,’ the elderly man remarked in a courtly tone.

  Carla smiled.

  ‘There’s no reason for you to apologize. On the contrary, thank you for your assistance.’

  The man shook his head with an expression of disgust.

  ‘You are from the north, I think. Yes? To come here and have this horrible experience, this appalling breach of every law of Sicilian courtesy… I feel deeply ashamed, signorina, but the cruel fact is that nowadays there are scum everywhere. At one time, a man like that wouldn’t have dared show his face out of doors. By the same token, of course, a lovely young woman such as yourself wouldn’t have dreamt of going for a walk unaccompanied in an isolated spot such as this. But there we are! The old rules have broken down and the new ones have yet to take effect.’

  Carla nodded briskly. Apparently she had evaded her amateurish shadower only to fall into the clutches of yet another elderly bore.

  ‘Well, thanks for getting rid of him. Now I must be off or I’ll be late for my appointment.’

  ‘Of course, of course! How far do you have to go?’

  ‘To Aci Trezza.’

  ‘Why, that’s where I live myself! It’s no more than ten minutes’ walk from here. Allow me to accompany you, signorina. No, no, I insist! I was on my way home anyway, and after that disagreeable incident I wouldn’t feel right letting you go alone. Have you been along here before? I come out every morning, to get some exercise and study the bird life. There’s a really quite amazing variety of species to be seen, some native, others migratory…’

  Taking Carla’s arm, he led the way along the path, keeping up a continuous commentary on the fauna and flora of the littoral, about which he seemed oppressively well-informed. As soon as they reached the outskirts of Aci Trezza, Carla explained that she was meeting someone at I Ciclopi, and took leave of her courtly companion, although not before he had given her directions to the hotel as well as one of his cards, and insisted that the next time she was there she should contact him.

  There was no sign of Corinna at the restaurant, but Carla’s suitcase had arrived. She reclaimed it and toyed with a cappuccino for twenty minutes, then walked outside. By now it was eleven forty-five, just fifteen minutes from the time when she had been instructed to give up and go home. It was deliciously warm yet airy in the shade of the huge awning. The only sounds were the slushy static of the wavelets on the rocks, the occasional clank of pots and pans in the kitchens, and the subliminal growl of a helicopter circling somewhere overhead.