He knew now what they were up to. Luca once claimed to have watched his parents through the keyhole, but then altered his story when Pepè accused him of perversion.
Even without Luca’s graphic eyewitness accounts, by now they all knew what their returning fathers did with their mothers – hence the arrival of Roberto, or Robertino as he immediately became known and would probably remain for the rest of his life. All the kids had a father who worked abroad, except Pepè whose father ran the garage. Enrico, of course, lived with his aunt and uncle. His mother had died from breast cancer several years after Enrico was born, and his father showed no interest in finding a replacement either in Germany or Calabria. Enrico claimed he remembered his mother’s face, but she was dead before he was four, which made his claim as unreliable as most of what he said.
The one thing Ruggiero knew for certain was that no matter what happened, his father would do the right thing, and that anything his father told him to do he would do. The Curmacis might not be the most loved family, but Basile, too, was unloved, had few surviving blood relatives, yet his writ extended as far as Filadelfia. People might whisper about the Curmacis, but no one would ever dare say out loud that Agazio Curmaci was an infame, which made the atmosphere of intimidation in the bar yesterday hard to accept.
He went up to his bedroom. His father would soon return to the village and on September 2nd they would attend the procession of the Madonna di Polsi and enjoy a fine picnic afterwards, where he would be encouraged by his father to drink wine and warned by his mother not to. Together he and his father would display quiet confidence.
Downstairs, his mother was moving back and forth as if cleaning the house. Ruggiero lay on his bed, closed his eyes and inhaled its familiar smell, the smell that had accompanied him through his childhood. He wished his father were here already, guarding the doors, fighting for his family.
24
Lake Avernus, Pozzuoli–Naples
Konrad was talking again.
‘It is logical for people with serious communication problems, or who are autistic or aggressive or sociopathic or suffer from Asperger’s syndrome, to choose to leave their home environment and live in a foreign land. I think this might explain some of the characteristics of the American people. Maladapted Europeans and captive Africans.’
‘Indeed?’ said Blume. Most of his energy was going into keeping the camper van on the road.
‘Yes, because people with serious problems in their relationships, if they are intelligent, travel away from their home and stay away. When they are abroad, they always have a pretext for acting alienated and their incapacity to relate to normal society becomes part of their foreignness. People will often justify their strange and sometimes unpleasant behaviour on the grounds of cultural differences and homesickness,’ said Konrad. ‘America was built by people like these. Also, if I might add, they were not very efficient people. These “pioneers” had an entire continent at their disposal as well as slave labour, yet their empire has lasted less time than the Macedonian kingdom. And as for comparing it with the Roman or Greek empires . . .’
‘You’re just in a bad mood because you haven’t eaten,’ said Blume.
‘I am not in a bad mood. But you are not a relaxing driver.’
‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much wine on an empty stomach, then you could be at the wheel.’
‘You are right. You will take me to Lake Avernus before we go on to Positano.’
‘Was that a question or an order?’ said Blume.
Konrad bent his head down so he could look out the window at the scenery around him. From the doleful head-shaking that followed, Blume knew what turn the conversation was about to take.
After several minutes Konrad said, ‘This country is filthy. So far every verge has been filled with rubbish and every road is full of potholes. Everything is falling down.’
Blume nodded, pleased at having guessed right. ‘I thought you might be about to say that, because you’ve already said that.’
‘But it is a disgrace,’ said Konrad. ‘Is this not a sign of inferiority? Be honest.’ But instead of giving Blume a chance to be honest, he added, ‘I do not think Italians will ever defeat organized crime. I think your theory about small units is quite plausible, but I don’t think it fully explains the Italian tendency to illegal behaviour. Of course, I do not think the Italians are racially inclined to violence and theft . . . and bad driving. I am hardly,’ he laughed at the absurdity of the idea, ‘a racist.’
‘The thought never even crossed my mind,’ said Blume.
‘. . . I think perhaps they have a virus.’
‘If you’re talking about the Mafia, remember that viruses spread, and Germany has been infected for some time.’
‘You must understand that I am not using a metaphor. I am referring to a real virus, a biological virus. Are you all right, Commissioner? You seem to be sucking.’
‘Sucking?’
‘Mist. That is not the right word. You have tremors in your face and you are pressing your eyes closed.’
‘I suffer from headaches,’ said Blume.
‘You should try transcranial magnetic stimulation,’ said Konrad. ‘It also gets rid of depression and reveals your hidden artistic abilities. Unfortunately, the effects are not permanent.’
‘I’ll tell my terrific doctor. What’s this virus you’re talking about?’
‘It is called Toxoplasma gondii. It is a virus like the one that causes malaria, and it is common throughout the world, but I believe it is particularly common in Italy. This virus enters the bloodstream, then invades the brains of its victims, in this case Italians, and causes neurosis. This is not to say all Italians have Toxoplasma gondii, but perhaps more have it here than in other countries. It causes poor driving and an inclination to risk taking and rule breaking.’
‘Where does your mysterious virus come from, Konrad?’
‘Ultimately, all viruses come from outer space.’
‘Same quadrant as you?’ asked Blume.
‘This virus,’ continued Konrad, ‘resides in cats and rats and other mammals. A rat with the virus altering its brain might be unnaturally attracted to cats – this is the risk taking at work, you understand. So the rat goes to the cat and says chase me . . .’
‘So it’s a talking rat?’
‘Obviously the rat does not speak,’ said Konrad. ‘You are not taking this seriously. You are a superficial man.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Blume. ‘The rat, without speaking, informs the cat – in writing perhaps? – that it wants to be chased.’
‘It makes this clear by virtue of the fact it approaches the cat. An animal that deliberately approaches its predator and seeks death is an unnatural thing.’
‘So the cat kills the rat,’ said Blume.
‘Absolutely!’ said Konrad, pleased that Blume had followed him this far in his reasoning. ‘The rat gets caught and dies, but the virus goes into the cat and from there it gets passed to humans. But it is also passed from the eating of raw meat. I am thinking of the raw pig that makes prosciutto, the raw beef in bresaola and Florentine steaks, raw milk used for cheeses, salami and lamb, but also contact with the soil.’
‘This is science fact?’
‘Unfortunately, Italy does not regularly screen its pregnant women for the virus, but all the contributing factors and symptoms are plain to see, so it is a reasonable scientific hypothesis.’
‘So maybe we should be concentrating on rounding up the cats, and after a few generations our women will stop giving birth to baby Mafiosi.’
‘You know I can tell when you are mocking me,’ said Konrad.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the lake.
‘I forget,’ said Blume. ‘Why are we here?’
‘You said you studied Latin in school,’ said Konrad. ‘You must have read Virgil?’
‘We had to.’
‘Ah.’ Konrad fell silent and consulted the SatNav and then surveyed the landscape, a fr
own on his face.
Blume cut the engine and climbed out of the camper van. It was good to stretch his legs. The two of them were the only people in sight. They walked down to the low wall bordering the lake. Blume jumped up onto the ledge and walked along it, looking down at Konrad’s bald patch. ‘This is Lake Avernus. I can see you’re disappointed. Is it the smell? That’s sulphur. It’s supposed to be good for you.’
Konrad followed Blume along the wall, then called out after him. ‘It’s not the smell. It’s the cement buildings all around. Also I thought Lake Avernus would be bigger.’
‘It’s just a large pool on the top of an exploded volcanic crater,’ said Blume.
Reluctantly, Konrad caught up with Blume. ‘But for such an important place . . .’
‘What’s important about it?’ asked Blume, leaping off the wall. The walk was doing him good.
‘In mythology, this is the Gate to Hades, the entrance to the Underworld. I thought you said you had to read Virgil in school.’
‘Doesn’t mean I have to believe him. Mythology again. You’re really into this stuff,’ said Blume. ‘Konrad, it’s just a lake. Virgil made all that shit up to please the new emperor. He probably didn’t even bother coming here to look at it.’
‘But there are real ruins of the Cumae sibyl over there. Those are real.’
‘Real in that there are Roman ruins there, yes. We don’t have time for a visit.’
‘Shh! I need to control something,’ said Konrad.
‘Check something, you mean, unless you’re talking about a Teutonic urge to take over a country, in which case . . .’
‘Please. You must be silent.’
Konrad appeared to be scanning the sky and listening hard, like a gunner waiting for an air attack. Eventually, he began to smile. ‘There. What do you hear?’
By way of reply, Blume popped another aspirin.
‘Can’t you hear the silence?’ said Konrad, his eyes still skyward.
‘I can hear a television,’ said Blume. ‘A motorbike, a girl having an argument, someone hammering metal on the other side of the lake, a dog barking, now I hear a car . . . and a passenger jet coming into Capodichino airport. Tell me when to stop.’
‘No, no, I meant the silence. Listen to the silence!’
‘Behind all the noise, there’s always silence,’ said Blume.
‘I meant the absence of birds. Virgil wrote that no birds fly over this lake, because it is the entrance to the Underworld. And look, just as Virgil said, there are no birds! Avernus, you see, comes from the Greek a-ornithos, which means without birds.’
‘Do ducks count?’ said Blume, pointing to a bunch of reeds from which a loud quacking sound like laughter was emerging.
Konrad folded his arms and stared disapprovingly at the reeds, before striding off like a damaged wind-up toy back to the camper van, and remained there making his own contribution to the silence.
Blume, fed up with driving, decided Konrad was sober enough to get back in the driver’s seat. This seemed to cheer the BKA man up somewhat. He disappeared into the back of the camper and emerged with a packet of wholemeal biscuits and black Vollkornbrot, a piece of which he offered to Blume. Blume declined the bread and pointed instead to Konrad’s SatNav. ‘Use your navigator to get us out of here and plot a route to the hotel. Put in Campi Flegrei to Positano, see if it forces us to pass through the middle of Naples, which it probably will.’
Konrad was pleased to do this, and they were soon on their way again, bouncing down a crumbling lane, branches scraping the sides of the van. By Blume’s reckoning the pointless expedition to Lake Avernus, a place far below Konrad’s classicist expectations, had cost them no more than an hour and a half.
After ten minutes of driving, Blume stopped believing the SatNav and told Konrad to take a left, then another. The SatNav announced that it was recalculating, and then instructed them to go right where no right was to be seen. Blume realized they must have missed a turn, and were now heading inland, away from the Naples Tangenziale.
Konrad, who had maintained a beautiful silence all this time, now stopped dead in the middle of a crossroads and read out the road signs: ‘Quarto, Manano. We are in Campi Flegrei now, I think . . . where is Pozzuoli? It must be behind us.’ He pulled the camper to the side of the road.
‘That’s your stupid navigator for you.’
‘I have very good orienteering skills, but I need to be outside the vehicle,’ said Konrad.
‘No, you stay there. I’ll do this,’ said Blume. He got out of the camper van and stood on the bonnet to see over the hedges. He caught a glimpse of the sea, which was enough. If they headed that way, they couldn’t go wrong.
Konrad got out too.
‘No, you get back in. I don’t want advice from you or your navigator.’
Konrad stayed where he was. ‘I got out because I think your reckless driving damaged the engine,’ he said. ‘I think it is beginning to overheat.’
Blume had noticed the burning smell, too, but had put it out of his mind. He sniffed at the bonnet. Nothing.
‘I think it’s coming from somewhere over there,’ he said. ‘Someone is burning stubble in a field.’
Konrad tilted his head back and sniffed. ‘It is melting plastic,’ he announced. ‘Naples is famous for this sort of behaviour. But perhaps it is a house?’
‘It’s not.’
‘You will run that risk?’
‘More of a risk for whoever’s in the house than for me.’
‘That’s your attitude?’
‘Jesus. Look, I’ll show you it’s not a house. Come on.’
The pair of them walked in the direction of the smoke, now getting thicker and yellower and sweeter. It reawakened Blume’s headache.
‘There,’ said Blume, pointing. ‘Someone is burning plastic in a field.’
‘Like that, in broad daylight. In front of neighbours,’ marvelled Konrad. ‘In Germany . . .’
‘This isn’t Germany,’ said Blume.
‘No. In Germany we have a society and the law is the same for everyone. Gesellschaft is the word. Here it is all Gemeinschaft. The law is not equal and justice is achieved through private channels.’
They had reached the edge of the field, on the far side of which a pile of plastic sacks was smouldering. There were houses about, but no one in sight. Blume waved his hand at the dreary dump and said, ‘Satisfied?’
‘If we were in Germany and I was showing you my country, and we discovered something like this, I would intervene as a policeman.’
Blume clambered over some woody briars and stood at the edge of the field, watching the white and yellow plumes of poison floating straight up, until a breeze from the sea caused them to swirl and drift towards him. He covered his mouth and nose with his arm and walked forwards. There was no one about, and there was no way of knowing to whom the field belonged. The wind changed direction again and blew the air clean, allowing him to breathe and see better. He could probably stamp on the smouldering heap and put it out.
He turned back and looked at Konrad, who had moved closer to the camper van. Another stream of air from the sea lifted up a new type of blacker and harsher smoke, smelling of diesel fumes, which clung to the ground, turning over and over on itself. Fuck this, he thought to himself, and turned back.
A sudden dull thump made him look around as, fanned by a crosswind, the rubbish heap burst into orange flame. The heavy oily smoke merged with the faster-moving yellow clouds to create an opaque fog that billowed outwards and upwards, far higher and faster than the quantity of material seemed to justify. There was no question now of approaching to investigate. If the blaze became any more intense, maybe one of the neighbours, or the arsonist himself, would call the fire brigade and ask them to save his house. If they turned up too late, he would appear on national television to denounce the government authorities for his misfortunes.
The subsiding black soil in the middle of the flame seemed to writhe and emit a hissing a
nd screeching sound. As Blume stood fascinated, something scampered across the top of his shoe, and a moment later another object, soft but with compact mass and moving at speed, knocked against his ankle.
Blume felt his flesh tighten against his bones. Fleeing rats, many of them, were rushing towards him, escaping the fire and smoke. The writhing mass on the ground was almost upon him, as he broke into a run.
He was far too late to escape the living tide. Hundreds of rats overtook him, fanning out in front of him as if he were the pursuer and they the pursued. As he drew near the camper, gathering pace all the time, he saw Konrad leap in and slam the driver’s door behind him and vanish.
Faster rats from behind mounted the backs of the slower ones in front, sometimes leapfrogging them, sometimes tumbling in the process, causing a pile-up, into which other rats would run until three or four of them stacked on top of each other, momentarily as high as his kneecaps.
Konrad was invisible, still deaf to his appeals, so Blume adjusted his flight and headed for the side of the camper van, which he hit at full speed. The door was unlocked, but he had to stop and pull it outwards. He jumped in and kicked it closed, but had the feeling that something else had leapt in with him. He surveyed the floor, the walls, and thought he saw a movement near Konrad’s suitcases. Well, one or two rodents wasn’t a problem. He shoved his head through the curtain separating him from the cab, where Konrad lay across the two seats, as white as if he were dead. When Blume appeared, Konrad let out a low moan of abject terror, before making a slight recovery, edging himself out of his prostrate position into one that was merely slumped.
‘Keys,’ demanded Blume, climbing with difficulty through the gap and into the front.
Konrad started fumbling around in his pockets. The soft thuds against the side of the camper and the dancing and trembling sensation from the ground beneath were like heavy rain. Blume manoeuvred himself into the driver’s seat. Konrad was now waving the keys in front of him, but Blume was staring transfixed out the window. The rats had gone already, and the sea wind had snatched the toxic smoke and whipped it away into the clouds to poison the raindrops.
The Namesake Page 16
