Blume was shivering, because it was damp and ghastly in the cave and because he had just killed a man. He recognized the plastic LED lanterns now: from the home and garden section of IKEA. They were one of the last objects displayed for impulse buys before the warehouse section. Caterina had wanted one, even though neither she nor he had so much as a balcony, let alone a garden. There were four of them in the cavern. They shone pure white unto themselves, but bathed everything around them in shades of yellow and grey and did not nearly penetrate the darkness behind.
He was sitting underground with Curmaci. He was still holding his weapon, and Curmaci did not seem to mind. Their voices boomed and echoed as they spoke. He was pretty sure it was not a dream, but it didn’t feel very real either.
Curmaci popped the shells out of the shotgun. He pocketed them and tossed the weapon carelessly in the direction of the incongruous door at the entrance. He propped a foot on the log table, and contemplated Blume.
‘Was that your first time to kill a man?’
Blume nodded.
‘It’s not as hard as you’d think, is it? The first thing to do is to persuade yourself it is not a man, which will have been easy with that stinking goat Pietro. Easy for you, I mean. For me, it would have been a bit harder. He and his wife virtually brought up my boy along with their fat spoiled nephew, Enrico. Pietro, for all his faults, was like a father to his nephew Enrico, and like an uncle to my son. And you have just shot him dead. A single shot, that’s all you had, and that’s all it took. You didn’t pull the trigger again, which is not just a sign of your self-confidence, but also of your humanity.’
‘Obviously you left me just one round in the pistol.’
‘Yes. I took out the others. Then left it for you to find. You were hardly going to use it on me while Pietro was behind you, and you could not use it on him while you were in the tunnel.’
‘What if I had not found the gun or missed my shot?’
‘Then you would be dead and I would have had the sad task of killing Pietro myself,’ said Curmaci. ‘Now he has a bullet from a police-issue weapon in his head, which is good for me, and possibly good for you, since it gives us a bit of wriggle room. For example, you could take the blame for killing Megale’s only son, as indeed you should, and I would make sure the revenge attack on you never happens, especially since the Megales are about to lose all power.’
‘Why was he working for you and not his brother?’
‘Because his father told him to. Domenico ordered Pietro to side with me against Tony. Pietro, without quite knowing it, had been waiting for years for this moment to come, the moment his father would finally change his mind about the viper he brought into the bosom of his family. Tony was plotting to take over from the old man. Everyone knew that for years except Old Megale himself. Tony felt he had been overlooked too long, and wanted me in particular out of the way. But Megale had time to think in prison, and he noticed the frequency and enthusiasm of the visits he received. Tony should have worked out that if Old Megale could adopt an outsider once, he could do it again. Finally Old Megale listened to me. I told him Tony was going to kill him, me, and Pietro, his one real child. I persuaded him that I had no ambitions to take his place but he needed to do something about Tony.’
‘And he believed you.’
‘Of course. I spoke the truth. I cannot be a boss like Megale. It’s not how I fit in.’
‘Then why kill Pietro?’
‘Sooner or later, he would have been taunted into revenging the man who killed his half-brother. He’d have killed me as a question of pride and appearances.’
‘So have you killed Tony?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You might have let Konrad Hoffmann live.’
‘Again, a question of appearances,’ said Curmaci. ‘He came out of the blue. What was I supposed to do, let him threaten us?’
‘I understand,’ said Blume. He raised his Beretta quickly, almost touching the bridge of Curmaci’s long Greek nose with the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
The click was obvious, embarrassing even as it echoed in the cavern. The ensuing silence was very deep, only the dripping water breaking it. Curmaci seemed to stir as if he had been asleep, and lifted his eyelids, heavy and reproachful, and stared at Blume in the half light.
‘That sort of hurt my feelings,’ he said.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Blume. He put his useless Beretta down on the table between them. ‘But supposing you had miscounted, or there had been one in the chamber? You can hardly blame me for trying.’
Curmaci was staring upwards at the roof. ‘The first time I killed a man, a boy it was – but I was no more than a boy myself – I was in agony for months. It was the worst thing in my life, and my father made me do it. I didn’t speak to him for almost a year, and he patiently accepted that. I thought of becoming a monk, of going to the police, of killing myself, of killing my father and the person who ordered him to induct me into the blood ritual of the clan. I thought of approaching the brothers of the boy I had killed and letting them deal with me. And yet you, Blume, who say you have never killed a man, lift up a steady hand, put a gun right in my face, and pull the trigger on the off-chance. Have you acquired a taste for blood?’
‘A taste for life,’ said Blume.
‘You want to stay alive at all costs. Good. Your bullet is in the head of an Ndranghetista. The repercussions of this depend on you and me. I’d like to come to an agreement with you. I think you would make a very good contact for me. The rewards don’t stop with my allowing you to live now. Money and probable career advancement would flow from any understanding between us.’
‘What sort of understanding?’
‘Not on anything specific for now. I’d like to come to an open-ended arrangement with you.’
‘I see,’ said Blume.
‘But I can’t offer anything concrete right now. I am not even sure a deal will be possible. I need to seek opinions. Old bosses like to have their outmoded opinions sought after.’
‘And first you have to win your internal feud,’ said Blume.
‘It’s not a feud, just a minor coup. Tomorrow I will attend the Polsi summit meeting. Among other things, I will tell them I have a police commissioner captive – I’ll mention your name but no one really knows who you are. Then we’ll discuss three choices. You die and are never found, which would be seen as a muted declaration of war on the police, but not the sort that would get the attention of the public like Cosa Nostra did when they started killing magistrates and bombing monuments. The second option is you die and your body is put somewhere symbolic. Maybe in front of the sanctuary of Polsi when the police are about to celebrate the Archangel Saint Michael. I know that option is going to look very tempting to some bosses who are enraged at this proposed violation of the sanctity of the sanctuary of the Madonna by the forces of the State. Having a captive police commissioner will definitely work to my advantage when explaining my position. I’ll try to talk them out of using you as a scapegoat though.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Not for your sake. Clamorous declarations of war on the state are not good for business. Still, if they do decide to send out a signal of defiance, you’ll become posthumously famous, have streets named after you, Via Falcone, Via Borsellino, Via Blume. What sort of name is that, anyhow?’
‘Magistrates, not policemen, have streets named after them,’ said Blume.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But if you live, it will be on borrowed time and I am the lender you have to pay back. You will need me and soon enough you will want me on your side. For example, your career prospects will have to be advanced through certain channels rather than others. Because no matter what you say or do, certain anti-Mafia fundamentalists in the force will always remember that at a certain critical point, you and I had a common enemy, and you took him out for me. They will recall that you and I must have sat and talked as we are doing now. So you will need to align yourself with
those of your colleagues who see the world in shades of grey, and understand the value of cooperation. I think you can live with that. Especially after I saw you put a gun in my face and pull the trigger.’
‘It was empty. We both knew it.’
‘Then why pull the trigger? You did not even flinch.’
‘Nor you,’ said Blume.
‘I knew absolutely it was empty.’
‘What about killing Dagmar, was that easy?’
‘Don’t take on such a moralizing tone. You never even knew her.’
‘I am just curious,’ said Blume.
‘As a matter of fact, it was not easy for me at the time. I think you’d find it easier than me, Blume.’
‘I would never kill an innocent young woman.’
‘Sure you would. You’d be even easier to persuade than I was. I can tell. You’re the type, only you don’t know it yet. Right now, take a measure of your regret for Pietro over there. Go on. How sorry do you feel? It’s not even registering, is it? You feel so completely justified and right. Not everyone is like that.’
‘I’d have let Konrad live.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. He was about to cause no end of upsets and upheavals, and in this business that means bloodshed. Killing him saved lives.’
‘Who had the other half of the Madonna picture, you?’
‘Yes, I did. Basile, he’s the local boss, says he wants to frame the two halves of the Madonna in his bar. Basile, by the way, is completely on my side, which is good news for you. And one of the reasons he is on my side is that he believes firmly that Tony set up an elaborate plot against me. The namesake killing, the arrivals of Konrad and you, the rumours of a confession by Maria Itria. So you helped my case too, by setting my wife up as a snitch. See the way you’re prepared to sacrifice a young woman for your own convenience?’
‘Not for my own convenience. I am protecting society.’
‘You have some political ideas in your mind that aren’t even yours to begin with. You love yourself so much you think certain ideas are sacred just because they happen to live in your head. My actions will probably save lives, but you don’t count them. Mafiosi killing Mafiosi is more than OK, it’s something you welcome. You get to decide whose lives are worth more. Does my wife deserve to die more than your girlfriend, what’s her name . . . that female inspector? Caterina, that’s her.’
‘Don’t.’
‘I’ll try not to, Commissioner, but maybe you could have thought of her beforehand. Now I go back to my family that you put in danger, I instruct them to stay put, to fight. I forgive my wife because in the end your lie became a reality and she called Arconti for help, and I tell her that anyone who knows this is in danger, and anyone who reveals it is dead, and I tell Basile and others I have a policeman in captivity, though I won’t say where, awaiting our decision.’
‘How do you know it was my lie? How do you know I was behind the altered transcript?’
‘Word gets around. If all this works out for the best, join me and you’ll find yourself meeting the most surprising people in the most unexpected places.’
‘Massimiliani informed on me?’
‘No, Commissioner. It’s simpler than that. I knew it wasn’t Arconti, because I know his style. It had to be you. All I had to do was listen and find out a few details, like where they found the transcripts – your office and in Arconti’s office after you had been in there. Logic works better than spies.’
‘You ordered the murder of an innocent man simply to intimidate an honest magistrate.’
‘Wrong again. The murder of that unfortunate Milanese man was a declaration of war against me.’
‘So you didn’t order it?’
‘I can’t order Tony Megale to do anything. What I can do, and what I did, was give him enough space to make a serious mistake. Ever since he murdered his mother – did you know he did that? Ever since then people have been waiting for someone to wipe the slate clean. There is another branch of the Megale family in Africo that is keen to see the surname purified, and will support me.’
Curmaci picked up his pistol from the table, then the shotgun and backed away towards the edge of the cave. ‘The meeting’s tomorrow. You had better hope for the best. The batteries on those lamps last for ages, but you might want to save them.’
He made broad sweeps with the shotgun pointing around the cave. ‘Some cans. An old opener. Camp stove, hope there’s still gas. Water on the right; catch it in a cup. Oh, you had better shit away from the water. That’s important.’
‘You’re leaving me here?’
‘You want me to shoot you? I’d prefer to give you the chance to think about my offer. If I come back for you in two or three days, and next week you find yourself walking on the right side of the earth and enjoying the sun, then maybe you’ll have learned to trust me a bit. I’ve got some walking to do myself now. All the way back to Ardore.’
Curmaci went towards the steel door, keeping him covered with the pistol and fading into the darkness. Blume did not see him open the door, but now he heard him close it and slide a bolt on the other side.
Curmaci’s voice came muffled through the steel. ‘Just wait for me. Trust, Commissioner, and if you can’t trust . . .’
But his next words were lost as he moved down the passage.
Blume stayed motionless for ten minutes examining his options. Then he stood up and went around the cavern, unhooking the four lanterns from steel nails hammered into the rock. He brought them over to the table, and turned them off one by one. After the last had gone out, he sat there, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. When he had been sitting there for what seemed like half an hour, he accepted that the darkness was total. He lit one lantern, and went over to the door and gave it a few kicks, each harder than the last, exorcizing the deathly silence, pleased to be able to declare his presence through noise, but managing to unnerve himself too. Hammering on doors was what the incarcerated insane did.
Over the next few hours, how many he could not tell, he twice went over with a lamp to where the body lay and looked at the white face staring as if at something on the roof behind him. Twice he raised the lantern to see what Pietro was gazing at, knowing that his action made no sense. Blume had seen many dead bodies in his time, but never one whose death he had been responsible for. He gave it a kick, then whispered, ‘Fuck you,’ and waited to see if he felt any sense of angry triumph, but he didn’t. Then he cleared his throat and said, more solemnly, ‘Sorry.’
But he didn’t feel sorry either.
He returned to the entrance, gave the door a few more kicks. It did not budge, and even if it opened, there would be no ladder at the end of the nightmare corridor outside. But he could not think of any better plan. He went back towards the table where he had seen some pieces of cutlery, a fork. He was but four steps from the table when, without any preliminary flickering, the first lamp died with the suddenness of someone switching it off. He walked till he felt himself hitting the wood.
Wednesday, 2 September
48
Locri
With just three hours to go before the Polsi celebrations began, Enrico Megale phoned Ruggiero Curmaci and said, ‘Are you coming today?’ His voice was full of excitement, perhaps because of the day ahead, perhaps because his father was there.
‘Sure,’ said Ruggiero.
‘You need a lift?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Ruggiero.
‘No? How are you getting there?’
‘By car, I suppose,’ said Ruggiero.
A few beats passed before Enrico said, ‘OK. I’ll see you there. Call us if you need a lift, OK?’
‘Sure,’ said Ruggiero. ‘Are you going with your father?’
‘Yes! Great, isn’t it? Look, I’m sorry your dad couldn’t make it back. I hear there are problems. Maybe he’ll arrive at the procession at the last moment, huh? Did he say anything?’
‘We’ve not heard from him.’
‘So, you
r mother’s going to drive?’ asked Enrico.
‘I guess,’ said Ruggiero.
‘We won’t be leaving for another hour and a half, so . . . you know.’
‘Thanks, Enrico. You’re a good friend.’
‘Yeah, oh listen you haven’t seen my uncle anywhere, have you? Zia Rosa is out of her mind with worry. Pietro got a call yesterday afternoon, went out, and hasn’t come back since and has turned off his phone.’
‘I’ve been here all the time, Enrico, so I never saw him. Who called him?’
‘He didn’t say. He didn’t even say someone had called. My aunt heard his phone ringing, then it stopped and he left without saying a word. He took the car. Did I tell you about the car?’
‘No,’ said Ruggiero. ‘You mean the old Fiat Ritmo?’
‘Yeah. The other night it slipped out of gear, went rolling out of the drive on to the road, and got stuck in a ditch. Wild! Imagine if it had hit someone. It would have been like getting hit by a car driven by a ghost. Yesterday morning, Uncle Pietro looks out the window and says, “They’ve stolen the fucking Ritmo!” And then my aunt says maybe it slipped out of gear and rolled away, and he says, “No, they’ve stolen it, the bastards.” Then my aunt, she puts some cheese on his bread, waits till it’s all in his mouth, and says, “How much do you think they’ll get for it?” And my uncle almost died from laughing, choking on his bread, and had to spit it out, the two of them like kids, howling at the idea of someone trying to sell the Ritmo. It turns out it was her fault. She was the last one to drive it, and she remembers not bothering to put it into gear when she parked under the kitchen window. My uncle says women drivers are so bad they even have crashes after they’ve parked, which was a good one.’
‘That’s a hell of a story about the car.’
‘Yeah. It’s gone, too. Zio must have taken it. It’s a pity your father’s not here for you.’
‘Maybe he went straight to Polsi, to avoid certain people,’ said Ruggiero. ‘You never know.’
‘Yeah, could be. Our dads were booked on the same flight, but yours pulled out at the last moment.’
The Namesake Page 32
