The Namesake

by Conor Fitzgerald

  ‘What other people?’

  ‘Your colleagues in Rome, the press, and, above all, the victim’s family. We have already told them it was an East European gang that was trying to intimidate Magistrate Arconti.’

  ‘What difference does it make for the family? An East European gang murdering their husband and father because he happens to share a name with a magistrate, or an Italian criminal organization doing exactly the same? How could one version possibly be better than the other?’

  ‘We need to let Curmaci go. We want to give him rope to hang himself. In any case, he is untouchable for the Arconti killing, and possibly unconnected. It is hard to tell. Now that we are watching him very closely and know a bit more about him, we wish him success in a way, because it is good to know the enemy. So we let him walk away from this. For now. You understand that this is part of what we have to do.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Caterina.

  ‘You know, you’re wrong about the story making no difference for the family, because as far as they know, the people who dreamed up and carried out this atrocity are dead. They think they have had their revenge, and so they have closure. If they were to find out it was the Ndrangheta . . .’

  ‘What would happen if they found out?’

  ‘Then,’ said Ezio Bazza, Deputy Director of the Milan section of the Anti-Mafia Prosecution Bureau, ‘they would know Arconti was the victim of an organization that Italy can never defeat.’

  Polsi

  Towards the end of the day, Basile raised a glass of wine, and said, ‘I am a man of peace. A man of peace must know how to turn the other cheek. I know that many of you are outraged at the desecration that the authorities, accompanied by a horde of Germans and journalists, intend to visit upon this holy site tomorrow, but we shall not rise to the bait. It is not in our interest. Let them provoke us all they like, for now. We shall have other occasions to show them the error of their ways.’

  The sixteen men seated below had feasted, negotiated, drunk and danced all day, and now sat in the soft orange light of the evening sun, and yet his words caused a murmur of discontent to run down the table before they finally raised their glasses and joined in his toast.

  They drank and smoked, and exchanged some bawdy jokes. The women came in with liquors and aniseed biscuits, and some of the younger children broke through and started running around the table, receiving caresses, pretend punches and hugs from the men. When sufficient time had passed for it to be clear that no contradiction of Basile’s toast was intended, a man named Macrì addressed himself to Basile.

  ‘Capo, I have heard a rumour that the police intend to return at the end of the month and perform their own procession in honour of the Archangel St Michael. Twice in one month, they intend to come here.’

  ‘Yes. It will be an empty gesture. And they will not do it next year. That is a promise.’

  This time, the murmur sounded more satisfied.

  Later, when the noise level had gone up again, Agazio Curmaci came up and sat down on an empty chair near Basile.

  ‘We have already spoken, Agazio.’

  ‘I know. But if you’ll forgive me, I want everyone here to see you speaking with me.’

  ‘If I wanted to be seen speaking to you in front of these men, I would have called you over. What you are doing is disrespectful and arrogant.’

  ‘I am sorry. I also wanted to say something that I hope may be of use. We have a bargaining chip with the police.’

  ‘We have more than one. Are you referring to the commissioner who was seen entering but not leaving Locri?’

  ‘If they found his body, mutilated and strategically placed . . .’

  Basile held up his hand. ‘Did I not just say I was a man of peace? We will not respond to the provocation of the authorities. You have this commissioner alive in a safe place?’

  ‘Immured where he cannot be found.’

  ‘They do not seem to be looking for him yet.’

  ‘No, but they will. And they will also start looking for the German.’

  ‘Agazio, the next few days promise to be troublesome on several fronts. Let’s not add to the confusion. Two vanished policemen is more than enough.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Stability and continuity are what we want. Return to Germany at the first opportunity. With my blessing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No more initiatives. I shall see to the rest.’

  ‘Thank you. What about the policeman?’

  ‘For the sake of peace, let him rot.’

  Thursday, 3 September

  49

  Ardore

  Blume opened his eyes to the dark. Smell was the most primal sense. Eyes, ears, touch could all be fooled, but it was hard to fool the nose. What you saw was not always there, what you heard could be an echo, but a smell was a smell. He stood up and inhaled with mouth and nose like he was on a mountaintop. It had seemed that Pietro had walked in his own light, then stretched himself out directly opposite, but his memory was not real, so there was no point in using it to find the body. Instead, he stooped down and, sniffing like a dog, moved towards the corpse. His nose did not lead him astray and, within minutes, he was on his knees, arms outstretched over the dead body. One hand touched hair, the other something wet and cold. He almost wept at first contact, but he was not going to give up. Using the tips of his fingers, he established the position of the head, the neck, and then he touched the greasy denim fabric, and began to search systematically, feeling for pockets, buttons, his sense of urgency and hope driving away his revulsion.

  Milan

  Magistrate Bazza had been quite put out when Caterina announced her intention to stay in Milan and visit Arconti’s widow, Letizia, and children. She had planned the visit before he called her up one day ahead of her schedule.

  ‘It would be better if you did not visit the widow. It’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘It’s planned. Besides, you want me to lie to her about the case, don’t you?’

  ‘I want you to comfort her with a half truth. Why tomorrow?’

  ‘The family has been staying with Letizia’s parents in Tuscany. They come back this evening, and I’ll see them in the morning. My visit will coincide with their first day back in Milan.’

  ‘Do you expect me to authorize your hotel bill?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t get the reimbursement for a year anyhow. Just sign a piece of paper saying you needed me here for two days to conclude the investigations. That way I don’t have to use my holiday time.’

  ‘But you were prepared to pay a hotel bill and lose a day of holiday because the widow of a murder victim asked you to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bazza shook his head in disgust. ‘That’s not how it’s done.’ But as they left, he said he would look into a way of reimbursing her.

  She slept badly in the hotel room, thinking about Blume and, sometimes, wondering whether to break her promise to Bazza and tell Letizia Arconti the truth. It was supposed to set people free.

  The next morning, sitting in a bar eating a second pastry with a bad conscience, Caterina watched the trams and was quite impressed by their regularity. The one that would take her to the Indro Montanelli Gardens came every five minutes, but being nervous, early and full of carbohydrates to which she should never have succumbed, she decided to walk instead. Heaving her overnight bag on to her shoulder, she pushed in a pair of earphones, double-checked that incoming calls would interrupt the music, scrolled down, and selected a playlist dominated by Einaudi. A tram went clanging by and ruined the lush opening of ‘Out of the Night’. She restarted the track and set off at a brisk walk down Via Conservatorio. Now all she had to do was walk to the end, go left, then right and wait for the gardens to appear. In the middle of the busy street, she paused like the worst sort of lost tourist, and called Blume’s number yet again, which went to voice mail yet again.

  The road opened into a piazzetta. To her right was a church with an ugly façade
. Rome did this sort of thing better, she thought with pride. She checked her map. Basilica Santa Maria della Passione. Her appointment was simply for the morning, not at any fixed time, and she did not want to arrive too early. She crossed the cobblestones and entered the church that turned out to be far larger, brighter and more beautiful inside than the façade had led her to expect.

  Caterina dipped her finger in the holy water font and touched her forehead, allowing a drop to run down the bridge of her nose. She centred herself in the aisle, genuflected briefly, politely, professionally, she hoped, and walked down towards the transept and the high altar. Blume would have been able to tell her stuff about the frescos. When it came to art, he always said he knew nothing. His parents had been experts, not him. He was just a policeman. After he had gone through this tiresome rigmarole, based more on anger and hurt than false modesty, he might relent, and if the artist was one he knew a lot about, his enthusiasm would soon displace his reticence and unhappiness. In fact, once he got going, it was hard to shut him up.

  She stared for a while at a Last Supper. The red-haired Christ, seated at the end of a foreshortened table, gazed back at her. Applying Blume’s advice, she suspended her automatic reverence and looked for what was intentionally or, better, unintentionally funny in the painting. According to Blume, irreverence was the key to understanding whether a work was any good. If it made you laugh, maybe it contained subtle humour or maybe it was simply laughable. Never trust to reputation. This Christ, she reflected, looked a bit feminine and He definitely had a stoned expression in his eyes. A tripping Christ with hair the colour of copper. The apostles around Him seemed to be more professional, the efficient staff of a boss whose best days were behind Him and whose immediate future was looking pretty bleak.

  But try as she might, she could not keep her reverence for the Son of God and the ancient artist at bay, and the painting ended up making her feel smaller. She went in search of a more intimate side chapel that Blume would have censured as kitsch. She sat and stared at a Virgin holding a child. Blume would thrown his head back and scoffed; Caterina bent her head forward and prayed.

  Twenty minutes later, she was on her way through the Indro Montanelli Gardens, the trees and open space a relief after the unfamiliar streets. She did not trust Milanese drivers; you could never tell what they might do next. In Rome, you needed to make sure the driver had seen you, and then you were OK. Here she was not so sure.

  She was still in good time. She was increasingly nervous about her meeting with Letizia and the children, if the children were there. All she had to tell them was a lie.

  It was hot on the exposed white pebble path, but she soon entered an avenue of handsome straight-trunked trees with rich foliage through which the sunlight reached her fragmented and fruit-scented. She wondered what type they were.

  Ardore

  Blume’s search netted him a lighter, which he held triumphantly in the air as he lit it. In the flickering flame the dead man’s face took on various expressions, most of them malignant, some of them amused, some of them horror-filled. Blume ignored them all, his mind being fixed on practical considerations. The next prize given up by the corpse was a shotgun shell stuck into the bottom of his jeans pocket, where the fabric touched the groin. Clicking the lighter on and off to stop it from burning his fingers, he pushed his hands into the back pockets of the trousers, and finally, there it was, the real treasure that had had to be revealed to him in a dream, since his waking mind was not working right. Reverently, Blume pulled it out, slid the cover up, and was bathed in the white light of a functioning Nokia mobile phone. He checked it. No signal, of course, and just one bar left on the battery.

  Using the lighter, he made his way back to the log table, picked up a lamp, turned it on, and enjoyed the light. He retrieved the cup from the corner of the cavern and drank. He picked up a can from the ground and hacked into it with the opener. Peeled San Marzano tomatoes. He tipped the contents into his mouth. Lovely. Now he had to leave before the battery on the phone died.

  50

  Locri

  Basile stood next to the repaired ice-cream machine that buzzed softly as it cooled down the mixture. Tony Megale was there and had brought his own firepower, Peppino and Giacomo. Basile smiled to see Giacomo looking so grown-up and self-important now, big ’70s-style sunglasses, a flame tattoo poking up from beneath his silk shirt.

  ‘Are you the same little Giacomino who went missing, you had half the town out looking for you, then it turns out you were at home, playing a trick on your brother, but got so scared by all the fuss you stayed hiding for hours?’

  With a curt nod, Giacomo acknowledged that this might be so.

  ‘You were eight at the time. What age are you now?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Twelve years.’ Basile shook his head in amazement and sadness. ‘Would you like an ice cream, Giacomo?’

  Giacomo gave the old man a cool stare and declined the offer with a contemptuous click of his tongue.

  Basile smiled indulgently and turned his attention to the other. ‘And you are Nando’s son. Beppe was your grandfather?’

  The youth nodded, pleased to be recognized.

  ‘Your grandfather and I were friends. Did he ever mention that to you?’

  ‘He died when I was very young, but my father always said there was no one could beat you . . .’

  Tony Megale interrupted. ‘We’ll have all the time we want to talk about this later. Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Basile.

  ‘Agazio Curmaci, of course. Who else?’

  ‘I thought you might mean your older brother, Pietro.’

  ‘I fear for him. He is a simple man who is easily led astray. I even fear he may have chosen the wrong side, but if that’s the case, I will forgive him as he is my brother.’

  ‘Is everyone sure they don’t want any ice cream . . .?’ Basile looked at the three of them. ‘All right. Your loss.’ He sighed. ‘This is a bad business. Curmaci is a repository of some of our deepest traditions and has ensured that they are replicated, honoured and enforced in Germany. The loss of such a subtle and fluid man could set us back, unless, of course, there was someone equally qualified and skilled, ready to take his place . . .’

  Tony Megale put his shoulders back and expanded his chest, creating a tiny regal space for himself between the two kids he had brought along.

  ‘Even then,’ continued Basile, ‘it would be a self-inflicted wound, and forgiveness and compromise are still options.’

  ‘The Honoured Society,’ said Tony, ‘is the Tree of Knowledge. The Capo Bastone is the trunk. If a branch is diseased and grows crooked, it shall be lopped off. One who collaborates with the authorities of the Italian State, with the Federal Police of Germany is no longer a man. My father, Megale u Vecchiu, spent years in prison because of an act of betrayal by Curmaci, and the decades of incarceration have destroyed his wisdom and discrimination and rendered him less than half the man he used to be. Curmaci is the infame who alerted the woman in the Finance Ministry about our carousel VAT system. That’s why he was so keen to make her disappear afterwards.’

  ‘That is a serious charge against him, Tony. So serious that I wonder why you are reporting it only now.’

  ‘I only found out now. The crazy German called me a few days ago. He says he has papers to prove it.’

  ‘So now we must believe the crazy German, who came down full of wild accusations, with a Madonna ripped in half claiming to represent your father’s will?’

  ‘My father no longer speaks with reason.’

  ‘The German said nothing about this to me,’ said Basile.

  ‘He was finally thinking about his own life,’ said Tony, ‘instead of trying to ruin ours.’

  ‘And these papers that prove this betrayal?’

  ‘The scagnozzi you engaged gutted the camper without searching it properly.’

  ‘Young people have no foresight,’ said Basile. ‘Tony, you have a mature m
ind. Are you sure of the decision you have made? I see from your face that you are. It is terrible that this should come so soon after the joyous festivities in celebration of Our Lady. The sanctuary is now crawling with policemen, our common enemy, and yet we find ourselves fighting each other again. Will you reconsider?’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘You will meet Men of Honour from Reggio and Crotone. They will be waiting for you at the end of Via Garibaldi. Before you take any action, they must be persuaded that this is not a mere personal vendetta and that it will not lead to a debilitating feud. If one of them objects to your course of action, you shall do nothing. Is that understood?’

  Tony Megale nodded impatiently.

  ‘Please listen to them carefully, Antonino mio. They are courteous men versed in diplomacy and negotiation. An objection might be expressed as a question, the voicing of a misgiving or regret. I expect you to be sensitive to the nuances of their conversation. I think subtlety will serve you well in your future.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tony. ‘If Curmaci is with his wife and children?’

  ‘He is a man of honour. He will walk out of the house in your company. I am sure of it. Go now, all three of you, and God’s blessing be on you all.’

  ‘Come in here, Ruggiero. I’m in the kitchen.’

  It was strange to hear his father’s voice echoing through the house. His mother had come into his bedroom early that morning to give him a kiss and tell him she was going with Robertino to visit family in Cosenza that she had not seen in years. It would be an opportunity to try out the brand-new Nissan Pathfinder sitting outside the front gate. Pepè’s father, Mimmo the mechanic, had driven it over personally the day before, and Ruggiero and Agazio had ridden in fine style to San Luca and Polsi. When they returned that night, the old car with the mysterious engine trouble was gone.