Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  Two stragglers from the orchestra, one with a cello case, the other a trombone, are chatting and smoking beneath the grey granite arches. He feels alone, an outsider, excluded from the music that is his very essence. He likes to imagine the sculpted woman is his guardian angel, beckoning him in and nourishing his dreams, but tonight she shuns him and shows her true nature—a cold marble statue.

  He hates it when this mood descends to stifle his spirit, sneaking up on him without warning. Tomorrow he will return to the cello and summon the muse to lift him again. He will sit there and master the Bach suites, if it’s the last thing he does!

  Turning away from the theatre he walks back past the café to Via Toledo. The boulevard is shutting down. Displays of up-to-the-minute clothes, shoes and bags dazzle in the windows of shops that have already closed. A few bars are buzzing and outside one, Pasquale sees a young group gathered on their motorinos. They’re uniformly dressed in short leather jackets and jeans that look as though they’ve been sprayed on their taut bodies. The girls all have long flowing hair and they flick it this way and that, flirting with the boys revving their scooters and smoking. He slips by unnoticed.

  At first the road ahead is quiet enough with only some late night traffic and a few people promenading. He hears it first, a hubbub just off the main street. When he reaches the turnoff, he sees a small crowd hovering around a massive rubbish pile. Two large metal skips have been upended, their foul contents spread across the pavement and onto the street. A fire is burning, the smoke spreading a disgusting odour. Several people are shouting at once and he can’t tell whether they are arguing with each other or agreeing.

  When he is closer, he surmises they all live in the surrounding streets that mark the start of the Spanish Quarter and are enraged about the garbage. Half an hour earlier, a gang of darkly clad youths had descended on motorbikes and thrown the rubbish far and wide.

  ‘It’s the clan, payback because some of the activists around here are shopping them to the authorities,’ a woman whispers to Pasquale. ‘Naming names and there have been some arrests.’

  Pasquale is sickened but feels helpless. His exhaustion weighs heavily on him and he walks away towards the funicular that will take him home. He has barely rounded the next corner when he hears a motorbike loudly accelerating and leaps aside as it flies past. He hears a shot. Screaming. Two more shots. Doors slam. Shutters bang. A minute or so later he hears the motorbike disappearing. He presses against a wall, paralysed. He hears footsteps and a man runs past with a gun in his hand, so close, he could reach out and touch him. He’s very short and doesn’t notice Pasquale in the shadows.

  Pasquale hears another loud thumping. He realizes it’s his heart, drumming in double time. He clings to the wall until he feels he is going to faint. He wants to keep going but he knows he has to turn back.

  His feet feel as if they’re made of lead as he drags himself back around the corner. The crowd has disappeared and at first he thinks everyone has gone. Then he sees the legs. Two pairs crumpled on the road near the skips, the upper bodies obscured by mounds of rubbish. He edges closer and what he sees makes him want to vomit. The unmistakable green parka is oozing blood. He sees the face of its wearer, the farmer, Paolo, his eyes staring wide-eyed in horror into the night, a cross slashed into his lips. Next to him, another man, one he had seen shouting just minutes earlier. His lips are cut too, the blood pooling around his mouth. Pasquale recognizes the symbolism. Il Sistema has sealed their mouths closed, forever.

  Pasquale knows this scenario. He saw death early. In the town where he lived, every child had seen at least one dead body, a victim of violence, punished by the clan for some indiscretion or defiance or betrayal. The face of his father flashes in his mind. You too, Papa, you too.

  Loud sirens explode in the night and Pasquale staggers away. He flounders through the narrow lanes, welcoming the darkness. His left leg is cramping and he still wants to vomit. He jumps when a motorbike hoots close behind him.

  ‘Pasquale! Pasquale! Hop on!’ He scarcely knows the voice but as the rider pulls alongside him he sees his neighbour.

  ‘Quickly, get on!’

  Pasquale climbs on and holds on to Riccardo tightly as he lurches off. As the night swallows them and he rests his head against Riccardo’s back like a child, he smells blood. A few seconds later, he hears two more gunshots.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Frances relived that moment on White Island when she lost sight of Bob Masterton over and over again. She had stood there for what seemed like an hour but was less than a minute. She’d strained to see a touch of his orange helmet in the mist, desperate for that tiny beacon to guide her through this steaming firehole. Her breathing was heavy and she was sweating under the heavy mask. She’d cried out again but when she listened for a response, all she heard was the roaring wind. Move forward, or go back for Hamish?

  She’d looked at her feet and could barely make out her boots, the steam was so thick. She had edged forward, half a step at a time, pointing her toe and feeling the ground before she put her foot down. A gust of wind spun her halfway around and she’d recoiled when she saw what looked like a huge stone face of a Maori warrior. She’d screamed, remembering Tori’s warning about what could happen to those who came to the island and broke the tapu—that to breach the ancient law was to risk everything: your life, your strength, your power. ‘Ko te tapu te mana o nga atua,’ Tori had said. ‘Tapu is the mana of the spiritual powers.’

  The craggy rock was part of the crater wall and seemed to be advancing towards her. You don’t believe this stuff, she’d told herself. It’s just a rock. Get a grip.

  ‘Bob! Bob!’ she’d called and listened again. Nothing but the roaring of the crater. She’d continue to creep forward and the ground seemed to be vibrating. Even the stone face had been subsumed by the steam and she still couldn’t see her feet.

  She screamed again, this time in pain. Something hot was scorching her leg. She’d lifted it up and seen mud covering her boot and dripping over the top onto her clothes. Frances leapt backwards. The steam had subsided and she could see where her foot had broken through a thin crust of earth covering a bubbling blackness.

  Panic was something Frances had often overcome. Years of rigorous training climbing volcanoes in adverse conditions, hot and ice cold, scuba diving, and dealing with eruptions at close quarters had made her resilient and clear thinking. But at that moment, Frances felt overwhelmed and out of control. She couldn’t see ahead and it was too dangerous to move, she didn’t know where Bob was or if he was safe. Crouching behind a rock she trembled like a frightened child, a dull pain in her leg she tried to ignore.

  ‘Frances!’ She heard the voice not far behind. ‘Bob! Frances!’ A silhouette appeared through the steam. By the time Hamish spotted her, she was standing, shaking. The burn on her leg was aching but she’d put it to the back of her mind.

  ‘Careful! The ground’s unstable.’ Her voice sounded croaky and broken and sweat was pouring down her face inside the hot mask, stinging her eyes.

  They’d walked towards each other and she pointed to the mask he was still carrying. ‘Put it on, the gas is really strong.’ By now the swirling steam was lifting but she still couldn’t see ahead to the crater lake.

  ‘Are you OK? What’s happened to your leg?’ Hamish had gestured to her mud-sodden clothing. Grateful to see him and fighting back tears, she was terrified and wanted to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘That’s nothing, I’m fine. But I don’t know where Bob’s gone. I was following him to the lake but the steam thickened and I couldn’t see a thing. Come with me, just watch your step.’

  She let Hamish lead. He knew the island, and moved with the fearlessness of a young man who believed he was invincible. They’d walked on slowly, around the fresh mud pool that had appeared in the middle of the track. The ground kept changing as they’d continued deeper into the crater. One moment it was slippery, the next crunchy and all the while there we
re vibrations and an incessant roar.

  Frances glanced towards the stone face that had menaced her. It seemed to have sunk back and was once more a part of the crater wall, the features that had almost spoken to her barely distinguishable.

  As they’d neared the heart of the crater, they could hear the sound of boiling water. Bob was nowhere to be seen. They’d both called out but there was no sound that was human.

  The steam was thicker ahead and they could only see through it when a gust of wind blew it away. ‘Stop!’ Hamish was a few metres ahead, close to the rim. ‘It’s given way!’ he called over his shoulder.

  Frances caught him up where the ground slid away and they cautiously moved closer and looked over.

  A seemingly bottomless lake of green water bubbled below, disappearing and reappearing as clouds of gas were thrown up in front of them. Around them, smaller angry yellow ponds and gaping vents belched out poisonous fumes she could smell in spite of the mask.

  Hamish was yelling. Even the fury of this hellish cauldron couldn’t drown him out. ‘There he is!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aloud bang wakes Frances. Then there’s another. She sits up on her bed, confused in the darkness. There’s a third bang. She remembers she’s in Naples. Her back is aching and she realizes she’d fallen asleep with her clothes on. She listens but can hear nothing. The whole building seems to be sleeping, or holding its breath. As she fumbles for the light switch, her cellphone rings.

  ‘Pronto! Frances, where are you?’ Riccardo is talking softly but with an urgency she hasn’t heard before.

  ‘I’m home. Are you OK? I’ve heard some explosions.’

  ‘I’m fine. But there’ve been some shootings. Just checking you’re safe. Stay where you are. I’m down in the old city. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He doesn’t reply. Frances punches his number on her phone. It rings several times then drops out. She tries again but there is no answer. Two more shots ring out.

  She sits on the edge of her bed, unsure of what to do. A sudden cry makes her jump. But it’s only baby Luciana below.

  Frances opens the door of her apartment and creeps down the stairs. She knocks on the Foglianos’ door. She hears Luciana cry again but no one answers. She knocks again.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Peppe, it’s me, Frances.’

  He opens the door slightly so she can just see his face. His brow is wrinkled and his dark eyes anxious.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Ricky just rang. There’s been a shooting.’

  He pokes his head out of the door and looks around before inviting her in. Laura is pacing the floor in the dimly lit lounge, holding the baby. She looks exhausted.

  ‘Sit down,’ she smiles at Frances, indicating the couch.

  ‘Peppe, you warned there might be trouble tonight. What’s happening? Did you hear the shots?’

  He looks away for a moment. She sees him exchange glances with his wife. ‘I heard something,’ he says at last. ‘Is Riccardo OK?’

  ‘I don’t know, the phone went dead.’

  ‘Papa, I’m thirsty.’ Stefano has woken and stands before them in blue pyjamas rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Here, take the baby.’ Laura hands Luciana to Frances. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Frances has had little experience with babies and feels stupidly inadequate holding her. She rocks her in her arms and strokes her head. Luciana smiles up at her for a few seconds then changes her mind and starts to howl and writhe. Stefano is delighted by the distraction and looks very pleased to be out of bed. He squeezes closely next to Frances. The baby continues crying and Frances looks up helplessly at Peppe.

  ‘Here, I’ll take her,’ Laura says rushing back in with a glass of water. ‘Stefano, bed!’ She hands him the water and takes the little girl.

  ‘So, what do you think’s happened?’ Frances presses Peppe.

  ‘Unfortunately shootings are common in Naples. The big families of the clans fight among themselves, sometimes kill each other. And sometimes others get in the way,’ he says, more animated now and gesticulating. ‘You understand me, Frances?’

  ‘But you seemed to have some advance warning tonight. Did you know?’

  Peppe’s brow creases more and he hesitates. ‘The word gets around. At the petrol station, you hear things—whispers, rumours. I listen and make sure we’re not out there.’

  ‘Have you ever been threatened?’

  Laura laughs, bitterly. Registering the tension, Luciana starts crying again and both Stefano and his brother sneak into the room to try to sit with Frances.

  ‘Boys, back to bed,’ Peppe orders and they scamper away.

  ‘Sshhh. Calma.’ Laura comforts the baby and her cries stop.

  Peppe walks over to a polished wooden cabinet and takes out a bottle and three small glasses. ‘Grappa?’

  ‘Why not? Yes, please.’

  He pours the golden liquid into the glasses and hands her one. ‘Salute!’ They toast each other. The local brandy is stronger than she expects and burns her throat. Frances hates the taste but resists the urge to screw up her nose. ‘Buona, eh? From my uncle’s vineyard,’ Peppe says.

  ‘Yes, very good.’ Frances notes Laura has left her glass untouched.

  ‘So have you? Have you been threatened?’ Frances persists.

  He looks at her as if weighing up whether he can trust her.

  ‘Yes. And no. When you grow up here, you learn very young how to stay out of trouble. Our families, mine and Laura’s, we’re not part of any clan. But the mere fact that you live here means you can’t escape their influence, so you try not to take any sides. Try to be even with all the families and not look like a threat to them or their businesses.’

  Frances sees Laura is listening closely but saying nothing.

  ‘And the petrol station? Is there a problem running the business? Do you have to pay protection money?’

  Peppe laughs. ‘You know more than you let on,’ he says. ‘Or maybe you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen an awful lot of people around here who look like they’ve walked off the set of a Mafia film, especially some of the young ones hooning around on their Vespas!’ she exclaims.

  Laura and Peppe both laugh.

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ she says. ‘The films glamorize the clan. I can’t tell you the number of copycats in Naples for Al Pacino’s Scarface gangster and Marlon Brando’s Godfather.’

  ‘And Tarantino’s films. And Scorcese’s,’ Peppe adds. ‘Lots of young tough kids here act out the movies.’ The smile dies on his lips. ‘The trouble is they believe that’s the way to behave. But to answer your question. I don’t own the petrol station, I only manage it. If money is changing hands, I don’t know about it.’

  ‘And he doesn’t ask questions like yours,’ Laura sighs.

  A revving motorbike resonates from below.

  Frances jumps up and looks through the shutters to the courtyard. ‘It’s Ricky! Thank God. I’d better go.’

  Peppe lets her out and she turns back.

  ‘And thanks for the grappa.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Plenty more for next time,’ he smiles.

  She runs down the flights of stairs and unlocks the front door.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ She hears a voice and is surprised to find Pasquale parking the motorbike while Riccardo stands rubbing his shoulder. She recoils when the street light reveals his jacket and hands are bloodied.

  ‘You’re hurt!’ She reaches out to help him remove his helmet. ‘Are you OK? Shall I get a doctor?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not my blood.’ He is limping and she puts her arm around him to help him up the stairs.

  ‘Come with us,’ she urges Pasquale.

  Riccardo flops onto the sofa. Frances takes his jacket to the bathroom and returns with a bowl of warm water and a towel, then gently washes his hands and face. His eyes are puffy, his clo
thes are dirty and a combination of sweat and blood oozes from him.

  Frances thinks of Peppe’s grappa and remembers she has a bottle of cognac. She finds it in a kitchen cupboard and pours a glass for each of them, which are both quickly skulled.

  ‘Two dead,’ Pasquale says first. His voice is soft and shaky, his normally bright eyes dulled in shock.

  Riccardo nods lamely. ‘I was there. After the university meeting about the garbage crisis, a few people got excited about taking action. I know some of them and I went back to their neighbourhood. When we got there we walked straight into trouble. Some gang had arrived and was tipping up the garbage skips and setting them alight. They were just young guys, probably following orders. We tried to stop them. That’s when I got whacked around the legs with a pole and a fist in my face.’ He rubs his swollen and red cheek. Then they jumped on their bikes and left.’

  ‘That’s when I arrived,’ Pasquale says. ‘I’d been busking at Santa Lucia and heard the racket. I didn’t see you, Riccardo.’

  ‘I was upstairs in my friend’s apartment when the shooting began. But a lot of locals poured onto the street, furious about the garbage. No one expected they’d come back. By the time I got down, the two of them were dead. I bent down to check their pulses and…they were mutilated. Those bastards cut their lips with a knife.’ He throws up his hands, still streaked with their blood.

  Frances strokes his shoulder. ‘Who were they?’ She looks from Riccardo to Pasquale but neither man answers.

  They both seem to be stuck in time. Frances is reeling, still coming to terms with the murders of the scientists—and now, more killings. The violence is coming closer.