by John Brunner
This had been taught to GianMarco, in detail and with considerable bitterness. His uncle Fabio, in particular, was contemptuous of the peasants’ aspirations. Once when GianMarco had dared to ask why he was still a bachelor at forty, he had admitted that his own people, the Bonni, had lost a claim to the land now being farmed cooperatively, and had it not been for his sister’s fortunate marriage he might have been poverty-stricken by now. As it was, thanks to his suggestion that Constanza visit England for treatment, he was a welcome resident in the Tessolari house.
(Behind this colorable tale there was a hint of something darker. GianMarco had occasionally overheard servants joking about certain handsome boys that Fabio took up as friends and dropped abruptly after bestowing gifts on them without avail… but this was nothing he could understand.)
And lately it had emerged that for some reason to do with fertilizers or other chemicals, or some such kind of modern aids to husbandry which Renato had enthusiastically adopted under Fabio’s guidance, the buyer from Genoa whose firm had for half a century purchased olive oil from the Tessolari estate at an advantageous price, had this year offered more to the cooperative, on the grounds that theirs could be exported to the health-conscious USA as “organically” grown.
This was of course an affront not to be tolerated.
It began to dawn on GianMarco’s drowsy mind what his father was about when the car headed down a dry bumpy track toward an isolated barn. Here was where the cooperative kept its oil-press and storage vats…
It must, he guessed, be after midnight. Never before had he been allowed to stay up so late, not even in the tolerant environment of Mediterranean culture. He tried to read his watch, but his father had switched off the car’s lights and the sky was overcast. He concluded:
This is indeed men’s business!
The realization sent a frisson down his spine and jolted him back to wakefulness.
“You wait here,” Renato said curtly as he brought the car to a halt and got out. “And remember! If anybody asks you—I’m not saying who, mind, but if anybody asks you—we drove straight home from Anna’s. Is that understood?”
“Yes!” GianMarco breathed, and stared with aching eyes as the blurred shadow of his father faded into the shadow that was the looming barn.
Two men greeted him—GianMarco heard their voices—and then all became darkness and mystery.
Trembling, expecting he knew not what except that his imagination kept offering pictures of an open valve at the bottom of a huge vat full of oil (would it be set on fire or simply left to drain? He thought the latter but it was a guess), GianMarco sat in the car alone for five or seven minutes.
Then there was a shot.
And a scream.
And a sense of frenzied running.
And his father was back beside him, starting the engine, backing up, sawing his way on to the track again, and all the while cursing in language GianMarco had never thought would pass his lips. Amid the torrent of obscenity the boy gathered that the stinking peasants had been so impressed by the high price their oil was to command this year they had arranged for members of the cooperative to sleep in the barn, turn and turn about, and guard their treasure.
And tonight’s watchman had been fool enough to wake and intervene.
GianMarco tried not to visualize the bloody mess a shotgun at close range would make of a human body.
“Remember!” his father was insisting as the car bounced crazily toward the metalled road. “We drove straight home tonight! We drove straight back from Anna’s!”
“Yes, father,” GianMarco said composedly. For, after all, what mattered one blockheaded peasant more or less?
He was sent to bed immediately on arriving home, but for a long while he was too excited to sleep. His room was above the hallway where the main telephone was kept; by straining his ears he could hear Renato speaking to Anna, instructing her that he and GianMarco had in fact left twenty minutes later than in reality.
This is like being in a gangster film!
Then, perhaps roused by the unavoidable click of the extension phone in her bedroom, his mother went downstairs and at once divined that something was amiss. Renato tried to convince her he was phoning Anna only to let her know they had reached home safely, but she didn’t believe his story. Within minutes she had either pried out the truth, or guessed it. After that there was no need to strain to listen, for a full-blown shouting match developed. It roused Fabio, who joined them and tried with small success to calm things down.
“Our only son!” Constanza kept shouting. “A twelve-year-old boy! And you risked his life! Suppose there had been more than one guard? Suppose they’d been armed, and fired back?”
“But there wasn’t, and they weren’t!” Renato bellowed. “Now will you shut up and go back to bed? I have more calls to make—urgent calls!”
In the end, Constanza let Fabio usher her away. By then she was crying. Hearing her sobs, for the first time GianMarco realized the seriousness of the situation. Someone had been shot and maybe killed, by one of his father’s men, raiding the cooperative’s barn on his orders and in his presence. In Ruggiero’s time no doubt it would have been easy to arrange a cover-up. Nowadays, even though Renato was a councillor and former mayor, it might not be so simple.
In which case—he clenched his fists under the bedclothes as he heard his father’s increasingly despairing voice below—what would become of him? Oh, obviously he and his mother and uncle, and Anna, would lie to protect Renato… but what if the truth came out some other way, say because one of the men panicked or had a fit of conscience? Or because the seal of the confessional proved less sacred than it used to be? The incumbent priest was an outsider from Foggia, allegedly assigned here as punishment for holding radical views, a suggestion borne out by his popularity with members of the cooperative. He would show scant sympathy toward the Tessolaris.
If the facts did emerge, then those who had told lies would also be criminals, wouldn’t they? He himself might be sent to a reformatory! His mother and uncle might be jailed, and his father most assuredly!
Visions of the house being lost, along with the estates that were promised to him, assailed GianMarco’s mind. No, it was unthinkable! It must not happen!
He fell at last into uneasy slumber.
And was roused not long after dawn by the sound of engines. Running to the window, he saw black-clad men on motorcycles escorting a police car. When it halted the first passenger to get out carried a submachine gun, and the second was the Maresciallo, the local chief of police, a frequent visitor to the Tessolari house—but only when off duty.
No!
The word sounded so clearly in GianMarco’s mind, he imagined for an instant that he had spoken it aloud. But it was only the focus of a sudden resolve that had gripped him, like a shiver that began and never ended.
No, they are not going to arrest my family like common criminals!
Frantically he dragged on his clothes and rushed downstairs.
Getting dressed had been a mistake.
GianMarco realized that as soon as he reached the hall. The only other person in the house who was out of bed yet was his family’s maid, Giuseppina, who had answered the door; she was always up first, to light the kitchen stove and prepare breakfast. If this were a perfectly normal day, as they must pretend, what was he doing with his clothes on at this hour?
Well, it was too late to do anything about it now, except act for all he was worth.
“Good morning, Signor Maresciallo!” he exclaimed. “The noise of the motorbikes awakened me, so I thought I’d come down and see if anything exciting is going on!”
The Maresciallo, a stout man growing bald, with a thick black moustache, favored him with a scowl.
“What kids your age think exciting isn’t anything we grown-ups greatly care for,” he rumbled. “It’s a nasty business that’s brought me here, a very nasty business… Giuseppina, I must request you to rouse Signor Tessolari and say I wa
nt to talk to him. Immediately!”
Eyes wide with dismay and alarm, Giuseppina assured him she would do so. Asking him to take a seat in the drawing room, she departed with muttered promises of coffee in a little while.
Uncertain, GianMarco remained in the hall until she came down again and retreated to the kitchen. A minute or two later Renato also descended the stairs, belting a dressing gown around him. His face was like a statue’s, but there was no hint of a tremor in his voice when he called out.
“You’re up early, young fellow! I’d have thought after coming home so late last night you’d sleep till noon! What’s all this about the Maresciallo being here, and with an armed guard?”
“It’s quite true,” GianMarco confirmed. “He’s waiting in there”—with a nod at the door, which Giuseppina had left ajar.
“Hmm! Sounds ominous! You’d better hang on while I find out what’s the matter.”
Shamelessly eavesdropping, GianMarco heard him greet the police chief and ask what brought him.
“There was an attack on the barn at the cooperative last night,” came the answer. “A man was shot.”
“You don’t mean dead!”—in properly horrified tones.
“Not yet, though the doctors don’t expect him to live. But he’s conscious, and…”
A solemn pause.
“And what?”
“And he has made a deposition to the effect that he recognized the man who shot him. Luigi Renzo. One of your tenants.”
“But that’s ridiculous! How could he be sure? There was no moon last night, as I know very well. It so happens that I took GianMarco to visit my sister-in-law Anna—you know Anna, of course—and we didn’t get back until late. That’s why I was so surprised to find my son up and about. I suppose it was the noise that woke him.”
“He came to ask if anything exciting was going on.”
“Well, it sounds as though there is. But if the man with the gun was recognized as Renzo, why are you here instead of at his place?”
“Oh, I’ve sent another detachment after him,” said the Maresciallo. “I’m here because the victim also says he overheard three men talking—that’s what alerted him. And,” he concluded with deliberation, “he says one of the voices was yours.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“When I left the hospital he was about to receive Extreme Unction. Men who know they are dying don’t generally lie. In addition, we found tire-tracks in the dust near where he was shot. They match exactly those on your own car.”
How different his tone and manner were from his usual joviality! GianMarco found himself starting to tremble.
“Now you said you came back late from visiting your sister-in-law. I know where she lives. Your direct route would have taken you not across the cooperative but down a road alongside it… Hmm! How late is ‘late’?”
“I suppose we returned about half past midnight.”
“And the attack took place just after twelve. You must have been within earshot when the gun—”
“Now look here!” Renato jumped to his feet. “I see what you’re implying, and I don’t like it! I drove directly home! GianMarco, are you still there? Come and tell the Maresciallo what happened on the way home last night!”
Unable to avoid a show of timidity, GianMarco entered the room.
“Nothing happened,” he said flatly. “We drove straight home, just as Papa says.”
And the coldness that had overtaken him increased, as though something within him had seized control of his voice, his motions, his very thoughts.
The Maresciallo uttered a disbelieving grunt. “Were you awake in the car?” he began, and somehow seemed to give up expecting an answer as soon as the words were out. GianMarco had fixed him with his gaze and laid a pleading hand on his arm as though this man were still the avuncular family friend he was used to.
“Signor Maresciallo, you know my father is an honorable man. He wouldn’t descend to such an awful deed! I agree that men who know they are dying don’t usually lie—but aren’t there exceptions? Even if he has received Extreme Unction he may not be an honest believer. Aren’t many of the members of the cooperative communists and even atheists? He could easily be lying about hearing my father’s voice because he sees it as a way of settling a grudge—after all, we old families aren’t exactly popular in radical circles, are we? Besides, he could simply have been mistaken. It was certainly very dark, and if he was aroused from sleep, which I take to be the case since the hour was so late, he must have been confused. I say must, because my father definitely was not there. I was with him the whole time, and as he says we came straight home. As for the tire-tracks—well, we’re patriotic Italians! Just as we buy Fiat cars, we buy Pirelli tires! And they’re sold by the millions, aren’t they?”
With mingled amazement and relief he saw the police chief’s expression of certainty fade away, until at the end of the speech he was shaking his head lugubriously.
“Yes, of course, you must be right. It was dark, as you say, and indeed many of the members of the cooperative are socialists or worse, and… Yes, what is it?”
He was facing the door. Around it Giuseppina was peering nervously. “Excuse me, signori,” she blurted. “But one of the policemen has a message on the radio.”
“Coming!”
When he returned, the Maresciallo looked positively embarrassed.
“It sounds as though I owe you an apology. Luigi Renzo didn’t come home last night. Must have made a bolt for it. No doubt he’s the genuine culprit. Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll let you know when there’s any news.”
Replacing his uniform cap on his balding head, he left the house with a distracted air.
“What was all that about?” Constanza called from the upstairs landing, in a convincingly innocent tone for the benefit of Giuseppina, who was closing the front door.
“A dreadful thing happened. Apparently Luigi Renzo and someone else shot a man at the cooperative barn, not long before we got home. So the police came to ask whether we’d seen or heard anything suspicious.”
“How dreadful!”—from Fabio, who had emerged from his room in time to catch the last few sentences. “Could you be of any help?”
“Neither I nor GianMarco, I’m afraid… Well, Giuseppina, where’s our coffee?”
Later, when they were alone and could talk in confidence, Renato murmured to his son:
“When I said you couldn’t be of any help, I meant to the Maresciallo, of course. You were the most amazing help to me. I never saw such a job of acting in my life! You practically convinced me, do you realize that? You practically had me believing what you said!”
GianMarco could only grin by way of answer. But he felt his chest swell with pride.
Old, family pride.
You’re watching TV Plus. Newsframe follows.
Last week’s air crash in Tenerife has today been officially blamed on computer error, as was the recent collision over London Airport. A spokesman for the pilots’ association, BALPA, criticized what he described as “greed” on the part of airline operators and “incompetence” on the part of air traffic controllers, rather than the computers.
Here in Britain, General Thrower’s name seems set to become a generic term, like Hoover. A mob of youths sporting badges reading “I’m a Thrower” smashed and wrecked…
In the upshot Claudia arrived not half an hour but a full hour later. Waiting for her, watching the news with Ellen at his side, Peter thought a lot about his daughter. In the past, as she had admitted, she had rarely bothered with the news. However, now that she had found out what her “dad’s” profession was, she made a point of paying attention and showed, indeed, a lively interest.
Nobody could accuse her of not trying!
He had gathered the impression that she had been told almost nothing about him. She had been aware, for as long as she could remember, that her mother’s husband wasn’t her father, but this was a commonplace among her friends at
school, so she had never worried much about it. And since Kamala never mentioned her paternity…
At least I seem to be doing the right kind of thing.
Now and then he asked whether she felt okay, and each time she forced a smile and nodded.
“It’s only natural,” was her verdict. “It was just a shock to find it happening to me, as well.”
And how many other things could one say the same of?
The news bulletin consisted of the usual chapter of accidents and disasters, interspersed with adulation of the leaders who were going to put everything right tomorrow. A tower-block had been set on fire by a former mental patient discharged from a closed-down hospital under the guise of “returning her to the community.” The price had been ten lives including hers. A street of houses was collapsing because water from an unmended pipe had washed away the subsoil from the foundations. A neglected bridge had given way. Two tankers containing chemicals that combusted spontaneously when mixed had fallen into the river below along with a bus; sixty people had burned or drowned. Yet more doubt had been cast on the viability of the Chunnel by a psychiatrist who had carried out tests at the Fréjus tunnel under the Alps on a group of long-distance lorry-drivers, normally supposed to be a stolid bunch. A third of them had declined to complete the four successive runs that he had asked of them, because they developed claustrophobia. Further inquiries had established that the same proportion of their colleagues had for some while past been refusing to travel that route. How many prospective users of the Chunnel would display the same symptoms?
During the current-affairs program that followed on another channel, a cabinet minister was sleekly pointing out that the psychiatrist was Italian and therefore not to be taken seriously, when the doorbell finally rang.
Claudia entered amid a storm of mingled curses and apologies. Apparently the minicab service her hosts relied on was owned by Tamil expatriates and tonight its headquarters had been firebombed as part of their running battle with the Sinhalese, so she had had to find an alternative.
