THE BIRTHDAY CANDLE
When he got back to Forcella, the neighborhood was fast asleep, even if it never quite seemed to sleep completely, as if the sleep was always provisional, with a watchful alert just in case. Everyone ready to leap to their feet, people and stones, and even the stones never fully slept.
As soon as he opened the door he was practically knocked down by Skunk. The dog loved him, and Nicolas had grown fond of her; on Lollipop’s recommendation, he’d bought her a treadmill so that she could gallop and stay in shape while he, stretched out on the sofa, read and watched videos on YouTube about decadent emperors and victorious armies. He patted his dog, palpating her firm flesh, the powerful muscles ready to lunge and strike out—he already knew where he was going to take her for her first fight. “You’re almost ready for your baptism by fire, ja’!” he told her, scratching her coat right behind her shoulder blades; then he set her paws, still anchored to his jeans, on the floor. It was only as he was straightening his back that he noticed a dim light coming from inside the apartment, beyond the front hall. “Mammà,” he ventured, hesitantly. Mena had turned silent. When he returned home and she came to welcome him, it seemed as if she held her breath until she saw him, almost as if she were expecting from one day to the next to find herself face-to-face with a ghost.
But out of the darkness a lovely silhouette emerged: “I was waiting up for you, my love,” came Letizia’s voice. “Come with me.” She took him by the hand, then stopped to embrace him, gave him a kiss, and sat him down on the sofa. She wrapped both her arms around his neck and straddled his legs. Now that he could look right into her face, so close up, Nicolas noticed the radiant mouth and the cheeks bursting with joy, and in fact her whole person was so eloquently overflowing with that emotion that it was already starting to infect him.
He almost felt like laughing: “Sweetheart, what is it, what’s got into you?”
“Shut your eyes.”
“What is this, a surprise party?” he asked, darting his eyes around in search of other shapes hidden behind the furniture, outside the doorways. “It’s not my birthday…”
“A party, sure, but just for me and you. I even sent your mamma away this evening.” And then, in a voice that pretended to be stern, she said again: “Now close those eyes of yours!”
He felt confused, the way you do when you just can’t wrap your rational mind around something, but your body has already intuited the answer and knows it, even if it won’t explain it to you.
He heard her get up and make a few motions around the room, a giggle, and then in his ears the first few notes of the lullaby “Go to Sleep, Little Baby,” and then: “Now you can open your eyes.”
In front of him was a small chocolate cake and, at the center of it, like a birthday candle, some sort of thermometer. He turned to look at Letizia.
She nodded her head yes, and threw her arms around him. The hug lasted the blink of an eye, then she pulled back to get a better glimpse, her smile already fading: “Nico’, but are you happy, or aren’t you?”
Unable to answer, practically incapable of drawing a single breath, Nicolas picked up the pregnancy test, and sat there, enchanted, gazing at the two little red lines, phosphorescent in the dim light. For an instant he wondered, given that color, what sex the child could be … Then he looked at Letizia, and she seemed even more beautiful to him than before, such a woman, such a grown-up in comparison with him, and so perfect for the miracle she was working even now. She looked like the Mother of Dragons.
His gaze must have seemed dopier than it was dreamy, though, because Letizia shifted uneasily on the sofa cushion: “Nico’, what’s wrong? I waited a little while before telling you, but now the situation is real. Did I do something wrong? Tell me something, at least … should I be worried? Aren’t you happy?”
Nicolas felt ashamed because in his mind he heard the words that others had uttered a million times before, “Having a baby changes your life,” and he’d sworn he’d never say them himself, along with all the other bullshit that grown-ups never tire of spewing out. And yet …
He turned serious, putting the thought out of his mind.
“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Christian. And if it’s a girl, Cristiana,” he told her, and started caressing her all over, softly, delicately, with a care he’d never shown before. And on Letizia’s face the smile reappeared, as did the tenderness in her eyes for that man of hers, whom she’d never before seen so fragile. And while he planted a kiss on her belly, his lips barely brushing her skin, and told her what their life together would be like, the three of them, all the things he’d buy to make them happy, the way everyone would treat them like little Prince George and Princess Kate, or even better, like the Beckham family—that’s how they’d treat them; and while she laughed and wept and he laughed and melted and turned into a child and then, seconds later, felt like a father, seeking her caresses and caressing her himself, Skunk was celebrating after her fashion, with her face plunged in the cake.
CLAIM OF RESPONSIBILITY
CAMORRA: OLD CLANS DECLINE AND FALL
THE CHILDREN’S PARANZA KICKS THE OLD FAMILIES OFF THE THRONE
TWO MURDERS BRING THE FAELLA CLAN TO ITS KNEES
Once it had become blindingly clear that the murder in Rho, in spite of the barbaric beheading, had nothing to do with ISIS, the local papers, and even a few national publications, had added two and two and gotten four: they’d lined up Roipnol’s murder and ’o Tigrotto’s murder and had reckoned that the power of Diego Faella, ’o Micione, was weakening. On account of the Piranhas.
Micione, sitting at his kitchen table, looked embalmed as he ignored the espresso getting cold in his demitasse and the headlines that, even in the regional press, were proclaiming his decline and fall. ’O Pagliaccio was trying in vain to crowbar him out of his catatonic silence when the ring of his cell phone managed to do the trick: on the phone’s screen could be read the name of the lawyer Caiazzo.
“Counselor,” Micione began, “should we sue Il Mattino?” And then he burst into a very tense peal of laughter. Caiazzo’s voice croaked out the name of a restaurant and a lunch date, an urgent one. Micione agreed to the time, ended the call, and finally seemed to have emerged from his funk. ’O Pagliaccio allowed himself to ask a question he’d been meaning to put to his boss for some time now: “But why don’t we just rub out all these little snotnoses once and for all and be done with it? Why just kill one? Let’s kill them all! We have the first and last names of everyone in the paranza. We can go fetch them one by one. And then rub them out one by one.”
“Paglia’, then I have to think you haven’t understood a single fucking thing so far! Can’t you get it through your head, that if I start waging war against a gang of kids, then I might as well just hang it all up, put on my best suit, and get comfortable in my grave and wait for the end? It’s not possible!” Micione grabbed a chair and hurled it through the open door, down the hall, until it scratched the glass of the aquarium. “It’s not possible!” he said again, as he sat back down. “Killing children means you’re already dead in the eyes of the other families. Neapolitan, Calabrian, and Sicilian. It means we’re nothing, less than nothing, that we’re not good enough to scare a bunch of children, or even to get them on our payroll. We shoot kids, and everyone else will start shooting us.”
“Ua’,” said ’o Pagliaccio. “It’s great to be kids in this city. Anyone who touches you becomes a little weaker. Whoever hurts you gets hurt. It’s the greatest. I want to become a kid again myself.”
In the meantime, Micione’s temper had subsided. “Tomorrow take ’a Ranfona to Forcella,” he ordered. “Give her the shop that we owe her. Let everyone know that we killed Roipnol.”
“How do you mean?” asked ’o Pagliaccio.
“That we decided to eliminate him.”
“Like with ’o Mellone?”
“Exactly. We’ll rip off their dead. And if someone steals your dead, they’re stealing your liv
ing, too.”
“Which means that…”
“Right.”
Deep down, ’o Pagliaccio heaved a sigh of relief: he was no good at comforting people with words, but with his pistol he’d restored justice plenty of times. While Micione crumpled up the pages of the newspapers and threw them on the floor, methodically, and sheet by sheet, adding detail to the mission he was entrusting him with, ’o Pagliaccio felt himself regaining his territory: at last, they were going to take action.
* * *
Anyone who saw them coming from a distance couldn’t help but think of a joke. He was short and had a crazy headful of hair shooting out in all directions, while she was practically a foot and a half taller and had a head of hair worthy of Morticia Addams. For each of her long-legged strides, he had to take two. ’A Ranfona gesticulated everywhere. She pointed to apartment buildings, streets, and even cars, saying: “All this used to be our territory!”
’O Pagliaccio stopped in front of the metal roller gate of his auto dealership. It had recently been repainted, and the smell of fresh paint wafted in the air. Everything was ready for the inauguration scheduled for the next day. With a gentlemanly gesture, ’o Pagliaccio waited for ’a Ranfona to step inside and then, his smile never flagging for an instant, he turned and lowered the roller gate behind them again. She looked around the interior, satisfied; she liked the space, the depth of the storefront. “This is a good location, there’s plenty of foot traffic. Down there”—and as she said it she spun her finger in the air—“I want to hang my brother’s painting.”
’O Pagliaccio let her finish and then pulled the trigger three times. Two gunshots in rapid succession, and the third after a few seconds. The sound echoed, amplified by the sounding board of the empty garage, resonating clearly through the surrounding vicoli.
The metal roller gate rose rapidly and ’o Pagliaccio appeared, a broad smile still on his face. He looked quickly to right and left, then strode off in the opposite direction from the way he’d come with ’a Ranfona. The message had been sent to the neighborhood at large. The evening newspapers and the ones that would come out the following morning would put the lie to all the banner headlines of earlier that day: Micione was claiming responsibility for the murder of Roipnol. Micione still ruled.
* * *
In the meantime, Micione set down his fork after gulping down his last mouthful of crème brûleé, rolling it around in his mouth to savor it to the utmost. He felt like celebrating now.
“What did you want to tell me, Counselor?” he asked, rinsing his palate with spumante.
Caiazzo courteously declined a topping-off of his glass. “I have an important piece of news. The police have issued an arrest warrant for the murderer of your colleague.”
“Colleague?” Micione stiffened.
“’O Tigrotto,” Caiazzo hastened to clarify.
Micione’s mouth split in a beaming smile. He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the lawyer, bracing himself with both palms on the tabletop: “And just what’s the name of this traitor?”
“Vincenzo Esposito.”
“And who is he? Where is he now?”
“Everyone calls him Stavodicendo … he’s a member of Maraja’s paranza.”
Micione sat back down in his chair. Oh right, he thought, smiling smugly to himself, you’re trying to screw Diego Faella, now? You’ll have to kill quite a few more people before you can pull off that trick. “Where is he now?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” the lawyer replied, throwing both arms wide as if he were reciting the Our Father.
“Well, we’ll find out right quick,” said Micione, and grabbed his cell phone to summon ’o Pagliaccio.
Now Caiazzo felt reassured he’d managed to avoid betraying the Faellas. He drained the rest of his espresso and made his courteous farewells, making way for ’o Pagliaccio, who had just come hurrying in.
It was a matter of tracking down Stavodicendo as quickly as possible, so as to shut the mouths of those who said that these days Micione wasn’t in charge anymore.
“But isn’t he a Bambino, isn’t he untouchable?” asked ’o Pagliaccio, after Micione told him about the tip.
“Sure, but now he’s killed one of my men, and so this Stavofacendo … or whatever his name is … must die. But without making it clear that I’m the one pulling the strings. And anyone who is supposed to understand will understand, just wait and see.”
“First thing, we’ve got to find him,”’o Pagliaccio concluded.
* * *
That morning the lawyer had awakened Nicolas with his phone call: his sources informed him that Stavodicendo’s cell phone had pinged the cell tower of the district that included ’o Tigrotto’s house. An arrest warrant was about to be issued in his name, they had a couple of hours before the police could get out to pick him up.
Stavodicendo was the only one who hadn’t gotten a replacement cell phone, that was one detail of the plan that Drone hadn’t taken into account. Nicolas had sworn an oath: “Mannaggi’ ’a maronna, how can it be that even when we organize every last detail, someone always screws us?”
The lawyer had recommended hiding Stavodicendo for a while in the De Gasperi district: “That’s the safest solution … and after all, he’s in Ponticelli.”
As he ended the call, Caiazzo felt that things had been handled, that debts always had to be paid and he’d settled his with Nicolas for the help he’d given him with the copper thefts. He’d run down the names in his directory and made the call.
* * *
Everyone knew the De Gasperi neighborhood and everyone had made a visit to it at least once, a fun outing, to see the doors and windows walled up by the government in an attempt to keep away immigrants and junkies who were squatting in the buildings. And so a deteriorating neighborhood that was falling apart had been transformed into a haven for outlaws and wanted men, who’d rather wall themselves in alive than leave the city. They’d live there, behind rudimentary brick walls with just a single opening to the outside world: a brick that, when removed, let in a little light, air, and daily meals. The life of a vampire. But for many it had become too challenging and disagreeable, and renovations would have attracted unwanted attention, so it had become the last haven of professional killers. They’d shoot their victims and then vanish here.
Nicolas had zipped down to see Stavodicendo on his scooter and had explained everything to him in person—his cell phone was unquestionably tapped. Stavodicendo needed to pack his bags in a hurry and then, in even less time, bid his parents farewell. He would wait for him downstairs for five minutes, and not a minute more.
“Mammà, I need to get back to Milan right away,” Stavodicendo told his mother.
She practically burst with joy: “The problem is when your kids come back, not when they go away.”
His father, on the other hand, understood immediately that the new departure concealed something else.
“Is everything all right, Vincie’? Why all this hurry?”
“No, it’s just that I was saying, I’m not comfortable here…”
“Is it the guaglioni you’re hanging out with?” asked his mother.
“Nicolas’s paranza is operating fine,” said his father, dropping the mask. “Still, though, you’re better off heading up north.”
“I was just saying…”
“And that’s why they call him that, because he’s always just saying.”
His mother hugged her son tight. “Don’t worry, Vince’, as far as I’m concerned, you can say it as often as you want, this ‘I was just saying,’ if it makes you feel okay.”
When he went downstairs, Nicolas reassured him.
“You’ll stay in there for a while, good and obedient, you won’t go out, you stay out of sight, then we’ll solve the situation and you can go free.”
“So when are we going to solve the situation?” Stavodicendo asked, his face white as a sheet. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe his mother had b
een right to weep when he’d returned.
“Soon, soon,” Nicolas replied, and he’d hugged Stavodicendo, holding on to him just a little too long, as if betraying with his body the reassurances he’d offered him with his voice. Stavodicendo had never received so many hugs in his life as he did that day.
They arrived at the De Gasperi neighborhood with a pick and mortar. They tore down a wall and entered the apartment where Stavodicendo was going to stay.
The reek of mold in the air forced them to cover their noses with both hands. They quickly inspected the area, two hundred square feet, ignoring Stavodicendo as he rattled on about a YouTube video that showed the most dangerous prisons on earth, and how there was one where the inmates were kept in solitary confinement 24/7/365, and many of them wound up killing themselves by hurling themselves, dead weight, against their toilet bowls.
“I was just saying that I don’t want to wind up like that,” Stavodicendo told Nicolas, who hugged him once again.
“But you’re not alone, you have plenty of bros.” Then, kissing him on both cheeks, he added: “See you soon, Stavodice’.” He went back out and with the mortar and bricks, rebuilt the wall.
Soon had always and only had a single meaning for Nicolas: “right away.” But this time, he really wouldn’t have been able to assign a meaning to the word.
* * *
On the bus that took her to the cafeteria early in the morning, Greta usually catnapped to get those extra snatches of sleep or else simply shut her eyes and let herself dream a little. But ever since Biscottino had pulled off that nasty screw-up, she constantly was on the alert and the only times she allowed herself to close her eyes were when she was lying safely in her bed at home. She looked out on the city streaming past the windows, and found herself saying goodbye to it, cursing the city for having ruined her life, but also thanking it for having given her something good. Then her eyes turned to the man sitting next to her, and from him down to the pages of the newspaper he was raptly reading. That’s when she saw it. An article as long as a bedsheet with that headline bellowing her Eduardo’s innocence. A hallucination, she thought at first. She blinked rapidly and hard, then turned her eyes back to the paper. Again and yet again. The words were still there, identical, neatly displayed. And the more she read them, the more things they told her: Eduardo is no longer obliged to turn state’s witness, the protection program is no longer necessary, no more danger, no more risks. She read and reread, and in her head a blessed voice kept saying: “All guilt has been washed clean, you can start over. But you, Greta, now you must keep him out of trouble, you need to keep your son safe, you’ve been warned, from now on, Eduardo needs to behave himself.” She read on, nodding her head, promising everything, whatever the cost. Certainly, she nodded, I’ll take care, she promised, I’ll watch over him. I swear, I won’t miss a thing. She didn’t even care that she knew every word of it was a lie, that she was sure her son was still a murderer, nor did she even care to know why someone had taken responsibility for the murder.
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