A Season for the Dead (15 page)

In a moment that was quite foreign to him he smiled at the camera. A smile that was not his, an actor’s smile, one that left little doubt as to its meaning. His smile was knowing, proprietorial. It said:
I own this troubled, dangerous woman, and I can do with her what I want.

Costa watched himself on the TV and hated what he saw, wondering what she would make of it, and how he could apologize sufficiently.

“Now, that,” Falcone said cheerfully, “is good. That can change things.”

24

He had given her some water and a piece of bread, allowed her to go to the bathroom, though strictly under his supervision, and he had watched, a little too closely, she thought. Then he had led her back, kicked the chair across the room until it stood next to a black, upright beam and tethered her tightly to the arms. Her hands remained bound throughout, with a loose rope around her ankles to prevent her trying to run. Running was, in any case, not an option. They were in some strange, medieval room, an octagonal chamber littered with rubbish: books and videotapes, CDs, clothes and, on the walls, photographs, everywhere, some of a woman she vaguely recognized.

The pictures alarmed her. Alicia Vaccarini refused to look too closely.

In the corner a narrow, circling staircase led to a room below, to the outside world and freedom. Some way distant, it had to be. As soon as he took off the gag she had screamed until her lungs hurt, screeching for help, yelling
murder, murder, murder.
He’d just stood there, watching, not smiling, not angry. Waiting for the panic to subside. When she was done, when there was no more breath left in her body, he shook his head and said, “No one can hear, Alicia.”

She had screamed again at that, until her voice went hoarse. He had hardly paid attention, half watching the movie on the TV somewhere behind her head. She recognized the film from the soundtrack. It was Pasolini’s
The Gospel According to Saint Matthew,
the arrival of the three Wise Men to the accompaniment of the old Negro spiritual “Sometimes I Feel like a Motherless Child.” He seemed affected by it somehow; she wondered how to turn this to her advantage. How she might get out of the stuffy, airless tower alive.

Then he switched channels, over to one of the mainstream stations which was showing a soccer match. It was a deliberate act, one with a point. It said there was something to be done.

Gino Fosse picked up a low wooden stool, brought it in front of her, sat down and took her head in his strong, pale hands.

“You thought I was a priest, Alicia.”

She was too frightened to say anything, too confused to second-guess what he wanted.

“Well?” he insisted.

He waited. Perhaps her silence would make him angry.

“You looked like one,” she said. “For a little while.”

“Then confess to me,” he said. “Confess everything.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

He was crazy, she knew that. But there was some strong, linear logic in what he sought. If she found what that was, perhaps there could be some hope of survival.

“I have sinned, Father,” she said.

“Don’t call me ‘Father’!”
Gino Fosse’s bellows echoed off the walls of the tiny chamber. His face contorted with fury. She was silent. She waited, watching him make a concerted effort to control his emotions.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Not your fault. My anger wasn’t directed at you. Just talk to me, Alicia. Confess.”

The tears were starting to burn in her eyes. She racked her brain, trying to think of something that would satisfy him.

“I’ve committed unnatural acts.”

“Of course,” he said. “And you’ll be forgiven. But these are small things.”

It was impossible to know, she thought. No one was free of private vices, no one lacked a history he or she would not care to share with the world. “Help me. Please.”

He nodded, understanding instantly what she required. “Four months ago,” he said, “you sat on a judicial committee looking into the question of diplomatic immunity for certain people. You recall this?”

“Yes.”

“There were decisions made, votes taken. Were all of them based on fairness? Or did you seek, and get, some reward for some of your actions?”

“Denney,” she whispered, feeling cold.

“No names!”

“I didn’t know the rest of them would vote against me. I thought . . . I was given to understand they’d received the same favors. They’d go the same way.”

His dark eyes regarded her icily. “Judges and deputies. Lawyers and
’public servants’ . . .
” Spittle flecked his lips when he said the last. Some deep, inner hatred surfaced within Gino Fosse and she knew, at that moment, this was hopeless. He would do whatever he planned to do because his mind was made up. The rest was an act, a show for his conscience, not hers.

“I did what I promised,” she insisted. “I can’t be held responsible for other people.”

“There was a price, Alicia. For you. And for those involved. What was that price?”

“Money,” she replied. “Don’t ask how much. I can’t remember. Not a lot.”

“And?”

He knew. He had to have some prior knowledge. It was a wonder to her. She had believed this had been so private. She thought of the photographs on the wall. It was possible . . .

“I was provided with some personal entertainment.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “ ‘Personal entertainment’? Specify, please.”

“They sent me a woman for the night. She didn’t mind. What’s it to you?”

His hand came out from his side and slapped her across the cheek, hard.

“What’s it to me?” he demanded. “I drove her there, Alicia. I was a party to that act. I thought I understood what was happening. I didn’t. Just as you understand nothing, regret nothing, feel no sense of anguish for what you’ve done. This man you talk about. I still can’t see him walking down the street. I still can’t touch him, Alicia. There was such a great cost for your
favors
. You took so much and gave back nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m truly sorry. If there’s some way I can make amends. If it’s a question of paying back the money—”

“Money.” He stared at her, his face suffused with pity. “You think money’s so important. You have no idea of how pathetic you are. Or how grateful you will be to me. And soon.”

Gino Fosse stood up and walked to the bookshelf in a corner of the room, taking out two thick photographic volumes. He returned and placed them in front of her, opening the first at a double-page spread depicting a church courtyard.

“Santa Cecilia in Trastevere,” he said. “Do you know it?”

She tried to catch his eye, pleading. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

He frowned. He had, she realized, an actor’s face. It was so mobile, able to go from passivity to deep concentration in an instant, able to change shape, from plainness to a kind of warped beauty with just the shift of an eyelid, a turn of the mouth.

“You must listen,” he said. “This is important. Cecilia was a family woman. The wife of a nobleman who was converted to Christianity during the persecutions of Diocletian. Her house lay beneath this church. It was here . . .” He glowered at her. “You’re not listening. I do all this for your benefit
and you’re not listening
.”

Alicia Vaccarini was sobbing, was unable to stop the choking noise that kept rising in her throat.

He leaned forward to make his point plain. “Cecilia was a martyr, Alicia. She will help wash your sins clean.” He pointed at the book. “Here in the very place she died, in the very way she went to glory.”

His finger stabbed at the image there: a virginal woman, staring peacefully out from the page.

“First, since she was a high-born woman, they tried to suffocate her in the baths beneath the house, a noble death. When that failed, they were allowed three strokes of the axe. These still did not kill her. There’s the miracle. There’s the
proof
. The senators and the patricians came to see her lying in bed, wounded, singing hymns, turning to Christ as she died before them. Afterwards, in recognition of her courage, they made her the patron saint of musicians. Alicia . . .”

He opened the second book and thrust it in front of her eyes. She did not wish to look. His strong hand gripped her hair and turned her head to the page. It depicted a beautiful white statue of the prone young woman wrapped in a shroud, face half turned away from the beholder.

“In the sixteenth century they opened her casket,” he said. “Cecilia was incorrupt, perfect, still beautiful in her golden robe thirteen hundred years after her death. The marks of the axe were on her neck. An artist painted her, Alicia. A sculptor made this statue, which still sits beneath the altar in her church, above her house.”

“Please,” she gasped. “Gino—”

He clasped her hand. “Don’t fear. You’ll be there tonight. You’ll lie in front of her, give homage to her martyrdom. And in doing so you’ll make amends, you’ll help me put right these wrongs that you’re a part of.”

“No . . .”

His face changed again, becoming hard and determined.

“It’s time,” he said, and went over to one of the windows, retrieved a pillow from a storage box, returned with it and, very carefully, placed it over her mouth.

Alicia Vaccarini breathed in through the white fabric. It stank of damp and mold. She coughed, retching. He took it away, waiting until she recovered her breath.

“This is the first part.”

The pillow came back, covering her face. She felt something wind around it, something like a rope which fastened the thing behind her head tightly, but not so tight she couldn’t inhale. Not quite.

“Good,” said a voice from behind.

The fabric grew damp and sticky with her saliva. The passage of air seemed to diminish with every snatched effort of her lungs. She gagged, gasping, and felt him tighten the pillow around her face.

There was one last push. The thing entered her mouth, its fibers stuck to the back of her throat. She vomited bitter bile into the fetid cotton, gagging. Then the rope relaxed, the smothering stopped. Gino Fosse withdrew the stinking, vile object from her face. She fought to get clean air into her lungs, hyperventilating as she did so.

“Good,” he said. He now held a long sword in his hand. It was well polished, with a glittering silver blade, like something out of a military museum. With no perceptible effort, holding it in one hand, he raised it to her neck and cut the flesh there in a single, sweeping movement.

Alicia Vaccarini shrieked in agony. She could feel the blood starting to run down her neck, down onto the good, cotton shirt she had chosen to wear for the lunch at Martelli’s. It was a painful wound, but a light one. He was testing himself. He stood over her now, no doubt wondering about the second blow: how hard, how deep, it might be.

“I beg you,” she bawled. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t kill me.”

She looked up into his eyes. There was confusion there. Perhaps there was some hope. He was no longer focused on her, no longer wondering how deeply he might hack into her neck with the sharp, shiny weapon held in his hand.

Gino Fosse’s attention now lay on the television set on the far side of the room, behind her. There was a newscast. She could hear it. There was talk of a murder and a woman, a scarlet woman who, the reporter said, seemed to bring death, a shocking death, to everyone she knew.

He seemed unable to take his eyes off the set. She heard him catch his breath when he saw whatever was on the screen. He put down the sword. Then he took out a clean, white handkerchief and wiped the blood off her neck.

“I apologize, Alicia,” he said softly. “I’m distracted.”

“Untie me,” she pleaded. “Let me go. I won’t tell a soul.”

He looked at her and there was pity in his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll do you justice.”

Then he was gone from the room, leaving Alicia Vaccarini to her thoughts and the image from the book: a pale white corpse, wrapped in a delicate shroud, head obscured, waiting for resurrection.

25

Sara had readily agreed to stay at the house once Falcone had outlined the alternative: protective custody in some safe house in one of the city’s grimmer suburbs. At Nic Costa’s insistence they had watched the TV news in the station before leaving. Costa didn’t want her to find out accidentally. He also wanted her to understand that the media would follow them to the farm, where they would be carefully herded into a well-controlled position by Falcone’s men.

Sara took in the TV clip, and the possessive way in which it portrayed him, with her customary passivity. Costa apologized. She said, simply, “It’s your job, isn’t it? But I don’t understand why you think he’ll come. If there are so many police around and the press too. It would be stupid.”

“It’s a gamble,” he replied, trying to convince himself. “I guess we’re hoping he can’t resist taking a look.”

This was the best he could do. Falcone was, he judged, either clutching at straws or playing some deeper game altogether.

In the car, he’d told her about his father, withholding nothing. To his surprise she’d turned to stare at him and there was something new in her eyes, a different expression, of sympathy and perhaps something more: understanding?

“What do you want me to do? How do I talk to him?” she asked.

“I don’t have an easy answer for that. At least I never found one myself. Treat him as if nothing’s different. I think he likes that. He likes to amuse too and be amused.”

She was silent for the rest of the journey. They left the city, entered the countryside off the Appian Way and passed through the media posse at the front gate.

Bea stood at the big barn-door entrance, waiting. She wore a gaudy floral shirt and cream trousers. Her tanned arms were crossed. She seemed ambivalent about welcoming a stranger into the house.

“How is he?” Nic asked. The inevitable question.

“Hungry. Or so he says. You kept him waiting.”

“Sorry.” He glanced at Sara. “We have a visitor.”

“So I gather.” Bea held out her slim hand, examining Sara Farnese frankly. “Don’t let the old devil talk you into giving him wine. Or anything else, for that matter. He’s sick but he’s not beyond mischief. And mind the dog. He’s funny with women. It’s a family trait.”

There was a scratching from behind the half-closed door. A paw worked its way around the woodwork and made the gap wide enough for a small body to squirm through. Pepe saw Bea and sat immediately, emitting a low growl.

“See what I mean?” Bea asked.

Sara reached down and touched the creature’s head. The old dog watched her warily, then lifted its chin, deigning to be stroked.

“You seem to be accepted,” Bea said, surprised. “It’s a rare honor. I’ve known that beast for a decade or more and it’s only in the last few months he’s stopped trying to savage me.”

Sara smiled and stroked the dog more fondly. He closed his eyes, delighted. “Dogs are easier than people,” she said.

“This is the Costa household,” Bea replied. “ ‘Easy’ never comes into it. Am I right, Nic?”

“No argument there.” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Bea. You can come tomorrow? I don’t want to inconvenience you—”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” she interrupted, and Sara noticed how she failed to meet Nic’s eyes when she said this. “It’s just selfish, I know. You can’t keep me out.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying. He needs you. We all do. We always have.”

“The ever loyal servant,” she said with a measure of bitterness. “I’m sorry. I . . .”

She walked briskly to her car, shaking her head. Sara watched her go. An intense person, she thought. But Bea needed the Costa family as much as they needed her.

The dog looked at her, barked once, then turned into the house. Sara followed him inside and walked straight to Marco Costa in his wheelchair, taking his hand, smiling, full of bright small talk Nic had never expected. While he took her bags upstairs, Marco guided her around the ground floor, the dog following on faithfully behind. His son then did the same for the rest of the sprawling house. She was staying in Giulia’s room on the second floor, one of six, at the far end from his own. It was private, with its own bath, and, like the house itself, secure. There was only the single barn door into the farm. Marco had insisted on the authentic, bucolic design, for all its inconveniences. When the tour was over she followed Nic downstairs looking more content than at any time since they had first met. This was, he realized from what she had told him about herself, something foreign to her: a home.

Marco Costa dressed for dinner: a white shirt, impeccably pressed by Bea, black trousers, and a silk neck scarf which hid the scar of an operation. The old man had combed his thinning hair carefully. The harsh spotlights in the farmhouse kitchen made his face seem cruelly cadaverous. Nic Costa had grown up seeing his father’s round, caring, persistent features at every turn of his life. Now, under the punishment of the disease, the generous skin sagged, as if something were sapping the vitality that lay beneath the surface. But this was an entirely physical ailment. His father’s personality, so warm when he wished it to be, and his quick intelligence were undiminished.

The three of them sat around the table eating pasta and salad and Nic was astonished to find that he was the one feeling uncomfortable. Sara and his father seemed to have come to accept each other, as if they’d recognized some mutual trait.

“You’ve a beautiful house,” she said.

“We built it,” Marco boasted. “Most of it, anyway. All with local stone. There’s masonry here that Seneca might have touched. Forget all the nonsense the press wrote about Red Marco and his country palace. When I bought this plot no one wanted to live here and it cost me next to nothing. What you see is what we created, through our own labor, with no help from anyone.”

“Oh yes,” Nic agreed. “No arguing there. I spent five years sleeping in a bedroom without heating, next to a bathroom with no running water. We were given a fine proletariat upbringing.”

“Quite right too,” his father declared.

“Except,” Nic objected, “I seem to recall you grew up in a nice, comfortable apartment . . .”

“Which is why I knew what was best for my own offspring. Look at this place, Nic. I can look at some of the brickwork and recall your mother laying in the mortar. I can touch something you plastered, and pretty well too, when you were thirteen. You could have become a builder. Instead it’s his sister who’s the artisan,” he told Sara. “I’ll show you her paintings later. She gets that from her mother. Whatever
he
has comes from me, I guess.”

Sara raised her glass to them. “I don’t think either of you have much to complain about.”

“No,” Marco replied, looking at his son with an unconcealed measure of pride. “I don’t believe we have.

“Drink,” the old man added mournfully, watching the red wine in her glass. “Lost pleasures.” He looked at her frankly. “My son tells me you never had a home like this. That your parents died when you were young.”

She shrugged. It occurred to Nic that she was never unwilling to talk about herself. What was missing, all too often, were the details, which had to be prised from her carefully, one at a time. “I don’t recall ever living at home with them. I was at a convent school in Paris. There was an accident.”

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Marco said.

“The nuns were kind to me. I never lacked anything. Money least of all.”

“Money and happiness,” the old man declared, “exist apart from each other. When I was in politics I met some of the richest and most miserable men in Italy. Five minutes’ walk from that door I could take you to people who are dirt poor and who wouldn’t exchange their lives with anyone’s.”

“Money
with
happiness,” Nic said. “I think that’s the goal.”

“Really?” His father looked disappointed. “Why? Money’s something you can strive for, something you can make yourself. Happiness, in my experience, only comes from others, when they decide to give it to you. You can’t force people to do that, not even with money, though there’s plenty out there who seem to think otherwise. It has to be earned and that’s what makes it worthwhile.”

Sara finished her wine. Nic refilled the glass. She was dressed down tonight: a blue shirt with an exotic pattern, dark trousers. She looked young, naÏve almost. She was relaxed too; the hard mask she wore so much of the time was gone. He wondered again about her life; why no man had come to fill it properly, and, against his own instincts, he could not help but wonder what was needed for that role. There would be preconditions. Honesty lay at the base of any relationship. He felt that strongly, so strongly it had ruined several of the liaisons he had enjoyed in the past. To love someone demanded more than physical attraction. There had to be some pact of alliance against the cold, inexplicable vagaries of the world. Without those, any affair was, it seemed to him, doomed to be a brief, shallow ghost of passion, something Sara Farnese seemed to know well.

“Is that what a family’s for?” she asked. “To give you that love?”

“Ideally,” Marco agreed. “I hope we did that. Not perfectly perhaps, but then, families aren’t about perfection. They’re about trying.” He looked at Nic. “Any complaints?”

“You made me read Marx when I was ten.”

“And the Bible would have been worse?”

Nic thought about this. “Probably not. I was ten. I wouldn’t have taken much notice of either.”

“So there. Where’s the harm? But don’t think families are some kind of magic formula for happiness. They can cure you, they can kill you too when they go wrong.” The old man saw her reaction and grimaced. “Sorry—I was being stupid.”

“Why?” Nic asked. “It’s true. You should see some of the families I meet.”

“But the alternative,” she said, “is to walk down the middle. You know the highs. You know the lows. I don’t really. It’s like being . . . incomplete somehow. You’re lucky. Both of you.”

The two men glanced uneasily at each other. Theirs had not been the most comfortable of relationships at times and each bore an equal weight of guilt and resentment for some of the arguments that had occurred in the past. In the present circumstances, however, these seemed petty matters. There was a reckoning coming, and certain things needed to be said.

“You’re right, we’re lucky,” Marco Costa said, watching her wineglass enviously. “I’m a stubborn old man who always thought he knew what was best for the world. I don’t imagine that made me an easy person at times.”

“You can say that again,” Nic agreed. “But that was never the problem. It was the fact that we always lived in your shadow. We were always the offspring of Red Marco, the man in the papers, the one who made the headlines. We were never individuals in our own right. We were parts of you. I know that wasn’t your intention, but it’s what happened and it was hard, hard to have parents we loved so much we couldn’t quite separate their identity from our own.”

The old man laughed. “Now I understand! I bring you three up as good revolutionaries. And what do you become? A cop, an American lawyer and an artist, and you do this in order to say, ‘We are ourselves.’ Good for you, son. More power to your elbow.”

Nic smiled. It was, he thought, the first time he had ever heard his father approve explicitly of his career.

Marco glanced at Sara. “Rebellion’s good for the soul. You grew up in a convent. I imagine that drives it out of you?”

“Why?” she answered sharply.

“Because belief comes first. You do believe, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. I pray sometimes and it makes me feel better, though I’m not so sure I think there’s a God. If there were, he would surely do something about the state of the world. That old excuse about free will isn’t good enough. Still, as a way of explaining why we live, why we do what we do, the Church has a point. And it has very beautiful stories too. I always thought that as a child when they were read to me in the convent. Beauty counts. I don’t know anything better.”

Marco stared out of the window, into the darkness, thinking. “I suppose I’m meant to argue politics are better. Communism or social democracy. But I don’t think I have the energy anymore.”

Nic felt a dark thought rising at the back of his mind. “You’re kidding me?”

“No. Oh, it’s not the sickness, Nic. It’s just being realistic. What matters, I think, is that you believe in
something,
and something too that’s not too comfortable, something that keeps you awake at night from time to time. If that’s religion, so be it. I never took you into that chapel down the road, but you know the story surely? That it was where Peter stopped while fleeing Rome, and Christ appeared to him.
’Domine Quo Vadis?’
he asked. Lord, where are you going? And what did Jesus say? ‘To Rome to be crucified again.’ It’s just a story, of course. That doesn’t make it any the less powerful. The Church then wasn’t what it is now. Peter would be horrified if he saw what’s been built in his name in the Vatican. Those people were revolutionaries. They were trying to change the entire Roman state, and the world after that. They weren’t persecuted for no reason. Their beliefs were dangerous, treasonable. What the story of
Quo Vadis
is about is not giving up, not turning around when you’re in trouble. Remembering that people have made sacrifices to get you where you are. Sometimes the biggest sacrifice of all.”