A Season for the Dead (25 page)

42

When Nic Costa arrived home he thought, for a moment, that he had stepped back in time. The house was alive with voices: his father, Sara, and a laughing Bea who, when he walked through the door, was playing with the dog as if some unexpected peace pact had just been signed. There were flowers throughout the downstairs rooms: roses and chrysanthemums, dahlias and sprays of lurid irises. The scent hung heavy everywhere. Sara and Bea drank champagne. Marco stuck to mineral water. In the kitchen two women, hired hands for the night, were putting the finishing touches to an extravagant cold buffet, the kind of meal his mother had once prepared so well. Plates of cold grilled vegetables, glistening with olive oil, were going on the dining table alongside scampi and lobster,
bresaola
and cheeses. He had to close his eyes for a moment to ensure this was not some dream. When he opened them again his father sat in front of him, in the wheelchair, still gray and cadaverous, but wearing the broadest smile Nic could recall for many months.

“Why’re you looking so damn fed up, son?”

“I just . . .” he stuttered. “Did I forget a birthday?”

Marco waved a hand at him, then motioned for one of the women to pour a glass of champagne. “Do you always need a reason? Isn’t it possible I was just bored with being miserable? It’s so enervating after a while. And all this crap out there. Your work. Sara . . .” Marco cast a glance back at Sara and Bea chatting in the living room, the dog at Bea’s feet. “Whatever the facts tell you, Nic, I think she’s a good woman. She just doesn’t realize it herself.”

“I know.” Nic hesitated. He didn’t want to break the spell. “That’s what makes it so hard to understand.”

“Bullshit!” Marco declared. “How can you understand someone until you get to know them? You fret about things too much. You want everything wrapped up all nice and tidy before you’ll deign to touch it. Relax, Nic. Make the most of things while they’re still there.”

Nic picked up a glass of champagne and raised it to his father.
“Salute!”

“And to you, my son. There . . .” Marco cocked an ear. “You know that sound?”

Women chattering. The dog, Pepe, yelping at their feet for attention. Voices ringing off the plain stone walls of the farmhouse. He knew what his father meant. “Yes.”

“How many years since we heard that racket in here? Eight? A house needs the noise of people or it starts to die. That’s what I’ve been missing all this time. I’m going to record you all secretly and play it back when you’re gone. Do that and you could fool yourself into thinking you’ll live forever.”

Nic Costa was unable to take his eyes off the women in the other room. Sara looked so calm, so lovely. Bea too seemed transformed, as if being invited back to spend some social time with Marco was the greatest compliment she could receive.

“And Bea?” he asked his father.

“She deserves it. That’s all. I’m an idiot, Nic. You should know that about your father. I was never good at seeing things in other people. That was your mother’s talent. It’s where you got it from.”

The four of them sat down around the dining-room table and admired the feast. Then the two hired women lit the large antique candles Marco had insisted be set up throughout the ground floor and turned down the electric lights. He paid the women, with much thanks, and they were gone. The farmhouse was now lit like a canvas. There were deep shadows where the guttering flames failed to reach, and rich, natural colors, the ancient timber table, the subtle red of the curtains, the ocher of the walls, in the idle beam of the waxy light.

“A toast!” Marco declared. “You were right, Nic. This is a birthday. But whose?”

Nic looked at Bea and Sara. They had no answers. “I give up,” he told his father.

Marco raised his glass to the dog. Baffled, Pepe placed his paws on the old man’s knees and was rewarded with a slice of dried beef. “To him, of course. We bought this dog three months after your mother died, when he was eight weeks old. By my reckoning, that makes him ten today and I shall brook no arguments. Least of all from him.”

“The dog!” Sara repeated.

“And the wisdom of dogs,” Marco added. “Which surpasses our own, if only we knew it.”

Bea cast a doubtful eye over the creature staring lovingly up into Marco’s face. “Now,
that
requires an explanation.”

“Think of us. Consumed by worry about events beyond our control. Forever watching the clock and wondering what tomorrow brings. What concerns a dog? The present, only. Will he be loved? Will he be fed? He has no concept of tomorrow, no idea that any of this comes to an end. All he cares about is the here and now and he cares about that passionately, more passionately than any of us could imagine.”

“That’s a kind of wisdom?” Sara wondered.

“Absolutely,” Marco insisted. “Not our kind, but one that serves a dog very well. There’s a lesson for us too. You don’t remember, Nic? That little scene after we got him?”

Nic refilled the glasses with the hard cold wine. Marco was now drinking a little too. “Don’t embarrass me with childhood stories, please. That’s the cruelest trick a parent can play.”

“Not this one. It’s informative. A man should always be ready to be informed.”

Nic sighed. “And it’s about?”

“Life and death,” Marco replied, amused. “What else is there?”

43

It was impossible to move for bodies. Every tourist in the city seemed to have migrated to the Piazza Navona. Rossi scanned the ocean of blank faces, grateful that Valena had been smart enough to dash straight into the embassy building and not linger to sign autographs or attract the attention of the paparazzi. The small-time crooks were out in force, attracted by the prospect of stray handbags and easy pickings among the crowds. In a single sweep of the square, Rossi recognized a couple. He’d seen two uniformed cops on duty—no more. It was a disgrace. The hucksters were working the hordes of visitors with the usual set of scams: cards and cheap gifts, invitations to “nightclubs” and simple, sly theft.

“I like it here,” Cattaneo said. “This is what living in Rome’s all about.”

The big man scowled at him. “It’s a dump. It’s Disneyland.”

It wasn’t really. Rossi knew enough history for that. In daylight, when it was half empty, the place was beautiful. It still followed the oval outline of the old Roman stadium that preceded it. He could just about imagine chariots racing around its perimeter. There was the big fountain of the four rivers by Bernini, who seemed to have built half of Rome. No, the piazza didn’t bug him. He could almost like it. The people were the problem. They were just too loose, too relaxed, to help him keep his mind on the job when he was this tired. If Gino Fosse wanted to attack the jerk from the TV—if he felt like just walking up to Valena on the steps of the embassy as he left and pumping a gun in his face—there was no way two cops could stop him. The one consolation, Rossi thought, was that this wasn’t the man’s style. It was too plain, too prosaic. Every time he killed someone Fosse made a statement about himself, one that said:
See me? I’m different, I’m smart, and I can send you to hell in ways you never even dreamed of.

“Will you look at that?” Cattaneo gasped in delight.

The fake-statue artists were out in droves. Rossi could see at least eight of them, each covered in makeup, perched on an upturned crate with a few simple props, trying to get a little cash out of the tourists. It was honest, he guessed. The first time he’d seen the trick, years before, it was quite amusing. Then they appeared everywhere and soon ran out of subject matter. At that moment there were two Statues of Liberty, one Mona Lisa, one strange, fluorescent alien and any number of classical Roman figures in togas, a couple with scrolls in their hands, all standing stock still in the square, trying not to blink. The nearest, who was no more than three yards away, had painted himself a powdery white, splashed the same stuff on what looked like a grubby bedsheet, thrown the cloth around his shoulders and was now pretending to be Julius Caesar or somebody. No, Rossi thought, that was wrong. He had a full head of hair and a young, half-handsome face. Caesar had to be bald. He needed a laurel wreath. This was just a chancer trying to make some quick money. Maybe he was supposed to be Brutus, though his hair seemed a little long for that. There was one other point Rossi had got wrong too, he suddenly realized. It was about more than just standing there not moving a muscle for minutes on end. At some point you had to drop your pretense. You had to let the people in the crowd know it was part of the game—by winking or even touching them—because that was the trigger that made them reach into their pockets. If you never moved an inch they’d just walk on. This was meant to be entertainment after all.

Rossi stared at Brutus. This moron didn’t get it. He really didn’t move. The whole act was just plain shoddy, unconvincing. He’d be hustling for a metro ticket before long, hoping to turn his gauche inexperience into sympathy.

Cattaneo tapped his arm. “Now, that Mona Lisa. She’s a looker. She’ll get all the money.”

Rossi watched the figure in the black dress standing just a few yards along from Brutus with her head in a gold-painted frame. “It’s a man,” Rossi said. “I arrested him for picking someone’s pocket once.”

“You’re kidding me?” Cattaneo gasped. “You mean he’s a queer?”

“No,” Rossi replied, exasperated. “Don’t be so damned literal. This is what he does. It doesn’t make him queer.”

People always got that wrong, he thought. Appearances were deceptive. Sometimes they were meant to be that way. The idea nagged at him but he felt too tired to examine it any further.

He looked at his watch. “Where the hell is the creep? An hour, he said. It’s been at least . . .”

Rossi couldn’t remember when Valena had walked up the marble steps of the embassy into the reception. It just seemed a long time ago.

“It’s been fifty-eight minutes,” Cattaneo said. “He’s not due yet.”

Rossi swore under his breath, hating the precise little bastard by his side. Then he looked at the door. Valena’s fat frame was waddling through it, brushing aside anyone who stood in his way.

“Looks like his timing’s as bad as mine,” the big man said. “Tut, tut. He could have spent a hundred and twenty more seconds inside with the glitzy people.”

“Yeah,” Cattaneo agreed docilely, and then found himself staring at Rossi’s broad back as the older man walked over to greet Valena.

He stood on the steps, looking nervous. He had food stains down the front of his white shirt. He smelled of drink, champagne probably, Rossi guessed.

“What kind of protection is this?” Valena demanded. “You’re supposed to be looking after me every second I’m outside.”

“Apologies,” Rossi replied, noting that Cattaneo had caught up with him now. “We didn’t want to cramp your style.”

“Idiots!” Valena bellowed. His eyes looked a little too wild. Rossi wondered if there was only alcohol rolling around inside the man’s fat frame. Maybe he’d added a little white powder in there too to help things along.

“Your car awaits, sir,” Rossi said with a wave. The two policemen watched him roll along ahead, then Rossi cursed himself, caught up with the man and walked by his right, as he was supposed to. His head wasn’t working properly tonight. It was just plain exhaustion. They picked up the pace toward the far side of the piazza where Rossi had left the car. Then Cattaneo put a hand on Valena’s arm. The TV man stopped, his head revolving right and left. Really out of it, Rossi saw. There surely was something floating around his fat-clogged veins.

“Do the honors,” Cattaneo barked.

“What?” Rossi thought he would hit the man one day. He was just too infuriating.

“Look. He’s good. Give him something, for Christ’s sake. Here . . .”

Cattaneo threw some coins. The living statue, the one who looked like Brutus but with hair that was too long, smiled and caught them in a cheap black hat. He was holding it, fingers over the rim which was held tight in his very large thumb, panning for money.

“For the love of God,” Rossi declared, and yet found himself reaching in his pocket for money, wondering about these instant reactions and why you never questioned them.

Brutus was still on his crate. He was smiling like a loon. He was terrible, Rossi recalled. It was a crime to give him money.

The big man pulled out a few coins and dropped them in the hat. It was odd. The statue wouldn’t stop smiling, as if this weren’t about money at all.

“Enough,” Rossi said, looking around for the uniformed men, discovering that once again they were never there when you needed them. “You don’t get a cent more. Beat it now before I start to get mad.”

Brutus bowed his head, still smiling. Luca Rossi suddenly felt his spine go cold. There was something familiar about the face. He knew it somehow, not well, but enough to make him think it deserved attention.