Death of a Salesperson (13 page)

‘Where we go afterwards,' said Mario obediently.

‘There's North Africa. We could hire a boat. You could. False passports. Probably slip in unobserved, with those dumbchucks down there . . . Still, all those damned Arabs. I've never really fancied North Africa. Probably have some
fanatic take over and turn it into a strict Islamic state.'

He thought about the penalty for theft in Islam, and looked down apprehensively at his hands.

‘What about Switzerland, then? Very picturesque. Good, good place for bankers.'

But when he thought about it, he didn't greatly fancy Switzerland either. All those mountains—so fatiguing for a man of his build. And cows. And lymphatic women. And the lousy weather and the lack of coastline.

When he thought about it, the only country he really fancied was Italy. And in this Mario agreed. They got quite sentimental about it.

‘With all its faults,' announced Furlani expansively, ‘with all this damned terrorism, all this corruption, the Mafia, all the rest, it's still the best country in the world for a civilized man, for a man of enterprise.'

‘È vero!'
shouted Mario.
‘Viva I'ltalia!'

They drank a couple of glasses of Chianti to it, and got very cosy, and it was in this mood of sentimental nationalism that Arrigo Furlani got his idea.

‘I have it! Ha-ha! Literally I have it! I have a little estate—a
proprietà—'

‘But that's impossible!' protested Mario.

‘Not in my own name, you understand. Secret. Totally secret. For purposes of—what shall we call it?—tax adjustment. I own it in the name of Luciano Doretti. I have been there—what?—three times. With a young lady. With three young ladies. Hardly a soul has seen us. I have dark glasses on, a little false beard. Now—see!—I have a real beard.' He fingered the thick stubble. ‘The perfect plan!'

‘Where is this estate?' asked Mario.

‘Between Firenze and Siena, but way off the motorway. Perfect! Lonely. But good neighbours too. Good class. Tuscan aristocrats, English intellectuals. After a year or two we could mix. I could mix. Is perfect!'

And that was how they did it. Six days later, in a very
fast hired car, with smoked glass windows, they retrieved two suitcases full of notes (they checked that before they drove off) from a lonely stretch of road deep in the Mezzogiorno. Mario drove with a new confidence, and when they were well away he even began to sing—love songs, happy songs, songs sung rather better by Caterina Valente. Furlani did not stop him. He was feeling almost benevolent.

He had insisted on going to the assignation bound and gagged, which showed a commendable sense of verisimilitude, as well as a sensible desire to save his own skin. He had insisted on Mario keeping a gun in his hand during the actual retrieval of the money. After all, the plan might have misfired. But nothing went wrong. They drove and drove in the summer sun, up the eastern coast of Italy. Sometimes they stopped for a drink—and poured liberal glasses of real French brandy, and laughed and horsed around. Then Furlani demanded to be bound and gagged again, and they continued on their way. Often they listened to the car radio: Radio Italy was reporting that the Banco Nazionale Piemontese was cautiously optimistic that its revered manager would be free in a few hours' time, certain measures having been taken. Mario threw back his head and roared, and Furlani sniggered through his gag.

It was a time of suspense for a lot of people. The Chairman of the Banco Nazionale sat in his head office, hoping that at last (one way or another) the lid had been shut down tight on the question of the Marchese contract. And in her substantial bourgeois home in the centre of Rome, surrounded by yapping dogs and two consoling maids, Mariella Furlani sat on the sofa, picking with long painted fingernails at a tiny handkerchief, letting out little whimpers of anguish, and hoping against hope. Surely it was possible, even at this stage, that something would still go wrong?

Long after nightfall, Furlani and Mario arrived at his estate of Campo-Castella, five miles from the tiny village of Bandolero. Everything was in total darkness.

‘Untie me,' hissed Furlani. Unhesitatingly Mario obeyed.

‘Put the car in the garage,' whispered Furlani. ‘Tomorrow we'll abandon it somewhere. Torino, perhaps. I have the house-key on my keyring.'

He opened the front door of the farm house, and cautiously put on the light. Presently Mario came in with the suitcases.

‘Nice,' he said. ‘Is very nice.'

‘We'll make it better,' said Furlani. ‘Can you paper? It needs to be lived in. And we'll buy another car. A Mercedes.'

‘Ai! Mercedes!' howled Mario in rapture. He put down the suitcases, and finally threw the gun down on the splendid oak dining table.

‘Careful! It's antique!' snapped Furlani. But then a better mood overtook him.

‘We're safe!' he shouted.

‘Safe!' yelled Mario. And they sang and danced, and then they yelled in triumph and danced a bit more, little jigs of happiness. Then they poured out large glasses of whisky, and Furlani found some ice in the refrigerator. They opened the cases again, and feasted their eyes on the money. Mario took one bundle up, and gazed on it with reverence. Then he split open the wrapping band, and threw the hundred notes from the bundle into the air. They seemed to his child-like gaze to float, there in the musty air—to float in infinite promise. Furlani took up a bundle too, and threw it into the air. Then they pelted each other, and then they grovelled around like babies in the thick carpet of
lire.

Once in the course of their night-long binge of triumph Furlani did look at the gun on the table. It would be so easy to finish off Mario now, and bury him in the grounds. But Furlani was essentially a man of peace. Corrupt, and a bully, but essentially a man of peace. And really, what would be the point? Mario was a good boy. Almost a son to him. And very stupid. He wouldn't give him any trouble. And after all, he was going to need a chauffeur.

‘W
ould you like another cheese and onion twisty?' asked Annie Monkton from the passenger seat, pushing the bag in the direction of the steering-wheel.

‘No, thanks, Ma, I'm happy with the prawn cocktail crisps,' said her son Herbie, speeding up the Ml, but brandishing the bag with his free hand.

‘You like those, don't you? I like them now and
again . . .'

‘Have one, Ma.'

‘Ta, I don't mind if I do.'

Her arm wobbled over towards the bag, and her elbow pushed itself companionably into her son's comfortable belly. Herbie was six foot three and 305 pounds, and Annie was five foot six and 200 pounds, so their bodies in the little Fiat were touching constantly. But they'd had many trips over the years in the small car, and had learnt to cope without friction.

‘That was nice, for a change,' said Annie, munching. ‘Tasty. Do you remember that seafood cocktail we had at the Monk's Head in Kendal that year?'

‘How could I forget it?' said Herbie enthusiastically. ‘It was brilliant! It had everything: prawn, crab, cod, smoked haddock. It was Dad recommended that hotel.'

‘He was good on hotels, was your dad. He could be a miserable bugger, as you well know, but he knew his hotels. It was him having been a traveller, I suppose.'

‘Yes, you'd remember, wouldn't you, where you'd had a really good nosh-up, and where it hadn't come up to standard.'

They sped through the county of Nottinghamshire, their eyes on the highway, except when they dropped to the bags in their hands.

‘I've got some coconut ice in my handbag,' said Annie. ‘Fancy a bit, son?'

‘No, I think I'll stick with the smoked almonds.'

They munched contentedly. Herbie was thinking.

‘Do you remember that coconut ice we got in the market in Leeds last year—with all the glacé bits in, and the peel?'

‘I do. It was scrumptious. I've often thought about that coconut ice.'

‘Now,' said Herbie, when he had got his thoughts in order, ‘what I'm wondering is, are we going to stop for lunch at the White Hart in Hunstable, or at the Fox and Newt in Carditch? Or we could even try the Mayflower at Kirkby again.'

‘Is that the pub your father took us to? Said he'd had a marvellous rump steak there that nearly filled the plate? Then when he took us it was very disappointing. Mingy little portions, and tough at that, and hardly enough chips to feed a baby.'

‘It'd changed management.'

‘It had. They ought to warn people. I remember your dad after that meal. Hardly said a word all afternoon. No, thank you, we won't try there again. I won't be done twice over. Let's see, the White Hart's where they do that lovely steak and mushroom pie, isn't it?'

‘That's right. Massive portions. With jacket potatoes with grated cheese on.'

‘Oh yes. I remember that. Melted in the mouth. And the Fox and Newt's where we had that lovely plaice and chips, where the chips was practically unlimited.'

‘That's right. I don't know when I've had better plaice and chips.'

‘Still, I think I fancy the steak and mushroom today. We'll have time to digest it before we have our dinner.'

So they stopped at the White Hart, and it hadn't changed hands, and they had the steak and mushroom, and the potatoes with the melted cheese, and a very generous helping
of boiled carrots, and Annie washed hers down with a gin and tonic, and Herbie washed his down with a pint of bitter. And just when they thought they'd finished, Herbie wondered whether he couldn't manage a piece of that Black Forest gâteau he'd seen at the food bar, and Annie wondered whether she couldn't too, and she said she'd buy another round of drinks to go with it, if Herbie would just fetch them from the bar. So they had the gâteau too, and another round of drinks, and they were very pleased they did.

‘That was lovely,' Annie said. ‘That was almost as good as the Black Forest gâteau they serve at the King's Head in Shoreditch. You know, the one your dad always swore by.'

‘That's right. He loved his Black Forest gâteau, didn't he? We must go out to the King's Head again some time. We haven't been there since he died.'

‘Not since he had his Attack, in actual fact . . . I didn't like it after your dad had his Attack. I mean, we couldn't get around like we'd been used to, could we? . . . Still I must say that gâteau we've just had was almost as good, and a very nice-sized portion too. That should keep us going until dinner.'

As they went towards the car, Annie said:

‘Even your dad would have been satisfied with that meal. Walter was always less snappy when he'd really got his money's worth, wasn't he?'

They opened the boot, and Annie got out her large holdall and took from it a supersize bar of fruit and nut, some liquorice comfits, and a bag of bacon munchies. Herbert took a packet of potato sticks and a tin of cashews, because, as he said, he'd had enough sweet things for the moment. They drove on, out of Nottinghamshire and into Yorkshire, perfectly happy.

‘I like Yorkshire,' said Annie. ‘They always do you proud in Yorkshire.'

‘They know how to appreciate food in the North,' said Herbie.

‘They do. You can see it in the people.'

‘The question is,' said Herbie, lighting up a cigarette between the potato sticks and the cashews, ‘are we going to drive on up to the Lake District tonight, or are we going to stop off in Yorkshire somewhere?'

‘Oh, I thought we'd agreed. Stop off. No point in overdoing it. We're not in a race. We've got the whole weekend, and we don't have to be home till Monday night. There's lots of lovely hotels in Yorkshire where they always make you ever so welcome. There's Manor Court, just outside Ilkley, where they do that marvellous table d'hôte for six pounds fifty a head . . .'

They talked over the various alternatives, and finally decided to save Manor Court for the Sunday on the way back, and to spend the night at the Devonshire Arms in Spenlow. They enjoyed a pre-dinner lager and lime in the bar while they went through the menu. Finally Herbie ordered the smoked salmon, followed by sirloin steak with French fries, while Annie ordered the seafood platter, followed by fillet of pork Wellington. Herbie had a pint of bitter at table, and Annie a snowball, and they were as near as possible in a state of perfect bliss until Annie, over the pork Wellington, which as she happily observed nearly covered the plate, suddenly remembered something.

‘Here,' she said, ‘it's just come to me. The Devonshire Arms was the last place we ever stayed at with your dad. Last trip we ever had. We stayed here at the Devonshire Arms on the way down from Skye and the Western Isles.'

‘Did we, Ma? I'd never have remembered that.'

‘Well, you should. Three days later he had his first Attack.'

‘I remember it was soon after we'd got back from somewhere.'

‘And do you know what he had for his dinner that night? Fillet of pork Wellington!'

For a moment the remembrance of things past seemed to cast a shadow over the meal. Annie looked at the great
expanse of pork that had been set before her, and she gave the dead Walter the tribute of a passing sigh. Then she took a sup of her snowball, smiled at her son, and set to with a will again.

‘Doesn't do to take things like that, does it?' she said.

‘Thinking won't bring him back,' said Herbie.

So they didn't think about him.

Next morning they had an English breakfast of egg, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried potatoes, with the Yorkshire addition of black pudding, which Herbie pronounced ‘not bad, but I don't think I'd want it as a regular thing.' He considered the porridge excellent, though, especially with the golden syrup over, and Annie gave her blessing to the marmalade.