The Namesake (44 page)
‘It was empty. We both knew it.’
‘Then why pull the trigger? You did not even flinch.’
‘Nor you,’ said Blume.
‘I knew absolutely it was empty.’
‘What about killing Dagmar, was that easy?’
‘Don’t take on such a moralizing tone. You never even knew her.’
‘I am just curious,’ said Blume.
‘As a matter of fact, it was not easy for me at the time. I think you’d find it easier than me, Blume.’
‘I would never kill an innocent young woman.’
‘Sure you would. You’d be even easier to persuade than I was. I can tell. You’re the type, only you don’t know it yet. Right now, take a measure of your regret for Pietro over there. Go on. How sorry do you feel? It’s not even registering, is it? You feel so completely justified and right. Not everyone is like that.’
‘I’d have let Konrad live.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. He was about to cause no end of upsets and upheavals, and in this business that means bloodshed. Killing him saved lives.’
‘Who had the other half of the Madonna picture, you?’
‘Yes, I did. Basile, he’s the local boss, says he wants to frame the two halves of the Madonna in his bar. Basile, by the way, is completely on my side, which is good news for you. And one of the reasons he is on my side is that he believes firmly that Tony set up an elaborate plot against me. The namesake killing, the arrivals of Konrad and you, the rumours of a confession by Maria Itria. So you helped my case too, by setting my wife up as a snitch. See the way you’re prepared to sacrifice a young woman for your own convenience?’
‘Not for my own convenience. I am protecting society.’
‘You have some political ideas in your mind that aren’t even yours to begin with. You love yourself so much you think certain ideas are sacred just because they happen to live in your head. My actions will probably save lives, but you don’t count them. Mafiosi killing Mafiosi is more than OK, it’s something you welcome. You get to decide whose lives are worth more. Does my wife deserve to die more than your girlfriend, what’s her name . . . that female inspector? Caterina, that’s her.’
‘Don’t.’
‘I’ll try not to, Commissioner, but maybe you could have thought of her beforehand. Now I go back to my family that you put in danger, I instruct them to stay put, to fight. I forgive my wife because in the end your lie became a reality and she called Arconti for help, and I tell her that anyone who knows this is in danger, and anyone who reveals it is dead, and I tell Basile and others I have a policeman in captivity, though I won’t say where, awaiting our decision.’
‘How do you know it was my lie? How do you know I was behind the altered transcript?’
‘Word gets around. If all this works out for the best, join me and you’ll find yourself meeting the most surprising people in the most unexpected places.’
‘Massimiliani informed on me?’
‘No, Commissioner. It’s simpler than that. I knew it wasn’t Arconti, because I know his style. It had to be you. All I had to do was listen and find out a few details, like where they found the transcripts – your office and in Arconti’s office after you had been in there. Logic works better than spies.’
‘You ordered the murder of an innocent man simply to intimidate an honest magistrate.’
‘Wrong again. The murder of that unfortunate Milanese man was a declaration of war against me.’
‘So you didn’t order it?’
‘I can’t
order
Tony Megale to do anything. What I can do, and what I did, was give him enough space to make a serious mistake. Ever since he murdered his mother – did you know he did that? Ever since then people have been waiting for someone to wipe the slate clean. There is another branch of the Megale family in Africo that is keen to see the surname purified, and will support me.’
Curmaci picked up his pistol from the table, then the shotgun and backed away towards the edge of the cave. ‘The meeting’s tomorrow. You had better hope for the best. The batteries on those lamps last for ages, but you might want to save them.’
He made broad sweeps with the shotgun pointing around the cave. ‘Some cans. An old opener. Camp stove, hope there’s still gas. Water on the right; catch it in a cup. Oh, you had better shit away from the water. That’s important.’
‘You’re leaving me here?’
‘You want me to shoot you? I’d prefer to give you the chance to think about my offer. If I come back for you in two or three days, and next week you find yourself walking on the right side of the earth and enjoying the sun, then maybe you’ll have learned to trust me a bit. I’ve got some walking to do myself now. All the way back to Ardore.’
Curmaci went towards the steel door, keeping him covered with the pistol and fading into the darkness. Blume did not see him open the door, but now he heard him close it and slide a bolt on the other side.
Curmaci’s voice came muffled through the steel. ‘Just wait for me. Trust, Commissioner, and if you can’t trust . . .’
But his next words were lost as he moved down the passage.
Blume stayed motionless for ten minutes examining his options. Then he stood up and went around the cavern, unhooking the four lanterns from steel nails hammered into the rock. He brought them over to the table, and turned them off one by one. After the last had gone out, he sat there, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. When he had been sitting there for what seemed like half an hour, he accepted that the darkness was total. He lit one lantern, and went over to the door and gave it a few kicks, each harder than the last, exorcizing the deathly silence, pleased to be able to declare his presence through noise, but managing to unnerve himself too. Hammering on doors was what the incarcerated insane did.
Over the next few hours, how many he could not tell, he twice went over with a lamp to where the body lay and looked at the white face staring as if at something on the roof behind him. Twice he raised the lantern to see what Pietro was gazing at, knowing that his action made no sense. Blume had seen many dead bodies in his time, but never one whose death he had been responsible for. He gave it a kick, then whispered, ‘Fuck you,’ and waited to see if he felt any sense of angry triumph, but he didn’t. Then he cleared his throat and said, more solemnly, ‘Sorry.’
But he didn’t feel sorry either.
He returned to the entrance, gave the door a few more kicks. It did not budge, and even if it opened, there would be no ladder at the end of the nightmare corridor outside. But he could not think of any better plan. He went back towards the table where he had seen some pieces of cutlery, a fork. He was but four steps from the table when, without any preliminary flickering, the first lamp died with the suddenness of someone switching it off. He walked till he felt himself hitting the wood.
Locri
With just three hours to go before the Polsi celebrations began, Enrico Megale phoned Ruggiero Curmaci and said, ‘Are you coming today?’ His voice was full of excitement, perhaps because of the day ahead, perhaps because his father was there.
‘Sure,’ said Ruggiero.
‘You need a lift?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Ruggiero.
‘No? How are you getting there?’
‘By car, I suppose,’ said Ruggiero.
A few beats passed before Enrico said, ‘OK. I’ll see you there. Call us if you need a lift, OK?’
‘Sure,’ said Ruggiero. ‘Are you going with your father?’
‘Yes! Great, isn’t it? Look, I’m sorry your dad couldn’t make it back. I hear there are problems. Maybe he’ll arrive at the procession at the last moment, huh? Did he say anything?’
‘We’ve not heard from him.’
‘So, your mother’s going to drive?’ asked Enrico.
‘I guess,’ said Ruggiero.
‘We won’t be leaving for another hour and a half, so . . . you know.’
‘Thanks, Enrico. You’re a good friend.’
‘Yeah, oh listen you haven’t seen my uncle anywhere, have you? Zia Rosa is out of her mind with worry. Pietro got a call yesterday afternoon, went out, and hasn’t come back since and has turned off his phone.’
‘I’ve been here all the time, Enrico, so I never saw him. Who called him?’
‘He didn’t say. He didn’t even say someone had called. My aunt heard his phone ringing, then it stopped and he left without saying a word. He took the car. Did I tell you about the car?’
‘No,’ said Ruggiero. ‘You mean the old Fiat Ritmo?’
‘Yeah. The other night it slipped out of gear, went rolling out of the drive on to the road, and got stuck in a ditch. Wild! Imagine if it had hit someone. It would have been like getting hit by a car driven by a ghost. Yesterday morning, Uncle Pietro looks out the window and says, “They’ve stolen the fucking Ritmo!” And then my aunt says maybe it slipped out of gear and rolled away, and he says, “No, they’ve stolen it, the bastards.” Then my aunt, she puts some cheese on his bread, waits till it’s all in his mouth, and says, “How much do you think they’ll get for it?” And my uncle almost died from laughing, choking on his bread, and had to spit it out, the two of them like kids, howling at the idea of someone trying to sell the Ritmo. It turns out it was her fault. She was the last one to drive it, and she remembers not bothering to put it into gear when she parked under the kitchen window. My uncle says women drivers are so bad they even have crashes after they’ve parked, which was a good one.’
‘That’s a hell of a story about the car.’
‘Yeah. It’s gone, too. Zio must have taken it. It’s a pity your father’s not here for you.’
‘Maybe he went straight to Polsi, to avoid certain people,’ said Ruggiero. ‘You never know.’
‘Yeah, could be. Our dads were booked on the same flight, but yours pulled out at the last moment.’
‘He’ll have had his reasons.’
Enrico lowered his voice. ‘My dad is fucking raging at Uncle Pietro for disappearing like this. Says Pietro never acted responsibly. Says that’s why no one ever tells Pietro anything.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Let’s hope we meet there, then. Let me know, huh? Also if you see Pietro . . .’
‘No problem,’ said Ruggiero, hanging up, and tossing his phone onto his bed.
Ardore
Lacking a watch and deprived of his phone, he measured his time in cups of water and in the inches of progress he was making in scraping away the sharp limestone and daubs of cement around the bottom hinge of the door. He was using a rusted fork and a flat butter knife for the purpose. In his pocket was an old lever-type opener with which he had stabbed open a can of soup and drained the unheated contents into his mouth. He might make better progress on the cement if he used the opener, but if it broke, he would not be able to open any of the remaining cans, though some of them had swollen so much that they looked like they might explode if he merely tapped them.
Sometimes he turned off the lamp and worked for as long as he could in the darkness. Occasionally he thought he heard buzzing and saw a glow from where the body lay in the corner of the cave, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks. Rigor mortis, livor mortis and algor mortis. The rigor had come and perhaps was gone already. The body temperature should be coming down to that of the cave, which, to Blume, seemed increasingly cold.
It was a fork, not a knife, that first penetrated through to the other side. Blume tried to peer through the tiny hole he had made, but could see nothing. His hands were puffed and watery with burst and swelling blisters, but it would surely take only five or six more hours increasing the size of the hole, weakening the hinge, though he could hardly remember why he wanted to.
A shiver ran down his back and shot forward suddenly into his stomach making him gasp. His bowels seemed to loosen. With great effort, he controlled himself, clutching his stomach and sweating. He needed to find a place. But after he had gone a few paces, the sensation passed. It would return, and he needed to choose a place to serve as his latrine. Not near the water. Next to the body was too disrespectful. He picked up his lantern and walked over to where the corpse lay, whiter than ever, the mouth a black hole, the eyes devoid of all colour, the pupils not even visible. He passed by it hurriedly, and found a small declivity that could be used.
When he was finishing up, he gathered up the lantern again, then roared and instinctively flung the lamp beside him at the corpse. The head that had been staring up at the roof of the cavern had turned and was watching him as he squatted. The mouth was grinning, and making a sound.
The lantern bounced, cracked and went out and the dark arrived at the speed of light. The totality of the darkness caught him unprepared again. He struggled upright, brought his fingers up to his face, and touched his eyelids a few times, checking that his eyes were in fact open. By rubbing them, he could produce deep purple blots that floated in the air and comforted him a little. Pietro’s face had been so white it must surely still be visible, yet it, too, had been completely swallowed by the darkness. He closed his eyes, opened them: no difference. But the tiny buzzing sound persisted.
If rigor mortis had just worn off, it was perfectly possible for the head to move, the jaws to slacken. The faint buzz he had heard had not necessarily come from the mouth, and it was still going on. Faraway flies made that sound. He thought he could smell the beginning of the decay, or maybe it was just the smell that Pietro had carried with him in life. How much time had passed?