Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

Pepe rolled his freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, then let it drop lightly to the ground. Luca, Giovanni and Rocco stopped aiming karate kicks at each other, Enrico received a pass from Ruggiero and flicked the ball up and into his hands. They all started walking towards their football coach.

Enrico cast Ruggiero a questioning glance. Ruggiero ignored him. He felt the others picking up on Enrico’s uncertainty and storing it away for future use. Almost certainly none of them knew what the coach wanted, but they knew it was important to look as if they did. Pepe was even nodding, as if he had been expecting this.

‘What is it, coach?’ said Enrico.

‘A little discussion of tactics, down at Mr Basile’s place,’ said the coach. ‘Now.’

‘Not on the pitch?’ asked Enrico, his voice a squeak of protest and surprise.

Luca spat on the ground, just behind Enrico’s heel. ‘You heard him, Enrico.’

‘Are you coming, coach?’ asked Enrico.

‘Maybe later.’ Their coach pulled a clear plastic bag from inside his Adidas tracksuit, and held it open in front of Enrico.

‘What’s that for?’ asked the boy.

‘It’s for putting things into, Enrico. Let’s start with your mobile.’

Enrico turned around and looked at his friends uncomprehendingly. Pepe already had his iPhone out, and was the first to drop it into the bag. Luca, Giovanni and Rocco followed. Ruggiero delayed a little, carefully pulling out his phone, giving Enrico all the time he needed to see what he was supposed to do, then dropped it into the bag. He nodded at Enrico, trying to communicate to him the need for silence and obedience.

His hints weren’t enough.

‘My aunt wants me to call her. She said I have to call if I’m not going straight home after practice.’ He slid open his phone. ‘I’ll call her now, tell her we’re going to the bar. She won’t mind.’

Ruggiero stepped forward and plucked the phone from Enrico’s hand, and tossed it towards the coach who opened the mouth of the plastic bag wide to catch it on the fly. The coach turned quickly on his heel and walked away from them, saying, ‘I’ll see you kids later.’

Pepe was already on his motor scooter, gunning the throttle, checking his lean face and the fit of his sunglasses in the rear-view mirror. Luca clambered on behind him, but Pepe hit him hard in the throat with the heel of his hand, knocking him sprawling to the ground. Luca stood up, dusted himself down and laughed, like it had been a rehearsed stunt. Rocco, who had the other scooter, nodded to Giovanni, who climbed aboard, and they were off, leaving a swirl of dust and a scent of fuel behind.

Pepe said something, his words drowned out by the rip and roaring of the scooter motor as he revved it. Then he let go of the throttle and spoke into the sudden silence, ‘Enrico, get on.’

Enrico looked in panic at Luca, who turned away in disgust, then to Ruggiero, who shrugged. Finally he found his voice. ‘Thanks, Pepe, I can walk. It’s only ten minutes.’

Pepe turned off the motor, dismounted and moved towards Enrico, who retreated behind Ruggiero.

‘You don’t want to ride from me?’

‘I can walk.’

‘Yeah.’ Pepe looked down the hill and over the half-built run-down houses. ‘You’ll be there in ten minutes, right? No detours.’

‘No detours,’ promised Enrico.

Pepe ignored him. ‘Ruggiero, you’ll see to it, won’t you?’

Ruggiero said, ‘I’ll bring him straight there. Along with myself.’

‘You need a scooter to get around on. What are you waiting for?’

‘My mother thinks it should be my father who gets it for me.’

Pepe nodded. ‘That’s good. When is he getting back?’

‘I don’t know these things, and I don’t ask.’

Pepe stared at Ruggiero, before giving him the slightest of nods, imperceptible to the others. Then he jerked his head and Luca, nervously laughing and fingering his throat, climbed aboard again, and they left.

Ruggiero took Enrico by the elbow and propelled him forwards. ‘Come on.’

They set off down the hill together. Almost every house they passed had added a second floor years ago, but none of them had ever completed the work. The most advanced were those that had managed to put up pillars and a roof, but no walls, giving the buildings the look of having been gutted by bombing. Some homeowners had ambitiously begun work on a third level. Twisted steel rebars protruded from every roof. Everything was still in the early stages of construction and in the final stages of decay. Enrico hesitated for a moment as they passed the intersection leading to his house where he lived with Aunt Rosa and Uncle Pietro, but Ruggiero gave him a push. ‘We were told to go directly. They took our phones. We’re not to talk to anyone. That has to be clear even to you.’

‘What have we done?’

‘I don’t know, Enrico. Probably nothing. Maybe it’s someone else who’s done something, or just a test of obedience. Or maybe it’s some sort of preparation for the festivities on September 2nd or tactics, like Coach said. We’ll find out.’

‘I’m worried something’s going to happen. Why did they take our phones?’

‘To make us disappear for a while.’

‘My aunt will be worried sick if I don’t contact her,’ said Enrico. ‘Sunday lunch. You know what she’s like.’

Ruggiero nodded. Zia Rosa, as he also called her, though she was not his aunt, lived her life in a state of fretfulness and, according to Enrico, slept no more than three hours a night, though how sleepy Enrico would know that was a mystery. Perhaps Enrico’s uncle, the strong-smelling and slow-witted Pietro, had told him, but if so, that would mean he would have had to speak, which is not something Ruggiero had often heard him do.

They entered the silent piazza and headed towards the bar. Two empty chairs and a tin table sat next to the door, which was covered in a heavy bead curtain. A faded chart showing ghostly Motta ice creams and smudged prices still quoted in lire was nailed to the wall.

‘It’s already closed for the afternoon,’ said Enrico in relief. ‘The scooters aren’t here. They must have gone home.’

Maybe Enrico was right. Mr Basile’s bar and gelateria kept irregular opening hours. On any given afternoon it could be closed while its owner sunned himself on the white sand. Closed meant unoccupied by Basile or Salvatore. They never locked the bar, because no one for any reason would ever think of taking anything from it, not even a glass of water, without permission. Basile loved the sun. It had burned him deep brown, caused melanomas to prosper on his back, and wrinkled the skin of his face, but still he went, the only sunbather on the horseshoe-shaped beach, sitting in front of the half-built villas, rusting metal cages, breeze blocks and paralysed cement mixers, soaking it all up.

He never swam in the bright blue waters of the sea in front of him, just lay there all afternoon, smiling up at the sky, his wife dead these ten years, his three sons lost in 1991, the year the war between the Cataldo and Cordi families finally ended.

Ruggiero realized Mr Basile would have told the others not to park their scooters in front of the bar, which explained the empty piazza. Just as he was about to point this out to Enrico, the bead curtain parted and Basile’s faithful ancient retainer, Salvatore, thin and sprightly, waved the two boys inside.

Walk in if invited, even if you know. His father had told him that that was the sign of true courage. He would have felt better if his father were here now. But all their fathers were abroad, in Milan, Turin, Spain, Slovenia and Germany. He was not alone in being alone.

With Enrico right behind him, Ruggiero brushed the beads aside with the back of his hand, and stepped inside the dark bar.