Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘I like lieder by Schumann, Schubert, Wolf and Mahler. I know the entire Winterreise. Do you know it?’ Konrad unexpectedly took an exit from the autostrada.

‘No. Where are we going? We should have stayed on the autostrada.’

‘Schubert’s most famous song cycle? I learned it many years ago, and I can play the piano accompaniment, too. They say I have a very fine singing voice.’

‘Do they? Why are we taking this exit?’

‘It is my holiday, no?’ Konrad rolled to a stop at the toll gate, and slotted a credit card into the machine. The machine sucked it in, thought about it a bit, then spat it out and flashed a message.

Konrad tried again, without any better luck.

‘Use mine,’ said Blume. ‘I’ve got fastpay on it.’

‘That is very kind.’

The machine deducted another 14 euros from Blume’s disastrous bank account and the barrier lifted. As Konrad handed back the card, Blume’s phone, his ‘proper’ one as he now thought of it, started ringing.

‘Caterina! I was just about to call you.’

‘Are you avoiding me?’

‘No. I’ve been busy. I couldn’t take calls. Has anyone been on to you about me?’

‘Nobody has contacted me.’

‘Someone from the DCSA or the Questura should. Basically, to explain that I’m going away for a few days — ’

‘Where?’

‘At the moment, we’re just entering Campania. But I’m not sure if I am supposed to tell you even that. I’m sure I can talk about it later.’

‘You said “we”. Who else is there?’

‘Another policeman. A sort of policeman. Really, I’m not going to say more.’

‘How many days?’

‘I don’t know. Two, three. Caterina, stop asking questions.’

‘Fine. But you…’ Her voice became a metallic stutter as they passed an area of poor reception, but Blume did not ask her to repeat whatever she had said. It sounded like a reprimand of some sort, or maybe it was the robotic quality of her voice.

‘This is not a good line,’ he said.

‘I can hear you perfectly well. Why aren’t you calling me?’

‘Stuff, you know. Unexpectedly busy, I’m calling you now.’

‘No, I called you.’

‘Yeah, well we’re both holding a phone and talking, so my basic point still stands.’

‘If holding the phone is tiring you…’

‘No, no. Of course not.’

His new phone vibrated and chimed cutely in his pocket. Having two phones was going to be as stressful as having a watch. The display showed a message: ‘Text from Mamma.’

He jabbed at the icon, but the touch screen had evidently been designed for some future elfin race with tapered fingers and a steady aim. Even giving it his full attention, he could not manage to tap the animated envelope on whatever magic spot might reveal the text they had sent him. He pulled out a pen and struck at it in vain. He slapped the phone several times against the top of the dashboard, which drew a disapproving scowl from Konrad who was now hurtling down a secondary road at full speed like he knew where he was going and someone’s life depended on it.

‘Alec?’ said Caterina.

‘Yes,’ said Blume, throwing his new phone on the floor in front of him. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I have to go up to Milan in a few days. Magistrate Bazza, the one who took over the case then decided not to tell me anything? I don’t much like the sound of this magistrate.’

‘No?’ said Blume. ‘Why not?’

‘I just said: he held back information from me when I was investigating.’

‘That’s normal enough, Caterina.’

‘I know, but a good magistrate holds back for strategic reasons. The point is to trip up the suspects, not the investigators.’

‘Maybe you’re being too sensitive.’

‘Too emotional and female, you mean?’

‘That’s not what I meant at all, but now that you mention it.. ’

‘A good magistrate’s interest in a case is always based on a desire to know what might be useful. That’s what Arconti was like, wasn’t it?’

‘I guess,’ said Blume.

‘From what I’ve seen, this Milan magistrate is interested in this case because he likes to know things that others don’t.’

Blume was about to advise her to be careful dealing with the magistrate in Milan, if only for the sake of her career prospects, but Konrad decided to roll down his window and fill the cab with thunderous warm wind, and then started singing.

‘ Soll denn kein Angedenken

Ich nehmen mit von hier? ’

‘Just keep doing what you’re doing!’ Blume roared into the mouthpiece and pressed his phone harder against his ear.

‘It’s noisy where I am!’ he explained, motioning at Konrad to roll up the window and shut up. Konrad ignored him. Blume cupped both hands over the earpiece.

‘Alec, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, if your journey was connected to the Arconti case?’

‘No.’

‘No you wouldn’t tell me, or…’

‘ Wenn meine Schmerzen schweigen,

Wer sagt mir dann von ihr? ’

Blume put the phone down. ‘For Christ’s sake, Konrad!’ He brought it back to his ear. ‘Listen, let’s not mix things up, Caterina. I’ll call you back soon.’ He hung up abruptly.

Konrad stopped singing. Blume couldn’t decide whether he had been serious or was engaging in some sort of exercise in humour that only Germans appreciated. Konrad’s tenor voice had, in fact, been quite good.

The real problem was Konrad’s driving. He was bouncing in his seat and swinging the steering wheel left and right like a five-year-old pretending to steer as he swerved around the potholes and sought to avoid the bumps in the road. The sunlight was lighting up his fiery hair and streaming directly into his face so that there was no way he could possibly see where he was going.

‘That was not the right exit for Positano, or Naples, or even Salerno,’ shouted Blume above the rushing air.

‘I am perfectly aware of where I am going,’ said Konrad, his tone now scornful. He swerved around one pothole but hit a second, larger one, almost bouncing Blume into his lap.

Blume steadied himself. ‘Oh yeah, and where might that be?’

‘To the gates of hell,’ shouted Konrad, facetious as ever.

Near Pozzuoli, Naples

‘We could get a bite to eat at that osteria,’ suggested Blume.

Konrad continued driving.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Blume. ‘It’s past two. We’re going to miss lunch if we don’t stop. If I skip a meal, first I get a blinding headache, then I start killing Germans. Seriously, I need to eat. It’s a blood-sugar thing.’

‘You are a diabetic,’ said Konrad. It did not sound like a question; it sounded more like a reprimand. ‘That osteria is abandoned. You can see it has not been painted or restored in fifty years. I did a course in urban tracking in 2002. We were taught to see things at a glance. The trick is to see the whole thing and the details, and keep moving, while you consider the implications of what you have captured in the first glance.’

The camper van dipped and its suspension groaned as Konrad drove them through a series of potholes and over a lattice of tree roots that had burst out of the tarmac.

‘So you’ll have noticed the five cars and the van parked outside it?’ said Blume, when the rocking had stopped.

‘Yes, of course I saw them.’

‘So, Konrad, it is not abandoned. It is still serving lunch.’

Konrad slowed down. ‘My point is that eating at this time of the day is bad for clear thinking.’

‘OK. Forget it. You’re obviously in a hurry to get to… where is it you want to get to?’

‘Lake Avernus,’ said Konrad. ‘But now I am looking for a place to turn, so that we can go back.’