Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘To the abandoned osteria?’

‘I now recognize that it is not abandoned. I was not focused at the time. Now it is all clear in my mind’s eye.’

The osteria served food directly to the table without any menu. Two bottles of water, a jug of wine and a basket of bread sat between them. Walking quickly by, the waiter placed two dishes of caprese in front of them. Konrad tried to say something in Italian to the waiter, who listened patiently, an expression of pity verging on concern in his eyes. When Konrad had finished his incomprehensible sentence, the waiter gave him an encouraging smile and moved away to deal with normal people.

Blume quartered his mozzarella, speared a tomato slice and, with the help of a piece of bread, pushed the mozzarella on to his fork. It was sweet and creamy.

‘My speaking skills are rusty,’ said Konrad.

‘Corroded, I’d say,’ said Blume. ‘I didn’t understand a word.’

‘ Non e che io non sappia parlare italiano, sai? ’ said Konrad.

‘Now I understand you fine,’ said Blume. ‘How come you didn’t speak like that to the waiter?’

‘I was speaking Campanian dialect.’

This time, there seemed to be no humorous undertow in Konrad’s demeanour. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course. Perhaps the waiter isn’t from these parts.’

‘Apart from the fact you were entirely incomprehensible…’ Blume replayed Konrad’s phrases in his mind and began to laugh. ‘Dialect… with that accent. You should be on Zelig.’

‘What is this Zelig?’

‘A TV show for stand-ups.’ Blume tried to suppress his laughter. The trick was not to think of… No, it was no good.

Three minutes later, drying his eyes with the back of his hand, Blume said, ‘No foreigner can ever speak dialect. You might pick up some of the accent if you stayed here long enough, but you can’t speak dialect.’ He looked at Konrad’s plate. ‘You haven’t touched your caprese. Why are you not eating that mozzarella di bufala? That is local produce, and this is the best area in the country for mozzarella.’

‘I am not sure I like it. I would have preferred to choose from the menu.’

Blume stripped a crust off a piece of bread and crunched it between his teeth. ‘No menu here.’ He pressed the flat of his knife on the mozzarella, bleeding milk across his plate.

The waiter came back, stared wordlessly at Konrad, then removed his mozzarella and tomato. The next course was homemade pasta and San Marzano tomato sauce with plenty of basil.

Once again, Konrad sat immobile, ignoring his food.

‘No wonder you’re thin,’ said Blume. ‘What’s wrong that you’re not eating your pasta?’

‘I must not be hungry.’

‘Then leave the fucking bread alone.’

Konrad took his hand out of the bread basket and tucked it guiltily under the table.

‘That’s better,’ said Blume. ‘Now eat up. And let’s get some business out of the way.’

‘What business?’

‘Your colleagues saw you in the company of an Ndrangheta boss. Domenico Megale, to be precise.’

Konrad looked so utterly shocked that Blume burst out laughing. ‘I can’t quite work out when you’re trying to be funny, but there’s no mistaking when you’re shocked. It seems you wore a disguise so bad they want to use it as a sort of reverse example.’

‘As soon as Weissmann called me, I realized there was a good chance they had seen me.’

‘Why the look of shock, then?’

‘I am only very surprised they should have told you this. After all, who are you?’

‘Don’t try to turn the questioning around.’

‘Are you particularly expert?’

‘No,’ said Blume.

‘Then you must have a direct interest in this. What is the link between you and Megale?’

‘The questions are still flowing in the wrong direction, Konrad. I have already levelled with you. Time to reciprocate. Give me something I can put in a report.’

‘I am observant,’ said Konrad. ‘I saw immediately that you have no ring on your finger, but you have a girlfriend.’

‘She is above all a colleague,’ said Blume.

‘Tell me about your relationship with this woman.’

‘Fuck off.’

Konrad blinked a few times as if he was trying to compute something. His long nose, pointed chin and sad mouth gave him the appearance of a mistreated horse. Eventually, the cogs of his logic stopped whirring and he delivered his finding. ‘If there is a woman in your life, then you must be happy,’ he told Blume. ‘But you are running away from her.’

The suddenly personal turn in the conversation disconcerted Blume. The least he could do was regain his function as the person asking the questions. ‘Do you have a girl?’

It was unlikely, surely, but women were strange. Sometimes they became overwhelmed with such intense feelings of pity for spectacularly ugly men that they ended up marrying them.

‘Not any more,’ said Konrad. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘That can be good. It gives you time to concentrate on your work,’ said Blume. He did not believe this for a moment. All the extra hours made available by not being in a relationship were filled obsessing on what was so wrong with you that women could not bear to be near you. Then as soon as you found someone, you began to long for the solitude you thought you hated.

Blume steered the conversation back towards pertinent issues. ‘Have you found some connection between the Camorra and the Ndrangheta? Is that what this is about? They both specialize in poisoning the earth, which is your area of expertise, right?’

‘It is one of my areas of expertise,’ said Konrad. ‘I have been engaged in a long investigation into toxic dumping, and that involved the Camorra, of course. The investigation is now over, prosecutions have been made. I am an acknowledged authority by now. There is talk of me writing the preface to Saviano’s next book. As an expert in Italian crime, I obviously know a good deal about the Ndrangheta, but I have no evidence of a direct connection between the organizations.’

‘What about the visit to Megale’s house?’

‘Did they see me leaving or entering?’

Blume racked his brain. He couldn’t remember what he had been told. ‘Both, I imagine.’

‘But you don’t know. I will admit that I have been privately studying the Ndrangheta a little, and maybe talking with an exponent of that organization.’

‘Well, that’s a start,’ said Blume.

‘I am very surprised at what I have found.’

‘And what is that?’

‘It is a very effective and quiet organization and extremely efficient. I thought Italians could never be that organized.’

‘That’s because you’ve been dealing with the Camorra. They are chaotic,’ said Blume. ‘With 100,000 men they can’t control Naples, but with around 30,000 the Ndrangheta controls Europe, Australia and fifteen African states as well as Central and South America, and has a turnover about the same as the GDP of Slovakia, or Slovenia… or Serbia. I can never remember which.’

‘The obvious conclusion is that Italians are organized only in crime,’ said Konrad. ‘I think that is undeniable.’

‘That sort of facile conclusion is why you Germans are so useless as investigators,’ said Blume. ‘The Ndrangheta has taken over East Germany better than the Soviets ever did. They own all the seafront houses in the Baltic, they control half the municipalities in the Ruhr valley and all the drug money in all your cities except for Berlin where they allow the Moroccans to sell hashish, on a franchise basis. They import metals for your industries, take out the waste, and clean the money. They mediate between the Russians and your industries, and they help capitalize your banks. They know how to wait, to accept sacrifice, to tough it out, to hide wealth, to remain mute, help each other, bide their time. They can do that better than any German criminals, and they can do it better than your politicians and businessmen. They own you.’