Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

He picked up the reassuringly heavy handset of the bedside phone and called reception. Yes, the girl told him, they did have a fax and of course she would be happy to send something.

Blume took his Samsung and, after moving icons back and forth like he was trying to solve a tile-puzzle from his childhood, finally found the number pad, pressed ‘1’, held it, and waited.

Massimiliani answered on the third ring.

‘Nice of you to call in. Do you know how many times I have tried to contact you?’

‘No, but I’m sure this clever phone can tell me,’ said Blume.

‘It looks like you’re near Positano.’

‘Very clever phone. Actually, we’re there, in the hotel. We took a bit of a detour to Lake Avernus, which was the mad German’s idea. No reason that I can see, except he says he studied Latin once. Do you have a fax number up there?’ asked Blume.

‘A fax… I suppose we must still have one. Hold on.’

Blume heard the plop of a hand being placed over the mouthpiece, as if Massimiliani felt it was important not to let himself be heard calling out to someone in the room about whether they had a fax.

Finally, Massimiliani was back with a number, which Blume noted down. Very much to Massimiliani’s surprise and annoyance, he hung up as soon as he had finished writing.

The girl behind the desk smiled at Blume as he walked over, but the smile faded as Blume slapped the 83-page document on the desk in front of her and said, ‘You told me you had a fax.’

He wrote the DCSA number on the back of the first page. ‘These need to go out immediately.’

The girl picked up the file and seemed to weigh it in her hand. Then, with what sounded like relief, she said, ‘I can’t fax this: it’s in spiral binding.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Blume. ‘You fire up the fax machine or whatever you have to do, and I’ll rip the pages out and hand them to you one by one.’

‘That’ll take hours. Look, when I said we had a fax…’

‘And that you’d be happy to oblige,’ added Blume.

‘Yes, I did say that but…’ The girl picked up the phone and pressed a number. ‘Dad? I need you up here.’

When the hotel owner arrived at reception, he immediately dismissed his daughter with a curt nod of the head. He then turned to Blume with an expression of loathing, which Blume couldn’t justify unless the girl had telepathically communicated his unreasonable fax demands. He began to explain about the fax again when the manager interrupted him.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Both of you.’

Blume turned around, looking for Konrad, but he was alone in the lobby. Through the window of the hotel he could just see a small part of the rear section of the ridiculous old camper van.

‘Your skinny boyfriend isn’t here. You know how I know that?’ said the manager. ‘I know that because he is at this moment lying naked on a ledge beneath our private garden. There have been complaints. Three children and a very respectable woman have seen him so far. Lucky for him my daughter has been spared the obscenity.’

‘My boyfriend?’

‘Partner, whatever you people call yourselves these days. I should have guessed, two men in a camper. There’s a campsite in Salerno, an hour from here, I’m sure you can park for the night there.’

‘Look, he’s German,’ said Blume in his best soothing voice.

‘Not only that,’ continued the manager, his voice trembling now, ‘he took two of our white towels and a bathrobe with him, when it is expressly written in large red letters on the door that they are not to be removed from the rooms.’

‘He’s still down there?’ asked Blume. ‘On the ledge?’

‘Yes, he is. Unless he’s taken off his bathrobe and dived into the water again. There’s a sign that says no swimming, dangerous currents, but if he can ignore our polite request about the towels, I suppose he’s not going to pay any attention to public notices. He’ll probably dash himself to pieces against the rocks. I’m calling the police.’

Blume pulled out his police badge, placed it on the counter between them, and tapped it with his forefinger, where ‘Commissario’ was written. ‘Before you do that,’ he said, ‘consider that this strange German and I have separate rooms.’

The manager looked at the badge, then picked it up and examined it closely. He looked back at Blume and, for the first time, noticed the fat document on the counter.

‘What is that?’

Blume made a show of checking that they were alone in the lobby, then opened the file, pointing at the German text. ‘These are files belonging to the German. He doesn’t know I have them.’

‘So you two are not…?’

‘I’m investigating him.’

‘Really? Sex crimes?’

Blume shook his head with great sadness and ambiguity.

‘It’s part of an operation. See the number on the back of the first page here? It’s an 06 number to a fax in Rome. It would be good if we could get this to them before the German finds out. The pages will have to be detached leaf by leaf before it can be faxed.’

‘That means he’ll find out,’ said the manager.

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Blume. ‘But once it’s been transmitted to Rome, there’s not much he can do about it. Of course, he mustn’t be allowed to see that you have this.’

‘No, I suppose that makes sense,’ said the manager.

‘Now, as I was about to explain to your beautiful daughter,’ Blume pulled out two fifties from his wallet and put them down on the counter, ‘I realize it will take time and effort, and then there’s the question of the phone bill.’

‘Oh, that,’ said the manager, waving a dismissive hand. ‘We pay a flat rate every two months. We could fax all night without paying a cent more.’

Blume slid the two fifties across the counter. ‘But it’s such a terrible waste of your time. And I am asking for discretion, too.’ He pulled out another two fifties. ‘That one’s for the towels and bathrobe, and to buy some drinks, dinner and ice cream for the lady and the children the German has offended.’

The manager eyed the money and said, ‘Luckily the fax is in the back room, so no one will see. My daughter could do it, if that’s OK, or is it too confidential?’

‘Absolutely fine. I was counting on it, because that way you can give her the two fifties as extra pocket money. The others, of course, are for your guests. I’m paying damages here, and you’re being very helpful.’

The manager hesitated, then, with a look of agony crossing his face, pushed the notes back towards Blume.

‘I am willing to help, but I cannot accept payment for my duties as an honest citizen.’

‘If I have to pick that money off the counter, I’ll charge you with bribery of a public official,’ said Blume.

The manager paled, and his hand froze over the bills, unsure whether to push them away, claw them back, or just let go.

‘I’m kidding,’ said Blume with a laugh.

The manager laughed, too.

‘But I insist,’ added Blume, pushing the notes at him and turning on his heel.

He guessed there was nothing of any use in the series of files being faxed to Rome. They could check if they wanted. The important thing was to seem to be doing something. He returned to his room to wait for Konrad. He opened the window and lay down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and then using his big toes to peel off one sock, then the other, and thought again about the torn Madonna.

His phone vibrated, but did not ring. He must have activated silent mode setting by mistake when he tried to answer it the first time. That would explain all the missed calls.

‘What are you sending us, Blume?’ asked Massimiliani, when he finally relented and answered.