Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘Proof that Konrad Hoffmann is interested in the Ndrangheta,’ said Blume.

‘Well, that was pretty well established once his colleagues spotted him leaving the home of an Ndrangheta boss, don’t you think?’

‘Fine, then,’ said Blume. ‘Proof he’s no expert on the Society, despite having met the boss of an important locale in Germany. He’s learning the rudiments of Ndrangheta history and ceremonies. I don’t consider myself a real expert, but I do know that it is a cardinal sin for any member to carry about information on the mysteries and secrets of the Society, so take this as proof he has not been inducted into it. Or maybe he’s doing a double bluff, but I just don’t see it. Konrad is not operating on behalf of the Ndrangheta. I am sure of it.’

‘How did you manage to get these files from him?’

‘I took them. He doesn’t know yet, but he will.’

‘I suppose that’s good work, then. Anything else?’

Blume thought about the torn image of the Madonna, and couldn’t bring himself to tell Massimiliani about it until he himself had a clearer idea. He’d talk to Konrad and see what he could find out. He realized he wanted to give Konrad a chance to explain before reporting to Massimiliani.

‘No, nothing else at this point,’ he said.

‘Keep up the good work,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I think we may be about to learn something this end about Hoffmann and his motivations. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.’

Blume dropped the phone by his side, put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, trying to work out Massimiliani’s tone. The waves broke against sharp rocks at a regular rhythm forty metres below. Far away, seagulls were kicking up a terrible fuss.

A cooling air swirled around his feet, and he flexed his toes, pulled his trousers up to free his ankles, pulled his polo up, and lay there with his stomach bare. Lovely. It would be nice to have Caterina here now, but it was nice, too, maybe nicer, to be all alone on a large smooth white bed. He could stretch out in an X-shape and catch more of the air coming in, along with the distant noise of people shouting, motorbikes, or maybe outboard motors. The seagulls had stopped their clamour, a plane was passing high overhead, and some insects were clicking and chattering near the window. He flipped the pillow over to the cool side, pressed it against the back of his neck.

Damned phone. It was still under his hand, he picked it up — no, it was the one beside the bed. He rolled over, realizing the air had darkened considerably and grown cooler and wetter. ‘Pronto?’

‘Room 17.’

‘Huh?’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ said the manager, his voiced hushed with boyish excitement. ‘You’ll see. I’ve sent my daughter down to you. She’ll be there any moment.’

Someone knocked gently on the door, and Blume jumped out of bed and opened the door.

‘My father said to give you this.’ She handed him a neat stack of A4 paper. ‘And to go down to Room 17 immediately. Down those steps.’

The manager was waiting in the corridor below. ‘The German is not back yet but it’s getting dark. He’ll be here any moment,’ he said. He stopped outside Room 17 and opened the door. Beaming from ear to ear at his own cleverness, he then placed the spiral-bound notes in Blume’s hands. ‘I managed to get them all back into the spine. My fax machine is also a photocopier, so I thought I could copy them for you as I sent them, see? Then you can put this back in his room and the German will be none the wiser.’

Not bad, thought Blume, though he did not like the idea of the hotel manager being in too much on this, and definitely did not want him to watch as he opened Konrad’s suitcase and slipped the document back in. He nodded, took the file and closed the door in the eager manager’s face.

The manager knocked immediately.

‘No,’ said Blume. ‘You can’t come in here.’

The manager’s voice, hoarse with panic and excitement, came from behind the door. ‘The German’s walking up the steps. I just caught a glimpse of him. He’ll come in the door at the end of the corridor. It’ll take him only seconds… He’s going to catch us… Wait.’

Blume heard the manager move away from the door and his footfalls pounding down the corridor. He took his time even so, placing the document carefully in the position he remembered finding it. If Konrad walked in, well, it would be embarrassing, that was all. He closed the suitcase, walked quickly to the door, surveyed the room once more.

He slipped out of the room as the manager came running up the hall, breathless.

‘I pulled hard at the door so he couldn’t open it from the outside. Really hard like it was locked, not like someone was pulling it. He’ll have gone up the cliff path to get in, and then he’ll come down the stairs… that’s him. Quick, we can get out here.’

He ran down the corridor again. Blume followed reluctantly, and they exited the door the manager had been blocking. They ascended the steps back up to the parking area, past the camper van, and back into the hotel. The daughter and her father exchanging theatrical glances, Blume went back down to his room, dissatisfied.

Konrad had been willing to leave the documents unattended for hours. It wasn’t unreasonable to conclude that he didn’t care too much if they were discovered, which meant they had no real importance. Or, at the risk of being too Freudian, it meant Konrad unconsciously wanted them discovered. Maybe he wanted someone to stop him. But from doing what?

Positano

A few minutes later, Konrad, his raw neck and head sticking out of the white cotton bathrobe, knocked on the door to announce, much to Blume’s surprise, that he had made reservations for dinner. He said he would take a quick shower and meet him in the lobby in fifteen minutes.

‘Where are we going?’

‘A place called I Partenopei,’ said Konrad, making a good job of the pronunciation. ‘Recommended by the hotel manager who looks at me funny.’ Konrad lowered his voice, ‘ Schwul, definitely. Despite the daughter.’

Blume went up to the lobby to wait where the manager, full of solicitation and goodwill, immediately informed him he had ordered them a cab, even though it was only ten minutes on foot.

‘Far too dangerous that road in the dark,’ the manager said.

The taxi turned out to have a fixed rate. Fifteen euros there and back. ‘Call here when you want him to come down and pick you up.’

‘That’s not a taxi,’ said Blume.

‘Not exactly,’ agreed the manager. ‘It’s a sort of courtesy car for some of the hotels on this side of the headland.’

‘A courtesy car is free.’

‘I’ll pay, of course,’ said the manager quickly. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t already been generous.’

‘I’ll get the German to pay. He can pay for dinner, too.’

Konrad arrived wearing a wide-collar paisley-design shirt, a crumpled linen jacket and drainpipe black jeans. Adidas running shoes and a powerful stench of Denim aftershave or something else that belonged to the 1970s completed his get-up. His hair, still wet, was sleeked back into a ducktail.

The restaurant was perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the harbour. Looking down, Blume could see their table reflected in the dark water and the waiter coming towards them like a black shadow moving just beneath the surface. Running the length of the wall was a fish tank with crabs and lobsters, the pincers disabled by plastic cuffs, and red reef mullets, ready to be netted and fried without needing to be gutted.

They ate well, but mostly in silence. Konrad, who said swimming had made him hungry, announced that from the point of view of toxins, he had more confidence in the produce of the sea than the land. He had swordfish steaks. Blume, being adventurous, went for aubergine with chocolate and peppered mussels, and they both chose acqua pazza as their first course.