Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

The youth nodded, pleased to be recognized.

‘Your grandfather and I were friends. Did he ever mention that to you?’

‘He died when I was very young, but my father always said there was no one could beat you…’

Tony Megale interrupted. ‘We’ll have all the time we want to talk about this later. Where is he?’

‘Who?’ asked Basile.

‘Agazio Curmaci, of course. Who else?’

‘I thought you might mean your older brother, Pietro.’

‘I fear for him. He is a simple man who is easily led astray. I even fear he may have chosen the wrong side, but if that’s the case, I will forgive him as he is my brother.’

‘Is everyone sure they don’t want any ice cream…?’ Basile looked at the three of them. ‘All right. Your loss.’ He sighed. ‘This is a bad business. Curmaci is a repository of some of our deepest traditions and has ensured that they are replicated, honoured and enforced in Germany. The loss of such a subtle and fluid man could set us back, unless, of course, there was someone equally qualified and skilled, ready to take his place…’

Tony Megale put his shoulders back and expanded his chest, creating a tiny regal space for himself between the two kids he had brought along.

‘Even then,’ continued Basile, ‘it would be a self-inflicted wound, and forgiveness and compromise are still options.’

‘The Honoured Society,’ said Tony, ‘is the Tree of Knowledge. The Capo Bastone is the trunk. If a branch is diseased and grows crooked, it shall be lopped off. One who collaborates with the authorities of the Italian State, with the Federal Police of Germany is no longer a man. My father, Megale u Vecchiu, spent years in prison because of an act of betrayal by Curmaci, and the decades of incarceration have destroyed his wisdom and discrimination and rendered him less than half the man he used to be. Curmaci is the infame who alerted the woman in the Finance Ministry about our carousel VAT system. That’s why he was so keen to make her disappear afterwards.’

‘That is a serious charge against him, Tony. So serious that I wonder why you are reporting it only now.’

‘I only found out now. The crazy German called me a few days ago. He says he has papers to prove it.’

‘So now we must believe the crazy German, who came down full of wild accusations, with a Madonna ripped in half claiming to represent your father’s will?’

‘My father no longer speaks with reason.’

‘The German said nothing about this to me,’ said Basile.

‘He was finally thinking about his own life,’ said Tony, ‘instead of trying to ruin ours.’

‘And these papers that prove this betrayal?’

‘The scagnozzi you engaged gutted the camper without searching it properly.’

‘Young people have no foresight,’ said Basile. ‘Tony, you have a mature mind. Are you sure of the decision you have made? I see from your face that you are. It is terrible that this should come so soon after the joyous festivities in celebration of Our Lady. The sanctuary is now crawling with policemen, our common enemy, and yet we find ourselves fighting each other again. Will you reconsider?’

‘I will not.’

‘You will meet Men of Honour from Reggio and Crotone. They will be waiting for you at the end of Via Garibaldi. Before you take any action, they must be persuaded that this is not a mere personal vendetta and that it will not lead to a debilitating feud. If one of them objects to your course of action, you shall do nothing. Is that understood?’

Tony Megale nodded impatiently.

‘Please listen to them carefully, Antonino mio. They are courteous men versed in diplomacy and negotiation. An objection might be expressed as a question, the voicing of a misgiving or regret. I expect you to be sensitive to the nuances of their conversation. I think subtlety will serve you well in your future.’

‘I understand,’ said Tony. ‘If Curmaci is with his wife and children?’

‘He is a man of honour. He will walk out of the house in your company. I am sure of it. Go now, all three of you, and God’s blessing be on you all.’

‘Come in here, Ruggiero. I’m in the kitchen.’

It was strange to hear his father’s voice echoing through the house. His mother had come into his bedroom early that morning to give him a kiss and tell him she was going with Robertino to visit family in Cosenza that she had not seen in years. It would be an opportunity to try out the brand-new Nissan Pathfinder sitting outside the front gate. Pepe’s father, Mimmo the mechanic, had driven it over personally the day before, and Ruggiero and Agazio had ridden in fine style to San Luca and Polsi. When they returned that night, the old car with the mysterious engine trouble was gone.

Ruggiero walked into the kitchen. His father was seated at the far end of the table. Set in front of him, diagonally across the table, was the old Carcano carbine, the Modello 1891, which his father liked to take down and clean whenever he came home. Next to his hand was a small glass with what appeared to be water in it, and beside that, one of Ruggiero’s throwing knives.

‘Someday we must find out if this old Carcano can still be fired,’ he said. ‘I doubt it. You know, no one seems to know if the Carabinieri are named after the carbines they used, or whether the carbines are named after them. You would think such a simple question of history would be easy to resolve. I have always had some respect for the Carabinieri. The police… not so much.’

His father picked up Ruggiero’s throwing knife, frowned at it, then launched it at the cupboard above the sink. With a dull thud, the blade embedded itself in the wood.

‘That cupboard is worth nothing. Layers of woodchip and glue. If I had thrown it into this table, it might have bounced off it, but maybe that’s also because I’ve never used a throwing knife. Have you been practising?’

‘A bit,’ said Ruggiero.

‘I’m not sure that knife is good quality. It doesn’t even seem to have bitten deep into that cheap wood. You can imagine how pleased your mother would be if she thought we were throwing knives in the kitchen.’

Ruggiero retrieved his knife. When he turned round, his father had placed on the table a dagger with a four-sided blade that tapered to a point so thin as to be almost invisible.

‘This is called a quadrello. The metal of the blade remains four-sided all the way to the top. A stiletto has a triangular tip. I would have liked a Norman dagger, but you can only get worthless replicas. Sit down, Ruggiero.’

He reached over to the wooden fruit bowl, tapped a lemon off the top of the pile, and allowed it to roll towards him. Then he sliced the lemon in two with the dagger. ‘Nowhere in the world has lemons that smell like the lemons of Calabria. The rind itself is sweet enough for a dessert.’ He pressed his finger into the grain of the oaken wood, and then lifted it.

Ruggiero saw what seemed like one of his mother’s sewing needles was stuck to his father’s finger. His father rolled the needle between finger and thumb, and pressed it back on to the table, where it became almost invisible.

‘Hard to see against the wood, isn’t it?’ said his father. ‘That’s because it’s gold.’ He picked it up again and quickly pricked his forefinger, index finger and thumb, and squeezed them till pearls of blood bobbed to the surface. ‘A carbine, a golden needle, a dagger, a lemon and a glass of water with poison in it. These are the symbols that were laid out before me upon my induction as a santista for the Honoured Society. It is both wrong and right for me to be telling you this.’

Somewhere in the distance, something made a hollow pop, followed immediately by two more, then a pause. Suddenly there was such a volley of pops and cracks that they became innumerable, and then there was silence, like the end of a fireworks show.