Michael Dibdin - End games

Maria accepted the existence of God in exactly the same way that she accepted the existence of the government, because you needed someone powerful to hate for not preventing, or at least mitigating, all the needless suffering that went on. She felt sorry for Jesus, having to take the blame for his father’s misjudgements, but it was hard to have much respect for a man who seemed to have spent his brief life preaching that if people were nicer to each other then the world would be a nicer place. As for the meaningless abstraction of the Holy Spirit, that had long been replaced in her mind by the warm, indulgent and eminently human person of the Madonna.

Maria conceived of the Blessed Virgin as possessing much the same range of limited and indirect, but often decisive, powers on the divine level as any mother worth her salt did here on earth. Sometimes she could help, sometimes not, but at least she could be counted on to listen sympathetically and to do her best. Her sphere of activity was of course strictly local. In the chapel dedicated to her in the old church up on the hilltop, she cured burns and eased the pains of childbirth, but if your feet or back were troubling you then you had to pay a visit to her shrines at Aprigliano or Cerenzia. It was like knowing where the different kinds of mushrooms grew or where to find the best wild asparagus.

Maria shared these unorthodox doctrinal views with just about every other elderly woman in the village, but like them she nevertheless attended mass every day. This was partly because someone had to do it, lest the family attract comment, and none of the others had the time or inclination, but largely because it got her out of the house and provided an opportunity to catch up on local gossip. On the day after the police raid on Altomonte and its horrifying sequel, almost all the other women in the community had evidently had the same idea, so the church was much more crowded than usual for evening mass. Sensing the prevailing mood, and perhaps impatient to hear the latest himself, the priest zipped through the service at a brisk pace, skipping the homily and keeping the readings brief.

The moment the congregation was dismissed, everyone got down to the real business. Many of them had already had a chance to take preliminary soundings in the course of their daily work, social calls and trips to the shops. Now the time had come to meet in committee, compare notes, sift the evidence and rough out the interim report which would later be delivered to their respective families. Lively discussion was going on both in the church itself and on the steps and street outside between small groups that constantly formed and reformed, relaying their findings to others for comparison and contrast. After about twenty minutes, a consensus gradually emerged.

Both the television news and the local paper had confirmed that the murdered man, despite having been reported following his earlier disappearance as being a visiting American, was in fact a member of the Calopezzati family which had ruled this part of Calabria like a feudal possession for almost two hundred years. The memory of their crimes and infamies was still fresh among the older generation, and there was general agreement that it was harsh but just for this Pietro Ottavio — evidently the illegitimate son of the baronessa Ottavia — to have been condemned to a symbolically ignominious death outside the family’s former stronghold as retribution for the misdeeds of his forebears.

Where dissension emerged was over the punishment of Francesco Nicastro. There were those who held that he deserved it for giving information to the police. Rules were rules and they had to be enforced, brutally if necessary, if the community was to survive in the face of the even more brutal repression that had governed the region since time immemorial. Others argued that boys like Francesco were too modern to understand the old ways, adding that in any case no real harm had been done by his mentioning the victim’s parked car, and above all that the penalty had been disproportionately severe. A few even dared to suggest that the incident was proof of the persistent rumours that ‘he’ had become addicted to the drugs in which he trafficked and had gone over the edge into madness, but the implications of this possibility were so disturbing that it was dismissed by the majority.

Both by nature and upbringing, Maria was a listener rather than a talker, particularly where the Calopezzati family was concerned. In fact, the name had not passed her lips for almost fifty years, and nothing in her speech or demeanour suggested that it meant anything more to her than to any of the other women present. She moved from group to group, nodding and shaking her head in turn, miming the appropriate righteous anger or resigned disapproval. Once she had gleaned all the facts, theories, rumours and opinions on offer, she slipped away home and shut herself up in her room. An hour later, when she emerged for dinner, she shocked the whole family by announcing that she was going into the city the next day. One of the women at church had told her about a new medication for arthritis that was now available, but you had to go to a certain doctor at the hospital to get it because the supply was strictly limited.

Maria’s son offered to drive her, but she declared that she would rather take the bus. It was more relaxing and you didn’t have to worry about parking. Her daughter-in-law, who wore the trousers in the marriage, then tried to butt in but as usual went completely over the top, making it sound as though her suocera was a senile old fool who shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, never mind turned loose in the dangerous streets of Cosenza. Maria waited until she had finished her tirade and then said, ‘I’m going to the city tomorrow, I’m going alone, and that’s all.’

Everyone knew that it was a waste of breath trying to argue with Maria when she used that tone of voice. Besides, the parents were more concerned about their son Sabatino, who had barely touched his food and sat staring blankly at the wall as if oblivious to everything about him. Francesco Nicastro was his best friend. They had played together in the stunted forest on the day when the dead man appeared. Maria rose and announced that she was going to bed early so as to get a good night’s sleep.

Once in her room, she did indeed undress, but then lay down on top of the covers, glancing alternately at the sacred image on the wall and the looming abyss of the shadowy ceiling high above. The Virgin had been unable to help her in this matter, so Maria would have to help herself, and all of them. For herself she had no fears, but she knew how the kind of men who had inflicted these injuries on the community operated, particularly if there was any truth to the rumours that their leader was possessed by demons. Whatever happened, her son and his wife and Sabatino must be protected. She would have to take stringent precautions before, during and after her trip, keep her wits about her at all times and not carry anything that might identify her if things went wrong.

Above all, she had to decide what to say and how to say it. After so many years of a silence which she had always assumed would last until her death, it was almost impossible to imagine selecting the words and framing the sentences that would bring the whole matter to light for the first time. In addition, she might very well not be believed. The story she had to tell was just that, a story. She couldn’t prove that it was true or produce any evidence or witnesses to support it. Maria had seen the new police chief on television and he looked like someone you could talk to, but that might just have been his public manner, assumed for the camera and the purposes of meeting the press. One to one, he could easily turn out to be the usual arrogant thug who would dismiss her statement as the ravings of a crazy old woman.