Gerald Seymour - The Collaborator

He couldn’t see her. He wondered if she was standing back, hesitating to show herself. He moved clear of the tree-trunk so that he was more visible. Put simply, there would be only one swarthy middle-aged Italian waiting at two minutes past nine – yes, he had remembered to alter the time on his watch – under a tree in diabolical weather. The city authorities in Naples were about to declare a drought: the skies had been clear for weeks and the temperature in late September still reached the high eighties. In his apartment he had a raincoat, unused and forgotten. Behind the front door umbrellas stood in a stand, also unused and forgotten. Maybe he’d drown. Maybe he’d catch pneumonia.

She appeared.

He could see her face. She had a small umbrella up, with a pretty flower pattern, but held it back over her head because at that angle it shielded her better. She wore a light plastic coat that came to her hips, but her legs were soaked, though she seemed not to notice it. He knew what he would say. Unable to sleep in the Holiday Inn, with the walls seeming to enclose him, a sealed tomb, he had passed the hours in deciding the tone he would take and the relationship he would create with her. Perhaps because she was here, not in Forcella, she seemed more vulnerable than he had expected. At home she would have known every trick in the game of counter-surveillance – had been born with the tactics in her genes. Anyone from the Borelli clan – other than the young idiot, Silvio – knew the craft of criminality from the moment they dropped out of their mother’s utero. A man had said that the Camorra would live until every woman in the clans was sterilised and every man castrated. She did not use any counter-surveillance tactic: it was clear that she knew she was late for a meeting and was looking for the second party.

He knew, too well, the enormity of what she had done, but Castrolami reckoned she knew it better than he did. Should he wave or hold his ground under the tree? He had thought she looked vulnerable, but this was Immacolata Borelli, daughter of Pasquale and Gabriella, sister of Vincenzo and Giovanni, educated and intelligent, granddaughter of Carmine and Anna, being groomed in financial management so that she could clean dirty money. Vulnerable… not innocent. She saw him.

She stopped. She was on a path and a cyclist swerved past her. Then two runners divided and went either side of her. The wind took the flaps of her coat and opened it as far as the lower buttons allowed. Castrolami noted the vivid orange blouse; he thought it was her statement. He smiled grimly to himself. She was entitled to make a statement, but this was the easy time. She would know the threat to her life if she came close to him, talked to him, did as she was instructed, but he doubted she had grasped the pressures that would now build in her mind. But that wasn’t his problem.

He came out from the shelter of the tree. The rain in the wind layered on his face. His collar was damp, his tie bedraggled and the jacket’s shoulders were sodden. His hair was flat, and drips fell off his nose. He murmured, ‘Come on, you little bitch. Come and do the business.’

She did. She had a good swing to her walk. She was the daughter – clear to him – of the clan leader and the clan leader’s wife. The child of the padrino and the madrina locked eyes with him and closed on him. The vulnerability was now hidden. She stretched her stride. He believed then that she hoped to dominate him because that was her culture. She could wish it, but it would not happen.

She stood in front of him. She could have tried to use her umbrella to shield both of them, but she collapsed it, shook it, pocketed it. If he could be wet, so could she. She spoke coolly: ‘I am Immacolata. Are you Castrolami?’

He reached into his pocket, lifted out his wallet, flipped it open and showed his identification. He put it away.

He knew what he would say.

*

Over his shoulder, she saw a kid kick a football. So normal. She saw a man throw a stick for a yapping dog. So ordinary. Far behind him, kids were skiving from school and dropped sweet wrappers as they fooled. So predictable.

He said, ‘You asked me to come and I came. You can beckon once and I’ll run, but it won’t happen again. If you flick your fingers or whistle, a dog will come to you. I’m not a dog. So, I’m here. What do you want to tell me?’

‘Two days ago, I was at the cemetery in Nola for a funeral, my friend’s funeral, and-’ she stammered, uncertain.

He was harsh and his voice was cutting. ‘I know about Nola, Marianna Rossetti and the Triangle. I know what happened to you there, what was said and what was done. I repeat, what do you wish to tell me?’

She had thought there would be a car, a big Lancia or a Fiat saloon, and that a call on a mobile would bring it hurrying to the nearest kerb, that she would be whisked inside and away to an embassy house. She had expected a tone that was at least respectful, if not deferential. She wanted control and couldn’t find it. ‘I’m Immacolata Borelli, I-’

Withering: ‘I know who you are, who your parents are, who all of your family are.’

‘I am part of the Borelli clan, and-’

‘Of course you’re part of it.’

‘I said in my call to the palace, I wish to return to Italy,’ she blustered.

‘Then return to Italy. Does the Borelli clan not have sufficient funds to permit you to purchase an airline ticket? If you wish to return, then do so.’

‘I want protective custody.’

She saw his eyes roll and his lips moved on those words – I want protective custody – but soundlessly. The rain was harder now but he seemed not to notice its new intensity. He stared down at her, his eyes never off hers. Nobody had ever stared challengingly into the face of Immacolata, daughter of Pasquale Borelli. Then: ‘Why?’

‘And I require immunity from prosecution.’

Now his head shook, a comedian’s exaggeration, and she thought she heard a click of his tongue. ‘I very much doubt we would consider that. I presume we’d be talking through the statutes concerning money laundering, extortion, tax evasion – maybe not acts of physical violence – membership of a criminal conspiracy. We do reduced sentences but not immunity in circumstances such as yours. What would justify protective custody, a reduced sentence? What chips can you place on the table?’

‘It’s because of what my family has done.’

‘Indirect responsibility for the poisoning of your friend.’

‘I wish to do something in her name.’

‘Your friend was poisoned by the contamination of the water table with toxic waste illegally dumped.’

‘So that I can look, in my mind, into the face of my friend and not feel total shame.’

His expression showed no enthusiasm – rather, boredom. ‘That would be excellent. You do something, we’re not specific but something, and you can go to a priest, squat in the confessional box: “Can’t really tell you too much about all this, Father. Wouldn’t be healthy for you to know, but I’m doing something to right a wrong. My family did the wrong, not me personally, but I want overall forgiveness, and more sunlight in my life.” How gratifying. What are you prepared to tell me?’

‘I can tell you about my family.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

He lifted an eyebrow as a slow smile curved his lips. ‘I had difficulty hearing that – again, please.’

‘I said that I can tell you about my family.’ She had spoken boldly.

‘Did I hear that correctly? I’m not sure. Again.’

She knew he was toying with her, that he was the cat and she a small rat. The amusement was in the mouth, but not in the eyes that looked down on her. She broke. ‘I’ll tell you about my family,’ she shouted.