Wu Ming - 54

What was it that old Sam Giampa had said to him as he broke the scabs’ arms down at the docks? ‘Professionalism, Steve, is giving the maximum even in the worst conditions.’

What he needed was a means of transport and a determined accomplice. He glanced towards the cabin: maybe fate had put the right person in his hands.

The last race, Steve, the home straight. The final details of an improvised plan coming miraculously to a good conclusion.

A few hours and it would all be over. Steve Cement would vanish for ever.

Grit your teeth, Steve, nearly there.

He knocked three times on the wall at the end and felt the vehicle slowing down.

Zollo nodded to Pierre to get into the body of the truck. The boy got out. He couldn’t contain himself.

‘Sir. I wanted to say. You don’t have to believe me, but I really did meet Cary Grant. In Yugoslavia.’

Zollo looked him up and down. ‘When this business is over, you can tell me what you were doing on the ship with that pigeon.’

He went and sat next to Ettore.

When the lorry set off again, they sat there in silence, one concentrating on the road, the other on the night around them.

Zollo couldn’t find his bearings: he didn’t know these roads. They seemed to run right through a great big void. Ettore drove in the summer darkness as though he had radar in his brain. But there was nothing out there, some fields, perhaps, houses. Very seldom they saw the headlights of a car. Otherwise, they could have been the last four men on earth.

‘So?’ Ettore asked, lighting a cigarette.

Zollo did the same, he had stopped counting them.

‘I’ve got a problem.’

Ettore nodded. ‘I know. You’re on your own.’

Zollo became aware of something like a pin-prick at the base of his skull, the light that came on when his forebodings about someone were revealed to be accurate.

He made an offer. ‘If you’ll cover my back there’s a pile of money in it for you as well.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘An exchange.’

‘Of what?’

He would have to tell him: a person who’s risking his life wants to know what he’s doing it for.

‘Drugs for money.’

Ettore didn’t flinch, eyes fixed straight on the road.

‘How much?’

‘Enough to change my job and move to a place in the sun.’

Silence again.

‘Who’s waiting for you?’

‘The buyers. They shouldn’t do anything silly. But you never know. There could be someone else on my trail.’

Ettore nodded, he had worked out from the urgency of the operation that the American friend had fucked someone over. Someone who was going to be seriously pissed off.

‘The drugs aren’t yours, are they?’

Zollo didn’t reply, there was no need.

‘How can we trust each other?’ asked Ettore.

Once again, Zollo studied the void on the other side of the window, the void that was the Po valley. Few subjects for conversation presented themselves.

‘How many people have you killed?’ he asked all of a sudden.

‘I don’t know. In war, you don’t count them.’

‘Then we’re equal. And we’ll play as equals.’

Ettore thought that was a good reply. They both knew that their scruples had been left behind the moment the lorry set off. They knew they were dangerous guys. Their only guarantee: determination.

‘Fine.’

Zollo opened the case and took out some more wads of francs.

‘Here’s a bit more cash.’

Ettore barely glanced at them. ‘Put it back. We’ll count it at the end.’

Once again Zollo felt that pin-prick at the base of his cranium.

He pointed back at the body of the vehicle. ‘What about the boys?’

Ettore nodded. ‘They’ll stay in the lorry. They’ll have their share. But if I’m going to keep you covered I want a free rein. I have a couple of old Lugers that’ll fit the bill.

*

The lorry set off again with a sudden jerk. Pierre’s eyes weren’t yet accustomed to the dark. He lost his balance and fell into the arms of the Neapolitan.

A voice asked, ‘What are you doing, you feeling me up?’

Pierre turned on to his side, smiled and held out a hand in the dark. ‘My name’s Robespierre Capponi, forgive me.’

‘I’m Salvatore Pagano, known as Kociss, like the footballer and like Cochise, the Indian chief. Can you tell me yours again, I didn’t get it?’

‘Robespierre. It’s a French name. Robespierre was a French revolutionary. But everyone calls me Pierre.’

Once again, Kociss didn’t understand. Robberswhat? But the nickname was fine: Peer. Christ, what if he was a poof? You know the way French names. Close to his home there was a famous one, who taught the trade to drag queens, and everyone called him ‘Sgiacc’, meaning Jacques, although his name was Antonio. But with all the names there are already, why would you have to go to France for one? But maybe he wasn’t a poof. Maybe he was just French.

‘Were you born in France?’

‘No. Near Bologna. I’ve never been to France.’

‘Really? You’ve never been to France? Hey, it’s a shame we have so little time, Peer. Because France is a great country. There are women there you wouldn’t believe. I’m speaking from personal experience: I was in France a month ago, to make a film.’

‘A film?’ Who knew what he meant by ‘film’?

‘It seems strange, doesn’t it? Now, because we’re in the dark, but if you looked at me more carefully in the light, you’d recognise me. I’m sure you’ve seen me, I’ve got the kind of face that people remember. That’s why the directors are always calling me up.’

‘And what film did you make, in France?’ There was a hint of sarcasm in the question.

Kociss gripped his quiff in one hand. ‘Damn, look, I can never remember the title, it’s an American title and I can’t keep it in my head. But I can tell you the name of one of the actors, the best of the lot, before you say his name you have to wash your mouth out with soap, wait, wait, Gary Grent?’

‘ Cary Grant,’ Pierre corrected him, certain that the Neapolitan was pulling his leg. He must have made an arrangement with that other man. Mr Rock-Hard, who had asked Grant in person whether he had ever been to Yugoslavia. No doubt on the next stretch of the journey Ettore would tell him that Cary Grant was acting as an intermediary between the Red Star and Allied Command. That was what annoyed him the most. To have met a myth and not to be able to tell anyone. Like the story about the shipwrecked man and Marilyn Monroe on the desert island. She fell hopelessly in love. On the fifth day of unbridled sex he says to her, Marilyn, if you really love me, dress as a man and let’s meet on the other side of the island. She thinks it’s going to be some kind of erotic game. But the moment they meet, he giggles, jabs an elbow into her ribs and says, ‘Oh, Gianni, you’ll never guess what’s happened to me! Incredible: for the past four days I’ve been fucking Marilyn Monroe!’

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Kociss’s voice was disconsolate. ‘Yeah, I know: you meet someone in the back of a lorry and he tells you he’s made a film with Cary Grant and Winston Churchill. Who are you trying to kid? I understand you, but when the film comes out, take a good look at the scene with the fight in the middle of all the flowers. The guy in the maroon shirt.’

‘I do believe you,’ Pierre interrupted him. ‘I believe you because I’ve met Cary Grant as well, and when I tried to tell people, they all laughed in my face.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Hey, you’ve made a film with Cary Grant too!’

‘No, I met him in Yugoslavia. Some people were shooting at him, and my father and I saved his life.’