Wu Ming - 54

Lucky Luciano sank into the back seat of the convertible Plymouth and talked, smiling generously at the girl sitting in the front, who couldn’t help turning around, craning her neck, to nod at what the old man was saying.

Young Anastasia looked like a fop sitting on hot coals, only laughing at the jokes or asking the occasional question about Italy. Every now and again Luciano gave him a slight nudge, when the innuendo got a bit near the knuckle. But without overdoing it, barely touching him, as though they had been friends for a long time. He never missed the opportunity to observe on the intimate relationship based on friendship and esteem that bound him to his uncle Anastasia. All very knowing. No overstatement.

‘There are hidden jewels in the city, you know? Churches, squares, palaces. History passed through here, my friends, and if anyone with a will decided to rebuild the whole thing, the tourists would come flocking, just from the States. Here in Italy, they call this place ‘Africa’. But I say they don’t know what they’re missing, because if you take a moment to sit down and wait, you don’t really have to go and discover this city, Naples will come and find you! It’ll come and meet you and claim you as its own.’

Zollo gripped the wheel with both hands and said nothing. Every now and again his eyes fell on the girl’s legs, when a slightly tighter bend ruffled her skirt. Lovely legs, at least. The Anastasias knew how to live. The young nephew was someone to be treated with great consideration. And then here was the idea of the excursion to Pompeii. At least it was a nice day.

But Zollo had never liked the countryside. When you’re born in Brooklyn, and you do your growing up between one sidewalk and the other, you don’t feel at ease among the dunghills. Apart from a few trips to Chicago, he had never left New York until the day when the oldest member of the Anastasia family had decided to ‘give him’ to Luciano, who was setting off for Italy. He had had no complaints, he needed a change of air as it was, especially since that Jewish attorney had got it into his head to have the Hudson River dragged. That fucking rabbi had managed to make one of the dockers sing, and when he had done that, he had hidden him in the devil’s asshole and placed him under strict protection. The wretch had also given his name: ‘Steve Cement has sent a good lot of people down to the bay, half a dozen, maybe more.’ Not that the shlub had been able to do it. Even if they’d locked him up in some kind of armoured fortress, guarded like Fort Knox, no one had stopped him drinking lemonade laced with strychnine. But now the die was cast, the time had come for good old Steve to go into the icebox, at least until the balance of power had been resolved. When you thought about it, his story was not unlike Don Luciano’s. Then he had waited for the call to come from the Anastasias, but it hadn’t come, so now he had stopped hoping it would.

‘So, I’ve got my shop, and I’m fine as I am. But if I was a bit younger, there are plenty of things here that need doing, isn’t that right, Steve? And no shortage of pretty girls to date! Not as lovely as you, miss, but the Neapolitan girls can look after themselves as well. Procaci , isn’t that the word? Pert, sexy. I like it: procaci! I’d forgotten that word in America, and it came right back to me here. It makes you think of prosperity, the generosity of nature. It’s a nice word to say: procaci . It sounds good, it feels good in the mouth, don’t you think? Italian is a language that flows like a river. It’s a language that needs time if you’re going to speak it properly. It’s a language with a history. Like this city. Like the whole country. You can still get by with Italian, but your children may not speak it any more and that’s a shame. Because American is a good language for business, for ordering a beer. And that’s it. But here the words have a special meaning: they fill the mouth. Procaci , you hear that? They’re not just for getting things with, you say the words for the sake of saying them, you say them for the pleasure of speaking.’

Zollo couldn’t make up his mind. He didn’t like Italy. It was a backward, uncivilised place. Beautiful women, sure, but they had no notion of real femininity. They looked like peasants dressed up for a party. Not a patch on the girls in New York. Those were classy women, he remembered very clearly: the nightclubs, the luxury bordellos. In New York they did things with style: fucking, and having people clipped. Not in Naples: shouting, yelling, dramas about nothing. He couldn’t bear it. He felt as if he was the victim of a script in which everyone had a part to play and he didn’t get so much as a line. And yet he was obliged to move about on the gigantic stage set of the city. Every day he felt himself sinking, wrapped up in that slow rhythm that opposed any form of dynamism. Stefano Zollo deserved something better, he was convinced of it. Basically he had always been good in his field. Clean, orderly. He’d never made any mistakes. Not one. Once he’d made a pair of concrete shoes for somebody, and the guy had asked him to take 500 dollars to his girlfriend, because he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. And he had done it. He could have stuck it in his pocket, spent it on a nice present for one of his girls, but he hadn’t, he’d gone to the address and given the woman the money. He’d just said, ‘From Sal. He’s had to go on a long journey in a hurry.’ Nothing but that. Impeccable. And stylish. He’d always insisted on it.

Naples was a stranger to discretion. In Naples people shouted. Rows and shouting over the slightest thing. All that arguing over crumbs: unbearable.

So a few months ago he had decided to take some action. He had had enough of just mulling, brooding, changing his plans every month, every week. This time he had had a really good idea. And like many good ideas, it needed patience and perseverance, and it was also extremely risky. But at the age of thirty-five Zollo had worked out that he was willing to take that risk, if he wasn’t to suffocate on that pestilential gulf, working as a driver for an unrepentant old gangster. So he had decided to go for broke.

He looked in the rear-view mirror to check that the other car was still following them, then he turned right towards the dig.

From the other car climbed, in order, Victor Trimane, a girl of Neapolitan high society who had joined them for the occasion, and one of young Anastasia’s dandy friends with his girlfriend. They walked along the path leading to the Roman city, Luciano at their head with his host. The site was officially shut, but no attendant would object to a visit from Don Luciano and his friends.

‘You see how much space there is, my friends? And the streets.

You see these big stones between one side of the street and the other? They were like our pedestrian crossings, exactly the same. So that you could cross the street without getting covered with mud. And the wheels of the carts passed in between them. Not a bad idea, is it? The ancient Romans knew what they were up to. Pompeii was a holiday resort, the wealthy came here to relax, to get away from the big city. Good weather, the sea nearby, good soil for wine and olives. The Romans liked the good life, my friends, they knew how to choose their places.’

One of the girls came up beside the old man. ‘It must have been horrible when the volcano went off and covered everything up.’

Luciano crossed his hands behind his back. ‘That’s the fascination of Pompeii, my dear. Time stopped here. All of a sudden. And no one touched anything. Just as it was. Look at this: this was a tavern. They kept the wine in these holes and sold it by the glass, like this.’