Wu Ming - 54

‘I mean it.’

The man’s bald pate shone beneath the neon.

‘Cavicchi’s fighting the day after tomorrow. In the Sala Borsa. Go there and ask for Ettore. Tell them I sent you. If there’s anyone who can give you a hand then he’s your man, but I can’t guarantee anything.

Pierre got to his feet. ‘This vermouth’s on me. And let’s hope something comes of it.’

Chapter 24

From the statement of Salvatore Pagano to counsel appointed by the Public Prosecutor’s Office for Naples High Court, Dr Carlo Ercolino, dated 10 March 1954

Thank God, Mr Lawyer! Thank God you’ve come, I thought I was going to snuff it in this hell-hole!

And what am I supposed to do, Mr Lawyer, how can I stay calm, it’s hell in here, it’s been more than two months now, you can’t have any idea what life’s like in this place. Mr Lawyer, there are more bugs on my arm than there are whores in the whole of La Sanità, and you know how many whores there are in La Sanità, mamma mia ! And the stuff they give us to eat, don’t even get me started on that, with all due respect, they give us shit , Mr Lawyer, the dogs in the street wouldn’t eat it, and neither would the whores of La Sanità if you ask me, what a situation!

And me as innocent as an altar boy, Mr Lawyer, can you imagine?

Yes, yes, it’s fine, forgive me, I know, I know, I’ll calm down, but in here you can forget how to live, then the cold, fucking cold in here it is, with a threadbare blanket and half eaten up by bugs, mamma mia , what a situation, but I’m calmer now, I’m sorry, but let me tell you one more thing. You must be a great man, yes, a great man, don’t run yourself down, because only a great man could take on the case of a poor wretch without a lira like Salvatore Pagano. Because let’s be clear about this, Mr Lawyer, I haven’t got a lira, you must have worked that out.

Your duty, you say? You were appointed by an office? Well, what of it, doesn’t matter a damn, you’re a great man anyway, people like you must live for a hundred years, accidents permitting.

You say we’ve got to get a move on, what have you got to do with it? Of course, sure, you must forgive me, but I don’t understand anything any more, because in here time is the only thing I’m not short of, in fact I’ve got far too much of it, it just won’t pass.

Yes, fine, you tell me that you’re aware of this nonsense about the television set, I’d like to know why me of all people, what have I got to do with anything like this, believe me, I’ve explained it to him, I’ve fallen on my knees and bawled my eyes out, Mr Lawyer, but he doesn’t believe me, not a word of it.

Who? What d’you mean who?

Mr Lawyer, Commissioner Cinquegrana, who else, the one who’s decided it’s got to be me, who’s made up his mind that I’m going to end my days in here, on the word of some bastard or other, some great son of a bitch, with the greatest respect, of some cackhead who’s decided to get on my case. Because I’m ruined now, that much is clear. I’ve explained, I’ve told the commissioner everything, absolutely everything, including the story of the Madonna in 1948, no, don’t put your head in your hands, Mr Lawyer, I’m not going to tell it to you, don’t worry. I told him I was with the nuns in Santa Teresa, giving some little presents to creatures less fortunate than myself, then just a few hours with my Lisetta, I’m mad about my Lisetta, even if she does drive me round the bend every now and again, and now I don’t even know where she is, she came to see me a month ago, and there’s an end to it. But there you go, my words mean nothing to him, they go in one ear and out the other, that’s what I say. Commissioner Cinquegrana, I mean.

What did I want with a television? If it was just that, you’d be better off asking Don Luciano, with the greatest respect, and that other guy, never heard of him, the one who was killed stone dead, what do I know?

You say we’re supposed to be thinking about the television, well, fine, let’s think about it. You say down at the station they’re insisting that they saw me that day near the American base in Agnano, that they’re sure of it? Damn and blast it, Mr Lawyer, damn and blast it, I’m nothing but a poor wretch!

Why? Well, how can I put it, bad luck follows bad luck, as they say, the dog bites the beggarman.

You say I have to speak more clearly, that you don’t know where I’m taking this? Well, ok, then, damn it to hell!

My misfortune is that on that day round about there I actually did go to bring my Lisetta. No, no, Mr Lawyer, don’t put your head in your hands, don’t lose your rag. I was going to tell you, wasn’t I? I walked her to Vergini all the way with the pedal cart, bloody hard work it was, Mr Lawyer, you’d never believe it, but I’d do anything for Lisetta, and maybe that’s my downfall. Lisetta had to get to the American base, and I went with her, with the cart, and there’s an end to it.

To do what? Me? But I’ve told you, oh, you mean Lisetta. What are you getting at, exactly, Mr Lawyer?

Chapter 25

Bologna, 11 March

What with washing the glasses, fixing the tap and grinding the coffee, Pierre had made himself late.

He rummaged through his pockets to be sure he had the ticket, jumped on his bicycle, and headed off at a lick in the direction of Via Ugo Bassi. He wasn’t the only one in search of a decent seat. At the last Cavicchi fight, there had been such a scrum that the riot squad had even left people with tickets standing outside.

An agitated crowd pushed its way towards the entrance of the old Sala Borsa. Pierre leaned his bicycle against the wall and threw himself into the midst of it, resolved to get in whatever the cost.

Franco Cavicchi, known as Checco, the colossus of Pieve di Cento, was an idol to Pierre. His favourite boxer. Big as a mountain, determined and generous. Every day he rode sixty kilometres on his bike to get to Bologna, to the legendary Sempre Avanti gymnasium on Via Maggia, a club of glorious socialist origins.

Three riot cops were already complaining that the hall was full, and trying to get people to stop pushing.

Pierre stuck his elbows into the ribs in front of him, and with two blows of his hips he managed to get a fair way forwards, amidst general protests.

He was alone. The other musketeers had been put off by the price. Pierre wouldn’t have missed the great Cavicchi for anything in the world. And Ettore, the guy with the truck, would be there, and he’d be able to give him some advice on how to get to Yugoslavia.

Now he’d made it to the door. The cops, six of them now, were pushing on the sides of the crowd in a pincer movement to cut off the people at the back. Just as Pierre was sure he was in, they lined up.

‘That’s enough, you lot can go home, no one else is getting in.’

Shouts and insults from the dozens of people excluded. Pierre recognised the riot cop who had beaten him up on the procession for the victims of Mussomeli. Without thinking twice, he took a few steps backwards, braced himself against the people behind him, and then charged, head down, to break through the blockade. Taken by surprise, they tried to catch him, but it was too late. One of them took a blow from the knee, the other a hand in the face, then Pierre was swallowed up inside, while an almighty row erupted in his wake.

He found a place to sit on the higher benches. The bloke beside him was eating enormous quantities of pumpkin seeds. There was a carpet of shells around his feet. Between one seed and the next, he spoke to him.

‘Have you seen how many people there are? It’s a far cry from the basketball! It’s a good thing they’re getting a move on with the new stadium, but for Cavicchi, not for Virtus.’