Wu Ming - 54

Pierre did so, stiff as a piece of salt cod. The voice went on speaking. He didn’t understand the order, but he seemed to recognise the voice and raised his face.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Ettore said. Then he curled his index finger to beckon him over. ‘What’s happening in there?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Pierre replied breathlessly. ‘Someone wanted to be paid, and drew a gun.’

‘Is he alone?’

‘Yes, he’s alone.’

‘Where is he?’

‘On the other side, towards the back.’

Ettore moved the palm of his hand towards the floor, indicating to Pierre that he should wait where he was, and disappeared behind the corner. In less than two minutes Pierre heard his voice booming around the shed, followed by a shot. Two.

A moment later he saw a head peeping out from underneath the lorry. It wasn’t Ettore, nor was it one of the boys, and the man was holding a gun. There was no time to gauge his expression. He kicked him right in the face, so hard that he almost turned him over. He heard Ettore’s voice again, behind him this time, calm as ever.

‘Well done, Pierre. I hope you didn’t kill him.’

He handed the gun to the other man and bent down under the lorry. The face of the guy who wanted to be paid looked like a burst watermelon. He was bleeding from an eyebrow and from his mouth, and his nose was smeared over his right cheek. His other cheekbone was reddish-purple. He was still breathing.

‘Palmo, Beppe, take him away,’ Ettore ordered once he had risen to his feet. ‘Wait for him to recover, and tell him we’re through with him, and I don’t want to see him again.’ Then he smiled, turning back to Pierre. ‘Well, you showed up at a good time. Come on, let’s go for a drive.’

The 1400 was parked across the way, under an acacia. They got in. Ettore started the engine and set off with a faint squeal of tyres on the gravel. He drove towards an area of the city dominated by railway tracks, barracks, warehouses and vegetable gardens. It was as though urban expansion towards the plain had been somehow obstructed there, and the remnants of the city ran in two streams of asphalt and bricks parallel to the railway tracks, along Via Emilia in one direction, and out of the Porta Lame in the other.

‘Good news,’ began Ettore with his cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘I’ve found someone who can take you to Yugoslavia. I’ve got a load that’s supposed to be setting off towards the end of the month, from Ravenna.’

‘Ravenna?’ Pierre’s eyes turned towards the driver. ‘By sea?’

‘Yes, in a boat, it’s safer and shorter.’

‘Why?’

‘Travel by land has been risky, relations between the Italian border guards and Slovenian customs officers aren’t as good as they were immediately after the war, when there were communists over there, or rather friends of the communists from over here.’ He broke off for a moment to wind down the window. ‘On the boat it’s different, the guy taking care of the cargo will take care of you too, just as if you were one of his cases, he’ll unload you in a safe place, he’ll even drive you to the first village, and then

say goodbye.’

‘And how much would it cost me?’

‘Without a discount, almost 200,000. But after what’s happened, I can offer you half that, documents included.’

Pierre whistled between his teeth and turned to look outside. A Lambretta parked against a hedge, in the middle of nowhere, declared the season of love on the grass reopened. If he had had a motor scooter like that, he and Angela would really be able to enjoy themselves, without doing everything on the sly, in constant fear of passersby and neighbours. But he couldn’t afford a Lambretta, and he couldn’t afford such an expensive journey, either.

He ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Where am I going to get 100,000 lire?’ he whispered to himself.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A hundred thousand lire is too much. If I turn my pockets inside out I can just about manage 50,000.’

‘Fifty thousand?’ Ettore widened his eyes and dismissed the idea with a nervous gesture. ‘You thought you were going to cross the Adriatic for as little as that? Who put that idea in your head? Was it that fool Gas?’

‘No, Gas has nothing to with it, I just thought. ’

He felt a bitter taste filling his mouth, like a childhood memory of being forced to drink that disgusting cod liver oil, followed by honey, of course, although the honey was never a match for the taste or, even worse, the smell. Silence roared in his head like the engine of an aeroplane. After a few minutes, Ettore spoke again.

‘Listen, there is one way of getting the price down.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Your bar has a spacious cellar, doesn’t it? Fine. Let’s say that the minute you get back from your trip, you rent it to me for six months. Wait, let me finish, I don’t mean you won’t be able to use it any more, I just need enough space for a few boxes, where no one’s going to be poking their noses in. And that’s enough. What do you think?’

‘Depends. If we did it that way, how much would I have to pay?’

‘Let’s say that your 50,000 might be enough.’

‘And what’s in the boxes?’

Ettore changed gear and studied Pierre to see if he had the right to ask the question.

‘Cigarettes,’ he replied finally.

‘Fine. If my brother finds out he’ll kill me, but I’ll think about it, ok?’

The silence that followed was very different from the earlier one. Pierre leaned his elbow on the lowered window, slid forwards on the seat and closed his eyes to concentrate. If he accepted, he would have to do it in such a way that Nicola’s suspicions weren’t aroused. Ever. Otherwise, goodbye Yugoslavia, goodbye money, goodbye everything. A passing train blanked out any further thoughts.

‘Are we taking a drive just to talk, or are we going somewhere?’ he asked when the rails had grown quiet again.

‘I’m taking you to see Ghigo, the guy who’s taking care of the documents. He’ll get you a false passport with an entry stamp for Yugoslavia. He’s a sound bloke, he works in watches.’

‘Watches?’

‘Not your good stuff. Junk.’ He took a drag and threw away his cigarette. Ghigo’s scam was worth relating. ‘He’s the king of junk,’ he went on with a chuckle. ‘Last week he pulled this brilliant trick on a geezer from Vergato.’

Pierre’s attention was hooked already. ‘He stops the mark in the street, right, and he says, “Excuse me, I have a case of very valuable watches here, and they haven’t yet been through all the necessary customs procedures. Do you know where I could fill in the requisite forms?” The man stands there looking stupid, while an accomplice of Ghigo’s comes over and says, “I heard you talking about watches. I need to buy one, can I have a look?” So Ghigo opens the case and shows him, and his friend pretends to be interested, like these are really precious watches. “They’re worth an arm and a leg,”’ says Ghigo. ‘“But because I haven’t paid border tax, I can keep the prices low: 50,000.” The other man acts as though he’s about to pay up immediately, but he hasn’t got enough money. So he turns to the mark: “Can you lend me 30,000 lire? I’ll go to the bank with this guy here, and I’ll be back straight away. As a guarantee I’ll give you this watch, which is worth 50,000. Is that ok?” The fool’s wife tries to stop him, but he says the gentleman is clearly on the level. He lends him the 30,000, the two men go off and don’t come back.’

‘And how much was the watch worth?’ asked Pierre, amused.

‘Not more than a thousand. I think they make them in Bulgaria or somewhere down there.’

Pierre smiled. At the worst, he’d found a way of getting hold of the 50,000.