Wu Ming - 54

Khrushchev wanted to renew relations with Tito. Yugoslavia was a strategic country, the heart of the Balkans, in the lee of the West, with hundreds of miles of coastline. But Khrushchev also knew that Tito was ready to go with the best bidder. It was important to make him understand where Yugoslavia’s best interests lay: with the Soviet Union and its brother nations. The fall of Djilas, even more critical of Moscow than Tito, seemed to be a first sign of rapprochement. They needed to press the point.

Having read the report from London, General Serov had immediately set about informing the Secretary and the Prime Minister. MI6 was bothering one of the greatest actors in Hollywood just to persuade that whore Tito to become a friend of the West. They were turning themselves into movie impresarios: a film about the Yugoslavian liberation struggle! They would sell their mothers’ arses just to stay a step ahead of the USSR. But they hadn’t reckoned with Nikita Khrushchev, the bear dressed as a lamb. And they hadn’t reckoned with General Ivan Serov.

The disappearance of Cary Grant will be like an earthquake for the Western secret services, and it will discredit the Yugoslavians, turning their idyll into a nightmare. Imagine their faces when they lose contact with their ‘artistic ambassador’. Accusations being thrown around, insults, people with their heads in their hands, even threats of war. Seventy-two hours of pure panic. Who knows what they’ll come up with? Maybe nothing: Cary Grant’s ambassadorial work is a secret operation, those oafs won’t be able to justify themselves. Then, all of a sudden, Mr Grant reappears safe and sound in Malta with the best wishes of the KGB. A strong and clear message in the ears of MI6 and the CIA. Don’t try anything like that again.

Marshal Tito’s only option will be to force his best smile and shake hands with Nikita Khrushchev.

Let the enemy advance, then strike him mercilessly until he is destroyed.

Chapter 34

Bologna, 15 April

Dear Nicola,

I’ve left. I’m going to Yugoslavia in search of dad.

I know what you think. Dad has made his life, and we’ve got to make ours. It isn’t because he went over to Tito that you can’t forgive him. You think badly of him for abandoning us here when I was thirteen and you were twenty-one. You know as well as anyone that if he comes back he’s going to face a severe punishment. And then you don’t like the fact that he’s remarried either, you only told him once but I can still remember, ‘It’s as though our mother had died again.’

And I don’t like the fact that dad stayed there any more than you do. If he’s remarried it’s up to him, it’s nothing to do with us, and I also think that if he hasn’t come back, then this guy Tito can’t be a criminal, because our father wasn’t a criminal. I miss him, even though I’ve only seen him once in thirteen years. In fact that more than anything is why I miss him. We used to listen to the bulletins from the Slavic front together, on Aunt Iolanda’s broken radio. Then one day you left as well, and I stayed with our aunt, both of us waiting. I want to find him, I’m doing it for you as well, because I know that deep down you’re worried too.

Don’t worry. I have the documents, I’ve already got the border stamp, I’m in with people who know what they’re doing. If everything goes well I’ll be home in a month.

Your brother,

Pierre

Chapter 35

Pine forest, Ravenna, 15 April

The shack was lit by an oil lamp. Pierre didn’t mind the smell, which reminded him of petrol pumps, mingling with the saltiness that impregnated the pine forest.

He had had to come on foot, and he hoped it was the right place, because his legs hurt and the evening was cold.

City life had made him unused to the sounds of the countryside. He found himself given a start by the rustle of animals scratching about beneath the maritime pines. But there was also the tension.

The canal flowed blackly, placidly. Fishing nets hung from the bottoms of the pile-built huts, looking like flabby bellies. He pulled the clean shirt out of his travelling bag and wrapped it around his head so as not to be eaten alive by the mosquitoes, which went on buzzing around in search of an opening.

His footsteps echoed on the gravel path.

The door opened with a creak, and a dark figure appeared, barely lit by the lantern. It seemed to be leaning on a stick.

‘Who is it?’

The tone wasn’t friendly.

Pierre stopped. ‘Friend.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Robinson.’

‘Come under the light.’

Pierre pulled the shirt away from his face, and stepped in front of the door.

The man was small and thin, with black eyes and a hooked nose. He wore a tattered felt hat and a hunting jacket. He was leaning not on a stick, but a rifle.

‘Are you the bloke from Bologna?’

Pierre tried in vain to wave away the cloud of mosquitoes that was attacking him. ‘Yes, that’s me. Are you Robinson?’

The man gave a little grunt, which Pierre interpreted as agreement. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for two hours.’

‘I didn’t think it was so far. I’ve had to come from Ravenna on foot.’

Pierre noticed that the man was entirely immune to the mosquitoes. ‘How come they don’t bite you?’

The man didn’t move. ‘Bitter valley blood. They like sweet city blood.’

‘Can I come in? They’re eating me alive.’

Robinson studied him for a moment longer, then nodded to him to follow him in.

Inside it was bare: camp bed, table, three chairs, cauldron on the fire and rolls of fishing nets in the corners.

‘The money.’

‘Ettore didn’t tell me I’d have to pay you first.’

The expression on his face didn’t change. ‘You’re the one who wants to go.’

Pierre thought he didn’t have much choice. He opened his wallet and handed him the money.

When he had finished counting it out, the smuggler slipped it into a pocket in his jacket.

Pierre felt cramps in his stomach. ‘Haven’t you got anything to eat? I’m starving to death.’

The man looked at him as if he’d said something ridiculous, then handed him a plate that looked very much like the only one available.

Pierre served himself from the cauldron: bits of something dark and indefinable.

‘What is it?’

‘Eel.’

It tasted of brackish water, but he was too hungry not to eat.

Robinson started fussing about with some petrol cans, completely ignoring him.

When Pierre had finished his eel, Robinson picked up the plate and said, ‘We leave in two hours.’ He pointed to the camp bed. ‘You can sleep a bit. Tonight we dance.’

‘How long is it going to take?’

He shrugged. ‘We’ll get there tomorrow evening. It’s dangerous by day. If we get there before, we’ll wait till it’s dark.’

The longest sentence he had come out with. He looked annoyed at having used so many words.

Pierre lay down on the camp bed and felt his leg muscles stretching until he groaned. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep, the emotion was too intense, his heart was thumping.

His father had crossed this sea as well, many years before, never to return. He was going in search of him.

He was agitated but satisfied. He was risking the most hazardous enterprise of his whole life. Leaving the country, going to an unknown place, among unknown people, but with a goal. Whatever happened, this journey would mean something. Fanti said that journeys meant change. And if he said that, when he was so well travelled.

He felt different, amidst the pine trees and the mosquitoes, and with this grim-looking character Robinson. Ettore had told him he smuggled between Italy and Yugoslavia. Smuggling what? Cigarettes? Petrol? Maybe he was heading into difficulties that he wouldn’t be able to get out of. It didn’t matter. He felt alive, for the first time away from the bar, the dance hall, the life assigned to him.