Wu Ming - 54

So are you saying I’m crazy? That I was going around blabbing my mouth off about Don Luciano? Why are you doing this, I don’t know a thing, my Lisetta, I didn’t say anything, shame about that dress I bought you, what a catastrophe, and the pure silk trousers, you were happy, don’t cry, never again will I smell your sweet fragrance that drives me out of my mind, Jesus, never again will I see Lisetta’s curly head jiggling as she laughs, don’t cry, that fawn’s muzzle saying, ‘Salvato’, you’re mad, you are!’

And what if he wasn’t that resolute?

Why hasn’t he killed me yet? Maybe some fuckhead, some absolute bastard gave them my name and told them I was in jail, but without saying ‘that guy’s been singing’, no, just for the sake of saying something, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t made his mind up where to chuck the corpse, mamma mia , no!

No, no, we don’t know for sure that he’s going to kill you, take a good look at him, Salvato’, he’s as pissed off as a holymotherofgod, he’s snorting like a steamboat, but he seems to be thinking about other things, other matters.

Think, go on, think, Salvato’, quickly, think of something that will save your life, bawl your eyes out, fuck up his brain, anything at all, because otherwise you can forget all about Lisetta and this shitty life.

Steel myself. I’ve got to steel myself, and talk. Talk and say, ‘Signor Cement it’s all a terrible mistake. Salvatore Pagano known as Kociss is an admirer and Don Luciano’s devoted servant and yours as well, and never, ever, ever could he say a bad thing about you. ’

Yes, I need to steel myself, my throat’s dry, my eye hurts, steel yourself, come on, and I stink.

‘ A-hhm , Mister Cement, lissentumi —’

‘Shut up, shithead! Where is that fucking TV?’

The television?

‘ Mistestiv , don’t worry, I’ll get it straight away, sure, don’ you worry, if that’s all it is, I bring it back, no worry!’

The television. But how on earth could it be his?

Chapter 2

Bologna, ‘Seventh Heaven’, 5 May

The queue of people going into the dancehall started in the Piazza VIII Agosto. ‘Seventh Heaven’ was going to be packed to the rafters.

The musketeers weren’t impressed, and stood on their pedals to get up the slope like Coppi on the last stretch of the Gavia, Brando at the head, Sticleina and Gigi sprinting along, and Pierre bringing up the rear on the racing bike borrowed by Bortolotti.

‘What the fuck did they do to you in Yugoslavia, brainwash you? You’re not like yourself!’ Brando had observed a few days after his return.

As he pedalled, Pierre reflected that his friend was right. There was something strange: Bologna no longer seemed the same. But in the course of that week, what on earth could have happened? Nothing, the usual stuff: two punch-ups on 1 May, the thousand-mile driver who’d knocked over a kid in Via Murri, Bologna FC’s victory. No, there was no getting round it, it was he who had changed. Wasn’t Fanti always saying that seeing new places renews the eyes?

He thought once again of his dinner that day, at Aunt Iolanda’s, with Nicola. After the roast meat, his brother had risen from the table, saying he was taking a stroll to help his digestion. The truth was that he didn’t want to hear his brother’s stories about his trip to Yugoslavia. He had told Aunt Iolanda everything, even about the strange absolution with which he had left his father. She was a fine woman, Iolanda, almost a mother to him. He had never realised how similar she was to her brother Vittorio, the same eyes, the same shape of chin. She was just a bit younger, but she had the wisdom of someone much older. Not the mean wisdom of the countryside, no, something like a kind of common sense acquired over the years, when you’re someone who has seen war, the evil that men do, someone who has been in love but never married. When he looked back, to his childhood, Pierre saw her as a rock. The only person he would never leave, always able to cope with even the most critical situations.

Nicola, on the other hand, was critical all the time.

As they got back to Bologna, in the van, he had wanted to have his say.

‘Benassi hasn’t taken this business about Yugoslavia at all well.’

‘What’s Benassi got to do with it?’

‘If Benassi gives me a message to pass on, the message comes from the Party. And they didn’t much like you going there.’

‘I went to find my dad. If he’d gone to Sweden, I’d have gone there too. Would Sweden have been better?’

‘You’re not nearly as smart as you think, you know. Everyone knows you’ve been acting pretty strangely.’

‘There was no other way. And if they’ve got something to say to me, why don’t they say it to my face, rather than getting Benassi to do it?’

‘You’re a real idiot. You should be grateful that they say something, that things don’t turn nasty for you. If you went to the Section a bit more often and went dancing a bit less, the cogs in your brain would start turning better, and you might even even learn something. But oh no, young sir has to go and take private English lessons, from Professor Fanti.’

‘You’re right, I should have studied Russian, so that when the Red Army shows up I could work as an interpreter.’

‘Oh, wind me up all you like, go on. But in the meantime, given how much of a prick you want to make of yourself, just be careful you don’t go too far. And that guy Fanti isn’t even a comrade. He must be a liberal, or something like that.’

‘Could be. And I’m a communist. So? Tell Benassi to mind his own business, tell him I’ve never seen him getting whacked by the riot squad, and last time I took three blows to the head. At times like that, for some reason, I’m a great guy again.’

The conversation had been left hanging like that. Nicola had just shaken his head and gone on driving. *

They chained their bikes to the streetlights, straightened their clothes

and went in.

‘They don’t have places like this in Yugoslavia, eh, Pierre?’

‘Dunno. I certainly didn’t see them.’

‘Go on, go on,’ Gigi teased him as he handed in his coat. Then, in a low voice, ‘Did you see the tits on that cloakroom girl?’

Pierre lagged behind to buy cigarettes from the cigarette girl, and Brando took advantage of the fact to stay on his own with him. ‘Hear about Angela?’

‘No, how could I have done?’

‘Well, if nobody’s told you, I will. While you were away her brother had a fit. He went clean right round the bend, punched out a nurse and I believe he hurt himself as well. Nasty business.’

Pierre wanted to leave immediately; what the hell was he doing there? He was going dancing, and maybe Angela needed to talk, to let her feelings out. Remorse gripped his heart, but Sticleina was already taking him by an arm and dragging him towards the tables.

They sat down with a carafe of wine, Pierre staring at his shoes, the others glancing around in search of pasturage .

Ferruccio had been ill. Shit. And what about Angela?

‘Right, then! We didn’t come here to say the rosary! Gigi and I are going to dance. What about you?’

Pierre waved distractedly and lit a cigarette.

The two of them slipped on to the dance floor, calling, ‘Tossers!’

‘You already know what I think about you and Angela,’ Brando began. ‘Christ almighty, find yourself a girlfriend, look how many girls there are!’

But Pierre’s mind was elsewhere. His aunt’s words were whirling around in his head: ‘It’s as though you were here just by chance. As though you were weighing yourself up.’ He couldn’t stop his thoughts racing, the music of the band slipped under them and carried them away.