Wu Ming - 54

‘Don Viciè, you’ve got to tell us everything, ok? This is an important matter, Don Vincenzo, some mistakes have been made that never should have been made.’

Vincenzo Donadio, hands resting on the counter, listened intently to Salvatore Pagano’s doleful voice. What unsettled the twenty-stone, five-foot-seven bulk of Don Vincenzo was the big man standing next to the boy, silent, the knot of his tie protruding, hands folded in front of his balls.

‘Young man, have you any idea how many things shouldn’t have happened between the war and now? Too many to mention! And you know why? Because here, in this accursed and forgotten land, things that shouldn’t happen are always happening, let’s not even talk about it! There’s no point going down in the morning, opening up the workshop, working your arse off, sweating your way through the day, who gives a fuck, with all due respect, petty thieves are the only ones who want to do anything, and they just want to go skirt-chasing, again with all due respect.’

‘Don Vincenzo, the television. ’

‘What did I just say? You have no idea how much trouble I’m in. Trouble! And it wasn’t just for me, that massive great thing that weighs a ton, you have no idea; it was a present I was going to give to a friend of my granddaughter’s, you know, they say they’re going to be showing football matches on it, but the thing didn’t work, and I’d planned to take a look inside, open it up and see if there was any chance of fixing it, and if there wasn’t, then fine, I’d get my mate on the case. So I’d put it on the counter, there, just at the side, it weighed a ton, you’ve no idea!’

‘Um. And did you fix it?’ The mute had spoken.

A stupid question, Don Vincenzo thought, but the tone of voice and the physical appearance of the questioner demanded maximum respect.

‘Certainly not, certainly not, sir. I had put it up there because it was Saturday evening, positively planning to sort it out on Sunday, the day of rest. And on Sunday morning they come and call me, Don Viciè, come quick, they’ve broken into your shop, they broke the lock, and I went running, if you can call it running what with these legs and all that they have to hold up, that much is obvious, but they’d got the television, the bastards! Perhaps I should have put a sign on it saying “out of order”, who knows!’

‘Don Viciè, have you no idea who it might have been? Maybe someone who doesn’t like you, maybe some lowlife in financial difficulties; please try, Don Vincenzo, please!’

Salvatore Pagano pleaded. Salvatore Pagano begged.

Salvatore Pagano implored.

‘Hmm, what should I say. Vincenzo Donadio has no enemies, big or small. If you give respect, you get respect back. Don’t stir things up. Don’t poke your nose in where it isn’t wanted. Let these be the commandments of Vincenzo Donadio. Having said that, thieves and villains are as thick on the ground hereabouts as the locusts in the Bible! In this street alone there are four or five: Pinhead, the Korean, Peppino the Creep. ’

Salvatore Pagano smiled hopefully.

Towards evening, Vincenzo Donadio, sitting at the table, wiped away the sweat with a big blue handkerchief folded in the palm of his hand. Every now and again he snorted, then took another sip of Gragnano. He couldn’t help thinking that that double-breasted Minotaur whom the boy called Mistestiv was a real devil, but a lot of good that did him. And it showed that he was right. In less than half a day, however, all the villains on the street had come out like mushrooms, and the whole district had been turned upside down. It had been satisfying to see that ignorant wretch Peppino the Creep crying, asking forgiveness and swearing on the life of his mother who had thrown him out all that time ago. But there was no sign of the set. Peppino had pointed the finger at another villain who was a friend of his, Nené, and another one who didn’t seem to have anything to do with it. Mistestiv the American had terrorised them, but nothing came out of it. Shitting themselves with fear, they had already flogged it at a filling station somewhere near San Giovanni a Teduccio. To Latina, Formia, Frosinone, possibly Rome or even further afield. The lorry drivers went to all those places, sometimes beyond. Nothing. Goodbye to the television. There was no point beating yourself up. Things happened as they had to and that was that. Because then, Don Vincenzo reflected, if they found it, what would happen? No, because he had bought it, second-hand. But hang on a minute. Another sip of wine. He thought he could still hear the voice of Mistestiv before he drove off in that luxury American car, saying to the boy, ‘Get in, you piece of shit!’

He really should mind his own business.

Chapter 10

Bologna, San Luca, 9 May

Was she sure? No, but it didn’t matter. It was over between them. They had always known. Perhaps that was what had made it so beautiful. They had savoured every minute snatched from normal life, to be what they were supposed to be: the Filuzzi King and Signora Montroni. The princess and the dancer. Now the moment had come to admit it. To stop the race.

She saw Pierre waiting for her at the funicular railway stop.

Angela waited for everyone to get off. Then she stepped out.

Pierre understood immediately. From her face. From her posture. He didn’t even try to hug her.

He said, ‘They told me about your brother. I’m sorry.’

His voice was embarrassed.

She stood a little way apart and lowered her eyes. ‘He’s better now. How was Yugoslavia? Did you see your father?’

‘Yes.’

They stood there in silence. They both knew, but couldn’t bring themselves to speak.

Finally Pierre said in a thin voice, ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

Angela nodded, her face hard.

‘You can’t live on fairy tales, Pierre.’

‘Not even if they make you happy?’

She tried to find the right words.

‘We were happy, that’s true. But there are other things in life.’

‘Your husband, your brother. Is that what you mean? You’ve told me so often —’

‘It’s not just that.’

A leaf carried on the wind caught in her hair, and Pierre couldn’t help taking it out. Her hair was soft.

‘What is it, then?’

‘You’re twenty-two, and you don’t like what you’ve got, it isn’t enough. You went to Yugoslavia, you’ve had your adventure, you’ve seen your father again. That won’t be enough either. You’re like a child, Pierre. You’ve got to find the right way. I’ve already found mine.’

Pierre wanted to reply, but Angela went on. ‘Maybe fate forced it on me, but you also have to know when to grit your teeth. I’m not a little girl any more, I’m almost thirty. I was poor, and now I want for nothing. My brother was finished, good as dead. Now he had people to look after him. Find your way, Pierre. I wish you all the luck in the world. Let’s leave it there.’

He didn’t know what to say. It had to happen sooner or later. His journey and her brother’s relapse must have unleashed something within her. Perhaps he should have flown into a desperate rage, and instead he just managed to feel stunned, submerged by those words, by that calm. He would suffer like a dog, afterwards. He would beat his head against the wall. But not now, not here.

His vision clouded over. He felt her kiss on his cheek, and when he managed to focus his eyes again Angela was already moving away.

There, it was over. A clean blow. Like a swig of grappa on an empty stomach.

Bologna slumbered at the foot of the hills.

He tried to take a step forwards; where was he to go, he couldn’t stand this place any more, this view, he would hate it for ever. He couldn’t move. He sat down and put his head between his knees. His head filled only with a succession of curses.