Wu Ming - 54

‘That thing there? That’s nothing, cough! It’s catarrh with a bit of blood. Quick rub with a handkerchief, it’s gone. You see?’

‘Yes, but not with your handkerchief, look, it’s covered with red stripes! Don’t rub at it, you’ll leave a stain! Do we want to end up on the Côte d’Azur like this?’

‘What d’you mean, a stain, it’s easy, look!’

‘Not with your sleeve! Do you want to show up at the casino in Cannes with your clothes covered in blood? Do we want to be spotted straight away? They won’t let us in like that!’

‘Swede, you’re worse than a finger up the arse. Calm down, cough! , we still have a few hours’ driving ahead of us. For months now everybody’s been going on at me for going to the South, the sea, the mountains, because it’ll be good for my, cough! cough! cough! it’ll BE GOOD FOR MY FUCKING LUNGS and so on, but if I have to drag those lectures along with me on top of everything else, I’d as soon stay in Paris.’

‘Toni, I’m worried: one, that you’re going to die; two, that you’re going to die now , because I’ve never seen this guy Zollo; three, that we’re going to turn up looking like a dying man and his friend who’s about to call for a priest. If the guys from Marseilles find out what’s going on, they’re going to clip you, and they’re going to clip you hard. It’ll be even worse with the Zips and that fucker who sells washing machines in Naples. We’ve had enough bother with the Sicilian darkies already, let’s try not to be too conspicuous, ok? Style, that’s what we need! Like Jean Gabin in Touchez-pas au Grisbi .’

‘Would you shut up about that bloody film. How many times have you seen it now?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? Did you understand what I said, or not?’

‘Sure, do you want me to swear on God almighty and the whole gang?’

‘Toni, you’re in danger of losing it. Try and get yourself back in shape, everyone’s been saying as much for months. You don’t muck around with tuberculosis.’

‘After this deal, let’s do the thing with the jewels, then I’ll get some rest.’

‘Yeah, and you might even think about having the operation.’

‘A lung operation? Your arse. I’m not having them sawing through my ribs and leaving me going around the place like a cripple for the rest of my days. That professor guy, Blafard, does “alternative” cures. I’ve booked myself in to see him.’

‘Fingers crossed, then. You heard about the inside man, though?’

‘Yeah, brilliant plan, couldn’t fault it. But they’re a bit too fond of the whores, it’s risky, when you’re preparing a coup, cough! cough! , whores talk and they make you talk, too.’

‘Tell him to keep his dick in his trousers, then. We’re already running too many risks. By the way, what’s that guy Zollo like? Can we trust him? He’s not about to rip us off?’

‘No, I can tell if someone’s ok, and he’s one mastodon-sized sonof-a-bitch, in fact he’s the mammoth of all sons of bitches, he’s big and cold as a block of ice.’

‘Did you know that mammoth means “son of the earth” in Mongolian?’

‘Am I supposed to give a fuck?’

‘I was just giving you some information.’

‘Oh, thanks then! I don’t know how I’d manage without you spouting non— Cough! Cough! Cough! Cough! ’

‘Go on then, try and tell me that isn’t a shred of lung!’

Chapter 21

Marseilles, 1 June

The boy had scented the air of home. Air of respect and danger. He had stopped asking questions. He seemed to be concentrating, to be at ease. He seemed to understand the incomprehensible words and exclamations echoing from the street. He had worked out that he mustn’t breathe.

Zollo was finally able to allow himself a long, hot coffee. How many hours had he driven without stopping? His feet were on fire, his legs were made of marble.

Irrelevant details. For what he had to do. For the people he had to meet. For where he was. The taverne was in the rue du Refuge. The landlord said his name was Dédé. He had immediately held out the pack of cigarettes with their meeting place written on it. The district was Le Panier, the drainpipe of Guerini-town. The paradise of nabos, babis , Corsicans, and other assorted scum from the rest of the four continents lovingly thrown together by a single task: to dominate the port and the trades of Marseilles. In the pay of Antoine and Barthélemy Guerini, the lords and masters of the district, and with the terrestrial blessing of Gaston Defferre, the socialist mayor of the city. Tough customers. Big business all over the planet. Solid political relations. Clear understandings and carte blanche . Manna for Luciano. The spider span tirelessly. The web covered the whole world. From Marseilles it ran straight for almost 20,000 kilometres, all the way to Saigon, Laos, Thailand. Indochina: the route of opium, powder, weapons. The French had been wallowing there for a century. Now it was a complete shithole over there. Kill kill, slaughter slaughter, fuck fuck. The ideal conditions to prosper in.

The Guerini brothers had very clear ideas.

The go-between over there was one Jean-Philippe Mesplède, an ex-Legionnaire who worked with the Americans as well. He seemed to have slaves, plantations and alliances with local tribes. Everything he needed for profitable activity and secure prospects. It was from there that the raw material set off, unlimited availability, or already treated or half-treated, but inferior in quantity and quality. That was the problem. The climate was too wet. Equipment and chemicals were too poor. Staff too under-motivated. Every now and again one of them would try and escape. He would have to be killed. Others died of hunger or exhaustion. They had to be replaced by relatives.

Luciano and the Guerini brothers were solving the problem. Efficient, up-to-date labs in Sicily and Marseilles. Excellent raw material. Reliable chemicals. Steel covers. White powder and topquality brown could set off towards the East, back to the brothels at the front; to the West, to America.

The whores liked it.

The yellow men liked it.

The negroes liked it.

Even those depraved faggot communist artist musicians liked it.

People liked it, in short. They paid to have it. They paid well. They wanted it every day.

Zollo swallowed down the last sip of coffee and pulled a Gauloise from the pack that the landlord had given him. The boy pressed his face to the glass and looked at the street outside the bar. He was half smiling.

Zollo got to his feet. It was time. The Guerini brothers didn’t like waiting. The day’s timetable was as follows: visit to the brand-new laundry, pleasantries, as agreed.

Afterwards, whatever he wanted.

‘Salvatore. I’m going to the Vieux Port. I’m going on my own. The people I have to see don’t much care for new faces.’

‘You’ve got important people to see, eh, Stiv?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are they friends of ours?’

‘They’re friends of Don Luciano.’

‘ Mamma mia , Stiv! I’d really like to come with you, but I understand. They don’t like new faces.’

*

The shed was old, big and dilapidated. The revolting stench of fish rose even from his arsehole.

His chaperone was called Charles Zucca. He was wearing a blue suit over a big yellow tie and shiny black shoes. About thirty, an accountant and lawyer with the organisation, the son of Pascal Zucca, famous lawyer, a meritorious member of the French Resistance and a strategic adviser to the unscrupulous operations of mayor Defferre.

The preserving and canning of sardines.