Wu Ming - 54

Charles Zucca walked ahead of Zollo at a steady pace, silently, holding a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose. Towards the rear of the building, he reached a little door half hidden by piles of rotten wooden crates. It led on to a narrow metal spiral staircase. As they climbed down, the stench of fish gradually made way for another effluvium, no less intense, the product of a mixture of various chemical agents, sickly, thick, pungent.

Welcome to Guerini pharmaceuticals.

‘We consider it very important that M’sieur Luciano be kept informed of the great leap in quality that the new equipment permits. In the Far East, M’sieur Zollo, things aren’t going so well for our heroic armed forces. But there is always room for good business. You have to invest, modernise, be independent. We have first-rate chemicals. We produce heroin and base morphine of excellent quality. We can treat large quantities of it. Our supply bases are in Laos, near the Vietnamese border. The fields of Ba Na Key. It’s a region of the limestone rock indispensable for poppy cultivation. Dozens and dozens of big plantations. We have others too, in Saravan, further south and further away from all the trouble. We transport the raw material on cargo ships bound for Europe. It takes up more space, obviously, than refined goods, perhaps it’s also riskier, but the quality and the profits are multiplied more than tenfold.’

Zollo looked around: bags of lime, ovens, drums, filters, test-tubes. A layer of lime powder lay over everything. The stench of sediments and caustic agents. Tens, maybe hundreds, of jars, stacked and labelled: ammonia, chloroform, muratic acid, hydrochloric acid, sulphate salts. All used to refine the poppy sap to obtain base morphine. All used to refine the base morphine and obtain heroin.

Drug heaven. Zollo was filled with a sense of nausea.

Zollo said, ‘Don Luciano will greatly appreciate the standard the organisation has reached. Same in Sicily. He too is always talking about independence and investment in modern equipment. The secret of business is success, he repeats often. He sends his respects and reassurances to the Guerini family, and asks whether the prohibition on your cities still holds.’

Zucca’s reply came quickly. ‘Absolutely. The Guerini family is absolutely firm on this point. We are very familiar with the effects and consequences of this stuff. Antoine and Mémé Guerini are forever saying that as long as they are here, Marseilles and the rest of France will not see the living dead wandering the streets. Business comes before everything else, but the powder mustn’t soften the brains and muscles of our boys. I hope M’sieur Luciano understands this and doesn’t take it amiss.’

‘No problem. Don Luciano will understand. He can’t bear the sight of drug addicts either, he just wanted to be sure that his French friends’ rules remained the same. When’s the next cargo?’

‘Before the end of the summer.’ Zucca cleared his throat. ‘A big one. Two ships. One’s going to pass by Palermo. All the details will be made clear in due course. The Guerini family likes it to be known that doing business with them is synonymous with absolute security and guaranteed profits. And while we’re on the subject we want to confirm to M’sieur Luciano that half a million francs are bound for Geneva. By tomorrow at the latest, trusted hands will deposit them in the account indicated to us, with the thanks and best wishes of the Guerini brothers.’

‘Don Luciano will be grateful to you in his turn.’

‘M’sieur Zollo, I hope you will pass on my greetings to someone I consider to be one of the men of the highest quality and the keenest intelligence who live on this planet.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Zucca. It will be done.’

Chapter 22

Bologna, 2 June

Black.

Dark.

A dark corner. To vanish into.

Concentrate only on footsteps, one foot in front of another. No more than that.

You can’t survive grief. It’s unfair. Stay and suffer.

Stay.

The whirlpool sucks up gestures, thoughts, breaths.

Breathe . Almost impossible.

Think . Think that Fefe isn’t there any more. You can’t believe it.

Black. Dark. One foot in front of the other.

The dog bites inside, the heart dies, one piece at a time. Then it lets you get your breath back, so that you can walk.

Imagine the final moments. When he broke the window.

Think of his terror of thunder, the chill that must have gripped him.

Think of the moment before . Think of what he was thinking. Before the void, before the trench. Terror. You had to get out of there, Fefe, you had to escape, outside, where the ceiling couldn’t fall on your head, as it did that day so many years ago, clinging to our mother’s body under the rubble, hour after hour.

The dog sinks its teeth in still deeper. You have to stop. Grope about. Wait till it passes, till it loosens its grip. Another shred.

Black. Hell is a dark corner of the heart.

There’s nothing left. No point in anything.

Your pockets are full of his things. Useless things. Knick-knacks.

Relics. You mustn’t lose anything, not even the smallest piece of fabric, not even a handkerchief or a toothbrush. You’ve got to keep them all.

You’ve got to keep him . What he left you. What remains.

Dead. He’s dead. He no longer exists.

Knees want to give. But you won’t fall. No one must touch you. You don’t want anyone. The hands that touch your body, that restore it to you and tell you you’re alive. Remind you that you must eat, drink, wash. Again. Even now. Even tomorrow. No. You can’t believe it. You can’t live with a hole where your heart should be and a stomach smaller than a fist.

Black. Snuff out everything. Snuff out the day. Snuff out the church candles. Snuff out your eyes. Leave me with darkness.

I’m here and I’m walking. But I’m not me.

I’m not longer alive . I won’t be.

Fefe, come on, get up. Don’t just lie there. Get up, please. Get up and let’s go away from here.

What to say? What to do? You can’t hug her, you can’t hold her. You can’t do what would come spontaneously. You won’t even be able to look at her, but who cares, you look anyway. Seek her eyes, black eyes that have burned their way inside you since the first time you saw them, and which have now disappeared behind dark glasses. Angela, I’m here, do you see me? It’s me, Pierre. Angela, look at me. Let me hold you, let me cuddle you, caress you. Even if you no longer want me, even if it’s over, a hug is a hug. And you can’t deny someone a hug. You can’t deny yourself that. Grant yourself one hug, please. Even if it’s the last time, I’m still me, I’m Pierre. We loved each other, perhaps we still do.

But you aren’t here, you’re somewhere else, you’re dead too.

I hate funerals. You shouldn’t ever have to go to them. You shouldn’t ever have to go into a burning room. See him there, behind a box. Is that the last image you want to keep within you? It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have come, Angela.

There he is, your husband, the great Odoacre Montroni. Incorruptible, upright. Condolences, processions of black outlines with bent shoulders. Suffering in silence, grave, composed suffering of a solid man. There’s a queue to shake his hand, as though he was the one who had lost a brother, not you. You are a woman, you can suffer and abandon yourself to grief. You have to be left there, a hug from Teresa is enough, and you push her away without rancour, no one must touch you.

He has noticed that I’m looking at you, he’s certainly noticed, but I don’t care. Angela, I want you to turn around, read in my eyes, read the desire to be close to you.