“I’ve given them money. We see them once a month . . . what else is there? I feel hopeless. My heart aches for Betta . . . and the children.”
Serena changed the subject. “What kind of trouble is Gianni worried about? Is it serious, something legal, or just family problems? Their marriage is in trouble; we know that. Is there something else?”
“It probably is serious,” Marco said with a sigh. “But I don’t think he wants to talk about their marriage. God, I hope he’s not losing his job. What a disaster that would be.”
Serena pressed her lips together and then sighed. “Could be. . . . Poor Betta.”
Marco was at the Caffè Cavour at ten o’clock on that hot Sunday morning, sipping cappuccino and reading the weekend Corriere della Sera. He was seated at an outside table under an umbrella near Piazza Garibaldi, where he could see Gianni approach from any direction.
It was the usual Sunday morning parade on the sun-blazed piazza: young mothers pushing prams with toddlers wearing sun hats, walking in groups of two or three, alternating talking and texting on cell phones; male pensioners following shorthaired terriers and dachshunds on leashes; widowed nonnas strolling in short-sleeved black dresses, linking arms with each other, stooped over with age and from lifetimes of raising children and grandchildren. Some of them were huddled under umbrellas against the intense sunlight.
Marco glanced at his watch. Gianni was late. Typical. At ten thirty-five, Marco ordered another cappuccino. When he returned to his table, he spotted Gianni hurrying into the piazza from behind the chiesa where he’d likely parked his car, near the primary school.
Gianni’s head shifted nervously left and right as he approached Caffè Cavour. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed and grabbed clothes off the floor; his wrinkled shirt was untucked, the front drooping over his belt. Gianni’s running shoes had tattered laces. His uncombed hair poked from under a cap. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.
Marco rose and pushed a chair towards Gianni. “Ciao, Gianni. Come va?” Gianni refused the chair and motioned to the café. “Let’s go inside. It’s too hot outside,” he said, his voice tense. His left hand was twitching like an electrical current had jabbed his elbow. “The air conditioner in my car isn’t working.”
Gianni hurried past Marco into the café, went to a corner table, and sat where he could see everyone in the café, on the patio, and on the piazza.
Marco ordered an espresso at the bar and brought the cup and saucer to the table. “Thank you,” Gianni said, avoiding Marco’s eyes as he sipped the inky-black espresso. Abruptly he said, “Let’s go outside. I need a smoke.” He tipped his head back, drained the bitter coffee, and set the cup on the tiny saucer.
“I thought you wanted to be inside—” Marco said, but Gianni had already risen and pushed back his chair.
Marco followed Gianni and found an empty table in the shade of one of the café’s umbrellas. It was hot and muggy, 38°C already. People were staying in the shade of trees or awnings around the piazza.
Gianni reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Marlboro Rossa tobacco pouch and Rizla cigarette papers. He pinched brown flakes out of the package and dropped them into the paper, with some falling next to his saucer. He rolled the flakes in the paper, creased the ends together, and licked them before popping the rolled stump between his lips. He lit his lumpy cigarette with a plastic lighter, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled smoke over his shoulder.
Marco disliked smoking, believing it was a filthy, dangerous habit and an insult to people forced to breathe nearby. “You look tired, Gianni,” Marco said, sipping his cappuccino, wishing Gianni would take off his sunglasses. “Did you sleep last night?”
Gianni took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that made him look older and world-weary. “Not much,” he grunted. “Betta was up with Davide most of the night; he was coughing, crying. I got up a couple times to take care of him but then couldn’t go back to sleep. I’ll need a nap this afternoon.”
“Davide’s been sick a lot, hasn’t he? How’s Betta handling the stress? I’ve left messages for her, but she doesn’t seem to have time to call back.”
“It’s not her fault. She’s busy day and night. She needs rest, but I don’t know how or when that can happen.” He made a fluttering wave with his hand as if brushing away a fly.
Marco watched Gianni, his fingers twitching as he rolled the cigarette around. “What’s going on, Gianni? Your note worried me.”
Gianni picked a piece of tobacco off his lip and flicked it on the ground, avoiding Marco’s eyes. He glanced furtively at people walking by in the shade, then again stood, motioning with his head that it was time to leave.
Gianni walked into the piazza and tossed his cigarette butt into the gravel path, glancing nervously in one direction, then another. Marco followed behind. Gianni meandered around the statue of Garibaldi, the hero of Italy’s Risorgimento, mounted on his horse, leading his Redshirts into battle. He glanced up at the statue of the former sea captain who had left politics and moved to Sardinia to raise cattle. Gianni had told Marco once that Garibaldi was his personal hero; Gianni had even named his daughter after Garibaldi’s wife, Anita.
Gianni looked away and strolled around the monument, which was on a stone plinth in a small circular garden with pink and white petunias enclosed by a wooden fence.
Marco followed a half-step behind his brother-in-law, observing his odd behavior, like that of a man seeking to run away and hide from strangers. Marco pointed to a corner of the piazza shaded by trees. “There’s an empty bench over there,” he said.
Their shoes crunched on the gravel path, kicking up dust and dried leaves. Neither spoke until they were seated in the shade. Gianni took out his Marlboro Rossa packet again to roll another cigarette. “I’m in trouble, Marco,” Gianni said. “Big trouble.”
“Tell me.”
Gianni lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled to his side. “I made a big mistake,” he began, almost blurting out his confession. “A guy—Indian or a Paki, I couldn’t tell—came up to me a couple months ago when I got home. He was nicely dressed . . . spoke perfect Italian with a Genovese accent. He knew my name. He asked me if I wanted to make some easy money. Fast. I was suspicious.”
“You should have walked away.”
Gianni spoke in a staccato fashion, like he wanted to rush through his pathetic tale. “He asked how Betta and the kids were. I was shocked. How would he know my family? He knew the school where Anita goes. He knew Betta took Davide to the park every morning. How did he know that? I was going to walk away . . . then he asked if I could use some extra money to buy new clothes for Betta and the kids.”
“He probably had been spying on you for some time. What was his name?”
“He called himself Mimmo, but I didn’t believe him. It’s probably just an Italian nickname he uses.”
“Foreigners often use phony Italian nicknames.”
“But his Italian was good. He talked fast. He was only there about five minutes. He said he wanted to help my family.”
“How much did he offer you?”
Gianni narrowed his eyes, avoiding looking at Marco. When he answered, it was with a hushed voice. “Five thousand euros. For an hour’s work.”
Marco balled his hands into fists. He was furious with Gianni but didn’t want him to know. Bribing a customs official was a police matter, not just a family issue. “That’s a lot of money, Gianni. He offered you a bribe.”
Gianni took another drag, averting his eyes. “I know. Damn it, I should have walked away.”
“What did he want you to do?”
Gianni closed his eyes for a moment, sweat glistening on his forehead. When he answered, he spoke in bursts, making Marco believe he hadn’t confided in anyone about the incident that had likely caused him sleepless nights while he had suffered in silence.
“A container ship from Pakistan was coming into the harbor in a few days. He knew I was on a team that insp
ected containers. He wanted me to sign papers for one container without inspecting one of the boxes in it. He knew about the paperwork, who has to sign it. He knew my supervisor’s name and even showed me a copy of his signature. I was shocked that he knew so much.”
“Where was it going?”
“Milano.”
“What did you do?”
Gianni grimaced like he’d bitten into a lime. “I . . . I did as he said. It was easy. My supervisor signed the papers I gave him, and the container was taken to the warehouse and left on the truck a couple days later.”
“What was in the shipment?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Marco was stunned. Gianni had committed a serious crime that could send him to prison. But why had he taken so long to tell him? “You took a bribe, Gianni. You could lose your job and be in trouble with the police.”
Gianni sucked his cigarette hard, ash falling on his soiled shoes. “I know . . . but the money . . . you know we don’t have much. Betta doesn’t work. Two young children take a lot of money. I pay support for Michele. I’m always broke. If it wasn’t for the money my father gives me, we’d be living on the street.” He blinked away tears, reaching up to wipe his eyes.
“Why did you wait to tell me? We could have arrested this criminal.”
Gianni grimaced, looking like he had painful gas in his stomach. “There’s more,” he continued, speaking rapidly. “Mimmo came
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