Early as it was most of the shops were open. On the far side was a bold sign over a shop front that read Farmacia. Below the sign were only heavy steel shutters. The pharmacy was closed.
A cold chill swept through Giulio as he realized, a little too late, why he should have waited until dawn to read the note. He was too early and, he felt, obvious and suspicious. Wasn’t that policeman looking at him, chewing the toothpick and wondering who he was? Fear rattled the teeth in his head and sent him stumbling into the mouth of the nearest street. It was narrow and dark and there were steps down which he half fell. Around the first corner and into a narrower alleyway. Were there footsteps behind him? A dark storefront opened before him and he stumbled through it, blinking in the darkness.
“Si?” a voice rumbled, almost in his ear. A dark man with a two-day growth of beard stood there looking at him quizzically.
“Aspirin,” Giulio said. “I need some aspirin.”
“Pazzo,” the man growled, the sour odor of rough wine washing out on his breath. “Get out of here.”
Giulio peered into the cavernous gloom and saw the box with a few old potatoes, the crate of tomatoes next to it. “I thought this was the pharmacy,” he said. So unconvincingly that he didn’t even fool himself. “What time does the pharmacy open?”
“Out!” the proprietor said loudly, and made a dismissing and insulting gesture with the fingers of his right hand. Giulio went out and retraced his steps towards the piazzetta. There was no sign of the policeman,- that did not lessen his fear.
When he came back into the sunlight he saw a man with a long pole rolling up the steel shutter of the pharmacy. Giulio’s heart beat rapidly as he dragged the heavy bag with him across the cobbles and towards the safety of the entrance. “Stuzzicadenti,” he said as the man turned towards him.
He was young and clean-shaven and had the same suspicious eye as the greengrocer. An answer was beneath him and he just jerked his thumb towards the grocery store behind him.
“Aspirin?” Giulio asked hopefully, trying to smile and not succeeding. The young man looked him up and down slowly in economic appraisal. Apparently Giulio looked as though he could at least afford an aspirin or two. The young man shouldered the pole and silently led the way into the shop.
A fat man with a gray beard was behind the marble counter opening a package. He glanced up when Giulio entered, then turned his attention back to untangling the thick string. Fear was replaced by joy in Giulio’s heart. He hurried to the man, leaned close, and whispered “Stuzzicadenti” in his ear.
“Marco, did anyone see him come in?” the man asked, talking over the top of Giulio’s head.
“Only half the town,” the young man answered.
“Stuzzicadentit,” Giulio asked, hopefully.
“It’s always that way, they send people who know nothing.”
“Stuzzicadenti . . .” in an unhappy moan.
“Toothpicks?” Graybeard asked, looking at Giulio for the first time. “Oh, yes, the stupid password thing. Wood? Nose? Tooth? No. Yes! Mouth. Bucca!”
“You took your time about it,” Giulio muttered, put out by the reception.
“Shut up and follow me. Stay well back and look as though you are not following me. When they come looking for you I want everyone to know you left my shop.”
He pulled on a natty pinstripe jacket, seized up a malacca cane from the corner, then strode out of the door and across the piazzetta. Giulio started to follow and was restrained by the strong arm of the youth. “Not so close. Watch where he goes.”
Only after Graybeard had disappeared in a narrow alley did he release Giulio who hurried after.
Rushing while trying not to rush, panting with the weight of the suitcase. He followed at a distance and, after a number of turns, was rewarded with the sight of his quarry entering a building. He strolled slower now, stopped and looked back. No one in sight. He pushed into a dark hallway and heard the door thud shut behind him. Another door opened and he followed the man into a cheerful room where wide-open double windows displayed a breathtaking view of the Bay of Naples. Graybeard waved him to a chair near the window, flashed a sudden gold-filled smile through the jungle of his beard, then seized up a bottle of wine from the sideboard.
“Welcome to Italy, Giulio. You may call me Pepino. How was the trip? You will have some of this wine, the native wine of this island, you will love it.”
“How did you know my name?”
The smile vanished for a second, then aurously reappeared. “Please. I arranged all of this. I have your passport and papers here, with your picture on them. Tickets as well. I did all this and I tell you, it was not cheap.” He glanced at the suitcase and his smile broadened. “So I am happy to see that you brought payment. May I have the case?”
Giulio held it tighter to him. “I was told to hand it over only when told a certain word.”
“Your CIA has seen too many old spy films! Who else but me . . .” With mercurial ease Pepino’s temper changed and he was smiling again. “But of course that’s not your fault. The word is . . . merda . . . there are so many of the stupid words to remember. This one is . . . shamarocka! There, got it right the first time.”
With no more ceremony he pulled the suitcase to him, dropped it flat on the floor and flipped the catches. It was locked. He muttered something nasty under his breath and produced—rather quickly Giu-lio thought for such a fat man—a large black knife that flicked open with a very nasty sound. A few twists with this and the locks flew open, the knife vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He threw the lid back and Giulio leaned forward to look, for he had no idea what he had been burdened with.
The suitcase was tightly packed with bundles of pantyhose. Chuckling with pleasure, Pepino broke a bundle open and waved the diaphanous limbs in the air. “I’m rich, I’m rich.” he whispered to himself.
“More precious than gold.”
Giulio nodded an amen to that. There was a fortune in the suitcase. Years earlier when petroleum had started to run out it had not only spelled the death of the auto and allied industries, but put paid to the petrochemical factories as well. What little supplies remained were reserved for essential pharmaceutical and industrial chemicals, and little or none for the manufacture of plastics. From being the most common material, plastic had become the rarest, and nonindustrial nylon the rarest of all. Of course a black market did exist, which only helped push up the price of such nonessentials as pantyhose.
“This is for you,” Pepino said, passing over a battered wallet that had been tucked between the bundles. Giulio opened it and looked at the tightly wadded banknotes. He took one out and stared at it.
A squat man, robed to the ears, stared back. The printing was in a strange language, and alphabet, and read something like NOTA AUTHAIRGTHE AUIG PHUNT.
“Put them away,” Pepino ordered. “For expenses and bribes when you get there.” He dumped the contents of the suitcase into a high wardrobe, then locked it. From a drawer, at the bottom of that same wardrobe, he took underclothes, socks, shirts, all of them ancient, faded and patched, and stowed them in the suitcase. In place of the broken clasps he sealed it with a length of rope tied round, then handed it over to Giulio.
“Time to go,” he announced. “On the north side of the piazzetta are steps leading down to Marina Grande. Descend, neither too slowly nor too quickly, and in the harbor there you will find the ferry to Naples waiting. Here is a ticket, put it in an outside pocket if you please. This envelope contains your passport and all the other papers you will need. The ship will be easy enough to find. You may board any time today and I suggest you proceed there as soon as you land.
You will only get in trouble if you stay in the city. Good luck, that’s it, finish your wine, and good luck with your mission whatever it is. If you get back alive tell your CIA what a fine job I have done. They are one of my best customers.”
Moved on by these encouraging words, and a firm hand in the small of his back, Giulio carr
ied the now lightened suitcase down the seemingly endless steps to the harbor. He had a clear view of the ferry tied up at the mole and saw that they were shaking out the sails. He could not miss it! Hurrying, as fast as he could, he reached the harbor in a rush, then staggered to a walk, streaming with sweat, when he saw that people were still boarding. But he was none too early, for soon after he had dropped wearily to the deck they cast off the lines, with a good deal of shouting, and the ferry moved out into the bay. There was a brisk following wind, thankfully since his stomach did not enjoy the voyage at all, and they were soon gliding by the docks of Naples.
Empty of course, except for some fishing boats and coastal traders. The world could not convert quickly from power to sail. The ferry moved past the rusting hulk of Ark Royal, flight deck canted at a sharp angle where she sat on the bottom. Sunk by sabotage the rumor had it, though holed through by rust was probably more likely. In the midst of these tiny sailboats and rusting despair, the great bulk of the St. Columba loomed large and impressive.
She stretched on and on, sleek metal and smooth paint, like something out of a history book. At her stern flapped an orange, white and green flag, while from her funnel trickled a thin streamer of pungent brown smoke. In a crumbling world she was a monument to the might of man and, suddenly, Giulio felt very happy. He was going to board her, travel on her, see this powerful machine in action. Since he was a child of the world’s declining years he had known only grounded planes, skeletal cars, silent machines.
Despite the danger of his mission he could not help but look forward with anticipation.
It was all he had ever dreamed of and more. The only formality was the actual boarding of the vessel.
Sharp-eyed soldiers, weapons ready, guarded the dock against unwelcome visitors, and a uniformed officer examined his papers, stamped them, removed some, and waved him on. A cursory glance through his suitcase followed, then he was aboard. It was like entering the gates of paradise.
A ruddy, smiling purser checked his name on a list and assigned him to a bunk. The man had a few words of basic Italian and a large vocabulary of gestures. Giulio made an effort not to understand the English.
“There you are, my lad, cabin number 144. Uno, quatro, quatro, do you have that? No kabeesh, ey? Sleep my old son, kip, dormir there down below, bloody sotto, you know. Catch on? That’s grand. Nod away, that’s it, cools the brain. And here’s a few quid against your month’s wages. Soldi, got that? Can’t have a man going thirsty. Fine now, move off, bugger avante. Just follow the sounds of revelment and you can have a few jars with your mates to celebrate your voyage to the chosen land. Next.”
The roar of masculine voices and laughter grew louder and louder as Giulio progressed down the corridor, until he pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon where the noise burst over him in a cloud of tobacco smoke and shouted Italian. Red-faced men, in shirts and neckties, were serving up great tankards of some dark, foaming beverage to dark-skinned, black-haired men who drank it at a ferocious rate. There were also smaller glasses of an amber fluid that was mixed with water from a jug. As Giulio pushed through to the bar he heard appreciative comments that while it was not good wine and heady grappa, it certainly was worth drinking in its own right. Roll on the ship. Giulio passed over one of the bank notes he had been given, the same, though of a smaller denomination, as those packed into his inner pocket. The Italians were right, the drinks were different but very palatable.
So were the meals. He went through the first one in a bit of a haze, but had joyous memories of a piece of meat big enough to feed a family of ten back home in Hoboken, floury potatoes, golden plates of butter, dark bread. All a dream—that was not a dream. But all too quickly the journey passed. He gained a few pounds on the voyage, enjoyed some massive hangovers and undoubtedly did immense damage to his liver.
The Italian passengers had very little contact with the crew of the ship. This did not appear to be a matter of policy, just that this was a working ship, a freighter for the most part, and the sailors were quite busy. This and the linguistic barrier kept them apart. Though Giulio did volunteer for a working party when one was requested; who knew what technical secrets lay in the bowels of the ship! He discovered little other than that the St. Columba was steam-powered, peat-fired, and built in Cork. All of which he was sure the CIA already knew. In exchange for this fragment of information he spent an exhausting afternoon shoveling peat past a broken conveyor belt from the bin. It was little solace that all of the others suffered as well, and returned to their quarters complaining bitterly and comparing the blisters on their hands.
Then the voyage was over. Gentle hills and an undulating coastline appeared ahead. The St. Columba moved slowly between the outstretched granite arms of the two great breakwaters and into the harbor. Dun Laoghaire, a large sign said on the dockside building, but there was no clue as to how it was pronounced. With little ceremony the men, carrying their few belongings, were moved off the ship and boarded the waiting double-decker buses. An Lar read the destination on the display boards, and all of the men chattered excitedly at the thrill of riding in a power-operated vehicle. The buses were silent too, obviously electrically powered, and moved out in a lumbering convoy for a short ride through narrow streets. There were green trees and small houses, gardens with flowers and parks with smooth, rich grass. The journey ended before a high wall and a tall, impressive-looking gate that opened to admit the fleet. The men unloaded in a large courtyard surrounded by interesting-looking buildings. Giulio tried to remember all of the details as he had been trained to do. As soon as the buses had left, with a cheery wave from the last driver, the gates swung shut again and a man mounted a platform and blew into the microphone there. His magnified breath echoed like a wind from the walls and the Italians grew silent and turned to look at him. He wore a dark suit with matching waistcoat, a gold chain draped across the full front of this, and smoked a large-bowled pipe which he pointed at them to emphasize a point. It was pointing now.
“My name is Mr. O’Leary,” he said, “and I am in charge of this establishment. Some of you may speak English now and all of you will learn it if you intend to stay here. Gino here is the translator and he is going to translate now. But there are English classes every evening and you will be expected to attend. Tell them that, Gino.”
O’Leary produced a lighter and proceeded to fire up his pipe while the translation was in progress.
Then he nodded, whether at the translation or the tobacco was not made clear, and went on.
“You gentlemen are guest workers of Ireland. There are valuable jobs to be done here and I know you will enjoy doing them. The work is not hard, you will be fed well, will have a good deal of leisure time, will be permitted to send your salary home if you wish. Which will go to the church of your choice, which of course will be the Roman Catholic church. As we discover your qualifications and abilities you will find the best work suited to you. Some will become street sweepers, for we pride ourselves on the cleanliness of our cities, and others will have the pleasure of being dustmen and riding the great and powerful vehicles that perform this vital function of the community. There are opportunities galore for you.” He tamped down the smoldering jobacco with his thumb and appeared not to hear the mutter that muttered, across his audience.
“Yes, I know that you applied for skilled jobs, masons and carpenters and the like, but if my experience of past drafts is correct there isn’t an honest workingman here.” There was steel in his voice now and a new hardness in his eyes. “Nor a single callus on the soft hands of the lot of you. But that’s all right. We know that you all are rich or know someone rich enough to enable you to afford the bribes and forgeries of papers that got you here. It’ll not be held against you. You will be expected to work hard and measure up. And if you do not you will be shipped home forthwith. But live up to the terms of your contract and we will live up to ours. You will enjoy your stay on our shores. Remember, you will be permitted to send food parcels
and manufactured articles to your families at home. You will prosper on the healthy diet of the land. You will drink Guinness and grow strong. You will assemble here at half-seven tomorrow morning to begin carrying bricks for the construction of the new power plant.”
At this O’Leary turned away—was there a twinkle in his eye?— and left before the translation was finished so that the groan that greeted his final words followed him through a small door. His audience went, somewhat crestfallen, to their quarters.
But not Giulio. Depressed? Never! Power plant! This was the best luck ever.
It was drizzling next morning and in groups of ten, damp and cold, they stood in the courtyard. Each group next to a large pile of singularly massive-looking bricks. A squat and solid man with large red hands talked to Giulio and his companions and held out an object towards them. It had a long wooden handle that supported two boards, set edge to edge to make a V.
“This,” he said, “this, my good lads, is a hod. Got that? Hod, hod. Let me hear you say it. Hod?”
“Hod,” one man said, then others, “hod, hod.”
“Very good. You’re a bright lot and you’ll learn fast. Now this is a wee bit of a hod, as anyone who knows about such things will tell you, but that is because the bricks are not the normal, weak, crumbling things that you are used to in your foreign lands.”
The men listened, puzzled, and Giulio tried to appear as unknowing as the others. The mere fact that no one understood their instructor did not seem to bother him nor halt the flow of his words.
“Time was when you had to carry a great hod just heaped with bricks, but now there are but three in a load. Why, you might ask, only three? Well I’ll be happy to tell you. There are but three because they’re bloody heavy, that’s why, seeing as how they are now the Irish Standard Brick and made of solid granite and good for the centuries. Just pick one up—if you can that is, you there, Tony my lad, smile away, but this is no bag of pasta, that’s it. Touch of the old hernia there if you don’t learn to lift better . . .”
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