Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  Ric chuckles and nods, “Of course we do, but in Britain pizzo is charged by the council, not the Mafia.”

  This concept of official pizzo is anathema to one such as Ciccio. He juggles it around in his head before replying, “Mm, if it isn’t one type of tax, then surely it is another, eh? What can we do?”

  “The poor man’s burden,” Ric adds.

  The two sit and eat and watch the women who wait on their men the way a bitch waits in the presence of her master.

  Ciccio eats only half of his meal before pushing his plate away. He sits back and closes his eyes for a moment before asking, “Do you mind if I smoke while you are still eating?”

  “It’s a free country,” Ric replies.

  “As long as you pay your pizzo,” Ciccio suggests. He smokes and studies Ric from across the table. When he has reached a conclusion of sorts he says, “It is said,” he hesitates, lowering his voice, “it is said that the police suspect a foreigner of the killing of this politician who was shot in Lipari. Have you heard this, Ric?”

  He remembers what Marcello told him regarding not trusting those he meets, so he looks up from his plate and delivers the Sicilian a stern, uncompromising expression; one designed to leave him no doubt that Ric has much to hide and doesn’t appreciate his line of questioning. It is, he reasons, the reaction Ciccio would expect.

  Ric pauses and is about to return to his food, when he reconsiders, looks back and says, “No, I hadn’t heard that, Ciccio. What nationality do they think the foreigner is this time, another Lithuanian?”

  Ciccio grins. “No, English.”

  “Counts me out then, I’m Welsh.” Ric delivers the Sicilian a stark glance, which spawns an anxious silence while he works his way through the plate of sardines.

  Ciccio sits, quietly smoking his cigarette, still studying and assessing. He stubs his cigarette end into the ashtray, smiles and lifts the blanket of silence: “No, I am mistaken. This man they are looking for is not English; he is Gallese, like you, eh?”

  He waits and watches for Ric’s reaction to his less than subtle accusation. Judging by his smirk, Ciccio is both amused and no little pleased that he has now joined all the dots in his puzzle.

  Ric offers him as serious and deadpan an expression as he can muster, then, “What’s it to you, Ciccio?”

  “To me? Nothing,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders and holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing except that someone should have shot that snake Candela long ago. It was as much as he deserved. No, I am mistaken. It was probably not as much, come to think of it; he deserved worse.”

  “Except that I didn’t shoot him,” Ric states.

  “Of course you did not my friend. Of course you did not. And I am King Ferdinand III.” Ciccio laughs, as much at his own joke as at Ric’s. But gradually, his amusement wanes and his serious, game-face returns. “Wait a minute, my friend; this is why you asked me about the club in Palermo, no?” He leans forwards. “You know that Girolamo Candela was often seen in this place and you wanted to know if I knew this place also.”

  Ciccio frowns in thought and then appears very suddenly enlightened. “Gallese, you are playing some kind of trick with me. Be careful, eh? Francesco Ferro is not so amused when people play tricks with him.” His lip curls again and he glares so hard, Ric can feel the heat through Ciccio’s dark glasses. “I tell you, Gallese, I met you only five minutes before and already you make me nervous, and when I am nervous I do not react so kindly to people who ask questions.”

  Ric, though, is equal to Ciccio’s stare. “A moment ago, you were the one asking all the questions.” He hadn’t known there was the chance the man in front of him was going to turn out to be Francesco Ferro; Ric had only been fishing for information. But, now that he has given up his name, Ric knows for certain Ferro is the reason why Marcello has spirited him through the night to Vulcano.

  Anger wells up through his core and threatens to overwhelm him. Marcello has set him up. His hands begin to tremble and he is sure his face must be reddening with embarrassment that Marcello can take him for such an easy ride. But why? That is the question which suddenly creeps under his shirt like an army of ants. If Marcello knew Ferro was here, at this curious encampment, why not just stroll in and have it out with him?

  Ric looks around and wonders if he has been billeted in some kind of Mafia convalescent home; a retreat or safe-house where no one can be touched.

  “Oh, cut the crap, Ciccio,” he murmurs, tetchily, his expression matching that of the man opposite him. “Everyone knows you and Candela were more than just friends. You and Candela and Claudio Maggiore all tucked up in your love nest in Palermo, cooking up dishes no one round here wants to eat.” Ric smiles, “You ought to know that since Candela was shot, you’ve been the favourite topic of conversation at passeggio in the Corta.”

  Ciccio glares at Ric for a second and then looks around the patio. The card players are too interested in their game to bother with what is going down between the two of them. The other couples sit, like stone statues sunning themselves, while Kasim stands polishing glasses behind the bar.

  “Puddaciaru!” Ciccio spits.

  Ric waits until the man’s venom has dried on the marble floor. “Puddaciaru?” he repeats, recognising the word he heard during the quarrel between the two men that night he was tied up to the jetty at Pietra Liscia.

  “I’ve heard that quaint expression before, Ciccio. I gather it has two meanings. A friend of mine explained it to me. He said puddaciaru are either people who have not enough to do with their hands, so they exercise their mouths, or they are people who don’t know when to remain silent, so they speak out of turn.

  “Is that what Claudio Maggiore did, Ciccio? Did Claudio speak out of turn? Is that why Girolamo Candela sent you over to Lipari before his grand presentation?”

  Ciccio stiffens in his seat. His face reddens and he clenches his fists. But he looks around once more and realises that he cannot go across the table at Ric with so many witnesses present. His lips twitch and he bares his teeth.

  Ric watches him very closely and continues, “My guess is that when Candela found out how Marcello Maggiore had sent his man over to Palermo to bring Claudio back for his father’s funeral, he got jumpy that Claudio might spill the beans to his brother about how you and Candela were trying to bribe the others on the planning committee to vote for the new hotel up at Porticello.

  “Candela sent you over to persuade Claudio to keep quiet and you took him up to the beach at Pietra Liscia to talk some sense in to him. You couldn’t do it at his place, because too many people had come into town for his father’s funeral. But when Claudio told you he’d already spoken to his brother, you knew the game was up and you decided you had no alternative but to silence him and bury his body in the warehouse. You knew Claudio’s boat was in Palermo and you hoped that people would come to the conclusion he’d gone back there to mourn his father’s death in private. Afterwards, while most of Lipari was preparing for Onofrio’s funeral, you paid one of the fishermen to take you over to Vulcano, thinking that as there was no body, no one would know a crime had been committed and therefore no one would be looking for you.

  “What you didn’t reckon on was that the police were onto Candela’s game and that nothing goes on here without the right people knowing about it. Lipari is a small island, Ciccio. You’ve spent so much time in Palermo, you’ve forgotten that.”

  Ric pauses, but he isn’t finished. “But someone tipped the police off about Candela bribing the planning committee and they came here to arrest him. They left it until after his big speech up in the Piazza Mazzini because they wanted to look good. They like a bit of opera seria when they can get it and they wanted the best publicity they could get for their money.”

  Ciccio fidgets uncomfortably, as though he has fallen victim to one of the many feral cats which wander the Maddalena at night.

  “What you, and they, didn’t bargain for was someone shooting Candela. T
he police wouldn’t normally get so annoyed; after all, Girolamo was just another cheap politico from Palermo. But whoever shot Candela emptied the theatre on their curtain raiser, so they locked down the island. You didn’t panic though; you thought you’d just lie low here until the noise dies down. Out of all of this, you were going to be the only winner. With both Candela and Claudio Maggiore out of the picture, there’s nothing to link you to either of them, which means you’ll get away clean.”

  Ciccio is now squirming in his seat; his facial muscles twitch and draw tight over his cheeks. “Fituso!” he snarls. “Ed a chi la racconterai questa frottola, eh? You think anyone will believe your fairy tale?”

  Ric leans as far across the table as he can without getting up. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me,” he whispers, “but there’s a little cockerel of a Commissario in Lipari who won’t fall asleep when I read him your bedtime story. You see, Ciccio, I heard you use the word puddaciaru once before. It was late the first night I arrived at Pietra Liscia and you were talking to Claudio. And as if that isn’t enough, I heard Claudio Maggiore call you by your name just before you strangled the life out of him.”

  66

  Ciccio draws all the bitterness he can muster from his black soul and marshals it into one damning gaze at his accuser. It is a look Ric has seen in too many men before; it tells him his quarry knows he has nowhere left to run and so he will fight until only one of them is left to carry on.

  But the menacing Sicilian is not foolish enough to start with Ric now. There are too many other slap-headed, muscle-bound oafs lounging at the poolside bar; men, Ric understands, who are no strangers to violence. And whilst there is no question Ciccio could do him harm, it is more than likely, Ric hopes, that those present would overwhelm Ciccio before he could silence Ric.

  Or so Ciccio decides. His shoulders relax, his muscles slacken and he leans back in his chair, grinning confidently.

  “You are either a brave man or a fool to think you can provoke me so easily,” he says. “But if you are, as people are saying, the man who was hired to assassinate Girolamo Candela, then clearly this type of work is your business. If this is true, then I would have to be a fool to permit you to provoke me. So, perhaps we should put what separates us to one side and relax and enjoy the moment.”

  “You think it’s that simple, Ciccio?”

  “Sure, why not?” he replies, shrugging. “This accusation you make about me and Girolamo and Claudio is pure fiction. Of course I was acquainted with Girolamo, who wasn’t? He was known and admired as much for his appetite for power as he was for his hunger for the company of both men and women. And you forget, Ric, you are in Italy and even Benito Mussolini started life a socialist. And, like Candela, Il Duce enjoyed a hunger for the company of many mistresses. It is doubtful, though, that he shared with Girolamo such a passion for variety.”

  He lights a cigarette and looks towards the bar to order more beer. “So,” he waves his cigarette with all the aloof conceit of a Cardinal waving to his devotees, “there is little evidence that Girolamo and I enjoyed anything more than a passing acquaintance. As to Claudio? I met him in Palermo, in Exit, as you so rightly suggested. He was a confused young man.”

  “I’m not sure I want to listen to you read Claudio’s obituary, Ciccio,” Ric interrupts.

  “No,” he cuts back, acidly, “I am sure a man of your cold temperament has little time for obituaries. Isn’t that what an assassin needs to complete his assignments; a detached view of his victims? You are perfect for this. You even possess the evil eye,” he points at the strawberry mark on Ric’s forehead, “the malocchio as we call it. The Corsicans call it l’oeil de Sainte Lucie, the Arabs ayn al-hasūd, and the Jews believe a man with the evil eye takes pleasure in the suffering of others. But for Sicilians, with the head of Medusa the Gorgon on our flag, we know it is the eye that turns those who see it to stone.”

  “We call it a birthmark, Ciccio,” Ric replies. “We don’t put much store by it.” But, as he says it, Ciccio has reminded him of Manou and he wishes he was back in Corsica with her.

  Ciccio reaches into his pocket and pulls out a trinket. It is a horn-shaped silver charm and he juggles it between his fingers.

  Although he has seen nothing like it before, Ric recognises it instantly. It is the cuorniceddu Marcello said Claudio always wore on a chain around his neck.

  Not wanting Ciccio to know he has recognised it, he looks away, but does so too late.

  “Let me tell you about Claudio, Ric. This poor, gentle young man was never going to measure up to his brother. Sure,” he nods, “you would be right in thinking certain attitudes have changed. But his father, Onofrio, was one of a generation who refuse to adopt a more modern understanding of a man’s preferences. This haunted Claudio so much he wanted to tear down the world that did not understand him. I introduced him to Girolamo one evening in Palermo; they became friends, or perhaps more, who knows? Girolamo, because of his position in the Palazzo dei Normanni, knew about the possibility of the geothermal electricity coming to the islands and Claudio understood what this could do for his people; people who he considered to be anchored to their past. Between them, they formulated a plan to build this grand hotel.

  “At first, there was nothing disagreeable about either their plan or their relationship. It was only later, when Claudio began to harbour second thoughts about the bad effect the plan would have on the island and his family, that he…”

  “Allowed his conscience to get the better of him?” Ric adds.

  “Yes,” Ciccio nods, appreciating Ric’s choice of words, “Claudio would like the way you put it. It is most appropriate.”

  “I get the feeling conscience is in pretty short supply round here, Ciccio.”

  “And you would not be wrong, Ric. You would not be wrong. But you must understand that Claudio both loved and hated his father because the old man accepted and rejected him with the same breath. This provided him with a burden he found too heavy to bear. To understand this way of being, you must first live it. And it is a strange truth, but the further south one travels through Italy, the heavier grows this type of burden.”

  Kasim appears with two more bottles of beer, sets them on the table and scuttles back to the bar.

  Ric reaches for the bottle and takes a long pull at it. The pungent odour of sulphur seeping from the fumaroles of the volcano coats the atmosphere.

  “I’d toast your health, Ciccio, but I wouldn’t mean it.”

  “Please, Ric, do not concern yourself with such formality.” The Sicilian raises his bottle, grins a shade cynically and salutes Ric. “If you cannot drink to my health because you think I had something to do with Claudio’s death, and if I cannot drink to yours because you will not return the courtesy, then let us drink to our own, eh? Perhaps we are like Claudio. Perhaps you and I also love and hate our lives. This way, we can at least lay down our burdens and rest for a time. Cin cin, Ric! Cin cin!”

  Ric takes another sip of his beer. Watching Ciccio fondle the lucky charm is making him nauseous. But if the Sicilian prefers to believe he shot Candela, he is inclined to let him. As smooth as he appears, Ciccio revolts Ric, not simply because he is so shameless, but also because of his unpalatable logic. What concerns Ric more though is what Marcello is expecting him to do with the knowledge that the man now sitting before him murdered Claudio.

  Cosseted like an exclusive refugee in the peculiar oasis of villains that is the camp, Ric has no way of getting the information to Marcello until he comes for him, and the day is nearly done. He has no cellphone and neither do any of the others sitting round the pool. He thinks to ask Kasim if he can use the office phone, but isn’t convinced, having seen the way Ciccio looks at Kasim, that he can trust the young waiter. And then there is perhaps the most important point: he doesn’t know Marcello’s number. The idea of walking into town and taking the first Aliscafo out of the islands appeals, but Ric figures the sentry at the gate is probably posted to keep those in
the camp from getting out as much as unwelcome visitors from getting in, and now that Talaia knows he has skipped, it is likely the harbours are being watched. There is little else he can do but wait it out.

  He attracts Kasim’s attention, “Il conto, per favore?” he asks.

  The waiter simply shakes his head and turns away.

  Ciccio chuckles: “So British of you! Very charming! There is no money changing hands here; the bill, the reckoning or whatever you are comfortable calling it, is to be paid at the end of your stay.”

  “Free lunches make me nervous,” Ric replies, getting to his feet and glancing at the lucky charm one last time. “But outside of that, I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Ciccio stands, “Ciao, Ric. It has been very interesting to meet you. Later, perhaps.” He offers his hand.

  Knowing it is the hand that killed Claudio Maggiore, Ric ignores it. “Yeah, sure, ciao, Ciccio,” he says and walks out.

  The card players are settled in for the duration and none of the couples take the slightest notice of his leaving. But as he walks away, he can feel the Sicilian watching him and Ric knows there will be a time when Ciccio comes for him.

  67

  The bed in his chalet proves far too welcoming and, once he has locked the door, checked the windows are locked and taken a large kitchen knife out of the drawer and placed it by his bed, Ric lies down and waits for the arms of Hypnos to embrace him. Distant disco music drifts on the sulfurated air, but the slightest scratch of a beetle or the scraping of a bird jerks him rudely awake. Hypnos, the God of Sleep, is plying his trade elsewhere tonight and it is his sons, Morpheus, Phobetor and Phantasos, who come to lead him to a world of uneasy dreams.

  This time the players wear no masks. They are no longer trying to deceive him; the time for deception is passed: Valeria is calling him in from the water and Marcello is urging him to hurry. Sandro is whispering words of warning and Old Nino offers him a glass of palm wine. The beautiful Giuliana is waiting outside his room, a room in which the little Commissario sits.