The Extremist

by Nadia Dalbuono

  He pressed the keypad and waited. After a few moments, a female voice came over the intercom.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to the owner.’

  ‘He’s not here. He lives abroad.’

  Great, thought Scamarcio. ‘Are you the tenants?’

  ‘Yes. And you are?’

  ‘Would you mind if I came in for a moment and explained? It’s kind of a long story.’

  There was a small sigh down the line, but within seconds the high oak doors groaned open to reveal a wide gravel driveway. Scamarcio saw a small but immaculate lawn off to the right, with a round granite fountain at its centre. He approached the front door, a buzzing in his ears. The house was vast and reminded him of a wedding cake with its creamy façade and light-pink shutters.

  A tall blonde woman was standing in the doorway; she didn’t look too happy to see him. But as he drew nearer, he thought he saw her expression soften. He put her in her mid-forties, and found himself hoping that her marriage was tired, and that he might be able to use this somehow. In the next instant, he remembered his situation and prayed that she hadn’t been watching the news. He thought he saw something cross her features that suggested he seemed familiar to her, but that she didn’t quite know why. Fine — as long as it stayed that way.

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ said Scamarcio, extending a hand up to where she stood on the front steps.

  The woman tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and accepted the handshake. Her sparkly blue eyes narrowed. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Have you rented this place long?’

  She eyed him with suspicion. ‘This is our first summer. You still haven’t told me who you are.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. The thing is, I used to stay here as a child.’

  She frowned. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘This is going to sound like a strange request,’ he raised both palms, ‘so please forgive me if it seems out of order, but the thing is, I just lost my brother in a motorbike accident — a few days ago. When we stayed here as kids, we buried a box in the garden by a tree — it was a box with sketches and little essays on this and that — and I’m in the process of writing the eulogy, and I’d really like to retrieve it. I want to be able to include some of his memories from our time here when I write the tribute.’

  Scamarcio looked down at the ground and took a breath. He actually felt the hollowness of real grief for a moment. He didn’t have a brother, so God knew what was going on. Maybe it was all the flotsam of the past bubbling up to the surface once more. Or maybe he was just worried about Fiammetta.

  He felt a hand on his arm and looked up. The woman had descended from the top step and was standing directly in front of him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her eyes wide with compassion. ‘I know what that’s like. There’s no pain like grief.’

  Scamarcio just nodded.

  ‘You buried it by a tree, you say?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a peach tree in the back garden. We hid it there.’

  She nodded, but he could tell that something was troubling her.

  ‘I’d so like to help you, but I don’t feel like I can give you permission. It would be up to the owner, you see …’

  ‘Is he contactable?’

  ‘He’s very ill — he’s living in Tunisia, I believe. His son is handling the rentals for him.’

  ‘Could we contact him?’ This was the last thing Scamarcio wanted, but he knew he had to show willing.

  The woman looked at her watch. ‘He’s in Chicago. It will be late there now.’

  Scamarcio sighed softly and made to turn away. ‘Please don’t worry — I knew it was a long shot.’

  ‘Can you give me your name?’

  Scamarcio thought quickly. ‘Riccio. Piero Riccio.’

  ‘Mr Riccio, could you come back tomorrow maybe? Once I’ve had a chance to phone them?’

  He let his shoulders sag. ‘I just drove down from Bologna today. I’ve got to be back north tomorrow for work. I’d have called ahead, but I didn’t know the number.’

  The woman fell silent for a moment, and he could see she was wrestling with it.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, more decisively now. ‘Do you remember exactly where by the tree you buried it?’

  ‘It was just below the hanging branches — well, they were hanging back then — with the house behind us.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t need to dig a large hole?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She nodded. ‘OK, go ahead. If this helps you with your grief, I’d very much like to make it possible.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s so kind of you.’

  She smiled conspiratorially. ‘I don’t get the feeling the son comes here often, so hopefully the grass will have grown back by his next visit.’

  ‘I can always pay for a gardener to neaten things up.’

  She waved the thought away. ‘Don’t worry.’

  She led him around the outside of the house and through a small, ivy-covered archway that led to the back. Scamarcio had been about to marvel at the beauty of the garden and its pristine English lawn, but reminded himself that he was supposed to have been here before. ‘It’s still beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it? It was the garden that convinced us. I know there’s the sea right opposite, but this is a real oasis of calm. You know how crowded the beaches can get in the summer. You’re packed in like sardines.’

  ‘As a kid it was fun, but I don’t think I could face all that now.’

  ‘We’re just here for our children. When they’ve grown out of it, we’ll be going somewhere else. I much prefer Liguria.’

  He smiled. They were approaching the peach tree, and he realised he had nothing to dig with.

  ‘I’m really sorry — could I ask you for a spade? I think I was half expecting not to get this far, so I didn’t bring anything with me.’

  ‘Well, lugging a spade with you all the way from Bologna wouldn’t have been much fun. Give me a sec.’

  She jogged back towards the house, and he took the chance to look around the garden. What is Ifran’s connection to this place? he wondered. Has he even been here?

  The woman was soon back, and he took the spade and thanked her. He removed his jacket and folded it over a metal garden chair. He hoped she wouldn’t stay and watch him dig, so he tried to convey some discomfort, in the hope she’d think he was grieving and leave him to it.

  As if on cue, she said, ‘Oh, do forgive me. You probably want to be alone. Can I offer you something to drink?’

  ‘You’re very kind. A glass of water would be great.’

  ‘Sure. Come up to the house when you’ve finished.’

  He thanked her again and set to work. The earth was hard, and he didn’t feel like he would be able to make much progress; he seemed to be doing no more than chipping away at it, and like this it would take forever. But, as he dug, he found that beneath the surface the soil was softer. He worked on for a few minutes, but didn’t make contact with anything solid. He decided to widen the area slightly around the spot where he had first begun. The spade was reaching further now, and he soon realised that he had already made a deep gouge. He glanced back at the house, worried about the woman’s reaction — the hole was starting to look big.

  Ten minutes later he wondered yet again if Ifran’s story was just an elaborate hoax. He checked the house again, anxious that the woman would be growing restless. But he couldn’t see her watching. He returned his attention to the soil, and after a couple more minutes, the blade made a tinny clang as it came up against something hard. Whatever it was was blocking the movement of the spade. He felt a small surge of excitement as he started to probe around the edges to get some sense of the shape of the thing. It seemed square and small, although he wasn’t yet sure how fa
r it extended down into the earth. Keeping the object on the right, he pushed down with the spade, until he found earth once more. He levered the blade underneath and brought the object up to the surface.

  As he pulled it out, he realised that it was a box — oblong, rusted, and covered with grey-green mould. He scraped away the soil to reveal an old biscuit tin, a green-and-black illustration of an aristocratic woman in a wide hat and long frilly dress on the front. It might have been an antique from the late nineteenth century. The lid had rusted along the seal, and it took him quite a bit of effort to prise it off. When he’d finally managed it, he looked inside and saw what looked like a DVD in a plastic cover. It was the only item in the box.

  He replaced the lid, refilled the hole as best he could, and headed up the garden. He did not have his laptop with him, and had no idea how he was going to play whatever was on the disc. He realised that his shirt was damp and quickly put on his jacket.

  As he neared the house, he noticed the woman waving at him, her face partially obscured by a shaft of sunlight hitting the window. As the sunlight shifted, he saw that she was motioning him to the right. He weaved around perfect flowerbeds of oleander and hibiscus, and wondered yet again about Ifran’s links to this place. Had he stayed here? Worked here?

  The woman was waiting for him in the doorway.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  Scamarcio showed her the box. ‘It’s exactly as I remember it.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. ‘Was everything still inside?’

  He hoped she hadn’t been able to see, but by his reckoning she would have been too far away. ‘It seems like it. I’m not brave enough to go through it now. I’ll wait until I’m home.’

  ‘That’s sensible.’ She motioned him into the kitchen and passed him a glass of water from the counter. He saw that she’d gone to some trouble — added ice and lemon slices. ‘If you prefer something else …’ she said nervously.

  ‘No, water’s great. Thank you.’ He took a long drink. How should he phrase this? ‘So, this is your first year staying here, you said?’

  ‘Yes, the house was recommended to us by friends.’

  ‘It’s a good spot if you still need to get into the city.’

  This was stating the obvious, but he hoped it might lead him in the right direction.

  ‘Oh yes, fortunately my husband doesn’t need to go in every day.’

  ‘Lucky him — is he one of those media types who can work from home?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she laughed. ‘He’s an accountant — for Rome city council.’

  Scamarcio nodded. That was one potential link he could cross off the list.

  ‘The owner of the property — his son’s in America you say?’

  He noticed her blue eyes narrow again slightly. ‘Yes, he works there I believe. Our friends who were here before us said they never saw him. Then again, they were always out.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve got the beach on your doorstep …’

  She shook her head. ‘You’d think so, but those two were workaholics. Frankly, we couldn’t understand why they took the house if they were going to be in Rome all the time.’ She looked strangely downcast, and he frowned, confused. She noticed and said, ‘Unfortunately one of them died last year — it was a terrible shock. It made me think that we really shouldn’t give our lives over to work. It’s just not worth it when it could all be snatched away at any moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I can’t think of any job that would make me a workaholic,’ he lied. He downed the water and set the glass on the counter as if to leave.

  ‘Oh,’ she shook her head again. ‘They’re … they were both high up in government — intelligence, would you believe. We’d known them for years, but they would never talk about it. Anyway, I shouldn’t knock their work ethic — these are challenging times. My sister just called and said there’s been some big terror attack in Rome.’

  She reached for a TV remote. ‘I was just about to switch on and find out what’s happening when you came up from the garden. Mind if I take a look? My husband’s at a conference in Frascati, so I’m not worried, but I am curious.’

  ‘Listen, I won’t take up any more of your time,’ said Scamarcio quickly. ‘Thank you so much for your kindness.’

  ‘Not at all. I do hope the memorial goes well.’

  He thought he detected a trace of disappointment — perhaps she’d expected more.

  He thanked her again, and she escorted him to the front door. His heart was hammering as he crossed the gravel. He wondered how much time he had to get away before she called the police — or, better still, her friend in intelligence.

  Once outside the gates, he retrieved the DVD from the biscuit tin and put it in the top pocket of his jacket. He discarded the empty tin behind a low bush, then jumped on the Vespa and headed north along the sea front, still thinking about these former tenants and their possible connection to the box. He needed somewhere he could stop to look at the DVD, but then remembered that this was a secondary issue — first, he required a means to play it. He’d have to find an electronics store, but asking a passer-by for directions was dangerous. Marginally less risky would be to approach a sunbather, who would be less likely to have seen the news.

  He pulled up at the kerb, parked, and crossed the road to the balustrade that led down to the beachfront. A quick glance over the side revealed a relatively empty stretch with a few elderly sunworshippers scattered twenty metres away. He descended and looked left, then right. Next to the stairway was a small bar. He peered through the window, but couldn’t spot a TV, unless it was on the far wall, out of view. Rather than traipse across the sand, he decided to risk it.

  He approached the young guy on the till. ‘Espresso, please.’ He knew this was pushing his luck, but he needed a hit. After he’d knocked it back and paid, he said, ‘You happen to know if there’s a place round here that sells computers?’

  The boy nodded and pointed behind Scamarcio’s head. ‘Go straight up the seafront, then take a right into Via Celli. It’s on the left just after the lights. Say Mauro sent you.’

  The guy behind the counter of the electronics place looked even younger than the boy at the beach bar. Scamarcio wondered if this was because he was getting old.

  ‘You got a cheap laptop that plays DVDs?’

  ‘No-one watches DVDs anymore,’ said the boy.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You got a home computer?’

  Scamarcio nodded, not understanding the relevance.

  ‘You’d be better off streaming the DVD from there to your laptop or tablet.’

  ‘I’ve not got time.’

  The boy scratched sullenly behind his ear. Scamarcio noticed the acne scars beneath his deep tan, like craters in a desert road.

  ‘I’ve got a sneaky little piece of software called Handbrake. It converts DVDs so you can watch them on your iPad. It takes a while though, and uses a fair bit of storage.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Scamarcio, trying not to lose it. ‘I came here to buy a cheap laptop on which I can play a DVD. Do you have such a thing, or do they no longer exist?’ As well as feeling old, he now sounded it.

  The boy shrugged. ‘Well, if that’s the way you want to go, but it would be a dereliction of duty on my part not to advise you that you’re making a big mistake.’ He looked genuinely concerned. Scamarcio wondered whether it seemed to the boy that he was from another era, another universe even.

  ‘I’ve got an old HP 6530b out back. It’s still in working order and it plays DVDs. It’s yours for 100.’

  There was a sly look in the lad’s eyes, but Scamarcio didn’t have time to haggle. ‘Done.’

  The boy disappeared through some fly strips, and Scamarcio heard him humming as he shifted boxes around. The low murmur of a radio was coming from somewhere
out the back, but it seemed to be playing the usual banal summer hit the idiot nation had all got behind, rather than the news. After a few minutes, the boy returned, a laptop under his arm. He laid it on the counter and blew the dust off it. ‘I’ll throw in the power pack, too.’

  Scamarcio wanted to say that you could hardly count the power pack as a bonus, but he let it go. ‘Can you start it up?’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone.’

  The boy rolled his eyes. ‘You’ll need to reset the password — it’s “tits” at the moment.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I think so.’

  Scamarcio shook his head and waited.

  When the home screen had appeared, the boy swung the laptop around to show him. ‘All hunky dory. It’s still got Microsoft Office, and the license is in date. You want to give me the DVD so we can check the drive?’

  ‘No,’ said Scamarcio quickly. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  The boy frowned. ‘I thought that was the whole point.’ Then as an afterthought, ‘I hope you’re not up to anything dodgy ’cos I don’t want it coming back to bite me. We’ve got the pigs at our door enough as it is.’

  If only he knew, thought Scamarcio as he handed over the cash. ‘You got a bag? Something that I can put over my shoulder — I’m on a bike.’

  The boy eyed him strangely, and then disappeared through the fly-strips again. After a few moments, he reappeared with a plastic shopping bag, one of the durable ones that were meant to last. ‘On the house. It won’t go over your shoulder, but you could hang it from the bars till you get home. Perhaps I could interest you in a backpack — I’ve got the new Microsoft ones just in?’ He gestured to the shelves to his left.

  ‘No,’ snapped Scamarcio, grabbing the bag and hurrying out.

  Once he was outside, he realised that he’d wanted to ask the boy something, but had forgotten what it was. The comment about the pigs had thrown him. He finished attaching the bag to the bars and was about to start the ignition when he felt a hard grip on his shoulder. He turned to see the lad standing there, weirdly wild-eyed and covered in sweat. ‘It is you. I knew it. You’re the guy on TV everyone’s looking for. What the fuck?’ He glanced around in a panic. ‘It’s the terrorist guy everyone’s after! Look, it’s him!’ he shouted to an oblivious elderly couple who were crossing the road, the old man hunched over his cane. ‘Call the police! Call the police!’