The Savage Shore

by David Hewson

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He laughed. ‘We’d all be dead in the morning if any of them knew what’s in my head. All it takes is a single traitor and every one of us here will be in the ground like my poor teacher back there.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  Gabriele smiled and took his arm. ‘A few days. Perhaps a little more. We’re the ’ndrina. A meritocracy my father always said. See? He learned a lot from your namesake. A man earns his place in our ranks through what he does. We require that you become one of us. For that …’

  The smile vanished in an instant. Another man seemed to take his place, a harder, colder individual.

  ‘For that you need to act like one of us. You must do what we all do to earn our place.’ A smile, a hard pat on the shoulder. ‘My boy … you must kill and be seen to kill. Really … it’s as simple as that.’

  PART FOUR

  A Time to Kill

  Calabrian Tales

  Chapter VI: The Gladiator of the Sea

  In May giants of the deep begin to move from the far Atlantic through the straits of Gibraltar into the warmer depths of the Tyrrhenian. Tuna, fin and sperm whale join native sharks and dolphin traversing the three-kilometre stretch of swirling water between Scylla and Charybdis. The fisher folk of Cariddi have sought these creatures for as long as men have sailed this southern tip of Italy. But here the most prized of all is never caught by net or barb. The Gladiator of the Strait, so-called for the weapon that forms its bill, is hunted, one by one, in a slow and theatrical ritual upon the gleaming waves, a ceremony so old none knows whence it came.

  The swordfish is a valuable catch, prized up and down the coast in season. Elsewhere greed rules and men trawl the ocean ceaselessly with lines and hooks, grasping at everything they can kill. In Cariddi we hunt in a singular, respectful fashion, one that may reap thin rewards but leaves sufficient of these magnificent creatures to return another year.

  This annual preoccupation is never without risk. The pisci spata, as we call it in our native dialect, is as powerful a fish as swims the sea, faster than the sleekest motor vessel made, weighing as much as a hundred kilos, all muscle and ready to slash at enemies with a long, sharp bill that can rip the hull of any small wooden craft foolish enough to come too close. My uncle Beppe lost half a leg to a thrashing male on the deck of a rowed felucca when he was fifteen, one damp June day off Messina. A year later he was back on board, climbing the tower in an ungainly fashion to spot for prey and steer the vessel towards its quarry. He never held the harpoon again and went with that regret to his grave.

  We live, as I have said, in a land where myth is real and this annual quest for the pisci spata is one more ritual that defines us. These vessels are no ordinary fishing boats, being designed for the swordfish season alone. During the summer they can be seen slowly cruising this part of the Tyrrhenian, men scouring the waves from their high spotting towers, a harpooner perched on his passarella, a long iron bridge at the front protruding from the bows, eyes on the surface, spear in his upright arm, much like a figure from a mosaic of old. Ancient symbols of respect and good luck, eyes and holy emblems, decorate the hulls.

  The colours of the craft, often black, green and red, are said to date from Phoenician days and ward off evil spirits. Once a fish is finally landed on the deck the captain of the vessel will utter a prayer of thanks to his patron saint, ‘San Marco è binidittu’. Blessings for Saint Mark. A piece of bread or a peach may be placed in the dying fish’s jaws. After which, by way of gratitude, the skipper will carve a lump of raw flesh from the wound the spear made and offer it to the harpooner who may well devour it on the spot.

  Nor do we treat these magnificent monsters of the deep with anything but deference. Famous battles with legendary specimens are recorded in paintings, on wall tiles, in the many songs that praise the prey we seek. Men weep as they kill the bravest; for swordfish are admirable and amatory creatures. They come to mate somewhere between Messina and the waters around the Aeolian Islands. Monogamous, they swim in pairs, like man and wife. And like a loyal husband the male is both covetous and caring for his bride, a failing that the wise hunter will use to his advantage.

  The process is much as it was back in my uncle’s days when swordfish were taken by wooden boats rowed by sturdy teams of oarsmen. The spotter scans the sea from his turret, looking for signs of rising fish, a flash of tail, the moment a fin breaks surface. Once a pair is seen, the felucca steers nearby and the harpooner stays poised upon his passarella, a five-spear weapon in his hand. If luck is with him he will find the skittish, cautious female first and aim for her. The creature’s distress brings her mate to her side immediately, offering a second chance of prey.

  After the sharp barbs of the harpoon have found purchase, the victim is given a long line to escape to the depths, tiring itself, spilling scarlet blood into the ocean for an hour or longer. Then, when its weakness is apparent, the exhausted fish is hauled aboard, one man taking the deadly sword in a rag to still the weapon while another dispatches the creature with a long, sharp knife.

  If the catch is the female then her mate will be close by, sometimes attacking the boat wildly in an attempt to free her. With luck, he will soon follow her onto the deck. But if the male is killed the lady will never linger. Shy or simply faithless, she’ll flee to find another. Which is why there are many songs admiring the courage and faithfulness of the male and none that praise the lady. Fidelity is much valued in this corner of Calabria, and disloyalty viewed as a sin.

  Ashore the prize is sold to middlemen who will ship it to the markets of Naples, Rome and Venice at a fantastical margin. Or, more likely in Cariddi, someone will fetch a wooden trestle from their house, stretch out the silver corpse upon it and butcher delicate pale slices streaked with fresh blood for anyone who’ll pay.

  The season is short. Come the darker, colder days of autumn the Gladiator of the Strait moves back to the grey Atlantic. Different, conventional vessels ply the Strait of Messina seeking more mundane, smaller catches.

  Should you come across a swordfish on your travels there is a simple way to discover if it was one of ours, dragged from the ocean the old way, not with cruel and indiscriminate hooks and nets. When the creature sighs its last upon the deck, before the morsel of fresh flesh is offered to the harpooner, the skipper will reach down with his hand and scrape four fingers down the fish’s right cheek with his nails to scratch a lattice cross. This is the cardata da cruci, as necessary a benison for its passing as that murmured, ‘San Marco è binidittu’.

  Those four gouged, criss-crossed streaks say, ‘This death is our doing, this creature’s agony the price it pays to keep us fed.’

  I cannot count the times I’ve seen the cardata scratched upon that shining, silvery skin and on every occasion I have wept. Then ate. Happily. Greedily. Content, wiping the tears from my eyes. In Cariddi, the Bergamotti and our like do not shrink from death any more than we recoil from tomorrow.

  Each year the swordfish swims to its fate in the treacherous waters between Scylla and Charybdis. Each year we work our way to our own end too.

  We are at one with Ecclesiastes. All things have their seasons. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of peace, and a time of war.

  The next morning a shiny 4×4 with a Sicilian number plate was parked in the square. Leaning on the bonnet was a tall, muscular individual with a bull-like head, more obvious since he kept twisting round to observe the abandoned village around him. He wore a brown corduroy waistcoat over an open-necked white shirt, a gold chain visible beneath, matching trousers, heavy country boots. A red and fawn checked coppola cap sat tight to his scalp, pulled down to the ears. He could have been an extra from a gangland movie of old were it not for the modern smart phone in his right hand which he was using to take photogr
aphs. He stopped and squinted at Maso as he emerged from the palace after a solitary breakfast of a single pastry and strong coffee. Santo was by the man’s side, saying something behind his hand. Then Lucia came out from the kitchen, gave Maso another pastry and touched his arm.

  ‘The Sicilians are here,’ she said and waved to the car. Santo, misreading the gesture, waved back. ‘God. That idiot never gives up.’

  ‘The Sicilians?’

  ‘His name is Gaetano Sciarra. Think of him as Mancuso’s lieutenant. Il Macellaio’s nephew, here to check the lie of the land. To see if it’s safe for him to cross the water and pay homage in the chapel of our lady.’ She blinked and he thought that wasn’t just the fault of the blazing morning sun. ‘It’s nothing you need worry about. Do as you’re asked. There needs to be a death today.’ She took his arm again and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not what you think. Now eat your cornetto. I chose one with ricotta. You need a full stomach for what lies ahead.’ She laughed. ‘I hope you can keep it down.’

  ‘Which means …?’

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t seem to notice the question. Her brother had stormed out of the old church, phone in hand, a look of fury on his face. He was listening, not talking. Then with a quick, barked curse he cut the call and stood alone by the crumbling porch, beneath the remains of the fallen campanile, thunder in his dark eyes.

  ‘Tonight the sun will set around eight thirty,’ she whispered, still staring at Rocco across the square. ‘There’s a special place to see it. A magical spot. If all goes well I’ll take you there.’ Santo Vottari was watching them. Her hand came away from his arm. ‘Somewhere we can talk.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Go to your work, Tomasso Leoni. Strike hard. Strike well. Come back and we can greet you as a man of honour.’

  A quick aside, murmured in his ear, ‘Not that I think you need it.’

  ‘Lucia!’ Rocco barked from the church.

  She left. He walked over to Santo and the newcomer, was introduced, got an attentive, scrutinising look in return.

  ‘Canada?’ the Sicilian asked and he could hear the difference in their voices, the subtle shift between the Calabrian and the accent across the water. That was something he’d come to learn.

  ‘Guelph.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Ontario. A hundred kilometres west of Toronto. You’ve been?’

  ‘Why would I go somewhere that cold?’ Sciarra grunted and pushed his cap up his forehead, watching Rocco Bergamotti and his sister all the time.

  ‘It’s as hot as here,’ he said, remembering what he’d read about the place. ‘This time of year.’

  ‘So why are you in this dump?’

  ‘He’s a relative,’ Santo cut in. ‘Did something bad back home. Here to learn the ropes.’ Santo punched his arm, hard. ‘We’ll see if he can.’

  ‘Not with me,’ Sciarra replied. ‘You go play your little games. I got talking to do.’

  They watched him walk over to the Bergamotti.

  ‘Something’s happening,’ Santo said. ‘Told you.’ His smile was fixed and artificial. ‘But maybe you know that already. Got something to show you.’

  They walked out of the square to a patch of spare ground where an old Land Rover was parked diagonally across the shattered cobbles, a battered trailer at the back. The vehicle he’d seen the night before, parked in the spot in the hills. Santo’s. He pulled up a blue tarpaulin in the back and retrieved a long handled spear that might have been a prop in a movie.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This is yours. The big man’s son is going to skipper us. He’s damned good. That guy can spot a fin where the rest of us see nothing but a wave. Do what he says. That way you might come back alive. After that …’

  He went quiet. Rocco was marching towards them. He didn’t look any happier.

  ‘We’re ready to go, boss,’ Santo said. ‘I called the crew. Got the felucca ready. There’s plenty out there. You could be scraping your nails on a dozen if you want.’

  ‘No time for that. One’s enough. You take him, Santo. I got work to do.’

  ‘You want me to skipper?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You don’t know a damned thing about it. Let the men down there do it. It’s their job.’

  Santo nodded, said nothing.

  ‘Get me a fish on the truck by two at the latest. They can bring it back here. After that …’ Rocco stared at Maso who wondered what he’d done wrong. ‘We got other blood to spill. Here …’ He threw Santo a set of car keys. ‘I’ll call.’

  Then he went back to talking to the Sicilian.

  ‘Something’s really up,’ Santo said again. ‘He’s pissed off as hell and that’s not good. Things happen round you, don’t they?’

  One hour later Gianni Peroni was sitting alone on the terrace of the house in Cariddi, scanning the seafront, north to south. He couldn’t go back to the bar which was now, he saw, open again, though quite without customers. Falcone had swiftly lost his foul mood from the incident there, the way he usually did. The man was incapable of harbouring grudges and could only focus on the moment in hand. Teresa was different and remained mad as hell. Silvio had slunk back to his computers and the odd message from Lombardi.

  He threw the stub of his cigarette over the balcony into the blue waves, felt briefly guilty about so many things, not just that, then saw a decrepit grey Land Rover draw up next to a white van at the low curved parking place half a kilometre away by the harbour. A familiar figure stepped out.

  ‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Nic.’

  Except it didn’t look much like the man he knew. He might have been one more local, getting ready for the boat.

  He thought about the possibilities then rushed back inside and found them in the kitchen where Silvio was making coffee.

  ‘Nic’s out there. He’s—’

  ‘Where?’ Falcone demanded.

  ‘The harbour. It looks like they’re getting ready to go out on one of those boats. The swordfishing ones.’

  ‘What the hell for?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘To make him look local,’ Peroni answered straight away, and wondered why he could see that and they didn’t. It seemed so obvious. ‘They’re trying to convince the people with them. I guess … We can’t set foot out of this place until he’s gone. It’s too damned risky.’

  At other times Falcone might have objected to him giving the orders. Not then.

  ‘Well,’ Teresa said, ‘at least we can watch. We’ve got binoculars, haven’t we, Silvio?’

  ‘Good ones,’ he agreed, pouring the coffee. ‘The best. I can film him if you like.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Peroni cut in. ‘Don’t do anything that makes it look like we’re interested.’ He scowled. ‘I’ve been a fool enough there.’

  They didn’t argue. All the same, after a while, the four of them assembled on the terrace, taking the chairs there, putting bread and cheese and salad on the table. All this was normal. No one could object. He wondered what Rosa Prabakaran was doing at that moment. Forgetting about Calabria he hoped. She was better out of the place.

  Then a modern, low-slung felucca edged slowly out of the port, a man atop the tower steering from a wheel set in front of him as he scanned the still and gleaming water. Nic was there on the deck with three or four men showing him gear and gesticulating at the ocean. Rome had never seemed so far away at that moment.

  ‘It’s a test,’ Peroni said, mostly to himself. ‘It’s what they do. Like it’s the army or something. And you’re just a foot soldier headed for the line.’

  The felucca cleared the little harbour and settled into a snail’s pace cruise barely a kilometre from the coast. Another, almost identical vessel, was running parallel in the stretch of sea towards Messina. From the taut line and cries at the front of the passarella it seemed they were already into a fish.

  ‘Poor guy,’ Peroni murmured. ‘You hate hurting anything. Killing it …’

  But he also knew his duty. There was no choice.

  Set
tling back on the hard plastic chair of the terrace, Peroni watched his friend and colleague walk warily along the horizontal ladder, step by careful step, a weapon in his hand. A harpoon. Like an ancient spear. The figure atop the tower was shouting, pointing. Something soon would die. And with its blood the men of the Bergamotti ’ndrina would decide to trust this strange newcomer more. Perhaps.

  ‘We should never have come here,’ Peroni said to himself. ‘There’s something … wrong.’

  He thought about another cigarette but that seemed wrong too. Before he could make up his mind there was a hammering on the door, loud, insistent, violent.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Peroni announced, rushing to be first. He’d been expecting a visit of a kind.

  Two men were on the doorstep. A local with wavy dark hair, a pair of sunglasses above his tanned forehead, expensive clothes, a striking face, full of fury.

  ‘We should not be meeting like this,’ he said in a gruff Calabrian snarl.

  The man in black didn’t look as bad as Peroni expected. He didn’t think he’d broken any of the bastard’s bones. The nose maybe which was now bloody, purple bruised and swollen, and both his eyes were black and bleary as if someone had poured a bottle of ink over his face.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Peroni said to him, surprised. ‘I thought I’d hurt you more. But …’ He opened the door wider. ‘Come in.’

  He had what felt like a long and heavy gladiator’s spear in his sweating hands, a rope round his waist that snaked back to the mast where three locals watched him, both amused and appalled. He was a Roman. Boats meant nothing. Even on the gentle swell of the Tyrrhenian, a salty breeze blowing in his face from Sicily across the strait, he found it difficult to focus, to balance, to think of anything but the swirling sea beneath him and the creatures there, the swordfish scything through the waves.

  Santo Vottari puffed out his chest and told him how to do it: use both hands, strike hard and deep. Then one of the locals, a burly man with a scarred, tanned face covered in greying stubble, spat in the water and told Santo to shut up and listen. The harpooner was the most important actor on the felucca after the skipper, steering and spying from the high tower above them. They couldn’t understand why such an important task had been given to a foreigner. They didn’t like it. But this bizarre instruction came on the orders of the Bergamotti. However much they objected they were never going to say no.