Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  Irrationally I imagined him standing there wearing that white mask. My heartbeats got even faster.

  He went on: “Then we got a train at Rovigo. It was full of people coming up for Carnival.”

  “There were no deaths,” said the woman.

  “It’s the message that counts,” Padoan said. “It was clear enough.” His voice was quite level, in contrast with the vicious stressed tones of the woman.

  Another voice spoke. “You should have seen the chaos, though. I mean we really put the shit up them.” I recognized the voice as that of the other man who’d visited me that night in London: Alfredo. This recognition had nothing like the effect that Padoan’s had had on me. Another thug, that was all.

  Padoan said, “The important thing is to make it clear that we aren’t indiscriminate like those fascist pigs. We hit the people we want to hit. They didn’t die this time, but they know that next time they probably will.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. He hadn’t said anything particularly brilliant but it was clear that he had them under his thumb—even the woman. I suppose it was the calm certainty with which he spoke that did it.

  The woman said, “There’s the painter guy. The woman’s in the other barn.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll begin with him.”

  “Do you want him sitting up?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  I heard him walking toward me. I said, “Now, look here.…” And then a foot hacked hard against my shin. In blind rage I thrashed back, but hit nothing.

  “Martin Phipps.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fool.” He spoke in Italian.

  “Okay, I’m a fool. So let me go.”

  “You know what we want from you. You didn’t give it to us in London, but now that you’ve been so stupid as to come here, you’ll give it to us here.”

  “What are you going to burn this time?” I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I’d said it.

  “You. Or perhaps your friend. But only if necessary.”

  “Look, she’s got nothing to do with all this.”

  “I suspect you may be right. But that doesn’t matter. She could prove useful in helping to convince you to collaborate.”

  I couldn’t think of what to say other than “You bastard,” so I said that.

  “I told you in London that I have no love of causing pain for its own sake. For me it is purely a matter of the most efficient means to an end. Now let it be quite clear that there is no point in your persisting in the line you used in London. It is clear from the fact that you’re here in Venice that you know something about Sambon, and it is clear from your past that you are not new to trafficking in art.”

  There it was: the albatross of my past. I said, “So you know about me. Which means you presumably know I’ve been to jail. Well, don’t you think that I might be as angry as you about things?”

  “Are you telling me that you wish to join the armed struggle?”

  “Well, you tell me about it, and who knows…?”

  From a little farther off I heard the woman splutter, “This is a waste of time. He’s typical borghese filth.”

  “We must never show reluctance to state our position on things,” Padoan said. “It might be mistaken by fools for uncertainty.”

  “What is your position?” I asked. “What are you hoping to achieve?”

  “The overthrow of the capitalist system. I think you know that.”

  “Um, tomorrow?”

  There was another sharp jab at my shin. He answered so immediately and so unmovedly, that I guessed he hadn’t been the one to administer the kick. “It will occur when the social forces needed for the change have been prepared and made sufficiently aware politically. This will not happen overnight. At the moment the capitalist-controlled press and media have done their best to instill a general belief that the armed struggle is a lost hope. Even ex-fighters for the cause have been bribed or coerced into the spreading of this defeatist line. Our immediate task is to make it clear to the people that the present political and socioeconomic system is not an unshakable, permanent reality, but can be destabilized. We first have to create a climate of uncertainty, and demonstrate our determination to win and our extreme efficiency.”

  “Show how good you are at killing people.”

  “That is part of it. The first phase, if you like. The pentiti are to be wiped out completely. It must be made clear that the choice of the armed struggle is one that cannot be gone back on. He who betrays his compagni is a traitor to the proletariat as a whole.”

  “Excuse me, but have you asked the proletariat as a whole?”

  “These facile comments are the typical sneers of the borghesi, convinced that the masses have been so duped by the paternalistic propaganda of the exploiting classes as to be happy under their oppression.”

  “Ah,” I said. “You may be right. But have you actually been into any bar and listened to what the oppressed masses think about your killings?”

  “We’re not television stars, trying to win a popularity competition.” There was never any hesitation or uncertainty in his replies: they came back at me without any pause for reflection, in a flat but completely secure voice. I could imagine his unmoved, unmoving eyes. “Our task at the moment is to prove to the masses that we can win. We have to overcome the crisis of confidence that followed the mass arrests of the eighties. And a display of determination is the way to do this. Our killings are designed to make maximum impact on public awareness. The so-called barbaric mutilations are highly charged symbolic messages to the masses, telling them that victory will be theirs if they have total commitment to the cause; and, as I say, total commitment means denying the possibility of ever going back.”

  “I see.” I would have liked to be able to think he was raving mad, but his voice was too controlled, too calmly logical in its exposition, to permit such a comforting diagnosis. In the background I could hear the others shifting around, impatient with the time being wasted on me, but none of them daring to protest. “And where do poor old Busetto and Osgood come into all this?”

  “They were mere parasites who stood in the way. Their deaths were not an integral part of our strategy, but nonetheless have served to reinforce the message of our determination.”

  “And what was Osgood doing in the palazzo?” I asked.

  “That we want to know from you.”

  “From me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Well, you’re the ones who followed him in there.”

  “It was our compagno Marco who did so. And as he got killed by the so-called forze dell’ordine immediately afterward we don’t know the exact sequence of events. We presume that he must have seen Osgood somewhere near the palazzo and started following him. The execution inside the building may have been—”

  “A balls-up,” I said.

  Another sharp jab at my shin. I thought I recogized the Rosa Klebb steel caps.

  Padoan said, “It might have been excess of zeal on the part of our compagno. But what we want to know from you is whether those paintings are in the build- ing. And whether you know anything about what happened that night.” So they didn’t know we were the ones who’d entered the palazzo—or weren’t sure, at any rate.

  “Before I answer any questions I want a guarantee you’ll let Lucy go.”

  “We’re not going to bargain with you. You will answer our questions whether you like it or not.”

  I knew I wasn’t going to like it at all. I wasn’t liking any of it already. “I don’t know anything,” I said feebly.

  “You will hardly expect us to believe that line now. Where are the paintings, and where is Toni Sambon.” There were no question marks in the way he said this. His questions were as secure as his opinions.

  “I came to Venice to look for him like you. Why do you think I got mixed up with Busetto as I did? And anyway, how can these paintings possibly be so important to you? You’ll get better money by robbing
a bank.”

  “Those paintings have already been appropriated in action by the Front of the Proletariat. We do not intend to give them up—particularly not so that a parasitic traitor like Sambon can enrich himself.”

  “So what are you going to do with them? Hang them on the walls of your hideouts?”

  “We have no interest in these pictures as such, as I’m sure you’re aware. We have a buyer for them.”

  “Who?”

  “I see no reason not to tell you. A functionary high up in the government of a certain African state who obviously wishes to improve his cultural standing. He has agreed to pay us in arms.”

  I felt a sudden rise of spirit and burst out in English. “Don’t you think it’s kind of ironic that for all your talk of the people, here you are stealing from the people one of the most popular forms of art ever practiced?”

  “What sort of relevance has it for the proletariat today? An art form practiced at the orders of an oppressive institution and now the interest of decadent academics and aesthetes.”

  “I suppose the people who go into the churches don’t count. How can old ladies be the people? The people are those chin-thrusting Herculeses holding banners that you see on communist posters, right? And that’s the crappy level of art we’ll have with your new order.” I was surprised at my own vehemence. It wasn’t at all what the rational part of my brain was suggesting as the most suitable line to follow.

  “Isn’t it typically pathetic that your judgment of a socioeconomic and political system is based entirely on what kind of pretty pictures it produces. But all this is irrelevant. Where are the paintings?”

  I recognized the uselessness of arguing. After all, these were people whose whole way of life was a negation of argument: you didn’t try and talk to people you disagreed with, you kneecapped them or shot them—or tore their tongues out. I said slowly, “In Palazzo Sambon.”

  “Where?”

  “In the attic.”

  “Where in the attic? Remember we have already searched there.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Some weeks back.”

  I remembered the hotel lady’s reference to nocturnal noise from the building. “There’s a false wall where the roof slopes down. It’s on the side of the palazzo by the alley.” I wasn’t sure what I hoped to gain by these lies, other than time. I rather doubted that he’d say thank you and release me at once. But I remembered how unwilling he had been in London to accept the idea that I really didn’t know anything.

  “How is this false wall constructed?” he asked.

  “It—it’s just planks. I haven’t been there myself. That’s what Toni told me.”

  “When?”

  “In London.”

  “And where is Sambon now?”

  “Didn’t Busetto tell you?”

  “He said he hadn’t seen him since he went to jail.”

  “Well, he was lying obviously.”

  “I hardly think so. We were extremely persuasive. Too much so, it turned out.”

  “Well, if you believe that he didn’t know, why don’t you believe me?”

  “You are clearly a more stubborn type than Busetto. I wish to know the full story of your relationship with Sambon.”

  I started a rambling story of how I’d met Toni in a picture gallery and how he’d told me about the paintings and I’d agreed to meet him in Venice and help him swing the deal with Osgood. Halfway through, I did wonder if this story was any more convincing than the truth would have been, but I felt I could hardly start all over again. By the end I was merely repeating, “It’s the truth, you’ve got to believe it, you’ve got to.” I had switched back to English, and I didn’t know when I’d done so.

  “So where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He came to Venice and then he must have heard of these—of your strategy with the pentiti and he went into hiding.”

  “You don’t know.” He repeated this in the flattest of tones. There was a contemptuous noise from the woman.

  “No.”

  “We will now go and question your friend.”

  “She doesn’t know anything.”

  “We will see.” He snapped out orders to Luca and Piero to keep me under surveillance and left, with sharp decisive footsteps. Obviously it was part of the image that everything should be done with the minimum of hesitation. I heard Alfredo saying as he tagged along, “We could have been a bit more persuasive,” and Padoan’s reply, “All in good time.”

  Piero and Luca made no conversation and I sat there in an agony of apprehension, praying that the next sound wouldn’t be a female scream of pain. Five or ten minutes went past and then I heard voices approaching again, among them Lucy’s, “Not so fast.”

  Padoan said, “Put her by the wall there.”

  There was a bit of confused scuttering here, concluded by a bump and “Ouch” from Lucy. Well, it was better than a scream.

  “Their blindfolds can be removed now,” Padoan said. “I think sight will only render our interrogation methods more effective. And we can try out the Carnival masks that our compagno here bought for us.”

  “Hope you like them,” Alfredo said, with an obviously humorous note. There was a rustling sound of a bag or something being opened.

  “You’re not going to win any prizes for imagination,” Luca said.

  “What, they’re all the same?” Piero grunted.

  “Obviously,” Padoan said. “We may need to establish quick identification in a crowd.”

  There was a little sniggering as the masks were put on. I wondered how funny Lucy and I were going to find them. Their voices became muffled. This didn’t take any of the arrogant security out of Padoan’s, however, as he gave the order for our blindfolds to be taken off.

  I blinked in the sudden light. At first my eyes were hit just by the white haze of the fog at the building’s open end, and then the dark silhouettes against this haze filled in with gray, and gradually colored details. Seven figures in coats, wearing cheap Mickey Mouse masks. I didn’t have even a momentary urge to snigger. The guns in the hands of most of them put a damper on the joke.

  I looked over to the wall on the right and saw Lucy leaning back, her hands tied in front of her. Her eyes were screwed up and they turned and came to slow focus on me. She forced a smile to her face—not a very convincing one, but nonetheless a lot more cheering than the Mickey Mouse grins. “Hi,” she said. Her voice had a slight tremor, even in this one word.

  “Hi. Er, sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Silence.” Padoan’s voice came from a slight figure in the center, wearing a large ski jacket. He wasn’t holding a gun and his arms were folded. The pale eyes were fixed on me. I glanced around them all, trying to work out who was who: I could only recognize the woman; she had a belted coat that showed a slim and undeniably attractive figure: more Cruella DeVille than Rosa Klebb.

  I looked around the room. We were in what at first sight seemed like an empty barn with rough, ancient brick walls, and a floor partly of stone, partly of bare earth—both equally hard and cold. But a second glance suggested it was more probably a ruined chapel of a rudimentary sort: there were a couple of rough niches in the side walls where statues of saints might have stood, and the three windows—one in each of the standing walls—had pointed arches; they all had ancient wrought-iron grilles, and the chain attached to my handcuffs was linked to a bar in one of these grilles in the window opposite the entrance. It was the open end of the building that suggested a barn, but the jagged remains of the wall there could be seen on both sides. I just trusted the roof was well enough supported all the same.

  There were a couple of camp stools, a camp table, three rucksacks, and three rolled sleeping bags lined up against one of the walls. The table had a water container, a couple of bulging plastic bags and knives. Everything suggested tidy habits—or readiness for a quick getaway. By the entrance was a sagging pile of old fishing nets—presumably nothing to d
o with the terrorists. Looking to the open end of the chapel, I could see uncultivated scrubs and undergrowth outside, and beyond that only fog.

  Padoan said to me, “Your friend insists she knows nothing. Well, this may be the truth. I feel, however, she must have had some idea that something was going on to have waited that night outside the hotel.” The moment I caught sight of those pale fixed eyes, the mask suddenly seemed irrelevant.

  “I just wanted to speak to my friend,” she said. Her Italian was hesitant, but probably her English would have been as well at that moment.

  “But this has little importance,” Padoan said. “We need to know just one thing: where is Toni Sambon?”

  Lucy turned to me, her face a picture of weariness. I said, “I don’t know. Why do you think I got fighting with Busetto?”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because he wouldn’t tell me where Sambon was.”

  “Give the signorina a tap with your gun. On the shin.”

  “Stop!” I yelled as one of the bigger Mickey Mouses (Mice?) stepped forward, his pistol held by the barrel. Lucy drew her knees up and hunched forward, staring at the man and then at me. Her mouth opened imploringly but no words came out. The masks were never less funny.

  The gun stopped in midswing. Padoan said, “Proceed.” The gun lifted again and slammed down with a nasty crack. I guessed it was Alfredo behind that particular mask. Lucy drew her breath in—a quick sharp whistling intake—while I let mine out together with a stream of the foulest curses I knew, in both English and Italian.

  Padoan waited till I’d stopped. “Why waste your breath in this way? You know perfectly well that your insults are not going to have any effect.”

  He was right of course; and the unchanging plastic grins on their faces made this all the more obvious. You don’t know the meaning of futility till you’ve spent thirty seconds vituperating against a bunch of people in Mickey Mouse masks.

  Padoan said, “We are going to go on until you tell us what we want to know.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Martin,” Lucy’s voice came in in English. “Tell them—it can’t matter.”

  “But Lucy, you know—”

  “Tell them what you told me—about Zennaro.”