The Namesake cab-3

by Conor Fitzgerald

  It was years since Blume had been in this part of the country. After an initial section of squalor in the form of a prefabricated shopping centre and a clutch of apartment buildings cluttered with balconies, which resembled makeshift spectator stands erected to observe the spectacle of cars passing by, the road narrowed and straightened and darkened, as sturdy metal fences and tall olive trees appeared on either side. Sometimes, where a new olive grove with younger trees had been planted in the red earth, the light would intensify and the vista open, but then the tall trees and fences returned to reiterate the relentlessly linear plan. It was like driving up the longest ever avenue to a stately home, an impression intensified by the absence of any traffic coming in the opposite direction. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of parked or discarded small boxy Fiats so old they still had number plates with ‘RC’, the abbreviation for Reggio Calabria, marked out in pale orange, a system he wished the country had never abandoned, since it was always interesting and sometimes useful to know from which province the fool in the car in front of you hailed. In some of the groves, the bare earth was already overlaid with dark green nets, ready to catch the olives that would be combed off in a few months by African immigrants or shaken off by vibrating mechanical bars attached to tractors.

  The olive oil from here was among his favourite things in the world. He preferred the bitter and complex tones of Calabrian oil to the mellow, fruity Tuscan varieties that Japanese tourists came all the way from Tokyo to taste. No Japanese tourists came down here.

  After half an hour, the road started turning and climbing. The repetitive but soothing pale grey and silver of the olive groves gave way to a dark composition of greens and yellows. Blume rolled down the window to get the scent of the pine trees, whose cones and needles lay baking on the bumpy asphalt, sometimes causing the wheels to lose grip. Similar to olive trees, but taller and more sober, holm oaks stood behind thickets of juniper and birch, a tree he had always associated with the cool north. Yet here it was, perfectly at home. Hazels, hornbeams and green alder, all heavy, sturdy and oppressive plants linked by chains of ivy, fought for dominance, then fell back as the road continued to climb. Just when he thought he had seen the last of the taller trees, the road dipped downwards and suddenly he found himself driving through a forest of ancient beeches whose rippled leaves fended off the sun so well that the air was damp and mushroom-scented.

  As the trees finally began to give way to the increasing altitude and the bushes turned into shrubs, he was able, thanks also to the added height of the car he was driving, to see how insidious the steep banks on the roadside were. Now that he was nearing upper reaches of the range, the vistas he had glimpsed through the side window lay in front of him. Dozens of mountaintops, the shape of upturned egg boxes or cloche hats, lay before him, their slopes sudden, steep and gleaming. His father had once taught him that painters used lighter colours for the background, darker for the foreground, but the hills before him seemed to increase the depth of their green as they stretched northwards, while the one he was driving across was sand-coloured and dominated by yellow flowers and scratching woody plants.

  It would be difficult to paint this landscape without seeming to idealize it, he thought, but the solution to that particular problem of representation soon presented itself in the form of a sudden hamlet made up of a scattering of brutal cement houses, most of them missing a top storey but all equipped with satellite dishes. They were fronted by messy gardens containing stubby Indian figs, discarded plastic bottles of motor oil and rotting cars. The larger houses had McMansion gates, and all the smaller houses had yellow and brown aluminium-framed windows and doors.

  These people do not deserve their environment, thought Blume. With Naples, one could always hope for Vesuvius, but here… three cars came racing around the corner so close together they might have been linked by a chain. Suddenly, as if they had been waiting for a secret command, vehicles appeared behind him and in front of him. The empty road was suddenly busy. He checked the time. Four o’clock. The Ionian sea lay before him; the town of Locri, a modern excrescence of the Norman citadel of Gerace, which he had just driven through without stopping, was visible in the distance.

  The escarpments on either side of the road were shallower now, but he still would not want to find himself skidding down one. How had Konrad fared with his big camper van? Two oncoming cars flashed their lights at him. What were they doing? Challenging him to move over, closer to the edge of the road, to hog the middle less? Or were they defying the authority of the state, mocking him in his police car? A policeman alone in a marked vehicle was rare anywhere in the country, down here it may never have been seen. He glanced in his rear mirror and saw the car behind him flash its light. Just friends greeting each other. He was being paranoiac.

  He reached a ribbon of breeze-block buildings that, he supposed, represented the outskirts of Locri. A car passed in the opposite direction without flashing its lights, the driver not even looking at him. Blume checked the wing mirror to see if anyone was behind. Nothing. He eased back in his seat, pressed gently on the accelerator when suddenly a shape shot out from the side of the road and hurled itself in front of him. The object had come at lightning speed from the bushes on to the road, but now seemed magnetized and immobile as it stood there, teeth bared, eyes flashing, and Blume was already spinning the wheel. It was only as his foot reached the brake pedal that the word ‘dog’ formed itself in his conscious mind, but he was already spinning furiously in the opposite direction to avoid a patch of small trees.

  He managed to bring the car to a halt, then got out, and looked back down the road. He had not felt any impact, but if he had hit the beast, an ugly thing it had been, then it would be finished off by the traffic behind. But he saw no one swerve or slow down, heard no pitiful yelps or sickening crunch.

  The vehicles he was watching slowed down as they passed, as if Blume were an interesting crash. Within three minutes, the oncoming traffic, as well as the cars behind him, had slowed to a crawl, and Blume realized that with his police-marked SUV on the side of the road, he had inadvertently set up a one-man checkpoint. He started waving the traffic past.

  Finally, a green Mercedes estate car slowed down and the driver, a woman with piercing blue eyes and long silky hair that looked all the better for being dyed blonde, spoke to him.

  ‘ Ma ’cca sei ’mbarru.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in the way and you’re in the wrong place. Go on for about a kilometre, first left, third right. That’s where it is.’

  ‘Where what is?’ But she had driven on, waving an elegant hand, made languorous by the weight of golden bracelets.

  Blume climbed back into his Range Rover, drove it to the side of the road, and called Caterina.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said without so much as a greeting.

  ‘Locri. At last.’

  ‘Have you gone to Maria Itria?’

  ‘No. I haven’t even got to the town proper yet.’

  ‘Then you’re right next to where she lives. You came in by Highway 111, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blume.

  ‘Follow it down to Via Garibaldi, then on to the Provincial Road, first house after a Sidis food mart, number 45. On Google Street View it has a red gate. That may have changed.’

  ‘Give me a bit of time,’ said Blume. ‘It’s still not my priority and I think it might be an ill-advised visit.’

  ‘It almost certainly is, but you shouldn’t have started this thing. Just check. You don’t have to go in. Check from a distance, bring backup from the town. Has anyone spoken to the local magistrate yet?’

  ‘I don’t know… Listen, Caterina, I was thinking maybe… no never mind.’

  ‘Thinking what, Alec?’

  ‘Nothing. I was thinking nothing. It’s nice to hear your voice.’

  He hung up before she could reply to that.

  He followed the directions of the woman in the Mercedes, replaying her voice in his he
ad. There was something about the accent of Calabria that seemed to imply that the speaker was engaged in two streams of communication, one literal, the other ironic. The Sicilians did it, too, but here it was even more pronounced. No matter how innocuous the subject matter, the Calabrians seemed to be delivering an underlying commentary on the person being spoken to for failing to recognize that the whole idea of speaking Italian was faintly ridiculous. If only the person being spoken to would switch into the local dialect based on Greek, Latin, Albanian, Arabic and Norman French, they seemed to be suggesting, things would be much clearer. Or maybe it was speaking at all that they found ridiculous, when so much about life and the past was better left unsaid.

  The feeling of being watched was so strong that he felt if he were to make a wrong turning someone might step out of the bushes and redirect him. But to what?

  The road, already so narrow that the Spanish broom was clutching at the wheels, simply vanished ten yards after the turn. A few yards into the field and he could feel the wheels sinking into the sand beneath the scrub, and from where he was, he could already see that the land suddenly dropped away into a narrow gorge. Seeing he could no longer go forwards, he reversed the Range Rover back to the edge of the field and walked. By now he knew what he would see.

  The soil beneath his feet was grey and powdery, and the smell that reached his nose was of wet ash and burned rubber, even more pungent than the smell he and Konrad had experienced together near Lake Avernus. As he reached the edge of the shallow gully, he saw the blackened hulk of the burned-out camper van lying at the bottom of the deep ditch. The back section was jutting halfway up the slope, and the driver’s cab was buried in a pool of greasy mud at the bottom, like the nose of some sea creature stranded by the tide.

  He had a weapon, but it was a handgun, no use against hidden enemies at a distance who had the drop on him. He had a phone, which, when he took it out to call in backup, flashed a little antenna at him to impart the unsurprising news that there was no mobile phone signal in this dimple of wasteland on the outskirts of Locri. The car had a radio, but, he felt sure, there would be people waiting for him at the car, and in any case it was his duty now to clamber down to the ditch and put his head into the black gap where the curtain to the living space in the camper had been and to look inside.

  The smell of the charred materials was overpoweringly sour, but, he realized with relief, there was no smell of burned hair and teeth, none of the sweet porchetta smell of roasted human. Wherever Konrad was, and he might be lying somewhere in the ditch below, at least he was not in the camper, which, even in the hot air of the late afternoon, was still radiating heat. After hunting around for ten minutes and finding no trace of Konrad, alive or dead, Blume resolved to climb into the camper van. Years of experience had taught him to control his gag reflex, but the evil smells from the burned-out wreck were no less overpowering for that. They entered his nostrils and mouth and seemed to stream into his brain through his eyes and ears. With the inevitability of a digital timer, the migraine went off in his head, obscuring his vision. He clambered through the burned-out door, becoming immediately filthy as he gripped the flaking walls to steady himself against the steep incline. Inside it was as if someone had spent the day burning fat wads of newspaper and scattering the pieces around. A scorched piece of crumpling wood was all that was left of the partition between the living quarters and the cab. There was no trace of the photo of Dagmar.

  In the corner, blistered and bulging, as if it had been blown open from the inside, sat his father’s suitcase. It had not put up much of a fight against the fire. Blume lifted off what was left of the lid, saddened to find that the shiny shellac-covered case his father had been so fond of had consisted mainly of compressed layers of corrugated cardboard. Nothing inside had survived except for an unwieldy Aran sweater that he had always hated but had kept all these years in memory of his mother who said he would be thankful for it when they moved back to cold Seattle. As he lifted it out, he noticed that some of the threads on the sleeve were still glowing slightly in the dark, like tiny electric filaments. The pictures and sketches from his parents’ study, some of them valuable, all of them precious, were gone. The books were all burned halfway in from their sides or else halfway down from the tops. His socks, underpants and polo shirts had melted. As he was rummaging through the mess, the charred sides of the suitcase gave way. For a moment, the incinerated contents retained a rectangular shape, then subsided with a puff of ash, which wafted into his face. He reached his hand down into the heap of clinker that had once held the most valued objects of his life and scooped up the warm shards of an exploded cup. He sieved them through his fingers and then repeated the operation, over and over again. Half an hour later, he emerged from the vehicle, clutching a blackened engagement ring and two misshapen wedding bands in his fist. The air, which had seemed so hot and hostile before, cooled his face. He filled his lungs and expanded his chest and, sob by sob, heaved in oxygen until he was breathing normally.

  When he reached the car, he noticed that it seemed lopsided. He soon discovered the cause. Two tyres had been slashed. Not all four, because two was just one more than the available spare, and therefore the more exquisite an act of intimidation. He hardly cared. He opened the door and got a bottle of water that he had seen in the back seat. It was warm and had been half drunk by God knows whom, but took the madness out of his thirst. He wiped his face with his black hands and looked at the results in the mirror. He started the engine and reversed, not bothering to look backwards into the glare of the sun. The Range Rover wobbled and swayed, and the wheels behaved like wooden cubes rather than flat rings. He shoved it into forward gear and headed back towards Via Garibaldi. He found that if he went faster, the car maintained a linear trajectory for longer, and so he pushed down on the accelerator. The sound from underneath the car, echoed and amplified by the walls on the side of the road, was like the rotor blades of a helicopter. He stepped down harder on the gas and the car began sliding unstoppably into the opposite lane where another car, whose driver was either playing chicken with him or texting what might be his last ever message on his phone, continued its head-on approach. Blume pulled at the wheel and aimed at a jagged pothole on his own side. The other car went sailing by and, with a crunch and a pop, his front left tyre disintegrated. The car lurched forwards, showering sparks and making a scraping noise on the asphalt which seemed to electrify every tooth filling in his head and make his balls contract.

  Blume gave up. He kicked his way out of the car, even though nothing was wrong with the door, and stepped down into the dingy street, and started walking. Fifty yards ahead of him was a Sidis mini-mart, closed, and after that, on the left, was his inevitable destination, a modest two-storey house with a red gate.

  46

  Locri

  His headache was no longer confined to his head nor was it a mere ache. At some point in the past hour the pain had burrowed its way into the centre of his body, and was operating from there. Each heartbeat seemed to squirt a jet of poison up his spine and into the back of his brain, from where it spread slowly, gripping his entire skull before pulsing in his temples as if trying to burst out. Just as the pulsation ended and the pain began to ebb, another heartbeat injected a renewed dose. He imagined the relief of his heart stopping.

  The orange shine of the sun flared off the windows of the house behind the red gate and off the metal of a parked car. When the door opened to his knock, he almost stepped straight in, so inviting was the dark dry air from the house. But there was a woman in front of him, younger-looking and smaller than he had been expecting. He thought he could smell lavender and mint, either from her or from deeper inside. He screwed up his eyes against the brightness and tried to penetrate the dark entrance with his gaze. He could make out her shining hair, and when she smiled her teeth glistened.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Blume swayed on the threshold, confused. That was surely the question he was supposed to have
asked her. And the voice was wrong, too. She sounded like a girl. He could not fit the voice to the wheedling Mafia-accented matriarch he had created in his mind.

  ‘Do you need to sit down?’

  ‘I have a terrible headache,’ said Blume. ‘And I think I’m pretty dirty.’

  ‘Have you been standing in the sun?’

  ‘It’s not the sun. I often get them.’

  Maria Itria stood aside and he walked in. The drop in temperature was immediate and exhilarating, but it made him sneeze and break out in a sweat. He kept his eyes closed, trying to adjust to the shaded hallway.

  ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ she said.

  He followed obediently.

  ‘Sit.’

  He sat at the broad table. Its top was a board of dark oak that was cool against the palm of his hands. He had to resist the temptation to lay his cheek against it.

  ‘My name is Commissioner Alec Blume. Police.’

  ‘Eat this, Alessio.’ She handed him a rock-hard piece of bread.

  ‘Alec, not Alessio. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘If you want your headache to go, eat it. Just a bite or two. You need something in your stomach if you have a headache.’

  Something wet and alive leaped at his face, and he realized she had thrown him a cloth dipped in water. He wiped his face, turning the cloth dark. Then he stood up and went over to the kitchen sink, which is what he should have done to begin with, and washed his hands and arms and drank glass after glass of water. The woman shied away from him as he did this, but when he sat down again, she resumed her position at the sink.

  Back at the table, Blume tried to bite off a small piece of the bread she had given him, but found he had to gnaw his way into it. As he began chewing, it released a fragrance of orange and olive. His teeth cracked a seed, and his mouth filled with the taste of fennel. He realized his lips had numbed slightly and his tongue was tingling.