Black Run

by Antonio Manzini

  “Is it clean, at least?” Rocco said, examining it.

  “Even if it isn’t, it couldn’t be worse than what’s inside the container; so don’t worry,” Sebastiano replied. Rocco covered his mouth and nose, switched the flashlight on a second time, and went in.

  He could barely fit inside without bumping his head against the ceiling. Millions of grains of fine dust danced in the shaft of light that cut through the darkness. There were rags on the floor. Patchwork bags. A wooden rocking horse and a tin car. Then the flashlight lit up what looked like a switch. Rocco flipped it, and a fluorescent light went on on the container’s ceiling. Now he could see the scene in all its squalor. Heaped up on the floor were the few possessions of those people, wrapped in plastic trash bags or bundles of torn and filthy rags. Rocco walked the length of the container. His footsteps echoed metallically in the small space. He reached the end of the container. There was nothing else. Still, something didn’t add up. He walked back, and this time he counted ten paces, stepping on papers, rags, and apple cores as he went. Then he jumped down out of the truck.

  “What’s going on?” asked Sebastiano, noticing Rocco’s furrowed brow.

  Rocco said nothing. He retraced the same ten paces outside the truck. He stopped. It was another three paces to the end of the truck’s container.

  “Seba?”

  His friend walked over to him. “What is it?”

  “The container is ten paces long. Which means it runs to here, you see? It’s at least three yards from here to the end of the truck.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That there must be something in there, behind the container.”

  “What are we supposed to do about it? We can’t hope to haul it out of there—you’d need a crane.”

  “Right, or else . . .” And he felt the metal shell of the truck. He banged on it. Then he grabbed a rock and slammed it against the exterior of the truck. Not a scratch. “This sucker is tough.”

  “Do you want to try to punch a hole in the container?” Sebastiano suggested.

  “With what?”

  “We’ll hammer it with a tire iron.” Sebastiano turned around and headed toward the dark blue van. He opened the rear doors while the silent army of Sri Lankans watched the two men busy themselves around the truck. Italo was still talking with the man who’d presented his passport and with his brother. Sebastiano climbed into the truck, brandishing a cross-shaped tire iron. He walked back to the far end of the container and started banging away. The metal was barely dented, and aside from scratching the paint and making a hellish amount of noise, Sebastiano obtained no appreciable results. He threw the tire iron to the floor and came back. Outside the truck, Rocco was waiting for him. “Well?”

  “Nothing. What we need here is a drill, a milling cutter, something like that.”

  Rocco looked around. Countryside with ditch on the right, countryside with trees on the left. He walked into the middle of the road. He walked toward the curve. Just then, Italo walked over to Sebastiano. “So they were heading for Turin. That’s where they had an appointment with someone, I don’t know, who was going to get them a place to stay and some paying work.”

  “What the hell do I care? I mean, I’m not a cop, Italo!” Sebastiano replied.

  “I was just telling you what I found out,” the officer replied. “I sweated my ass off to get that much information out of them.” At least his lip wasn’t swelling up. “What is he looking for?” the officer asked, motioning to the deputy police chief in the middle of the road.

  “Who knows.”

  “What are we going to do with these people?” asked Italo. “We can’t just leave them in the middle of the road here. They’re going to freeze before long.”

  “Let’s get them back aboard the truck. At least that’ll keep them warm. I can’t think of anything else,” said the big man, throwing his arms wide. “You tell me, of all the things to have happened!”

  Italo moved toward the column of Sri Lankans just as Rocco was coming back. Rocco saw him leading the group of huddled refugees toward the truck. “What are you doing?”

  “Sebastiano says to put them back in the truck. Otherwise they’ll freeze to death.”

  “No. I have a better idea. Sebastiano, you stay here and keep an eye out!” he shouted at his friend, who responded with an affirmative thumbs-up.

  “You have your gun?”

  Sebastiano pulled out a Beretta that he’d tucked under his belt behind his back and displayed it to Rocco.

  “Excellent!” he shouted and headed off.

  “So where are we going?”

  “Get the people and tell them to follow us.”

  Italo nodded, went over to the man with the passport, and spoke to him in English. “Okay, you. Follow us. Follow!”

  Marco Traversa and his wife, Carla, were returning home. They’d just spent a horrifying evening at dinner with old friends from high school. One of those reunions that Marco usually did his best to avoid. He knew that it’s best after thirty years not to see old friends. They are never enjoyable evenings. They’re hours and hours spent telling one another about health problems and troubles with your children or carefully calculating who’s covered the most ground since school or kept the fullest head of hair. Marco worked in a bank. The Audi he drove was secondhand, and Carla worked from home, doing translations for a small Val d’Aosta publishing house. No children, no world travel, a humdrum existence. He didn’t have a lot of stories to tell his former classmates. And he’d never much liked the role of the listener. Especially if that meant sitting and hearing Giuliano’s stories about his sailboat or Elda talking about the pit bull puppies she raised in Champorcher. Luckily, Signor and Signora Traversa had been able to get away early with the excuse of a predawn appointment the following day and had left the newly renovated villa owned by the Miglios, with a good-night to the other fifteen members of their class, the old Terza B of the Liceo Classico XXVI Febbraio. The only thought that went through Marco’s head as he took the curves on the road to the highway was the Breathalyzer test. If the highway patrol stopped him, he’d be in trouble. It wasn’t as if he’d had a lot to drink, but everyone knew that two glasses were enough to get your license revoked, your credit card demagnetized, and a sentence of forced labor in Cividale del Friuli, breaking karst rock with a pick. He was driving slowly, just 45 miles per hour, even though Carla was urging him to accelerate, if nowhere else, at least on the straightaways, where, if the police are out, you can see them from miles away.

  “After this curve I’ll speed up, I promise,” he told her with a smile. He took it at 40 miles an hour. Then, right in front of him, lit up by his car’s halogen headlights, he saw a man in a loden overcoat, arms spread wide. Marco slammed on the brakes. “Shit!”

  “What is it?” asked Carla.

  “No idea. Let’s hope nothing serious.”

  A second man wearing a police uniform went by in front of the windshield.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, the highway police!” said Marco Traversa, gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles whitened. He could just see his driver’s license being shredded before his eyes and dropped on the asphalt. But to his surprise, the policeman ignored his Audi entirely. Instead he continued across the road.

  “Where are they going?”

  “Carla, what do I know?”

  After the uniformed policeman, a dark-skinned man appeared. Skinny, short, slightly hunched over. Then another, and another, and another.

  “Who . . . who are they?” asked Carla in a faint voice. Marco stroked his chin. “No idea. I really have no idea.”

  Men, children, and women in saris with their heads covered continued crossing the road. As they went by the car, they smiled and greeted the couple inside with a slight nod of the head. Marco smiled back like an idiot, waving with one hand like a child. He and his wife watched that biblical diaspora, a desperate flock, black in the darkness of the night, dressed in rags and scarve
s.

  “Are they Indians?” asked Carla.

  “Huh . . .” said Marco, “maybe so.”

  “But where are they going?”

  “Come on, Carla. How am I supposed to know?”

  They just kept coming. The stream of people never seemed to end. Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they vanished, swallowed up by the dark countryside. Marco waited, motor chugging, headlights illuminating the empty lane ahead. “What do you think? Should I go?”

  “Go on, my love, you can go,” said Carla as she caressed the hand with which he was gripping the stick shift. Marco Traversa put the car in first gear and slowly pulled out. He looked to the left, but there was no sign of that interminable single-file line of people.

  When Emilio Marrix opened his front door, he saw a man wearing a loden overcoat, a police officer, and, half-hidden in the shadows of the larch trees, a group of men and women.

  “Who . . . who are you?” asked Emilio, and his cheeks, already flame red, turned redder still.

  The man wearing the overcoat pulled out a badge. “Deputy Police Chief Schiavone, mobile squad of Aosta. This is Officer Pierron.”

  “My pleasure. Emilio Marrix, retired mailman,” he replied with a smile, brushing back his full head of white hair.

  “May we?”

  Emilio nodded his head yes and stepped aside. Rocco walked in, followed by Italo. Then, one at a time, the Sri Lankans entered the house. Emilio smiled, having no idea what to do, and they responded by pressing their hands together over their hearts and bowing their heads ever so slightly.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Emilio.

  Rocco looked around at the interior of the house. A lovely little detached villa, neat as a pin, with the television on. In front of the television, on a velvet sofa, was a woman, fast asleep. A cat was curled up on the marble apron of a fireplace where a crackling fire burned. The wood-lined walls were dotted with landscape paintings. In one corner stood an easel and a half-finished canvas. Tubes of paint sat on a low, wheeled table.

  “Are you the painter of the house?” Rocco asked.

  “No, my wife,” Emilio replied. “Ginevra!” he called.

  Ginevra jerked awake. The minute she saw her living room as crowded as a commuter bus at rush hour, her eyes opened wide. “What . . . what’s happening?”

  “This gentleman is the deputy police chief of Aosta,” her husband immediately reassured her.

  The woman got up from the sofa. Her chin was quivering. She looked at the mass of people as she straightened her white hair with a simple gesture, then her hand adjusted her flower-print dress, and finally she pulled up the zipper of her green pile sweater.

  “Buona sera,” she said in a faint, small voice.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Rocco. “Let me explain. We’ve pulled over a truck that was transporting a full load of these immigrants.”

  “Sure, but we don’t have room here. All we have is an extra guest bedroom,” Emilio objected.

  The Sri Lankans had lined up along the interior walls. They stood more than three deep and left just enough space for Ginevra and her husband to talk to the policemen. The cat swished its tail. Then it started performing its ablutions, licking its forepaw.

  “I’m not asking you to let them sleep here,” said Rocco. “I’m just wondering if you could let these people stay inside, out of the cold, while my colleague and I finish up with the truck.”

  “They must be hungry,” said Ginevra.

  “Don’t worry,” said Rocco. “It won’t be long. Emilio, can I ask you something?”

  The master of the house flashed him a smile. “At this point, one thing more hardly makes a difference, does it?”

  “Do you have a rotary cutter?”

  “One of those power tools for cutting metal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, but it’s battery-powered.”

  “All the better. Can I borrow it?”

  “Certainly. Come with me. Excuse me . . .” Emilio was doing his best to push through the throng of Sri Lankans filling the few dozen square feet of his living room. “Excuse me, pardon me. Can I get through?” and he crossed the room, followed by Italo and Rocco. They managed to make their way through the mass of humanity and reached the front door. “Here we are, pardon me. May I?” he said to two women, who stepped aside, and managed to open his heavy security door. At last the three men were able to leave the house.

  Ginevra was standing in the middle of her living room, looking at all the men and women with downcast eyes. They seemed to be ashamed.

  “Does anyone here speak Italian?”

  No answer. Not even a fly buzzed. Even the littlest ones remained silent: not a whimper. Ginevra looked a woman in the eye. She could have been thirty or she could have been fifty. She tried Italian and then French: “Lei . . . venga con me. Venez avec moi, okay?” and waved for her to follow. “Tout le monde,” she said, addressing the whole room. “Asseyez! Asseyez, s’il vous plaît.” And with her hands, she mimed instructions for everyone to sit down. Men and women started looking around for a place to sit. Some sat on the sofas, others on chairs, many on the floor. In the meantime, Ginevra and the woman went into the kitchen. The mistress of the house began to open cabinets and drawers. She pulled out everything edible that she could find and put it on the table. She spoke slowly and clearly. “Let’s make a delicious bowl of pasta and whatever we have we’ll share, all right? For the children I have milk. I milked the cow today. Lait, compris? Pour les enfants!” And she smiled at the woman, who thanked her, bowing her head. “I’m sorry there’s so little to eat. Darn it, if I’d known you were coming I would have done some shopping.” Then Ginevra started getting out pans and pots.

  Sebastiano lay huddled among the crates, listening for any noises. The two truck drivers could come back at any moment, and there he was, half-hidden in the shadows, a bullet chambered, ready for them. Every rustling branch, every gust of breeze and snapping of a twig jolted his nerves into high alert. Shadows emerged from around the curve. He cocked the pistol. Then he eased the hammer back down with a smile. It was Rocco and Italo, accompanied by a man who looked to be in his early seventies, carrying a power tool of some kind.

  “This is Emilio. He’s going to help us,” said Rocco. Emilio smiled at Sebastiano, and the two men shook hands. “He brought a rotary tool,” Rocco added.

  Emilio showed it to Sebastiano. “If a person isn’t experienced with these things, it’s best for them not to try to use one. That’s why I came along.”

  Sebastiano glared at Rocco. But Rocco just shrugged. Then he climbed up into the truck and reached down to help Emilio up, but the old man clambered up unaided, in a surprising display of agility. The minute Emilio saw the container, he started shaking his head. “They were in here? That’s out of this world!”

  “Right? But it’s actually very much part of this world, Signor Emilio. Come down here to the far end, if you would!”

  Emilio went over to the deputy police chief, who was rapping his knuckles against the far wall of the container. “My dear Emilio, we have reason to suspect that there’s something behind here.”

  “But the ones who were driving the truck, where are they, Dottore?”

  “They ran away. All right, then, shall we punch a hole through here?”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Emilio grabbed the rotary cutter. “All right, then, stay back.” He turned it on. The noise was deafening, and it was only amplified by the enclosed space. When the blade actually cut into the metal, it became intolerable. A shrill noise halfway between chalk on a blackboard and a dentist’s drill. Outside the truck, Italo covered his ears. Sebastiano was keeping an eye on the road. But Rocco simply twisted up two pieces of paper and stuffed them in his ears.

  Emilio took less than five minutes to open a space through which a ten-year-old child could easily pass. He turned off the saw and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “There you go.”

  Rocco went over t
o the cut while Italo and Sebastiano climbed up into the truck to take a look. The deputy police chief braced himself against the metal wall, then he delivered a kick to the middle of the cut sheet metal. It started to break loose. He kicked it again, and then a third time. Sebastiano and Italo stood there, eyes bulging, in a state of feverish anticipation. Emilio had taken a seat on one of the side benches and was politely awaiting further instructions.

  On the fifth kick, the sheet metal finally yielded, falling into the secret compartment. Rocco picked up the flashlight and wiggled his way in. Sebastiano and Italo stepped closer to the opening.

  Crates. Wooden crates. Square ones and rectangular ones, stacked up. In the narrow space, Rocco could barely manage to turn around. He shone his flashlight on the stacked crates while Sebastiano peered into the newly opened gap and did his best to read the words on the wooden crates.

  “See if you find one marked CHANT NUMBER 4. That is our crate!”

  “No such luck,” Rocco replied. His voice echoed against the metal. “Just numbers.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “Couldn’t say. Let’s pull a few out and take a look.”

  The crates were heavy, and Emilio was helpful as ever. After an hour’s hard work, sweaty and exhausted, the men sat down on the crates that they’d unloaded onto the roadside. A wooden pyramid. Each case had a padlock. And a mysterious code written on the side. The sky had cleared, and the chilly stars were blinking down from on high. It was one in the morning, and there were no more cars going past on the road. Emilio came back with a nice hot thermos. “Here. My wife made some coffee. She gave those poor wretches some food. Now they’re all asleep.”

  They poured out the coffee. It was good and, most important, it was hot. Rocco and Italo each lit a cigarette. “Now what do we do, Rocco?”

  “Let’s open them up and see what’s inside.”

  With a sure cut from the rotary blade, Emilio sawed the padlock off the first crate. Rocco opened it. It was filled with straw. Under the straw were rectangles of a plasticky-looking material.