The Namesake

by Conor Fitzgerald

  ‘You mean Zio Pietro?’ Ruggiero tried to picture Enrico’s truculent and silent uncle as a boy, but couldn’t.

  ‘Yes, Zio Pietro. Now, where was I?’

  ‘Domenico Megale was leading an expeditionary group,’ said Ruggiero.

  ‘Right. Domenico Megale and his group breached the defences of the Mazzaferro fort, which was nothing more than a drystone house on the slopes of Aspromonte, and destroyed its inhabitants, wiping out an entire branch of the Mazzaferro. That night of slaughter ended the feud, and relegated that branch of the Mazzaferro family, or what was left of it, to obscurity.’

  ‘But the Mazzaferro are still in charge in Gioioso Ionico.’

  ‘Different clan, same surname. Don’t interrupt,’ said his father. ‘When Megale and the Neri squad left, there were twelve males and eight females left dead, their ages ranging from seven to seventy-seven. Four more were seriously injured, three of them maimed for life, and if you look you may well see one of them, disfigured of body, who remains among us yet, pardoned and reinstated by Basile himself.’

  ‘Was Basile involved in any of this?’

  ‘Basile was the deal-maker and peacekeeper. He did not take sides, which is his speciality. He never takes sides until the dust settles, and is always ready to mediate. Basile’s only interest is this area, and now he has this gelateria . . . You interrupted me again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. It means you’re listening. Some of the very oldest were left alive, to bury their dead and bear witness. A beautiful young mother, whose husband was away at the time, was also allowed to live. But perhaps it was better she had died, for her child of one year, her only son, disappeared during that night of slaughter. After the feud was declared officially closed, the woman’s husband, who lived in northern exile, like so many of us, was allowed to return. He was supposed to comfort his wife and give her new sons to help her overcome her grief, but this never happened. The body of the child was never returned. It was given to understand that a picciotto who had snatched the abandoned child from his cradle as the mother cowered in the next room lost his life soon after the end of the feud.

  ‘Some said that it had not been a lowly picciotto but the chief sgarrista himself, Domenico Megale, who was in that room. And some also said that he had held the infant in his hands, ready to dash its head against the wall, but overcome by sudden compassion, had spared the child’s life. But Domenico Megale never spoke of it, and no one dared to ask him, and the memory of the bloody night began to fade.

  ‘The young mother never had another child, and for years she never mentioned what happened that night. In 1982, when I was a young man hardly older than you, the mother had a vision. Her child, now a young man of nineteen years, she claimed had appeared to her in a dream, accompanied by the Blessed Gioacchino da Fiore dressed in rags.

  ‘Most people felt great sympathy for the woman, who was now leaving child-bearing age behind her. People said her dream had been sent as a message of farewell to her youth and fertility. As it was evidently her grief that was speaking to her, she was treated with the utmost kindness by the town. But their patience was soon exhausted as she continued in her delusions. As the years passed, she continued to report that her son, now aged twenty, now twenty-one, and now twenty-five, was visiting her while she slept, sometimes accompanied by the Madonna, sometimes by Padre Pio but more often by the Blessed Gioacchino da Fiore. She began to make pilgrimages to the town of San Giovanni in Fiore to visit the Abbey of Florens, and when her story became known, the monks there did what they could to console her and pray for her, even holding a special mass one night in November.

  ‘Then, in 1989, she did the unthinkable and went to the Carabinieri and denounced Megale for the events of a quarter of a century earlier. She did so at five o’clock in the evening, walking straight up to the barracks under the eyes of the whole town.’

  Ruggiero blinked his eyes in acknowledgment of the sense of shock that must have been felt.

  ‘Now it turns out,’ continued his father, ‘that for all the rumours, no one had ever really asked her about what happened that night in 1964. Sometimes people prefer not to remember. And yet, this forgetting was also the right thing to do. The slaughter that night was a terrible act, but it had its historical causes and necessities. It was also the beginning of a restructuring and a reexamination of conscience that has served everyone well since.

  ‘The people of the town were sickened by this woman’s blatant act of treachery, but they were also dismayed in their hearts because over the years her talk of seeing her son in the company of saints had assured people that the child was at peace with God, and was accompanying his mother through the rest of her life, ageing with her, until she, too, would be at peace. But when the benighted old woman went to the Carabinieri, she told them her son had been seized but not killed by Domenico Megale. She said that when Domenico burst into her bedroom, she was suckling the child. He was so struck by the sanctity and tenderness of the image that he found himself rooted to the spot, or so she claimed. She approached him and offered the child in exchange for her own life and a pledge to remain silent for ever. She then commended her infant into the hands of Domenico and said he was now the father. She told the Carabinieri that Domenico Megale had taken her child and left. Upon leaving, he had warned her never to come looking for the child, but now she was breaking that pledge.

  ‘The woman’s husband went to Megale and begged forgiveness. The people in the village were instructed to shun the deluded woman, but she seemed not to notice. A local magistrate opened an investigation, letting it be known that he did so with reluctance. He sent two young Carabinieri to ask Megale about the night in question. Megale told them he had no memory of the night, lost in the mists of time. The case was archived.

  ‘Then in 1990, the woman invited in television reporters. You probably know the show, Chi l’ha visto, which is dedicated to tracking down missing persons.’

  ‘It’s still on,’ said Ruggiero.

  ‘Back then it was a new show, presented by an interfering albino bitch called Donatella Raffai. They sent down a team of reporters who interviewed the mother. Now she aggravated the situation by speaking far too freely about the night of the massacre, naming names and describing the abduction of her son, and saying how she was warned never to look for him. The national newspapers took up the story, and reporters swarmed the streets until our dignified reticence, as well as some low-key resistance that took the form of attacks on their vehicles and equipment, persuaded the vultures to fly back to Rome and Milan. The husband, now in his late sixties, asked permission of Don Matteo to divorce; it was not given, which was unlucky for him.

  ‘The woman, prodded and urged by the vile reporters who were too abject to visit us, went up to Rome. There, in the studio, she allowed them to show the face of the man she claimed was her son, a man whom they had covertly filmed as he went about his business in the village, and a man whose face was familiar to everyone. That man was called Tony, the younger of Megale’s sons.’

  ‘Enrico’s father,’ said Ruggiero.

  ‘When he saw his Tony on television like that, Megale, who around this time people started calling u Vecchiu because by then he had lost his wife to cancer – same as would happen later to his daughter-in-law – and looked far older than he really was, sued the television station for defamation, and the case dragged on for five years before ending in a settlement in his favour. Around this time, too, Communism collapsed in Europe and Megale foresaw the great fortune to be made from buying property and businesses in East Germany, and moved with his younger son, Tony, to Dusseldorf, where there was already a small Calabrian presence. He left Pietro here. As for the case against RAI Television, the judges declared that Tony had become an object of hatred for a woman devastated by loss and childlessness. She stood on the steps of the court with a placard on which she had written ‘No Hatred Just a Mother’s Love’. And the newspapers ran with that line, of course. G
od, they loved it. After the scandal had died down, Tony married a girl, Angela Mancuso, who came from an important family settled in Milan. Six months after, baby Enrico arrived, but Tony was already in Germany with his old man. He came down for the christening, though. His next visit was for Angela’s last day on this earth and the funeral two days later. Cancer like wildfire through her body. I remember seeing her, thin, yellow, suddenly old. When she died, Zio Pietro and Zia Rosa decided they would take care of the baby.

  ‘A few months later, the ignorant old woman, uncaring about Tony’s bereavement, crawled out into the open again to say Enrico was her grandson. Encouraged no doubt by a reporter, because she could not even read and knew nothing about these things, she demanded a DNA test, which Domenico, Tony, Pietro and Zia Rosa all turned down with contempt.

  ‘By now, the old woman’s husband was having difficulty living in the town. His failure to exercise his authority over the woman was punished, so they say, by seven zaccagnate on his chest and shoulders, his age being taken into consideration, followed by expulsion. He stayed in the village with his wife, a humiliated being despised by all. Can you remember what happened in the end?’

  Ruggiero remembered it as if it was yesterday. ‘The woman and her husband were both stabbed to death on the same night. Him on the way back from the bar, her in her bed. It was in September, not long after the Feast of the Madonna di Polsi. School had just reopened.’

  ‘Almost correct. The old man was shot at close range with a low-velocity bullet. Just one small entry wound at the back, no sign of violence from the front. But the woman was stabbed repeatedly in the belly and groin as she lay in her bed. The killer opened her up and tore her very insides out. It was a cruel thing. There was a big funeral and, even though they had no family, everyone turned up, including Tony Megale. He had recently returned from Germany. He had come home several days before the killing took place to celebrate the Madonna di Polsi – and visit Enrico, of course. He spent a day in custody being questioned. On the same day he was released, he asked me if I would join them in Germany, and I did.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you anything about his mother?’

  ‘So now you think that that woman was his mother?’

  ‘Wasn’t she? Isn’t that what you just told me?’

  ‘Draw your own conclusions quietly, decide on your own course of action quietly, act quietly.’

  ‘So you never asked Tony?’

  ‘You are still asking too directly. I have never even spoken of the story to anyone until this moment. In Germany, u Vecchiu treated me well, but I soon saw it would be necessary for me to pursue a different path from Tony, and that is what I have done. Our paths often cross, but I thought we had succeeded in dividing our responsibilities with respect and without rancour. I may have been wrong.’

  ‘Have you and Enrico’s dad fallen out?’

  ‘Too many direct questions. If you ask direct questions, you’ll be disappointed by the evasive and uncertain answers. Sometimes there are no answers, and in the meantime, people will stop talking to you. Learn to infer.’

  ‘Megale u Vecchiu is now truly old,’ said Ruggiero.

  ‘That’s more like it. Now that he is a free but ailing man, Tony’s time may have come. At the Polsi summit, Tony may announce his intention to take over the German colony from his father. Pietro will never raise any objection, because he fears Tony. Tony seems to think this is a good thing, but having members of your own family fear you is an evil.’

  ‘If Tony Megale really is part of the family.’

  ‘I am letting that pass once more, but never say it again. Many people think they know the truth about who Tony is, but they would be advised to keep their counsel. I think Enrico has also heard the story. But if he has not confided in you, then you must not know. Consider the story, weigh it in your mind, draw your own conclusions, and keep them in your heart – and speak to no one, not even me, about it ever again. Carrying secret knowledge in your heart, and never speaking, is a heavy burden, and it is time you started to feel the weight and learn how to deal with it.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Shh.’ His father put a finger to his lip. ‘Imagine Old Megale fearing all of a sudden that Tony is not the right person. Maybe he thinks he should have tried harder with Pietro.’

  ‘That might be good for Enrico,’ said Ruggiero.

  ‘Enrico is young, and is reputed to be weak.’

  Ruggiero instinctively began to defend his friend, then fell silent. His father was right: Enrico was weak.

  ‘If Megale, who is expected to retire, chooses to stay in charge until his death, or just stay on until he reaches a final decision, Tony might object. There may be a period of instability, a search for successors. That is precisely what the Society does not want. Anyone who is the source of instability or who attracts the attention of the authorities or acts unpredictably is a threat.’

  ‘But Enrico?’

  ‘Enrico is your friend, but he is also Tony’s son. You are Enrico’s friend, but you are also the son of a man whom Tony might feel has risen too high and moved beyond his control.’

  ‘Zia Rosa would not let anyone do anything to harm me.’

  ‘She is a good woman. Her husband is a decent and simple man whom I trust. Tony is my honoured companion abroad. Individually, every Megale is a close friend. Collectively . . . I want you to be prepared when the time comes. Promise me that?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Ruggiero.

  Tuesday, September 1

  35

  Locri

  Enrico Megale, in the guise of a fat infant, was standing in a garden of roses, slicing at the branches of a short tree, which bled as it was cut. Thirteen men lay at its feet, thirteen was the number of branches . . . Someone was shaking him, and his dream slipped under his pillow. He tried to grab it with his hands, but the person shook him harder, and then unexpectedly kissed him.

  ‘Ruggiero?’ said his mother’s voice.

  He knew immediately from the tremor in her voice that fear had taken hold of her.

  ‘We’re going to make a surprise visit to my sister in Catanzaro,’ she said. ‘And then maybe we’ll travel up north to do some shopping. Rome. We could go to Florence.’

  The clock beside his bed told him it was 3:30. Wearily, knowing that whatever his mother had planned was not going to work, he climbed out of bed and sat staring at his feet.

  ‘Get dressed as quick as you can, and come downstairs, quietly,’ said his mother.

  She was his mother, so he did as he was told. Reaching around in the dark, he grabbed the same clothes he had been wearing the day before. They felt a bit sticky and cold going on. He had changed his underpants and socks, which were the important things. He turned on the light and blinked at the brightness. His father might have called and told them to flee. His father was courageous but also practical and despised acts of bravado. ‘You are worth more than the fool brandishing a knife in public, showing off on his motorbike. Let him end up with his own knife in his throat, his skull fractured by a car. You have a duty to preserve yourself.’

  The upshot of that reasoning was that, like Enrico, he was not allowed a scooter. His father’s philosophy and Zia Rosa’s womanish fears had the same result. But Ruggiero had a knife, which he did not brandish in public. It lay snug beneath his mattress at night.

  Sitting on shelves were books and some soft toys that he thought he was saving for Robertino, but, he now saw, were already too old and faded for a new child. On his wall was the amaranth-coloured flag of Reggio Calabria, the only Calabrian football team ever to reach Serie A. In an approximation of the same red colour on a piece of paper he had written ‘Amaranto si nasce’. But in these parts, people were not really ‘born amaranth’. The team belonged to the other side of Aspromonte, where other families and other interests held sway.

  A click and the light went off. He had not heard her come in.

  ‘Keep the lights off, love,’ said his mother who stood th
ere with an empty suitcase in hand. ‘Are you ready?’

  Ruggiero pulled on his shoes and watched as his mother, moving swiftly and quietly, added some of his clothes and a pile of battered storybooks that she used to read to him until Robertino was born.

  He carried it downstairs for her, and was surprised to find Robertino sitting there in his baby bouncer, in gurgling serenity.

  ‘Robertino’s always awake and quiet at this time,’ said his mother, picking up on his surprise. She went over to the high chest of drawers in the corner of the room, and ran her hand over it like she did when looking for dust, only this time she did not examine her hand.

  ‘Did I ever tell you my parents gave me this? My father got it from his grandfather who got it from his father. It was made in the 1500s for the monks of the Abbey of San Giovanni in Fiore. It must be worth thousands. Go upstairs to your room, check to see if your bed is made.’

  ‘It is made.’

  ‘Well, go up again. Straighten the cover. Just make sure it’s perfect.’

  ‘Should I close the shutters on my bedroom window?’

  ‘No, keep your shutters open. Don’t close any shutters. I am going to put Robertino in the back of the car. You check your room, then come down. Pull the front door closed behind you.’

  Ruggiero did as he was told. When he came down, the other two were already in the car. He shut the front door softly behind him. He climbed into the Fiat Panda next to his mother. The car was filled to brimming with jumper suits, little white T-shirts, baby bottles, toys, suitcases, plastic bags and bottles of water.