The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  They stood perfectly still now, a short distance apart, facing one another as each silently worked on processing the overflow of adrenalin pumping through their bodies. As breathing was also brought under control, the heavy musk of perspiration filled their nostrils. With appropriate mindsets now in place, respectful bows were exchanged as a prelude to sitting down. One of the bows was executed slowly, using the full trunk of the body, the other a mere dip of the head as its executor spoke.

  “The target was in your eyes before you attacked. Your speed will defeat most opponents. But not those fully schooled in Hapkido, who will read your eyes.”

  Maria Orsinni acknowledged the critique without demur. “Wakaru, Sensei.[1]” “But they remain lovely eyes, my little one.”

  Since its standing recipient towered over its speaker, each mouth accompanied this flattery with a faint smile as their bodied folded to sit. Three cultures, contained within two people in the lotus position, now faced one another on the dojo mat in the centre of the floor. The superbly equipped private Orsinni gymnasium was where they had first met and where they would today say goodbye.

  Which of her gifts, he wondered, would he miss the most? Her friendship or her skills? Tanaka, the Japanese-American master of martial arts gazed serenely at his young and very unique Italian pupil as he pondered his own question.

  “They were drawn to the golf ball in your throat,” she whispered into the silence.

  Tanaka chuckled, she constantly teased him about the size of his larynx, then he saw the elfin-grin fade as he responded. “You must focus more on the disabling strikes. Your targets recently have suggested a preoccupation with killing blows.”

  He watched her absorb his words and waited patiently for the response he knew would come, just as he knew it might very well surprise him. Her responses often did. His thoughts, a mixture of contentment and regret, ran back in time....

  ‘When they had first met, seven years ago, their individual journeys to that point in time had naturally differed in major ways. The product of an American father and a Japanese mother, when he had been Maria’s current age of twenty his own martial arts skills had been unavoidably used to kill a man. Causing him to go into hiding. His subsequent recruitment by the Japanese Yakuza, the facsimile of Maria’s Mafia, had been perhaps inevitable. But Yakuza membership had not been free. Police palms had been greased enough to ensure his ‘wanted’ file was slipped into an ‘inactive’ tray and the hunt for him was called off. So he had been bought and paid for and it had been impressed upon him that so long as he toed the line, the police file would remain buried. His emotions at that time had been in turmoil. On the one hand glad of the protective channel which provided his conditional freedom, yet on the other hand afraid of what the Yakuza lifestyle would make him become.

  His salvation of sorts had emerged from their early appreciation of his natural talent for the martial arts. Taken into the servitude of a Yakuza boss, he had been used to school the man’s sons. Until the day when the Yakuza boss, as part of his atonement for upsetting some form of joint Japanese-American enterprise had, in true slave-master fashion, gifted Tanaka to an Italian-American family in New York. When they in turn had used him for a while, before sending him here to Rome, he’d been acutely dispirited. Likening his self-esteem to that of a parcel being passed around between people displaying complete disinterest in the condition of its contents.

  Back then, seven life-changing years ago, he had been the new addition to four instructors training the Orsinni children. But one week into his individual contract, when over that period the girl had spent short sessions with each instructor, when the boy Paolo had revealed his reluctance to take instruction from anyone at all, two instructors had been paid off. Shortly afterwards, the other two instructors had simply disappeared from the scene. It had been then that the girl’s father had told him that his daughter had requested their removal, and furthermore had selected Tanaka to be her mentor.’

  Tanaka could see she had her eyes closed, and knew she was composing her response. He waited patiently with his thoughts. Maria’s responses were always worth waiting for.

  ‘He had at that time concluded that his so-called selection was simply the whim of a spoiled child. But since she was the child of a top Mafia consigliere clearly willing to indulge his daughter, and since that consigliere had replaced the Yakuza as arbiter of his fate, he had lacked the luxury of choice in the matter. So he had feigned flattered acceptance. Having only ever trained males, he had not relished the prospect of a one-on-one scenario with a thirteen-year-old spoiled little girl. When she had turned up for their first session under the new arrangement, accompanied by her sullen-faced brother....’ Maria’s voice interrupted his reverie.

  “As usual, you are right,” she conceded. “My thoughts have troubled me lately, Sensei. I find myself wondering what it feels like to follow through, with full power...,” she trailed off.

  Tanaka waited a beat, unsure if she would say more. He held her stare with his own, and saw the question still there in her eyes. A question he knew he must answer carefully.

  “To kill?” He saw at once that his direct response had been appreciated, and watched her body relax slightly as she calmly replied.

  “Yes, to kill.”

  “A life,” began Tanaka, slowly, “is a precious gift. Which of course, as you know, cannot be returned once it has been taken away.”

  She lowered her head in response, but not before he caught a glimpse of something in her eyes. A contriteness perhaps? Tanaka sighed quietly, knowing he must take this last opportunity to say things which she would probably find hard to bear. He owed a great deal to this young woman. Six years ago, when they had both struggled through that first year with his then lack of enthusiasm and her halting English, in addition to their joint efforts to motivate her undisciplined brother, she had changed things again. Without giving the slightest indication of her intentions, Maria Orsinni had gifted him a new life.

  Tanaka could still clearly recall how stunned he had been to be informed by the consigliere father that his then fourteen-year-old daughter had prevailed upon him to remove the Yakuza-Bartalucci stranglehold on her Sensei. The father had told him he was free to go if he wished, but had then further amazed him by pleading with him to remain.

  By that time, since having arrived at Giovanni Orsinni’s home to be ingloriously quartered with the other servants, Tanaka had heard all the gossip concerning the man’s infidelity and his wife’s reclusive unhappiness. Her mystery illness had been whispered about occasionally, in stark contrast to the frequently voiced speculation about the Orsinni children. Paolo was, the servants had opined, the devil’s own child and his end would be a fiery one. Of Maria they could only find words to say such as old before her time, together with, if the father continued to see in the daughter what he had hoped to find in the son, neither of them would ever know peace of mind.

  Never having forgotten the father’s strained effort as he’d attempted, and only partly succeeded, to explain the influence his daughter obviously had upon him, Giovanni Orsinni’s words had remained with Tanaka throughout his tenure here.

  ‘I am fifty-nine years old, signore Tanaka, and forget when I last spoke to a priest. So to you, a man my daughter says I can trust to respect a confidence, I confess this privately. I have learned to listen to my daughter. So when she tells me she can only benefit from your services if they are freely given, I understand perfectly. In matters of business, signore Tanaka, I am not a foolish man. But with my own family I have been foolish beyond redemption. For reasons I do not fully understand, I have lost the respect of my son Paolo. And for reasons I do not wish to discuss, in sharing so much with her I have robbed my daughter of a normal childhood. Paolo you can do little about, but Maria has seen something in you that I must respect. So having forced adulthood upon her, I must continue to do everything in my power to prepa
re her for a life outside the Bartalucci environment. To do so I will need your help.’

  Tanaka sighed at the memory of words he would never forget. Words which had radically altered his perception of the person now opposite him on the dojo mat. He saw that Maria’s eyes were still closed. He smiled. Were it not for his knowledge of her, she could be mistaken for a child closing her eyes to await some form of rebuke. He resisted the urge to reach out and comfort her. His mind again touched on the past, to when she had been a child, to when her father had spoken to him. The realization then, that this had been no spoiled child who had seemingly altered his life, had flooded his mind with incredulity. No mere child, spoiled or otherwise, could have been aware enough to have sensed the malaise which had cramped his spirit since first the Yakuza and then the Bartalucci’s had taken control of his life. No ordinary child could have been privy to the existence of the Bartalucci stranglehold, and then have had the power to bring about its release.

  Tanaka brought his focus back to the bowed head in front of him. She was, he realised, obviously struggling to find the words today. He must help her.

  “You have excelled,” he began again, slowly, watching her head rise as he spoke, “in the demanding disciplines of Judo, Karate, and Taekwondo. And now with Hapkido, you are far in advance of what is traditionally allowed for a student of your years.”

  Tanaka was pleased to see the lovely eyes hold his own once more, and her smile was beginning to return as he continued, “Thanks also to a select few of your father’s people, you have added an impressive variety of unorthodox techniques to your armoury.” He paused before adding, “and your skill with throwing knives is already exceptional.”

  Tanaka braced himself as he prepared to remove her broadening smile. “Should you continue to study and practice, you will most certainly become a formidable competitor in any public tournament you may choose to enter.” He paused again, for emphasis, “And should that be your chosen form of arena, you, I believe, will never lose the thoughts which trouble you even now. Your skills will sometimes scream inside you, demanding the release of their full potential. A release which, in the competitive tournament arena, can never be granted.”

  Her smile had vanished and, confirming his expectation, Tanaka saw the flash of defiance in her eyes. She would, he knew, consider his words to be a challenge. He smiled into the eyes flashing defiance and was suddenly reminded of the fact that five years ago this was the girl who, armed only with pebbles from the beach, had saved the life of a young boy by going up against four men, two of whom had been lethally armed. Maria’s brother, Paolo, a participant in the event, had proudly related the tactics employed by his sister to such effect. Now a young man himself, the person she had saved was the son of Antonio Bartalucci, and the grandson of Carmine, the current Don of the Bartalucci family.

  Maria would not have realized it at the time, Tanaka knew, but that incident had shown her destiny to be preordained. Her brother Paolo had practiced for two years before tiring of the physical and mental demands imposed by martial arts training. That he would follow some violent path, Tanaka had no doubt. But Paolo would be content to use his fledgling talent towards his own ends, forever handicapped by his reliance upon limited abilities. Maria Orsinni, on the other hand, had been training for seven years now and had never shown any sign of tiring. What she was seeking now, and what he must help her identify, was some indication of where her own path might lie. A path which would provide a purpose for her growing skills.

  “How you would feel,” resumed Tanaka, “if you delivered a killing strike,” he waited until she had made eye contact again, “would depend entirely upon what kind of target was on the receiving end.” He had her full attention now, and quietly continued, “My own experience, as you know, was a long time ago. He was what the Americans call a scumbag. He was a pimp by trade and I caught him beating one of his girls, a child really.”

  Tanaka paused, inhaling deeply before going on. “Our mother had sent me to look for her. I told the pimp to stop beating my sister, which of course he didn’t. His kind never do. But he stopped long enough to come at me with the baseball bat which he’d been using.” He paused again, and decided to contribute a smile with his addition, “I didn’t actually grieve his passing, but I did suffer the consequences, as again you know.”

  “What happened,” asked Maria, quietly, “to your sister?”

  “Her final action,” replied Tanaka, “motivated by conscience, had a more positive ending. When I was forced underground, she felt compelled to change her life and return to our mother.”

  “And now,” whispered Maria, “we are both in danger of losing our mothers.”

  The news, reflected Tanaka now, that Maria’s mother was not expected to last very much longer, had swept through the servants quarters like a brushfire. Tanaka no longer shared those quarters, having been re-housed in his own private rooms, but he did still share the gossip. Paolo’s bags, said the servants, were already packed. Destination unknown. The chasm between he and his father too wide to bridge.

  Tanaka’s received news that his own mother lay dying, had merely added an unforeseen element of poignancy to the forthcoming end of his relationship with Maria. That he should have come to view their arrangement as a relationship, had long since ceased to surprise him. He had never married, but had he done so Tanaka knew he would have wished for such a daughter as sat before him now.

  “So are you telling me I have to spend the rest of my life hunting down pimps?”

  Tanaka saw her eyes twinkle with the delivered question and the reappearance of her smile seemed to reach inside him, diminishing his melancholy as he replied, “No Maria, you must take the long view. Continue with your studies and practice. But it will be necessary to put something in place to balance your development. You must find some professional occupation which will provide an additional focus for your mind.”

  He watched her smile fade again, and continued speaking into the face of her speculative frown. “When your mind and body tell you the time is right, then you can seek out a way to constructively use your skills. For example, you live in a country where kidnapping has reached epidemic proportions. There are specialist insurance organisations which must negotiate with the kidnappers. Sometimes things go wrong, and they in turn must call upon a different type of specialist. Perhaps your arena lies somewhere within that kind of territory.”

  “You seem very well informed,” responded Maria, “for someone who hardly ever leaves the compound.” She paused, visibly bristling, “Have you been speaking to my father about this?”

  Tanaka wasn’t surprised this time. He had known she wouldn’t want him to discuss her future with anyone connected to the Mafia; particularly her father. But there had been no need for consultation with any of the Bartalucci clan. Whilst here on the Via Angelo Emo, within the Mafia compound she had referred to, there resided all manner of experts on the subject of kidnapping, he had resorted to more private methods of research.

  “No, Maria, I have simply been thinking about it for some time now,” he smiled at her, “and I do have a telephone in my room which connects me to the outside world.”

  From inside his tunic Tanaka produced four small paste cards which he passed to her, and she studied them as he began explaining.

  “As you can see, two cards bear a surname and number only. They are both masters who would help you in your search of advanced knowledge. One is based here in Rome, and the other is in America’s New York. I have spoken to both of them. If you decide to contact them, you need simply say who you are. They will know that you come to them through me.”

  Tanaka watched her shuffle the cards, timing his next words, “The name Donald Stanhope you see beside a number, is that of the man who represents a kidnap insurance and recovery company. I have told him just enough to make him interested in you. The card with just a number will find me, sh
ould you ever wish to.”

  Tanaka was surprised when she suddenly flowed upwards to stand before him. Then he reminded himself that her responses constantly surprised.

  “Thank you for these,” she said, indicating the cards she held, “And for your career suggestion. And for all your other words,” she continued, her voice firming, “over the past seven years, which will never leave me. I refuse to say goodbye now. I must go to my mother.”

  Tanaka watched as she began to turn away from him and caught the glimpse of tears as she spoke her departing words. “I will see you before you leave, mai tomodachi.”

  Tanaka watched her back, all the way to the gymnasium door, unashamed of his sudden emotion but glad she couldn’t see his own glistening eyes. Who, he wondered, would watch her back when he was gone? My friend, she had said, using his native tongue, delighting his ear and gladdening his heart. The door closed behind her, leaving him with his thoughts.

  ‘Had he fulfilled his obligation to Giovanni Orsinni?’ Tanaka spooled back the memory tapes in his mind. ‘Yes, he was positive he had done so. He had performed the role of surrogate father on the occasions she had unburdened the troubles and uncertainties she had felt unable to take to her natural parents. He had prepared her mind and body to the best of his abilities in the time they had been given together.’

  The American gene inside him was provoking the thought that she could simply get married and become just another plump Italian mother, knee-deep in bambinos and covered in baking flour. The Japanese gene rejected this hypothesis immediately, reminding him that in an age gone by Maria Orsinni could have taken her rightful place alongside the Samurai of his Japan. The pragmatist inside him remained mindful of the times to come in which Maria Orsinni would find herself blossoming into womanhood. It would take, reflected Tanaka sombrely, a man possessed of great qualities to successfully match with the fully matured woman she seemed destined to become. Imagining the fully realized potential of Maria Orsinni, Tanaka wondered if such a match would ever be found, and, even worse, were it to be found only to be irrevocably lost. Tanaka bowed his head and silently voiced a prayer that Maria Orsinni would never know the pain of that particular form of a broken heart.