‘Portodimare isn’t part of his parish.’
‘Portodimare has a new priest, a good man, but he does not have his finger on the pulse. Don Alfredo is lending a hand.’
‘Or, he’s after the spotlight.’
My father opens and closes his hand, once. If I were fifteen, he would have hit me. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
It is the same question I am asking myself. ‘I am sorry I lied,’ I say.
‘You lied?’
‘When I said I wasn’t coming again, this year.’
His hands lie flat on the table, both of them, in a slightly unnatural pose. He is big on composure. ‘Did you?’
I hate it when he does this: when he pretends that what I say isn’t real. The implication being, as his son, my duty is to obey and behave and shut up. I comb a hand through my hair. ‘Sorry, I’m not in the mood.’
‘You are never in the mood.’
‘Something came up! Something serious.’
‘Serious how?’
I glance at Don Alfredo. ‘Will it stay between us?’
‘I will be the judge of that.’
‘Fine,’ I surrender. ‘Yesterday Art didn’t show up.’ Why are you talking? I wonder. Why are you telling your father what happened? Twenty-four hours in Casalfranco is long enough for me to decrease in size, shrinking to be a little kid who thinks his daddy has all the answers.
‘So?’ he says.
‘So, it’s strange. What with what happened to him when we were kids…’
‘Nothing happened to him when you were children. He ran away from home to play a prank, and he came back when he’d had enough. That is the end of it.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘We were all worried sick, Fabio. Do you remember the state his poor mother was in? And why? Because Mauro wanted to show, what, that he was better than us?’
‘It’s Art, not Mauro.’ This is odd: my father never gets names wrong.
He pauses for a moment. ‘Arturo. That is what I said.’
‘Art didn’t run away. I don’t have a clue what happened, but I know he didn’t run away.’
‘You will never grow up,’ he scoffs.
I slap a hand on the table. ‘And you’ll never stop thinking you know better than everybody else!’ I half shout.
‘Don’t make a scene.’
‘Okay.’ I take a long breath, imagining the title for a book: The Zen of Surviving Your Parents. ‘Back to square one. We’re worried for Art, so we’re sticking around for a couple of days. If we don’t hear from him, we’ll call the Carabinieri.’
‘You should call the Carabinieri on him.’
‘Dad…’
‘No, Fabio, listen to me: you left Casalfranco. You’re not in town, I am. And I’ve met your friend a few times since he moved back. Art was always a bad egg, but he got worse.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He has issues. Dishevelled hair, long beard, he looks like a madman. He spends days at the library, instead of looking for a job. He is so self-absorbed that he doesn’t even say good morning when he meets you.’
The picture makes me smile. ‘That’s Art through and through.’
‘He dotes on his dog more than is natural.’
His dog. I smell the rotting stench again; I hear the flies buzzing. ‘What dog is that?’
‘One of the strays. Arturo adopted it, which would be commendable if the circumstances were different, but he behaves as if it were a… person. He talks to it in the streets. I heard him once, telling it how beautiful it was, how intelligent and bold.’
‘Would that be a big, shaggy white dog?’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Dad, please…’
My father closes his eyes and brings the index and middle finger of his right hand to his temple, making an effort to remember. ‘A brown Pomeranian cross,’ he says eventually.
The dog in the olive grove is not Art’s. I hope I don’t show how relieved I am. I make to sip my beer, with an unsteady hand, but the bottle is dry. ‘From what you’re saying Art seems more insane than bad.’
‘Arturo comes from a hard-working family, and he is not stupid. He had all the chances to make something with his life. No, your friend was always a selfish boy, with a sense of entitlement even bigger than yours, and finally God is making him foot the bill. Quisque faber suae fortunae.’
Every man is the architect of his own fortune: one of my father’s favourite mottos. What he does not say is that he blames Art for being the architect of mine too. ‘We have different opinions,’ I repeat. ‘I won’t argue with you.’
‘As you wish. At any rate, what are you doing here?’
‘I just…’ I stop in my tracks. I just told him; he doesn’t remember, and he is not pretending. I feel like the sea swept over Portodimare, transforming the land into water, and the very grounds on which I am seated, on which my life rests, are being swept away. My father is a classicist, fluent in Ancient Greek and Latin. His brain is his pride. He is never unfocused, never forgetful. ‘I just told you,’ I say.
‘Told me what?’
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. I turn to look at that sodding priest. His eyes are pinned on our table, with a pious understanding as false as my triumphs.
‘Dad,’ I ask, ‘are you all right?’
TONY
1
You know what? Mauro can fuck off, massive jerk that he’s become. On our way to Carolina this morning Fabio said we’ve got to cut him some slack, that the guy has a wife and two daughters to think about. Point taken. Still a jerk. Fabio, that’s a good man. He deserves all the luck he has and then some.
This car smells like Dad’s aftershave. A deal is a deal and it’s not cool to break it, but all the same I am driving to the Carabinieri. Mauro could talk round Fabio, not me, with all that we can’t be sure and we should wait bollocks. Mauro’s good with words, but what good are words? I know in my gut that Art is gone the same way he was gone the first time. I also know, we all know, that that time Art didn’t run away from home and didn’t spend seven days on his own, no. Art was taken and bad things were done to him. They didn’t leave physical traces, but, fuck me, not all traces are physical. I mean, look at his life after that! The bad guys were never found because the Carabinieri got in their mind that there were no bad guys. So, the bad guys are still out there. And my buddy’s missing again.
The phone rings: my little sister Elena. Great. I’ve been avoiding her so far, and I wish I could keep it that way, but I won’t be able to just not answer. I’m not Mauro. I take the phone and wedge it between my cheek and shoulder. Last Christmas I got Dad a hands-free set for the car, but he managed to lose it within two weeks. Dad has no beef with technology, as long as technology keeps its distance. ‘Hey, Elena,’ I say.
‘Where are you?’
‘Driving.’
‘Are you dropping by later?’
‘No, sorry, I promised Mum and Dad I’ll have dinner with them.’
‘Tomorrow, then. Come for lunch.’
I’d rather have a dust-up with Conor McGregor. ‘Sure.’
‘You have to see my belly; it’s bigger than it looks on cam.’
Elena is six months pregnant. Three years ago she married Rocco Fistetto, an old acquaintance of mine. If it weren’t for Mauro stopping me, at the wedding I would have done something stupid (something like having a swing at the groom). Fabio and Art got pissed in the first half-hour, but Mauro wasn’t drinking and took care of me. I should remember that, when he makes me mad. ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘can’t wait.’
‘Rocco is grand too. Business has been very good lately.’
My little sis. She likes nothing better than winning and gloating. ‘Yeah, Dad told me. Is one o’clock fine with you?’
‘Let’s do one-thirty.’
‘Okay. Listen, the signal here is terrible.’
‘No worries,’ Elena says. ‘See you tomorrow.’
If only I could stop loving her. But you can’t, can you? Family and mates, they’re all that matters. Whatever they become, they’re all that matters.
2
On the night before Elena’s wedding, Mum said, ‘You should talk to her.’
‘Mum…’
‘It’s not too late.’
We had had a family gathering to whet the appetite for the Big Event. Nothing major, only fifteen people or so among uncles, cousins and Elena’s closest friends. Dad had been a happy puppy all day, and now he was sleeping off a few too many glasses. Dad didn’t get the problem with Elena and Rocco, he still doesn’t. Mum has been very good at keeping him in the dark. ‘There’s nothing he can do,’ she says. ‘At least he’s happy.’
Mum and I were in the garden, going through an old ritual of sharing a drop of bold yellow Strega liqueur before going to sleep. She knew she’d catch me off guard.
‘Elena’s stubborn,’ I said.
‘She’s your sister, Tony.’
I finished my Strega, parked the glass on the table with more force than necessary, and stood up. ‘It won’t do any good,’ I said, to no answer.
I pussyfooted inside and up the stairs, even though probably I didn’t need to be that careful, with all the booze Dad had in his bloodstream. Light framed Elena’s door. I knocked and she whispered, ‘Come in.’
Dressed only in a t-shirt of mine, she was sitting in a swivel chair at her desk, the same desk she would sit at when she was at school and I helped her to do her homework. Her wedding dress was hanging from the top of the open wardrobe door.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Going through old pictures. Come.’
I got nearer. She was looking at a pic Dad had taken during a Sunday trip to the zoo, a long time ago. There was me, ten years old and trying to look tough in a reversed baseball cap and with the sleeves of my t-shirt folded to the shoulders, holding hands on one side with Elena, cute as a button in pink dungarees, and on the other side with a chimp in denim dungarees. Elena said, ‘Do you remember? You insisted you didn’t know who was who anymore, that your sister and the chimp were dressed the same, and they looked pretty much the same, and you got confused.’
I chuckled. ‘Yes. I made as if I wanted to leave you there and take the chimp with me.’
Elena was laughing. ‘God, you made me cry.’
‘And I felt bad for the rest of the day.’
‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t have. It was fun.’
I tilted my head at the wedding dress. ‘Can’t sleep?’
‘I’m excited. What about you? Had your drop with Mum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And did she ask you to come?’
Caught wrong-footed again. ‘Sort of.’
Elena put back the photograph on the top of a neat stack and sighed. ‘I’m getting married tomorrow, Tony.’
‘It’s not too late to call it off.’
‘You and Mum should put this in your head: I love Rocco. I love him.’ It wasn’t true; I believed that then and I believe that now. She went on, ‘Couldn’t you be happy for me? At least a tiny smidge?’
‘He’s no good for you.’
‘Who are you to decide?’ she said, raising her voice.
I wasn’t looking for a fight, not on the eve of her wedding. ‘I just want what’s best for you.’
‘I know you mean well. But that doesn’t give you or Mum any right on my life.’
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘What…’ Elena laughed quietly. ‘Am I pregnant? Is this what you think?’
‘It’d explain all this hurry to get married.’
‘What hurry? Rocco and I have been together seven years.’
‘You were children when you got together.’
‘I’m a woman, Tony, a grown-up perfectly capable of making her own decisions. Anyway, no, I’m not pregnant and I’m not planning to have children for a while, if you want to know, not before Rocco’s position is more secure.’
I held out my hands. ‘I had to give it a try.’
‘Tell Mum to stop fighting this,’ Elena said, kindly. ‘It’s all good, we’re happy, there’s nothing to fight against.’
‘Just do me a favour: whatever happens, remember you’ve got a brother. I’ll look out for you, no matter what.’
Elena stood up and kissed me on my cheek. ‘That’s so sweet,’ she said.
3
The Carabinieri station is a three-storey yellow-tinted building. It’s way too big for Casalfranco, a place where petty criminals are in short supply and the professionals will never see the inside of a prison. The building was started in the early thirties, when the mayor decided that a big-ass Carabinieri station would make Casalfranco (and by reflection, him) look good in Mussolini’s eyes. When they finally got around to finishing it, in 1939, Mussolini had a world war on his hands. Il Duce never got to see the station, the mayor’s only son was killed in a battle against Allied troops, and the mayor shot himself when he heard the news of Mussolini’s execution. The station remains.
I park cautiously and look around before I get out of the car. Mauro’s family home is not far from here, and it’d be awkward to bump into him. He’s got nothing to worry about though; I won’t grass on him and Fabio. I’ll say to the Carabinieri that I went to see Art on my own, and I’ll take whatever grief there might be.
On the inside, the station is haunted by the smell of burnt sausages. Someone had a late lunch. A fan whirls tiredly somewhere, without getting even close to cooling down the room. A man in a blue short-sleeved Carabinieri shirt sits behind a Plexiglas screen. The top three buttons of his shirt are open, letting a fair amount of chest hair show. He watches hip-hop on his laptop, using (to his credit) a pair of earphones. The fan is with him, beyond the Plexiglas, pointed at his face. Fair enough. He takes out the earphones and greets me with a ‘Salve.’
‘Oh, good afternoon, sir.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘It’s about a friend of mine. He… uh… he might be missing, I think.’
The man crosses his fingers on his globe-shaped belly and shifts his bum right and left, aiming for a more comfortable position. ‘He might, you say.’
‘I don’t know for sure. He didn’t show up for an appointment and isn’t answering the phone. He’s not home either.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re Tony, aren’t you?’
I give the man another look. Yes, I know who he is: a third cousin on Mum’s side. I struggle to remember his name. ‘Cosimo!’
‘Yeah! Didn’t you move to Bologna?’
‘Rome, actually.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant, Rome. And what brings you to Casalfranco?’ he asks, much more interested in gossip than in a possible missing persons case.
I keep my good face on and say, ‘I was here to meet this friend of mine, the one who didn’t show and might be missing.’
‘When was that?’
‘Yesterday.’
Cosimo sucks air between his teeth, and shakes his head as if I’d just said something incredibly stupid. ‘Too early to start an investigation.’
‘It’s Art. Arturo Musiello.’
Cosimo sucks air again, harder. ‘That Arturo Musiello.’
‘The one and only.’
‘Too early to start an investigation,’ he repeats, slower.
‘I get it, but you guys could ask around…?’
‘I said it’s too early, Tony, way too early.’
At last I get the message. I’ve been living in Rome too long, and I’m not as used to a certain kind of local finesse as I would be, a way of telling things without speaking. Let’s see if I remember how it’s done. ‘Will it ever be…’ I hesitate, ‘not too early?’
‘No,’ Cosimo says, glad that the discussion is over. ‘How’s your sister?’
‘Brilliant.’ I go with his change of topic.
The Carabinieri don’
t want to talk about Art. Which means one thing – Sacra Corona Unita.
4
Art, where the fuck are you?
I kill the engine, leaving the stage to the cicadas. I’m back at Art’s house. The red fields are dead as the planet Mars in a NASA pic. ‘Art?’ I call out, as I get out of the car. He doesn’t answer, of course he doesn’t, because he’s not fucking here.
I enter without knocking. It is much cooler inside than outside. Art’s granddad built this house with thick walls to keep at bay the extremes of the seasons, the summer heat and the winter wind. Everything is as we left it. I should leave a message for Art, just in case, and go. Mauro’s right, in that we should keep a low profile: the first time Art disappeared we found ourselves suspect number one even though we were just boys. Now we’re grown-ups and Art’s a drug dealer, it’s going to be a million times worse. But five minutes won’t hurt. Cosimo’s reaction to Art’s name pushed me up all the way from worked up to disturbed.
I do a quick survey of the kitchen, but except for the posh dog food and the books, there is nothing to see – not a computer to hack, not a clue to investigate with a jumbo magnifying glass. I feel halfway between a burglar and an ass. Seriously, I should leave. Make it an early night so that I’m ready for lunch tomorrow with my pregnant sister and her lovely husband. One more thing first. Last night we checked only the house. There is another building in this field. Two decades play strange tricks on your memories, and it is not that you forget some things, but you stop thinking about them.
I exit the house and head to the vineyard, while cicadas play their gig. The grapes are in a wretched shape. It’s going to be a poor harvest this year. Art’s dad would hate to see his son neglecting the family land. I walk on red dirt, under the red light of dusk, until I reach a trullo, a drystone hut in the shape of a cone. Art’s grandfather used to live here before he built the new house, and Art’s dad kept it for memory’s sake, until a young Art reclaimed it as his hideout. He dried his weed in here (it’s not ideal, but kids must make do with what they get). He smoked his weed in here. We had a lot of fun in here. It’s good to see it’s still standing; time can ruin many things, not all. Its door never had a lock.
The Book of Hidden Things Page 7