I touch her belly. ‘I tried torture on Mum and Dad, but they refused to tell the baby’s name. I had to come.’
Elena pulls me by the hand to the back, where a table is set under a canopy of scented wisteria. In Rome, I’d wait a couple of months before eating like I had last night, but this is not Rome. Antipasti are laid out on a bright blue tablecloth: courgettes, deep-fried calamari rings, a wicker basket of warm bread giving off a delicious smell, and a bottle of white wine in ice. I pick a wisteria flower and bring it to my mouth; nowhere else in the world do wisteria flowers taste as sweet as in Salento. I take off my sunglasses and sit down. ‘I missed your cooking, Elena.’
My little sister offers me a smile. ‘You’ll get plenty.’
‘Are you supposed to fuss around the kitchen?’
‘Boredom is more dangerous than work.’
I turn my attention to Rocco, to show respect to the man of the house. ‘I need to hear the big secret. The baby’s name.’
Rocco lights a cigarette for himself and offers me one, which I accept. ‘Guess.’
Oh, come on. The guess is so easy it isn’t even a guess. But I play along. ‘Stefano?’
Elena is pouring wine for all of us. ‘Wrong,’ she says. ‘Try again.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, to cut it short.
‘Let’s raise a glass.’
We all do.
‘The name’s Piero,’ Rocco says. ‘To Piero.’
We clink our glasses, looking each other in the eye, as you do when you toast here. ‘Like your dad,’ I say. Big whopping surprise.
‘And the next one will have your dad’s name,’ Rocco immediately points out. ‘Or your mum’s, if she’s a girl. And I promise you one thing, Tony.’
I raise my glass once more, to invite him to go on.
Rocco says, ‘I’ll never let this boy be ashamed of his uncle. You’ll see him whenever you want.’
‘That’s… that’s great. Thank you.’
‘You’re cool, whatever some folks say. You know I don’t have problems with what you… do.’
What Rocco does with his life, in my book, is far worse than anything I might remotely think to do with my dick, but this isn’t the moment to take offence, so I nod non-committally. I try a calamari ring. God, is it delicious. It gives way under my teeth like a charm, and my taste buds sing at the light aftertaste of olive oil in the batter. I ask Elena, ‘How do you do that?’
‘Mum taught me.’
‘Don’t tell her I said this, but you’ve surpassed the mistress.’ She smiles. ‘What’s up, Tony?’
‘What…?’
‘You’ve got something on your mind.’
That’s my little sister for you. Beautiful and clever and pitiless. I guzzle a good swig of wine. ‘I’d like to have a word with Rocco.’
‘I’m happy to hear that.’
‘Elena…’
Elena shakes her head slowly. No, she won’t leave.
‘It’s okay,’ Rocco says. ‘It really is, Tony.’ Rocco is, to put it mildly, a complicated man. He owns a small building firm which is doing great. It’s doing great mostly because he has the right sort of connections, of the Sacra, Unita and Corona kind.
I sigh and say, ‘I’ve got to ask you something.’
‘A favour?’
‘No.’ I pause. ‘Not exactly.’
‘We’re family, Tony. Ask away.’
‘It’s about Art, Arturo Musiello, a mate of mine. Do you remember him?’
Rocco is motionless. The only movement around him is the smoke billowing out of his cigarette. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘He disappeared.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have this thing, with the old gang: we meet once a year in Casalfranco.’
Elena says, ‘Yeah, Rocco knows.’
‘This year Art stood us up. He’s not home, and doesn’t answer the phone.’
Slowly, Rocco brings the cigarette to his lips. ‘It’s not the Corona.’
I would give an arm – my right arm – not to be having this discussion in front of my little sister. ‘I suppose you know he was dealing weed.’
‘Yes.’ Rocco takes a few drags from his cigarette. He doesn’t speak, and neither does Elena. Finally, Rocco asks, ‘How much do you want to know?’
‘Everything I need.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I know.’
Rocco nods. ‘Fine then. Art had the Corona’s blessing.’
‘Did he work for… them?’ For you, I almost say. I pray Rocco isn’t better connected than I think.
‘No, he’s small scale. We’re talking a handful of plants. Excellent quality though.’
‘Since when does the Corona allow competitors, big or small?’
‘They don’t. I said Art had their blessing.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘He did a service for the Corona, and in payment he asked for a… how can I put it? A licence.’
This is getting worse by the minute. Mauro’s voice in my head insists, Stop talking right now, jackass. Stop talking and walk away. The less you know, the less trouble you are in. ‘What did he do?’
Rocco stubs out his cigarette on a wooden ashtray. ‘He didn’t run away from home, did he? When he was a boy. Elena says you guys never believed that.’
‘He didn’t. Before you ask: no, I don’t have a clue what really happened.’
Rocco distractedly reaches out to a calamari ring. ‘He’s a weird man, your friend.’
‘Rocco, please. What did Art do?’
‘He healed a girl.’
‘How do you mean, healed? Art’s not a doctor.’
‘He didn’t heal her that way.’
‘What, he worked a miracle?’
‘Yes,’ Rocco replies, simply.
I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t happen very often; usually when my brain blanks, my mouth takes over and goes on blabbering on its own. Not this time. ‘May I have another cigarette?’
Rocco hands me the packet. ‘She had leukaemia. Eight years old, and at the end of the line. The doctors’ only doubt was whether she had two weeks to live or four.’
‘Crap.’
Elena is taking small bites from a slice of bread, with the silence of a perfect wife. She breaks it to ask, ‘Have you seen cases like that?’
‘Some.’
Rocco says, ‘This girl, though, she wasn’t just another girl. She was the daughter of a very powerful man.’
‘Powerful, how?’
‘Let’s put it this way: in Salento, he’s the head on which the Crown sits. The King, if you want.’
No, I don’t want. I don’t want to know, I don’t even want to have asked. But I have to, for Art, for my mate. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Don’t ask that sort of question, Tony, don’t ever ask them. Names don’t do any good.’
I shouldn’t have had a drink; my head feels dizzy. ‘Course. So Art got in touch with this… King.’
‘Art came to me asking to be put in touch with him.’
‘How long ago would that be?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘Just after Art moved back to Casalfranco?’
‘More or less.’
‘And you did as he asked.’
‘I’ve known your mate since we were boys. He talks a lot, but he puts his money where his mouth is. I’ve got friends of friends who work for the powerful man, so fixing a meeting was easy. Art promised he would heal the girl, if he was left alone with her for, and I quote, a night and a day, no questions asked.’
‘And the powerful man allowed that?’
‘You’ll never be a father, Tony, you can’t understand. The girl was as good as dead. The powerful man, the King, would have done everything in his power to save her. If Art were a charlatan, at least the man would have had someone to take revenge on. He checked her out from the hospital, just before sunset, and brought her to Art’s house.’
‘Then what?’
‘The powerful man left, and after a night and a day, he returned. He found his girl sleeping. Art said to let her sleep, and that she’d be fine when she woke up. The man took her home and did exactly that; he let her sleep. The girl woke up a couple of days later.’
‘And she was fine.’
Rocco nods. ‘Peachy. Art refused payment. He only asked to be allowed to sell his produce in Casalfranco, promising he’d never turn that into a full-scale operation. He also asked not to be bothered by the Corona again. He made it very clear that healing the girl had been the one and only service he’d ever do for them. I received a nifty sum for my services, the girl lived, and as far as I know the powerful man kept his promise and hasn’t been in touch with Art since.’
I mull over the story in silence. It’s not that I don’t believe in miracles, because I do. What I don’t believe is that Art could work one. I’ve seen pigeons more spiritual than he is. ‘But now Art’s missing and my friends want to go to the Carabinieri,’ I say, massaging the truth a little.
‘Not Fabio, I’m sure. Is it Mauro?’
I nod. ‘You know him.’
‘You can tell him not to waste his time. The Carabinieri know that Art is involved with the Corona; they won’t charge him for dealing, but they won’t start a search party for him either. They won’t give a fuck either way.’
‘What about the Corona?’
‘They might be interested,’ Rocco says, after a pause.
Elena says, ‘Rocco could spread the word and see what happens, if that’s what you want.’
I look at her. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
Rocco says, ‘Brother, mind a piece of advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Be careful with your friend. There’s something funny about him.’
I joke, ‘But you said he’s a miracle worker. Like Jesus.’
‘Jesus, or the other guy,’ Rocco says. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
8
Art didn’t cry for the death of his dad. ‘I had plenty of time to get used to the idea,’ was all he said, and actually his dad had had cancer for the better part of three years and he had made peace with the fact he was shuffling off the mortal coil. His mum died without notice. She was making orecchiette for the first communion of the granddaughter of a friend, on her marble working table, just beneath a socket. She was very proud of that table, which was a gift from her husband for their twenty-fifth anniversary. To make an orecchietta, you take a tiny piece of dough, you fold it in the shape of an ear around your thumb, and you leave it on the side. And then you make another one, and another, for as many pieces of pasta as you need, in a work that can go on for hours. When my mum does it, she enters into a sort of trance. That is what must have happened to Art’s. Her husband had installed all the sockets in the house way before anything remotely similar to health and safety entered into the picture, and like many old things in town, those sockets were at the end of the line. She didn’t notice that the one above the table was dangling, just slightly. She didn’t notice the naked cable hanging too close, and didn’t notice the back of her hand touching it. It was a bad way to go.
When Art called her, as he did every day, and she didn’t reply, he immediately alerted the Carabinieri, who went to check on her and discovered the body. Art was in Prague at the time. He found a flight to Brindisi Airport the next day. Mauro and I were there for him, waiting with a car. I’d driven from Rome, and Mauro had taken a flight from Milan. Fabio couldn’t come. He was tied up with a photo shoot, or something.
Art came out of the gate and he reassured us, ‘I’m fine.’ We got a quick coffee, then drove to Casalfranco’s morgue for the identification of the body. Art asked Mauro and me to go in with him. When the shy, young doctor showed us the body, I felt a lump in my throat. Art’s mum was small and she had died as she had lived, clad in black; she took to black when her husband passed and never stopped. She was a sweet woman, always kind to us. Other mums would have been disappointed in how Art was throwing away his gifts, but she never complained.
‘It’s her,’ he announced, and the doctor duly took note.
In the parking lot of that dreadful place, Mauro asked, ‘Do you want to get some rest? We can talk to Don Alfredo for you.’
It was February, bitter cold. Art lit a cigarette with a match. ‘I can’t go home just yet.’
Art’s mum very much wanted to have a good Christian funeral, and Art was strong enough to swallow his opinion and accept that. In the past hours Mauro and I had liaised over the phone with Don Alfredo, to organise the function. There are other churches in Casalfranco, but Don Alfredo’s is the chiesa matrice, the main one, and there was no higher honour for the old woman than to have her funeral there. The trouble was, honour costs money. Don Alfredo asked for a thousand euros, cash, plus three hundred for his trusted florist. Business as usual. That was far more than Art could afford, but not a big dent on mine and Mauro’s finances. We would pay everything, and we would pay for the undertaker too. Art would have done the same for us.
Don Alfredo’s office was inside the church, at the back of the left nave. Mauro knocked at the door, and the priest’s voice invited us, ‘Come on in.’
When we entered, he was switching off the TV. ‘Art,’ he said, standing up from his leather armchair, ‘my son, I am sorry for your loss.’
Art didn’t answer.
‘Your mum is in a better place now,’ Don Alfredo said. ‘She’s happy.’
Art said, ‘When are we having the funeral? I need to put up the notice.’ When someone dies in Casalfranco, the family posts a funeral notice on walls in different parts of town, so that people know where and when to go. Art’s mum had been very insistent that the notice should be up as soon as possible and on as many walls as possible; she wanted all the townsfolk with her on her last trip. God, I loved that woman.
Don Alfredo raised his neck in a stiff pose. ‘The day after tomorrow, at three pm.’
‘Couldn’t we move it to the evening? More people would come.’
‘That’s the only slot available, I’m afraid.’
‘Fine,’ Art cut it short. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘There’s the matter of the payment.’
I took out a wad of notes and handed it to Don Alfredo. ‘Here. Thirteen hundred, cash, as you asked.’
‘Cash,’ Art scoffed.
Don Alfredo ignored him, licked the point of his index finger, and set out to count the notes. ‘There’s everything,’ he said. ‘Not that I doubted it. You’re an honest man, Tony, your… condition notwithstanding.’
I let that go. I didn’t want to have an argument with a priest in his own church. I didn’t have a lot of respect for Don Alfredo as a person, but I did for his office.
Don Alfredo went on, ‘That condition is a problem, as I hope you understand.’
Art said, ‘I’m not sure I do.’
I said, ‘Art…’
‘Your suggestion,’ Don Alfredo interrupted me, ‘was that the three of you should be the pallbearers, along with a cousin. That can’t be done, I’m afraid.’
‘Can’t?’ Art said.
‘I cannot allow a man in a state of mortal sin to walk down the central aisle of my church, in such a pivotal role. It is nothing personal, Tony. You know there will always be a place for you in the House of God, when you decide to amend your ways. We hate the sin, we love the sinner.’
After a moment of silence which seemed to stretch out for one or two ice ages, Art said, ‘So I guess you’re going to pay taxes on that cash. Stealing is a sin too, Father.’
Don Alfredo narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m doing you a favour, do not forget that.’
‘A favour? I wouldn’t say that, no. You’re selling your services.’ Art raised one finger and moved it in a small circle. ‘All this – the church, the pomp, the bread and the cheap wine – is a fancy dress party. And you? You’re the third-rate clown whose job is to entertain the kids with some fanciful bollocks a
nd jump when he’s told jump, that’s all you are. So, Father: suck it up, and jump.’
Don Alfredo gaped at him. Then he closed his mouth, and curled his lips in half a smile. ‘I’m calling it off.’
Art’s reaction came out of nowhere: fighting was not his strong point, and he tended to avoid it. But that time he clenched a fist, drew back his arm, and punched Don Alfredo.
I felt a jolt of excitement, and I didn’t pray to Jesus for forgiveness, ’cause I was sure Jesus felt the same. Art’s blow was feeble, but then again, so was Don Alfredo, and he stumbled and almost fell. At the last moment he caught a corner of the sofa, and pulled himself back up. Mauro caught hold of Art’s arms, from behind, to keep him from hitting the priest again. Blood was pouring from Don Alfredo’s nose. ‘Don’t you dare use my mum’s funeral as leverage!’ Art shouted, wriggling to break free. ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Art, calm down,’ Mauro said.
The priest shouted back, wagging his finger like a censer during an exorcism. ‘You filth! You can forget the funeral and—’
I interrupted him, ‘We did pay.’
‘I don’t care for your money!’
‘Yes,’ Mauro said, in flat voice. ‘Yes, you do.’
And boy, was he right. We had to fork out three hundred more to calm him down, but in the end Don Alfredo accepted our apologies and clutched his talons on our notes. When we drew Art away, Art apologised, ‘That cost you.’
‘Totally worth it,’ I said.
Mauro laughed. ‘Agreed.’
We drove to Art’s. When we got inside, the familiar scent of his house enveloped me. Meat hung to cure, young wine, boiled greens, that was the scent of the last peasant households in Casalfranco. With Art’s mum gone, this was one more place from where that scent would disappear forever.
The dough was still on the table. Some orecchiette were neatly lined, until the lines became a mess of squashed pasta. Art’s mum jerked and jolted in her last moments of life, while high-voltage electricity burned her from the inside. She’d left on her prized table a physical trace of her death.
That was when Art started sobbing.
It took me a little while to get it. Art was crying. I’d seen him swimming in a storm, giving his middle finger to an entire town, organising with cold efficiency his dad’s funeral. I didn’t think he had it in himself to cry.
The Book of Hidden Things Page 9