The Book of Hidden Things

by Francesco Dimitri

  Next to the coal-filled pit is a table loaded with paper cups, and next to it, a row of wooden wine casks. There’s not a drop of water in sight; the notion of teetotal never made it this far south.

  Give or take, there are a hundred people in the field, maybe a few more. Men outnumber women ten to one. Maybe a few more. Some are crowded around the pit, drinking wine, chatting in small knots. The majority of them, though, are gathered in the space between the three bonfires. Their backs move excitedly, and when their shifting and rocking offers me a glimpse of what lies beyond, I see a ronda in full swing.

  It is made of three concentric circles. The outermost is a circle of spectators, watching the show. Inside that is a circle of oil lanterns, and inside that, the third and last circle, is a circle of men, only men, making music with tambourines, harmonicas, or simply clapping their hands. At the centre of the three circles, at the heart of the ritual, two men are dancing, and fighting.

  ‘The Dance of the Swords,’ Fabio whispers.

  Mauro adds, ‘The unabridged edition.’

  One of the men at the centre must be in his forties. He’s bare-chested and covered in sweat. His skin sparkles in the flames. His opponent – his partner – is barely in his twenties, skinny as a dead twig, with his white shirt flapping out of the trousers. Each of them points two fingers towards the other, pretending the fingers are knives. They use the fingers to thrust, cut and block, exactly as if they were knives. It’s not just a dance, and it’s not properly a fight.

  I’ve seen a Dance of the Swords in the past, in a sanitised form. It’s a strange dance, born in the criminal underground of Salento, and protected, so the legend goes, by none other than San Rocco, a popular saint among peasants. The dance was supposed to be how criminals kept their fighting skills honed in prison. The dancing part is more than a little misleading though; the fighters do follow the rhythm of the taranta, but, at the same time, they also try to outdo their adversary. They have to keep track of both things at once: the dance and the fight, the music and the bloodlust. I can’t move my eyes from the ronda.

  ‘I’d kill for some jummarieddi,’ Fabio says.

  ‘We’re at a Sacra Corona Unita get-together; mind the words you use,’ Mauro finds in himself to joke.

  Their words snap me out of the dance’s spell. While we gravitate towards the burning coals a happy voice shouts, ‘Hey!’

  Elena is waving at me. What the fuck? Rocco should be here, not her. She should be safe at home, not in the fields among criminals. We need to talk, me and her.

  ‘Easy,’ Mauro murmurs.

  I force my facial muscles to fake a smile, and wave back. I point to the jummarieddi with an enthusiasm I don’t feel, and pat my belly saying ‘Good food!’

  ‘I’m so glad you came!’ Elena says.

  ‘So would I be if I knew what we’d come to.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Mum and Dad brought us to see the Dance of Swords when I was… what? Seven?’

  I pay for a plate of jummarieddi. ‘Six. But that was in the centre of town and well advertised, not in the middle of nowhere and secret.’

  ‘This is the real thing. It’s like jummarieddi, you know? Too strong a flavour for the tourists. Mauro! Fabio! Long time no see.’

  ‘Since your wedding,’ Fabio replies. He points at her belly. ‘Oh, and by the way, congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you guys want a rundown of what to expect?’

  Mauro says, ‘Please.’

  I know how Mauro’s mind works. He’s taking in everything about the situation, the people involved, already thinking of ways to get out of trouble in a court, if we end up in court. Which is unlikely. What trouble arises here is sorted far from the prying lights of civilisation.

  Elena points at the ronda. ‘They’re only warming up. When they’re ready they’ll get the blades out.’

  ‘For real?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure.’ She points to a poised man in his fifties, with a flat cap and a denim jacket. ‘That’s Gianpiero. You want to place a bet, you talk to him.’

  ‘A bet on a dance?’

  ‘A bet on a fight.’

  ‘How do you tell who the winner is?’

  ‘The dance stops at first, second or third blood. Before entering the ronda each two dancers decide how far they’ll go.’

  Elena is in her element here. I could cry – or, even better, smash things and faces. It is all I can do not to shout at her to run back home immediately, to Mum and Dad and an honest life, and be the good girl she was raised to be. I don’t have that authority anymore, if I ever did. ‘What are we doing here? Me and my mates, I mean.’

  ‘Someone’ll talk to you.’

  ‘And where’s Rocco?’

  ‘At work,’ Elena replies.

  18

  My little sister returns to the crowd after buying us three cups of wine. Nothing for her, because she’s pregnant and she’s a good mother. I follow her with my eyes as she makes herself busy smiling and waving and talking to people. She has a lot of friends. They treat her like a man, the highest accolade there is.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Fabio says.

  ‘She’s not a bad person.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The jummarieddi are a thing of awe, bitter in an absolutely delicious way, like I hadn’t tasted since Art’s dad got ill. We wander to the ronda, to follow the dance, or the fight, or whatever it is. The pace of the music becomes faster, and after draining my cup and polishing off the meat, I find myself tapping a foot to the beat. Elena, Art, all my worries fade away; the drums and the dancers’ movements pin me to here and now, to the circle, to the blades. I recognise the hypnosis for what it is – sure I do – but I won’t, or can’t, resist. It’s like being possessed by some spirit who heard the call of the taranta, the knives, the entrails on burning coals.

  Fabio leaves his empty cup on the ground and starts clapping his hands. We’re joining something bigger; we’re part of the music now, part of the dance. The dancers wave their arms and shift their feet to the music, and the music is the rope bonding us to them, bonding all bodies sweating together in the circle, the fighters and the musicians and us common mortals. Clapping my hands feels almost like being at the centre, with a blade in my hand and another man to bring down. Who knows how it would feel to really dance. I would have a great time.

  I glance at Mauro, beyond Fabio’s laughing face. Mauro is motionless, his wine barely touched, his eyes attentive.

  The dancers merge back with the circle, and two new dancers step forward, both bare-chested, both glinting with the reflected light of the fires. They are more or less our age, one of them with raven-black hair tied in a ponytail, the other completely shaved. I root for ponytail guy. He’s hot.

  ‘Second blood!’ Gianpiero shouts in the booming voice of a ringmaster.

  These dancers don’t waste time on heating up. After a few perfunctory steps and moves of their fingers, they draw out two nasty-looking boot blades, without stopping their dance. They start to thrust and dodge, and the smiles never leave their faces. I can’t tell if they’re actually trying to hit each other or just playing, where the dance ends and the fight begins. Ponytail guy suddenly plunges forward, and he seems to penetrate shaved guy’s guard – only, shaved guy is dancing sideways, and ponytail guy hits air. Shaved guy doesn’t: he lets his knife drop on ponytail guy’s cheek, opening a gash. Blood pours all over his face. That’s me: always betting on the hot guy, never the good one.

  A hand taps my left shoulder.

  I turn. A man stands there, a little shorter than me (and I am no giant). He might be in his seventies, and each of his years is a stone making him sturdier. He’s in a pair of corduroy trousers and a white shirt, open on his chest to show a shiny golden cross. More gold – a wedding band – is wrapped around a finger. His face is marked with two scars, one on a cheek, the other on his upper lip. This guy’s so dangerous that he doesn’t need to show it; he has no guns, no blades, and his face wears a plain ex
pression, not the tough-guy act you can see on the other faces here. He’s the sort of man holidaymakers would find quaint and we locals know better than to find anything at all.

  He makes a curt gesture with his head, inviting me and my mates to follow, and we oblige without saying a word. He leads us away from the ronda, back to the burning pit, where he gets a plate of jummarieddi without paying. He shovels one in his mouth and asks, ‘Is it the girl?’

  I say, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Is it the girl, that put Art in trouble?’ He points at Mauro. ‘Hey, Serious One. Get me a glass, sì?’

  Mauro nods and hurries to fetch him wine. If this man wants us to be his minions for tonight, we’ll be his minions for tonight, and say thank you for the opportunity.

  I ask, ‘Carolina, you mean?’

  ‘That bitch counts for nothing. I’m talking about the other girl, the one Art was in love with.’

  We answer with silence. The one Art was in love with. Mauro returns and hands the wine to the man.

  Fabio says, ‘We never heard of another girl.’

  The man tastes the wine, looking thoughtful. ‘I’m Michele,’ he introduces himself. ‘Don’t bother with names. I know yours. Art talked about you every other day. He was always, My mates this, my mates that.’

  ‘How did you know him?’ I ask.

  ‘He came to me a couple of years ago.’

  ‘After…’

  ‘After healing the little girl,’ Michele says.

  ‘It’s true, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michele says. ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  It doesn’t matter whether I believe that or not. Folks like Michele are always right, in practice if not in theory, because they have the means to enforce how right they are. When they say you’re their minion, they’re right. When they say your mate is a miracle worker, they’re right again.

  ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he adds. ‘Rumour has it, you guys want to know her dad’s name.’

  Danger, my instinct shouts. ‘I—’

  ‘You’ll stop that,’ Michele interrupts me. ‘You’ll stop that immediately.’

  I nod. The King wishes to stay private, he will stay private.

  ‘Good. We can talk, though, the four of us. Art’s my favourite boy. I wish him only good.’ He drains half his glass of wine in one go. ‘When he healed the girl, he asked her dad three things: to deal a little weed in Casalfranco, to never be bothered again, and to be put in touch with me.’

  I say, ‘We didn’t know this part.’

  ‘Rocco is not at liberty to discuss it. I am.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ Fabio says, ‘who are you?’

  Michele touches the scar on his cheek. ‘The dancing master.’

  The more I find out about Art, the less I get him. ‘Art wanted to learn the Dance of the Swords?’

  ‘He learnt it all right. Best pupil I ever had; he entered the ronda like nothing could hurt him. He went for third blood, always. Won more than he lost.’

  ‘I never pegged Art for the sporty type.’

  Michele dismisses my comment, annoyed. ‘The dance is not a sport. It requires skill, sure, and for most dancers that’s all there is. But every now and then – very, very rarely – one like Art comes along.’

  ‘One like Art, that is…?’ Fabio asks.

  I glance at Mauro, who’s too intent on listening to speak.

  Michele says, ‘A man blessed by San Rocco. Or a saint, himself.’

  I move my eyes from Michele to the ronda. Second blood – the dance is over. Two new dancers, younger than the last ones, are entering the circle. They can’t be more than twenty, tops. The crowd cheers even more loudly. ‘First blood!’ Gianpiero shouts.

  I say, ‘I never pegged Art for the saintly type either.’

  Michele scoffs. ‘And what would you know?’

  ‘I’m a good Christian.’

  ‘Good for you, boy. You still don’t know the first thing about the dance. You think it’s just a bunch of thugs waving knives at each other, sì?’

  There’s no polite way to answer that, so I don’t answer.

  ‘You don’t know the first thing,’ Michele repeats. ‘The dance belongs to San Rocco, and we dance to honour him. The moves, the music, the blades and the blood – that’s how we call San Rocco upon earth, that’s how we talk to him. The Dance of the Swords is a prayer, boy, and I’ve seen nobody pray like Art.’

  For a few moments, no one speaks. The taranta, the cheers from the crowd, it’s difficult to think of them as a prayer. The boys in the ronda are not signing themselves with holy water, they’re drawing each other’s blood.

  Fabio breaks the silence, using his I’m-better-than-this-religious-hogwash voice. ‘So, what did he pray for?’

  Michele stares at him. ‘You don’t believe.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Fabio says, refusing to divert his eyes. ‘It doesn’t change what I’m saying. Never seen a happy man praying. Those who do, they ask for something.’

  Michele grimaces. ‘You’re going to Hell, that’s your business. You’re right though, we turn to the saints when we need their help. Isn’t that selfish? We all pray for what we don’t have: money, health. Love.’

  ‘The girl?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I ask, ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Art wouldn’t say. He’s a prudent man, when he wants to be. He calls her La Madama.’

  La Madama. I remember Art using those words. We all thought he was referring to Carolina. Will we ever stop being wrong about him? ‘Then he danced,’ I say, ‘and he… prayed for the love of this woman?’

  ‘For San Rocco to help him with her, sì.’

  I let the news roll inside my head. The bottom line is, Art was sleeping with a married woman while in love with a mystery lady. Nothing strange on that front; all of Art’s appetites were insatiable, until they came to an abrupt end. What surprises me is the in love part. I didn’t think Art was wired for love. I say, ‘You and Art were close.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘Do you know he was writing a book?’

  ‘The Book of Hidden Things. He didn’t show it to me. He promised he would, but he never did.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Last week,’ Michele says, without hesitation. ‘Eight days ago. We had coffee together.’ Michele looks at the ronda, making it very clear that he doesn’t want us to distract him now. He follows the dance with the eye of an art collector in a gallery. After a while he turns his attention back to us. ‘You think Art is dead.’

  It’s not a question, so we don’t answer.

  ‘You’re looking in the wrong place,’ Michele continues. ‘Art could be cocky, and not everybody got on well with him, but the boys wouldn’t have lifted a finger against him. He saved an important life.’

  Fabio asks, ‘Is Don Alfredo on your payroll?’

  My stomach leaps. This is one of those questions you never ask. Michele looks at Fabio in the way men like him look at men like us, when they are pondering what’s less hassle – let your tongue blabber on, or cut it off and be done with it. ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Then he’s involved somehow.’

  ‘He’s a man of the Church.’

  ‘He’s a prick.’

  It’s a sudden gesture, quicker than my eye. Michele raises a hand and slaps Fabio, with a downward movement, hard enough to crack Fabio’s lips and spill blood. I clench my fist, ready to go. You don’t leave your mates on their own in a fight – for all the good it would do. We wouldn’t last two minutes out here.

  A flash of anger goes through Fabio’s eyes. He dabs at the blood with a hand.

  Michele folds his arms and stares at him, as though challenging him to react. ‘You must respect a servant of God,’ he says.

  It looks like Fabio might be stupid. He’s not. He says, ‘I apologise,’ and I can start to make plans for the future again.

  Michele ignores him and turns to
me. He pats me on a cheek, amiably. ‘You find anything out about Art,’ he says, ‘you run it through me, sì? Elena has my number.’

  19

  I drive back to Casalfranco and the modern world, my mind filled with Elena, saints, drums and blades. Fabio, riding shotgun, looks out of the window, a dark expression on his face, while Mauro, on the back seat, checks his phone.

  ‘If I get what just happened, we’re working for the Corona now,’ Fabio says.

  I answer, ‘I wouldn’t say that. We’re only being friendly with a, uh, dancing master.’

  ‘We don’t have any choice.’

  ‘That’s also true,’ I admit.

  ‘In the parking lot I looked for the white Mercedes. It was too dark to be sure, but I don’t think it was there.’

  ‘It wasn’t there,’ Mauro says.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Look who found his voice again.’

  Mauro didn’t move his eyes from the screen of his phone. ‘My guy just emailed me back about the Mercedes. I don’t think it’s Corona.’ In the back mirror, I see him frowning. ‘No, it’s definitely not Corona.’

  FABIO

  1

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for messing with my Plan,’ Art said, putting his hands on Mauro’s shoulders.

  ‘Which would be?’ Mauro asked.

  ‘Sitting out the Mass. There’s a nice little bench behind the church. A perfect spot for reading, that one.’

  ‘You’re not really planning to miss my wedding.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, the reception is the real McCoy. In years to come, people will tell stories about what we were eating, who got drunk, and who made a pass at whom. Nobody will remember the Mass! They’re all the same. Priest, rings, kiss, ready to go.’

  Missing the Mass had been my hope too – but Mauro was adamant: he wanted Art, me and Tony to be his best men. Mauro’s brother was let off the hook, officially because he’d converted to an obscure school of Buddhism in Milan, but actually because Mauro couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure that his brother wouldn’t drop acid during the ceremony.