The Book of Hidden Things

by Francesco Dimitri

  Art shakes his head.

  ‘I believe you, son! I feel them with me when I dance. Show me their faces!’

  He is not looking at me. I move a step in his direction.

  Michele turns. ‘I never liked you,’ he says, and fires.

  A burst of pain in my knee, fierce and sudden, the bones shattering and cutting flesh like shards of glass. My leg gives way and I plunge, yelling as hard as I did when I killed the kitten.

  How graceful Michele’s movements are: his gun returns to Art immediately after he fires, with the ease of a little wave coming ashore. He is a dancing master, and dances as well with guns and sinners as with swords and saints.

  Another person is yelling. Behind veiled eyes, on the point of losing consciousness, I see Tony draw his gun to point it at Michele’s head.

  ‘It’s unloaded, coglione,’ Michele says.

  Tony pulls the trigger.

  It is not.

  MAURO

  1

  Thank God Rebecca is sleeping.

  I turn my eyes too late. I catch a glimpse of Michele’s head being suddenly thrust backwards, drops of blood and chunks of bone zipping by like tiny insects in the smoke. When I look again Michele is in the dirt, a huge hole in his skull, blood soaking the earth, almost invisible, red upon red. Tony has stopped yelling, and Fabio too. It is a strange moment of bonding, the four of us silently watching the corpse of a criminal we just killed. And Rebecca is sleeping, thank God, and she will never know any of this happened.

  See? We didn’t trespass. I am mad at myself for the pang of disappointment surging inside me. I was silly enough, or enough in the thrall of Art, to believe that possibly, maybe, who knows. But Tony killed a man and no magic happened. There is no escape from this world. You can only face the music and dance.

  And what a dance we have here.

  I bring my hands to my face. It is a little secret ritual I go through before a difficult day in court: I join my open hands on my face, and then I let them slip sideward, one right and one left, as if I could wash away all fears, all worry, from my brain, and keep inside me only the useful bits. I forget the guitar player and leave space to the world-weary bastard. As my hands slip, I smell smoke and petrol, and think, we need to get out of here. The fire is spreading fast.

  It is a tight corner, but it could be tighter.

  I take a quick look at Fabio’s leg. His knee is shattered into a million pieces; I doubt he will ever walk again without a cane. The man who did that is dead.

  Good.

  ‘Take Rebecca to the car,’ I say to Tony.

  He says, ‘I killed a man.’

  ‘Yes, and we don’t have time to talk about that just now. Take her to the car.’ I turn to Art. ‘Are you helping me with Fabio?’

  Without a word, he walks to Fabio. Fabio lets out a cry while Art and I carefully lift him to his feet. I cry too – my wound hurts. From the corner of my eye I register Tony scooping up my little girl. We make our way out of the olive grove, and every step is like a hammer blow. From the fields outside, I can appreciate how much smoke the fire is giving out. It will be noticed, even in this desolation, if it has not been already.

  ‘Do you have any petrol left?’ I ask Art.

  ‘In the boot.’

  Some things don’t change: Art would always be sure to stock spares, whatever his project was. He doesn’t take chances. Art and I help Fabio into the back of Tony’s car. Tony rests my beautiful Rebecca in the front. While he gives Fabio first aid, I walk to Art’s car and open the boot. There are two red petrol cans. I pick one and walk back to the olive grove.

  I am a tax consultant; hiding traces is second nature to me.

  Being alone in this grove gives me an eerie feeling; a whiff of my escape fantasy hits me again. If only it were true. If only another world existed, where you can be forever young. I squint to see if I can make out eerie shapes in the smoke – a half-seen enchanted woman, a glimpsed ghost – a trace, at least, if not proof. But nothing is there.

  While I walk I open the can, and when I reach Michele’s body, I empty the contents on it. It has to burn quickly; when the fire brigade arrives, the easily recognisable parts must be gone. They will identify him in time, but not tonight.

  The root of the immense olive tree on which Rebecca was sleeping caught fire. I kick the body towards the root, and the fire, hungry as it is, spreads from wood to petrol to flesh. I am sorry for Tony, who killed a man, I am sorry for Fabio, who will lose his leg, I am sorry for Art, and I am sorry for myself. I have no tears left for this small-town mafioso. I hurry out of the olive grove. I have my friends waiting for me. Michele had his friends too.

  Therein lies the problem.

  2

  Tony pulls into Elena’s driveway, Art follows in his stolen car behind us. Fabio managed not to pass out, but he’s getting weaker by the minute. Tony won’t fix him as he fixed me; Fabio was shot by a professional who meant him harm. And yet we can’t take him to the hospital. After what we did to Michele, we’d be condemning him, and ourselves, to certain death.

  ‘Come in,’ Elena says, opening the door. ‘I made coffee.’

  Behind her is Rocco, who doesn’t even pretend anymore to be in control of this household. I scoop up Rebecca, while Art and Tony help Fabio in. He is biting his lips hard enough to draw blood. Elena shows me the room where I rested only two nights ago. The linen on the bed is clean. I lower Rebecca onto it, and kiss her forehead. The scent of smoked olive wood lingers on her skin. It smells good, like the aftertaste of a bonfire with friends.

  When Elena and I get back to the living room, we find Art sitting on a wicker chair, Fabio slumped on the sofa, breathing hard, and Rocco standing with his hands buried in his pockets and the face of a man who is in over his head. Tony shouts at Elena, ‘You fucking sold me!’

  Rocco says, ‘Chill out, man.’

  Tony whips his head in Rocco’s direction, and Rocco moves a step back.

  He’s laid out the coffee on the table in front of the sofa. Calmly, Elena picks a cup and sips. ‘I put you in touch with Michele, and Michele told you what to do, and you didn’t do it.’

  ‘I’m not Corona.’

  ‘So what, Tony? Are you too much of an idiot to realise the danger you put my family in? I did what I had to do, for all of us.’

  ‘Selling my ass was what you had to do?’

  ‘Your gun was loaded, wasn’t it?’

  Tony hits a wall with the side of his fist. ‘You made me kill a man!’

  ‘I didn’t make you do anything. I was praying you’d be smart, that’s all.’

  I shoot a look at Art. All his energy has left him; he has a tired face, ten years older than his age. He is looking at the light of the morning outside. He must still be thinking of his Madama, of his hidden world, and though that world might not exist, his longing for it is all too real. I can relate to that. I don’t hate Art because he tried to kill my daughter. I love him because he couldn’t; even the promise of eternal pleasure could not make him harm Rebecca. Buried deep inside the lunatic he has become, there is still the good man I knew. I hope that goes for the rest of us too.

  ‘But now we have a problem,’ I say. ‘We killed a Corona man.’

  ‘And Fabio’s leg needs to be seen to!’ Tony snaps.

  Elena says, ‘There might be a way out.’

  Silence. Then Art scoffs and says, ‘Was that your plan all along?’

  Elena shrugs.

  Art shakes his head slowly. He does something I have rarely seen him do – he looks at Elena with respect. ‘Go on, then. Make your call.’

  Elena stands up and exits the room, shadowed by Rocco.

  ‘What?’ Tony says. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Art says, ‘The King, Tony, the head on which the Corona sits – he has more use for my magic than he had for Michele. I’m giving myself into his hands.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Art, I killed a man and nothing happened! Your Hidden Things, your ma
gic, none of that is real.’

  But Tony knows as well as I do that’s beside the point. Reality belongs to those with bigger guns.

  ‘He’s a reasonable man,’ Art says. ‘I’ll ask him to give you no grief in exchange for my services, and you’ll see – no sane doctor will ask what happened to Fabio’s leg. Oh, and the Corona won’t have a reason to hurt Silvana. I give myself to the powerful man, to the King, and it’s win-win.’

  Sure, in a world where win-win means you and your families are not going to die in the next forty-eight hours. On the sofa, Fabio struggles to keep his eyes open. I think he is still awake, but he can’t, or won’t, talk. I look at him. I look at Tony. It is funny. Art’s magic will save us after all. ‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘If I understand how this works, once you’re in the hands of this man, you’ll be his… servant, basically.’

  Art smiles, a trace of his energy returning. ‘I’ll find a way out when the Time is right. Meanwhile…’ He pauses, and rubs his hands together. ‘I’ll play court wizard to the King. It’s not going to be too bad after all. No, no. It is going to be fun. A whole lot of fun.’

  TONY

  I will never get tired of American Pizza. The pizza is good, not the best in town, but good. It could be kneaded with rat poison for all I care. I come here just to be here. Outwardly this place has changed a lot since tourists discovered Casalfranco, but its soul remains the same. For many, many years, me and my mates would meet here, once a year, the only fixed point in the carousel of our lives. There would be four of us; now there’s three.

  I am the first to arrive. I sit down at our table, order a glass of Pinot Grigio, and start on the bread. I’m as nervous as a sixteen-year-old on a first date. It has been two years, exactly to the day (of course), since Fabio, Mauro and I came here, and Art didn’t. It has been almost two years since I killed a man. I came to accept that I don’t feel bad about that. Michele was a monster. I pulled the trigger, but he forced my hand.

  A German couple sit at a table not distant from mine. They are extremely proud of greeting the waiter by name and ordering food in heavily accented, but clear, Italian. Retirees, I bet; Salento is turning into Europe’s Florida. A lot of local people complain, but I say it is better now than it used to be back in the good old days, when fifteen minutes of hailstones in August could destroy your crop and make your family starve for the next year. The couple seem happy. They cheer me up.

  ‘Best shirt ever,’ Mauro says.

  Two years can do a lot to a face. The last time I saw Mauro, his hair was starting to go grey; now it’s definitely in salt-and-pepper territory. It suits him; it makes him appear wiser.

  ‘I knew you’d like it.’

  My short-sleeved shirt sports Disney characters dressed up as the Avengers. Uncle Scrooge makes for a wicked Iron Man, while I’m not that convinced by Mickey Mouse as Captain America.

  Mauro sits down and clears his throat. This is supposed to be the Pact reborn. Not exactly the Pact, because we did have to be in touch to organise it, and because it can’t be the Pact without Art, but the closest we could get. We couldn’t do it last year: our wounds were too fresh. This year is an experiment, a let’s-do-it-and-see-how-it-plays-out. I wasn’t sure I could sit at the same table with Fabio.

  ‘Boyfriend,’ Mauro says.

  I grin. ‘You saw Sergio on Facebook?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘He’s hot, right?’

  ‘I’d know the answer if I were a faggot.’

  I purse my lips in a kiss. ‘Come on, be my fuck buddy. We’re open-minded, Sergio and I.’

  Mauro twists his face in pretend disgust. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s an actor.’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’

  ‘He’s for real. He does Shakespeare and all that.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘I get a lot of free tickets.’

  Mauro picks at some bread. The conversation languishes, which is a first, with Mauro or Fabio. Too many elephants in this room. I’ll make away with the biggest.

  ‘I don’t have a clue what Art is doing,’ I say.

  ‘I wasn’t asking.’

  ‘Yeah, but you were wondering so loud I could hear you thinking. I’m not in touch with Elena. I saw her for the baby’s christening, and last Christmas, but we talked just enough to keep Mum and Dad happy.’

  ‘You still haven’t made up your mind about her?’

  ‘No.’

  Elena gave me a loaded gun. Was it out of a last-minute sense of sisterly love, or because she hoped I would dispose of Michele? I don’t know and, sure as Hell, I can’t ask her; I won’t sit down to be spoon-fed her bullshit. I can only rely on facts, and facts don’t look good. When I shot Michele, I knew I was saving Rebecca’s life, but I also knew that the Corona wouldn’t take it well. By pulling the trigger I was making dead meat of us all.

  Except, Art saved us.

  He gave himself to them, via Elena, and this time everything went according to plan. The King let us go, hushed any question about Fabio’s leg, freed Silvana.

  And also, he lavishly rewarded Elena with influence and power.

  Rocco’s firm is now the biggest in town. My little sister’s career got a serious boost out of me killing Michele. The question is, when she loaded my gun, did she do that to help me, or to double-cross him? I will never know. Mauro says it doesn’t matter, but of course it does.

  Just like I will never know what happened in the olive grove, twenty-four years ago, that was bad enough to send Art off his rocker. There were moments in which I almost bought his story. That was just a reflex. We always listened to him when we were young. But if I need any proof that Art’s story is a sad case of self-delusion, there we go: I killed a man, in the right place, at the right time, and we didn’t trespass. Am I such a bastard that bumping off a guy is not enough for me to do magic? Please. I’m rough sometimes, but I’m not Elena.

  No, I will never know what happened in the olive grove. All I can do is accept and move on. I lift my glass. ‘Alla salute di Art,’ I say, ‘the King’s wizard.’

  Mauro smiles, clinks his glass against mine. ‘Salute.’

  I ask, ‘Is Anna here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are things between you guys okay?’

  ‘Brilliant. But she says she had a revelation two years ago.’

  ‘That is?’

  ‘Casalfranco is a sexist shit-hole and she’ll never come here again.’

  ‘She joined Fabio’s club,’ I say, and immediately I wish I could take it back.

  Mauro laughs. ‘That was awkward.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Lots of water under lots of bridges. I’m fine with Fabio. Are you?’

  ‘I’ll know when I see him.’

  ‘I was the one who made it to the end in one piece. I refuse to hold grudges.’

  That day in the olive grove, when we stopped our clever friend Art from doing a very stupid thing, Fabio lost his leg. The bones and ligaments and muscles were fucked. They had to cut the leg above the knee. He’ll have to wear a prosthesis and walk with a stick for the rest of his life, which I suppose is worth a lot of forgiving.

  ‘You’re a better man than I am,’ I say.

  ‘You’re an awesome man, the best of the best. What you did for Rebecca is… I’ll never repay that debt in full.’

  ‘Paying for dinner tonight would be a start.’

  ‘Let’s not get carried away.’

  ‘I hear banter happening without me,’ Fabio says. ‘That, my friends, is unacceptable.’

  He wears a clean white shirt and has some stubble on his chin. He looks like a film star, more than ever, one that should be in front of the camera and not behind it. I am curious to learn how he is making ends meet; far as I know, he didn’t manage to sell his book. He will fill us in. He walks to our table, beaming.

  He walks. Without a stick. Without a limp.

  ‘Your leg!’ I say.

  Fabio sits down. H
e says, ‘Art.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I have a fraught relationship with acknowledgements. By saying thank you to the people who made a book with me I am implying not-so-subtly that there is something to thank them for, and thus, that said book is pretty good. No one would say, ‘thank you for cooking this stinking hotchpotch with me’. By acknowledging others, what we are in fact doing is congratulating ourselves.

  Though I like congratulations as much as the next guy (scrape under the skin of the most reserved of writers and you shall find a smug bastard), I really want this page to be about those other folks, the hidden ones, who gave time, soul, and sweat to make this book the best it could be.

  Starting with Piers Blofeld. Piers, you are far braver than I would have a right to ask. You are not only patient with my oddball ideas about stories and wonder, no, you actually defend them. To misquote the immortal Bluto Blutarsky, when goings get tough, you get going. Thank you for that.

  Ella! Ciao, Ella Chappell. You were kind enough to believe in this book and clever enough to see the work that needed to be done. Every last comment you made was precious. Your sense of rhythm and your sense of poetry have been huge assets, and a joy to behold. So: thank you.

  To my friends in Salento: thank you for refreshing my memory when it needed to be refreshed.

  My dear Bloomsbury crew: you know who you are, and you know what I am saying thank you for.

  Vassili Christodoulou and Susan Quilliam, your enthusiasm for the raw manuscript energised me and saw me through the many rewrites that brought it from there to here.

  And before anything happened, before I wrote the very first word on Hidden Things, before I took the very first note, there was Paola Filotico. Paola, you were certain that I could learn, as an adult, to write fiction in a second language. I thought you were bonkers.

  Fine. You win.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Francesco Dimitri is an Italian author and speaker living in London. He is on the Faculty of the School of Life. He is considered one of the foremost fantasy writers in Italy, and his works have been widely appreciated by non-genre readers too. A film has been made from his first novel, La Ragazza dei miei Sogni. The Book of Hidden Things is his debut novel in English.