That just left the question of delivery. The original idea had been for Pete to hop on a plane and drop it off in person, but that had to be ditched when the company found out about the missing game and, by a process of elimination, tied it to one of the most recent and bitter casualties of corporate down-sizing, Peter Viviani. The software developers might all be American, but the executives and the funding was Japanese, and those guys didn't fuck around. The original game of which this was an enhanced sequel — same characters, more levels, upgraded graphics, plus a bunch of other cool stuff — had sold something in the region of two million copies world-wide at around thirty bucks a pop. This one was expected to do even better.
You didn't need a maths degree to figure out why the samurai didn't want anyone cutting themselves a slice of that market by pirating a virtually identical product at half the price three months before the official release date.
So it was too risky for Pete himself, or any other member of the extended Viviani clan, to act as personal courier. The company knew that there was no risk of the game being duplicated in the States. To cash in, they had to get the stolen prototype out of the country, and as soon as possible, to maximize profits before the game became legally available. But wherever any member of the extended Viviani clan went, the local customs would have been alerted — and, if necessary, heavily bribed. As Zi'Orlando put it, they wouldn't be able to smuggle in a gnat's turd, never mind a chunk of pilfered intellectual property the size of a brick. The same went for anyone from Naples he might have sent over to pick it up.
So when John Viviani got his sailing orders, it seemed a heaven-sent solution. As one of hundreds of crew members aboard the aircraft carrier, he could easily slip ashore, rendezvous with the purchaser's representative and make the delivery in person. It was a clean deal, cash for merchandise, with no risk and no loose ends. Above all, it kept the whole transaction in the family. What could go wrong?
Sure enough, the hand-over had proceeded without incident. The only problem was that the courier had been late arriving at the little bar where they were to meet, and to wile away the time John had ordered a couple — OK, maybe more like half a dozen — garishly coloured liqueurs from the extensive selection displayed on glass shelves behind the bar. This was the first time he had ever set foot in the city from which his paternal grandfather's family had emigrated at the turn of the century, and he was naturally excited. Every sound and smell and flavour, each overheard snatch of raucous dialect, seemed at once colourfully exotic and insidiously familiar.
The instructions he had received from Zi'Orlando were simple and precise. When he took possession of the money, he was to return immediately to the ship and stash it away in his locker. He was not to go ashore again, and under no circumstances to leave the port area. The city, he had been warned, was a den of thieves, con men and worse who would gobble up a young innocent such as himself and spit out the remains.
But by the time the courier finally showed, got up in a fake Navy uniform like some outsized organ-grinder's monkey, these orders had come to seem remote and ridiculous. He wasn't a child, after all! To make matters worse, there was the cash itself, fat bundles of it, packed with power and possibility. US currency had always seemed solid, staid and stuffy. It was what you got for doing dead-end jobs and spent on rent and food and dental work. This Italian stuff was quite different. It looked sleazy and enticing, racy and unreal, like the token fortunes made and lost with fabulous ease in a board game.
Once the game stopped, it was worthless, but until then there were no limits to what you could do.
So instead of going back to his ship, John had a couple more drinks and then headed off the other way, out of the port and into the pulsating streets of the city beyond. He was rather vague about what had happened after that. In fact he wasn't even sure exactly how much time had passed. He remembered waking up in a hotel bedroom, very much the worse for wear, and realising that he had failed to show up for muster and would therefore have been posted AWOL. This thought had plunged him into a state of panic which had required the best part of a bottle of Scotch to assuage. The great thing about Italian bars was that they would serve you hard liquor at any time of the day or night — even, as in this case, seven in the morning.
After that things went kind of hazy again. At some point he had decided that enough was enough and headed down to the port to rejoin his ship, only to discover that it had already sailed. This discovery had plunged him into a state of panic which had required the best part of another bottle of Scotch to assuage. The lousy thing about Italian bars was that they would serve you hard liquor at any time of the day or night — even, as in this case, three in the morning. After that, one thing had led to another, and by now he had nothing left to lose, except of course the remaining wad of the fascinating currency which he had been handed, however many days ago it was, in trust for the Viviani clan back Stateside.
The bundle of notes seemed quite a bit thinner than it had originally been, but at least he had something to show for it. This fabulous coat, for example. Whatever exception the family might take to other aspects of his spree something he was almost as worried about as the problems arising from his failure to report for duty, all present and correct, sir! — they'd have to admit that he knew a bargain when he saw one. A genuine Versace, pure mohair, the latest autumn line, and all for a mere 300,000 lire! In dollars that's just… say 2,000 lire to the dollar, so you divide by… knock off the zeroes and then it's…
But the zeroes refused to stay knocked off. They not only came back, but brought their friends with them, a mob of plump little manikins running around in threes, arms linked, singing that number the old man who'd sold him the coat had taught him, some marching song. He hadn't understood the words, of course, but it had a great tune. A great tune, great wine, great company, a great deal on the coat… But now it was definitely time to get back to his hotel and sort things out.
Speaking of which, where the hell were they? He'd told the woman driving the cab to take him to that place on the seafront, the best hotel in town, what's its name, the one where Clinton stayed when he was here for that conference.
It cost the earth, probably, but what the hell? It would be comfortable, familiar and safe, all sensations he was rapidly losing contact with amid the splendours and miseries of the last however-many-it-was hours on the town… '1 megliol' he had told the cabby impatiently.
'Take me to the best place!' She'd know which the best was. Cabbies always knew that. But wherever the best was to be found, it didn't seem likely to be anywhere near where they were now, and had been f or… however long they had been there, going round and round what looked like the same broad, empty streets, lit with a cold, menacing glare, and quite deserted.
It was only now that he realized what should have been obvious long before, even to someone as innocent and let's face it — frankly dumb as John Viviani now realized he had been. Clearly he was being set up to be robbed, maybe even murdered! The tough-looking broad up front was keeping him on ice until the heavies arrived. She'd looked at him in a kind of weird way when she picked him up, almost like she recognized him, then made some sort of call on her mobile phone right away. The drunk back there at the fast food place must have set the whole thing up.
Maybe it hadn't been such a smart idea to bring his whole wad of cash out when he paid for the coat. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it now. The taxi was going too fast for him to jump out, and, even if he did, there was nowhere to hide in these inhospitable, brutally utilitarian streets. To the left, the modernistic monolith they were circling, as empty as an architect's sketch. To the right, the ambient wastelands, partly developed, partly cleared, old industrial sites, factories whose products no one wanted, stockyards, a fenced-off area where ranks of orange trucks were drawn up like mothballed tanks…
And then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw a couple of policemen up ahead, holding those lighted red wands they used to stop traffic.
They must be doing one of those routine searches that Zi'Orlando mentioned, ostensibly to check that everyone's papers are in order, but actually to pick up some easy money because they knew damn well that they weren't. He didn't care. If they wanted bribes, he would be happy to bribe them. Whatever it took.
But to John Viviani's disappointment, the two men in police uniform made no attempt to stop the taxi. On the contrary, they waved it past with vigorous gestures, as though impatient to have the street to themselves once more. But they compensated for this apparent negligence as soon as the next vehicle appeared, a few minutes later. Its hump-backed form and orange colour indicated that it was one of the municipal rubbish trucks returning to the depot, and as such might reasonably have been expected to be waved through the road-block just as the taxis had. But this time the red wand was raised, the official hand held out, the service revolver drawn, and the crew obliged to descend.
XVIII
Un disperato affetto
On the Scalini del Petraio, it was already night. The steps scuttled away, a gutter between high crumbling walls overhung by gauds of greenery, sparsely lit by isolated lamps whose patches of yellowing light merely served to emphasize the topographical complexities concealed in the darkness all around and the twilit immensity above, defined by the conflictual paths of swifts and bats. The former swarmed, scooped, coiled and collided in a turbulence as continual and serene as that of electrons; the latter tirelessly maintained their preordained courses to and fro, like mechanisms in some early industrial process superseded elsewhere by more up-to-date technology but surviving here, like so much else, for want of capital investment.
Seemingly unaware of any of this, a young man made his way down the steps with a rapid, impatient stride.
From a window in the little piazzetta where the alley briefly levelled out before flowing into its final and even more precipitous plunge towards the depths below, an old man sat on a balcony looking out at the night, the moon rising behind Vesuvius, the sketchy indications of the peninsula and islands out in the bay. He leant forward as the footsteps clattered across the pitted black paving stones beneath, a look of wonderment on his face. 'Arcangelol he murmured. 'Si tuV But it wasn't, of course. Arcangelo had been killed in 1944, aged two, buried alive when a bomb collapsed a six storey building down by the port. The person speeding across the paving and down the second series of steps was Gesualdo, on his way to gather up the few belongings he had left at Don Alfonso's house, to erase this entire episode from his life as though it had never occurred.
That's all I need to do, he thought, just clear out and forget everything that's happened, and still more what hasn't. Then, just as soon as he could get a few days off, he would find out the name of the hotel where the girls were staying and hop on a plane. A couple of hours later he would be in London, knocking at their door. Orestina would come to open it, thinking maybe it was the maid come to turn down the beds, and instead…
That's what he was thinking as he slipped the key Don Alfonso had given him into the lock and twisted it masterfully. Like the cheap copy it was — three for the price of two at a stall in the Forcella market — it snapped off, leaving a jagged remnant in the lock. Filled with frustrated rage, he punched the bell button repeatedly. At length a light came on and feet descended the staircase.
'Who is it?'
A man's voice, one he doesn't recognize.
'Police! Open up!' yelled Gesualdo.
A pause, a click, and the door slid open. Iolanda stood revealed in a full-length gown buttoned decorously tight about the throat.
'Ah, it's you/ she said.
Gesualdo pushed past her and hurried upstairs. The apartment on the top floor was as he left it that morning.
He speedily gathered together his belongings and packed them into the canvas bag in which he brought them. Then he turned, to find Iolanda gazing at him.
'You're going/ she said.
Gesualdo zipped up the canvas bag and looked around to see if he had overlooked anything. With chilling precision, Iolanda spat on the tiled floor at his feet.
'Coward!'
She turned and walked out. Fine, he thought, what do I care? Better that she despises me, that way she won't come muling and whining after me. All the same, calling him a coward! What a fucking nerve! What did she know about cowardice or courage or anything else? What did she care about what he had been going through, about how tough it was for a man to do the right thing? His last remaining doubts were swept away. Bitch!
Bag in hand, he strode downstairs. Outside the door to the lower apartment, Iolanda was waiting for him. He ignored her, but she stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Once again Gesualdo tried to push past, but this time he was repulsed with disconcerting strength.
'Listen to what I have to say/ she told him, 'then leave, if you want to. You may think you know me, but you don't. Don't think I'll come running after you like your other women. I am not like other women.'
Gesualdo stood there, mesmerized by her intense, brilliant stare. It was only once she started talking again that he realized that she was not speaking broken Italian any more, but his own harsh, musky dialect.
'This is all a farce. I am not Albanian. I am not a virgin.
I am not looking for work. The man who owns this house set this up to trick you. But I'm the one who's been tricked. I've fallen in love. I know it's hopeless, but I don't care. Even though you're leaving, and I'll never see you again, I need to humiliate myself by telling you that I love you, and that I always will.'
She stepped back, leaving his way clear. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Iolanda came up to him and grazed his cheek lightly with the fingers of her left hand.
"I will be whatever you want/ she said. 'Your friend, your lover, even your wife.'
Gesualdo looked at her, his breath corning in rapid, shallow spurts.
"I don't know,' he said. "I don't know what to do.'
'Just take me.'
He let his bag fall to the floor and covered his face with his hands.
'What's the use?' he demanded in a tone of despair.
'You know you can do anything you like with me. We men are all the same/ Iolanda gripped his wrists, pulled his hands apart and kissed his mouth briefly.
'Not quite all/ she said.
XXIX
Tanti linguaggi
'What part?'
'Come?'
'Hackney/ 'What means "acne"?'
'Commonplace. Trite. Done to death/ 'Cosa dice?'
'No, he died in his bed, although I have to admit as how the Krays had put the word about. Only as luck would have it, they got nicked before anything came of it, know what I mean?'
It was clear from the expressions of the other three people at the table that the answer to this question was 'no'.
'His 'art did for 'im!' exclaimed Immacolata Higgins impatiently, clasping the imposing sculptural massif of her left breast.
'Like Rimbaud/ John Viviani murmured, drunkenly moved. 'When I was young, I wanted to die for my art too. Only it turned out I didn't have any/ 'Rambo?' queried Aurelio Zen in a tone of desperation. 'doe ifilm di quell'italo-americano, come si chiama…?'
'Stallone, Silvestro/ replied Pasquale complacently. "O cunuscevo 'a guaglione. 'Afamiglia soja steve 'e casa propio 'e rimpetto a nuje.'
'"I knew him when he was knee-high to a grasshopper",'
Immacolata translated for the benefit of the American.
'"His mob lived just down the terrace, number twenty-four. Vesty — that's what we used to call him — was a skinny little runt. I remember I used to sneak him out some of my bangers with bubble and squeak, try and feed the blighter up a bit. That's how he came to have those big muscles, but needless to say I never got so much as a simple 'Thank you' when he became a big noise up there at your actual Cinecitta…"'
' Perl'amor didiol'
Silence fell. Zen looked around the gathering.
'Well, this meeting has certainly been a huge su
ccess so far/ he began.
'Absolutely!'
'No kidding!'
'Your glass is empty, duttb. Waiter!'
Zen glowered at them.
'Signora Higgins has been kind enough to regale us with the complete story of her interesting life, from those difficult early days in the village near Aversa to her memorable and fateful encounter with a young British soldier in 1944, leading us with tireless energy through every detail of the years of exile in London, where she acquired her excellent command of the native dialect, to her eventual return home following her husband's untimely death/ 'I just love listening to Italian/ John Viviani enthused.
'It's kind of like going to the opera. You don't understand what the hell's going on, but it all sounds really cool/ 'Great coat!' commented Pasquale.
La Igginz translated.
'Guy I met this evening in a wine shop sold it to me/ Viviani replied. 'It's a genuine Versace, and guess how much it cost me? Only thr… two hundred thousand!'
'You were robbed! I could have got you two like that for.. / 'Basta, altrimenti impazzisco!'
They all stared at Zen, who had risen to his feet.
'Who is this guy, anyway?' demanded John Viviani.
'Filth/ Immacolata Higgins replied with a dismissive gesture.
'Say what?'
'Arozzer! Old Bill/ She looked at him with irritation. Didn't this Yank understand his own language? Pasquale stepped into the breach with a vivid mime showing someone being arrested, handcuffed and led away, protesting vigorously but in vain.
'He's a cop?' asked Viviani incredulously.
'Too right/ Aurelio Zen replied, speaking through the medium of the British Tommy's widow. 'And you, my son, are in dead lumber.'
Viviani shook his head.
'This is like just too weird.'
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