“You may go, Signor Adami.”
With Alba and Gaudino’s help, Marco drew up a preliminary report in which he laid out the conflict now brewing, prophesying more violence and more deaths unless decisive action was taken. To ward off the worst, he was requesting wiretaps, tails, stakeouts, men, listening devices, and resources. Overwhelmed by his lack of sleep, he personally deposited the report with the secretariat of Dottor Manlio Setola, the prosecuting magistrate who supervised investigations into organized crime.
The answer reached him the next day, in the afternoon.
Nothing. The prosecuting magistrate wasn’t inclined to authorize a thing on the basis of what he described as an investigative hunch without any solid supporting evidence.
“Idiot!” he snarled, while talking with Alba. “This isn’t some cop’s intuition. These are facts! I can’t wait to see what he says when they bring in the next dead body, this Dottor Setola!”
On one point, however, you had to admit that the magistrate was right.
Wars usually break out for some substantial reason.
And so far, Marco had failed to identify that substantial reason.
XV
Brandolin phoned Malatesta.
“At your orders, Colonel, sir!”
“Brandolin, you’re the only one I know who can convey the idea that a word is in capital letters over the phone.”
“Pardon me, what did you say, Colonel, sir?”
“Nothing, never mind. Let’s skip the formalities. Any news?”
“The marsh . . . I mean, he has organized a public safety operation for nine o’clock this evening.”
“Is there a demonstration planned?”
Brandolin lowered his voice.
“Not exactly a demonstration, Colonel, sir. It’s actually more of a meet-up. You know when they spread word on the web and then they all make an appointment?”
“I live in the present day, my dear boy.”
“I apologize, Colonel, sir!”
“Don’t worry, I apologize to you. And just what is this meet-up about?”
“I don’t know, Colonel, sir. He just said that we had to maintain public order.”
“But that’s normally a job for the State Police.”
“Colonel, sir, I don’t know what to say. The command came down ten minutes ago.”
Things were starting to look interesting.
“Well, you go, and tell me everything you see.”
“I can’t go, sir.”
“What do you mean, ‘I can’t go?’ This is an order, Brandolin!”
The voice came over the line, broken, as if the other man were about to burst into tears.
“Sir, with my utmost respect. I’m on guard duty all day long.”
“Well, get someone to replace you.”
“The marsh . . . The duty is for the rest of the week. It’s a punishment. For . . . what happened the other day.”
Marco felt a surge of fondness for that young man, as if he were a big brother. He had to take it easy, with Brandolin. In any case, he could force him to obey. His superior rank afforded him that option. But why expose him to further retribution from Terenzi? Better keep him covered as well as he could. Terenzi was a genuine bastard. If he so much as suspected that the young man was spying on him, he’d make his life a living hell.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I really don’t know how I can get out of it.”
“You’re doing fine, Brandolin. Keep your eyes open like you’re doing. Where is this meet-up?”
“At the Arcobaleno, the occupied movie house.”
“I’ll go.”
“Colonel . . . ”
“Tell me, son.”
“I think that he’s looking for an excuse to . . . to do something.”
There were a fair number of young people standing in front of the Arcobaleno. They were milling around in the little plaza outside the front doors, all of them rigorously equipped with regulation solo cups of beer. Clouds of smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes wafted over the knots of young people who emitted, from time to time, bursts of laughter. There were also a few mothers with toddlers in tow, and there was a small group of middle-aged gentlemen with bright faces and curious expressions: neighborhood faces, who had happened to turn up—who knows how—in that little mob scene that was just waiting for the signal to start the meet-up.
And there were twenty-four men in full riot gear, with helmets and shields.
Terenzi’s boys.
But what was the point?
In the afternoon, Marco Malatesta had made a few phone calls. The movie house had been a squat for more than a year, ever since the old owner had shut the place down and word went around that it might be converted into a bingo hall. The occupation had been spontaneous, not managed by any group, large or small, at least none that had been clearly identified. There had never been incidents nor had there been reports of any “sensitive” activities. The occupying activists did theater for kids, organized petitions for public water and against nuclear power, staged book presentations, willingly made the stage available to bands and theater troupes, and held courses in popular music. Actors and playwrights who were generically “politically engaged” had passed through there. From a contact of his at the police court he had learned that no forcible evictions had even been ordered.
So Terenzi was playing dirty.
If, as the good officer Brandolin had theorized, he was looking for a clash, then only afterward, once matters were settled, would he inform whomever it might concern. Maybe after cracking a few skulls, he’d write on the report: “intervened to disperse a seditious assembly . . . ” And in any case, Terenzi had taken great care to avoid all personal exposure. He’d sent his men, the worm.
Whatever the case, it was a provocation.
He wondered whether he ought to intervene.
But, for the moment, it was better just to observe.
The situation, all things considered, seemed pretty manageable. The young people were quite calm, they merely shot the cops ironic glances and innocuous mockery. If worst came to worst, Marco could always pull out his badge. He waded into the small crowd and made his way to the entrance. A poster, actually a broad, handwritten sheet of paper, set forth the evening’s menu:
OCCUPIED CINEMA ARCOBALENO MEET-UP
WWW.THETRUTHABOUTROME.BLOGSPOT.COM
AGAINST THE NEW ROMAN MAFIA
AFTERWARD: FREE ROCK WITH THE POISONED COOKIES
Beer and admission
IN EXCHANGE FOR A VOLUNTARY DONATION
Marco couldn’t repress a smile, a blend of exasperation and tenderness. The truth about Rome. There was an Eldorado he’d stopped trying to track down for some time now. The truth … if he’d ever had a blog, he would have called it “TwoOrThreeThingsForABetterLifeInRome.” A small thing, admittedly, but perhaps a more reasonable one. And among these two or three things, no doubt, would be to wipe out those Mafioso bastards. Apparently, the same objective as the organizers of the meet-up. Anyway, this certainly looked like it might be interesting.
He went in. The lobby was like that of any ordinary movie house, and it too was jam-packed with young people. On the walls were posters for movies old and new, Once Upon a Time in America, The Cayman, The Lady from Shanghai; there was also a large mural, a cartoon of three of the Beagle Boys, only with the faces of famous political leaders.
From both the left and the right, just to keep from being unfair to anyone.
In front of the auditorium, which was closed off by a red curtain, there was a young woman guarding two glass vitrines half filled with change and small bills.
“Ciao. Are you new? You can donate whatever you like.”
Marco rummaged through his pockets, pulled out a twenty euro note, and dropped it into the glass vitrine. The girl seemed u
neasy.
“I can give you change for that, if you want.”
“I’ll just have a beer in there, okay?”
She smiled and waved him in.
The Arcobaleno must have been a parish cinema once. You could tell from the wooden seats, from the small rectangular screen mounted on a stage along which were lined up three microphones connected to a central amplifier. And from a shrine to St. Rocco that no one had dared remove from the wall that housed it.
Nearly all the seats were full. A rough guess, Marco thought, was about a hundred people. If you counted the people waiting outside, maybe twice that.
Terenzi was out of his mind. How did he think he was going to manage an operation in that setting? Was he looking for a massacre?
Marco stayed at the far end of the auditorium, close to the exit. Ready to take action.
A young man with a ponytail walked out on stage and took possession of the microphone. His voice was battling against the piercing whistle of the amplifier. A rasta began making desultory attempts to fiddle with the cables.
“Hi everyone. I’m Dario, from the Rebel Dragons. I’ll just ask for a few more minutes of your patience, Alice Savelli is on her way. In the meantime, if you want to tell the people outside to come on in, we’ll be starting in no more than five minutes.”
Dario from the Rebel Dragons stepped down off the stage. Soon all the seats were occupied. More people kept coming in. The young people laughed, they exchanged greeting from one end of the auditorium to the other, they drank and, respectful of the prohibition, they didn’t smoke. Marco perceived an unusual, positive energy. They seemed combative, but the violence in the air that he remembered from his own younger days was absent. They wanted to change the world. But how? All that energy, all that hunger for change, all that—why not, revolutionary—anxiety, where was it headed? He had opted for the uniform, which was his way of feeling he was at war. But those young people? What did they really have in mind? Just peace, love, and music?
He felt someone brush against him. His eyes focused on a seedy looking young man with a scraggly beard.
“Colonel,” he whispered, softly.
Marco recognized him, in spite of the disguise. Ferrero. He’d been a student of his, a few years ago. A kid from Turin with a lot of energy and ambition. The infiltrator Terenzi had mentioned.
“What’s going on, Ferrero?”
“We’re about to go in, Colonel.”
“Come with me.”
Marco grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out into the street. Terenzi’s boys had lowered the visors on their helmets and were massaging their thighs with their nightsticks.
“Would you care to explain, please?”
“Marshal Terenzi’s orders.”
“The reason?”
Ferrero seemed uneasy.
“Well, actually, he . . . ”
“Come on, let’s hear it, son.”
“He told us to find something.”
“Ah! He told you to find something. And what, exactly? Weapons? Drugs? Subversive propaganda?”
“Anything, sir.”
“Let me understand this, Ferrero. You’re a regular here, so you might know where to find it, this something.”
Ferrero dropped his eyes. Marco felt a frigid rage surge within him.
“Where did you put the shit, Ferrero?”
“Colonel, it was an order.”
“Now, I’m going to give you an order. No, make that two. First: send those dickheads immediately back to barracks. And then come back here.”
He waited for the platoon to withdraw in an orderly fashion, then he went back in, followed by a contrite Ferrero. The stage was still empty. The buzz of the crowd was scarcely drowned out by the notes of a blues song that the loudspeakers were broadcasting. No one paid them any mind. Ferrero led them to a little room to the left of the stage. On a rough wooden table, two girls were making sandwiches and the desultory rasta was rolling himself a joint. Ferrero exchanged a vague wave of greeting with the girls and then headed over to the icebox, opened it, and pulled out a little black backpack.
“Thanks for holding onto it for me,” he joked.
He was not given so much as a glance or a reply.
They went back out into the main auditorium. Marco grabbed the little backpack.
“What did you put in this?”
“Nothing, really, Colonel. A couple of Molotovs.”
“This bag weighs too much for a couple of Molotovs, son.”
“A . . . a little shit.”
“What kind of shit?”
“I don’t know. A white bag. Half a kilo, I think.”
“Go on, get out of here!”
At last the buzz died down and silence fell.
Two women were walking into the auditorium. One was a petite brunette with curly hair, a grim, angular face and determined, intelligent eyes, perhaps under thirty; the other was taller, younger, with long raven hair, a perfect oval face, as proud as an eastern goddess.
They were taking turns pushing a wheelchair. Crumpled in it was an old man. His face was puffy and his hands were bandaged. From what you could tell from his features, there was a clear resemblance with the young woman. Her father, Marco said to himself. They’re foreigners, he decided.
All three of them climbed up onto the stage. The petite brunette took the microphone and started talking. She had a nice voice. Warm, courteous, intelligent.
“For those of you who don’t know me: I’m Alice Savelli, you can find me on my blog, “thetruthaboutrome.” I want to tell you a story that affects us all. You see this man beside me in his wheelchair? His name is Abbas Murad. Thirty years ago he fled Iran. He was given political asylum because he was being persecuted by the regime of the ayatollahs. He came to this land, driven by desperation, with his wife and a toolkit containing the instruments of his trade. His only wealth. Abbas is a wood carver. An artist. The heir to a tradition a thousand years old. And today Abbas is an Italian citizen. So is his daughter Farideh, who brought him here today. It would have been right for Abbas to tell us his story in person. Unfortunately, as you can see, that’s something he can’t do. And do you know why not? Because first someone shattered his hands, so that he can no longer work, that’s right—those artist’s hands. Then that same someone broke his jaw. To keep him quiet. But what can Abbas have done to deserve all this?”
Alice handed the microphone over to the younger women with black hair. Absolute silence reigned in the auditorium.
Farideh grabbed the microphone and introduced herself. Her hands were shaking.
“I . . . ”
“You can do it, Farideh.”
“I can’t. You go ahead, I’m begging you!”
Now the audience was captivated.
Alice took back the microphone.
She told the story. The work Abbas did. How Abbas asked to be paid. The arrogant contempt of the customer.
She named names.
“The Anacleti family. Silvio Anacleti. Emanuele Anacleti. Antonio Anacleti. Rocco Anacleti. You know them, don’t you? Don’t pretend otherwise, ladies and gentlemen. All of you know them, we know them. They call themselves gypsies, but they dishonor their ancient and noble people . . . ”
The auditorium exploded in indignation. A guy raised his hand and asked to speak. He said he was a journalist. He mentioned a blog no one had ever heard of. Alice invited him to speak. The journalist cleared his throat. Did Alice have proof of such a serious statement? No, but she knew. Even if that I know that Pasolini had pioneered had by now become a tiresome refrain. Did she authorize journalists to report those names? Certainly. But she knew they would never dare. Did she realize she was exposing herself to the risk of lawsuits? A lawsuit would be manna from heaven! At least that way there would be a trial.
“Because we’ve r
eported to Marshal Carmine Terenzi of the Cinecittà Carabinieri station what happened. And nothing has come of it. No one came to interview Abbas. No one contacted him at all. No one!”
Now it was all clear. Marco went outside to smoke a cigarette. His heart was churning. Alice Savelli had guts, heart, and courage. And now he felt a little less alone.
He finished his cigarette in peace, then he called Brandolin and ordered him to look for Abbas’s complaint.
He already knew the answer, but still he had to try.
A taxi equipped to carry the handicapped picked up Farideh and her father, and vanished into the muggy night.
Max pulled his orange-and-black KTM into traffic and followed the taxi. Since he’d first seen her, that night at her father’s workshop, he’d been unable to get Farideh out of his head. No one noticed him. Not even Marco. Alice appeared at the entrance to the movie house. With her was the Rebel Dragon and a couple of other kids. They were engaged in an animated discussion. Marco went over and introduced himself.
“A Lieutenant Colonel from the Carabinieri!” she said ironically. “What’s going on, did you decide to wait for the meeting to end before summoning me to appear at the barracks? Am I under arrest?”
“I wanted to show you this,” said Marco, and emptied the backpack.
The young people turned pale.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” the Rebel Dragon cried indignantly. “We had nothing to do with that!”
“Of course not. You had nothing to do with it,” Marco said brusquely, “it was our doing. Or certain among us. I sincerely apologize.”
They looked at him as if he were crazy.
Marco held out his business card to Alice.
“I need to meet with Abbas.”
He grabbed the backpack and walked away, without waiting for a reply.
XVI
The vans arrived at the Anagnina station around ten. Every Monday morning. They unloaded Ukrainian, Moldavan, and Romanian woman. Some of them were scheduled to wash the asses of elderly dying women, while others were already working as whores. All of them, without exception, had only one thought in their heads: make money, make lots of money, and make that money as quickly as possible.
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