Here, Samurai thought to himself, Spartaco was slightly off target. He explained to Max that, from what he’d been able to figure out, Alice Savelli couldn’t technically be described as a “Communist.” If anything, one of those confused idealists who nattered on and on about changing the world without bothering to take reality into account. People like Samurai considered them so many medieval millenarianists. Utopians dreaming of a world without banks or bosses, where there’s no left and no right, a flat gray wasteland devoid of beauty where all that matters was that insipid title, citizen, which meant everything and nothing. It was citizens who condemned Socrates to drink the hemlock, and it was citizens who chose—by a majority vote, actually—between the prophet Christ and the thief Barabbas, opting for the latter. What offended him about these people was the total absence of any aristocratic impulse, whatsoever. In a certain sense, it was the flip side of the coin from Number Eight and all the other street thugs: primitive elements that had to be maneuvered, in the best cases, and almost always eliminated, eventually. Nonetheless, they grew in number at an unsettling pace. Their rejection of the old political order was taking root. Among their ranks, there were also recycled reds. As proponents, in any case, of a strong ideology, they were bound to succumb to herd mentality. Samurai foresaw a phase of convulsions with outcomes that were, in any case, predictable. All moderation was bound to be swept away by the impetuous gusting winds of the conflict. And in the end, the final showdown would be between us and them. For that very reason, he’d started to think again, after so many years, in terms of “us.” And from time to time he had again started teaching the young men whom Luca gathered in his restaurant, Il Tatami. Still, this wasn’t a rekindling of his old love for a cause long since dead and buried. It was just a precautionary measure before the ineluctable battle. A form of preventive, legitimate self-defense. His ideas were clear, indeed, far too clear. For that reason, his ties with the millenarianist Alice Savelli needed to be nipped in the bud. For the moment, their countermeasures had proven effective and Malatesta had been neutralized. But the ensuing peace was too precarious. They had to move quickly. Malgradi had to take steps.
The music faded into a commercial break and the first few houses of Ostia appeared on the horizon.
The parking area in front of the church of St. Mary Queen of Peace was overflowing with good citizens. Mixed in with the crowd, the punks from Ponente that Denis had disguised as legionaries stood out in particular. Their name, too, the Cavaliers of Constantine, had been Denis’s idea. He thus showed that he’d actually read a book or two in his lifetime.
Number Eight, for once dressed like a Christian, in a cream-colored three-piece suit with a pearl-gray vest and white shoes, threw his arms around Denis in a burst of enthusiasm.
“Hey Denis, there are ten thousand of us, hey-ho, hey-ho! We’re the curve of the Stadio Olimpico. Everyone has to see that we’re in charge around here! In fact, I’m in charge!”
Denis nodded. For once that dickhead had it right. Monsignor Tempesta had called for a solemn Te Deum “so that peace might return, reigning over the tortured lands of Ostia,” but the real meaning of that ceremony was unequivocal: around here, we’re in charge, and now the war is over.
The bishop appeared on the church courtyard and started showering benedictions on the crowd.
“Hey, Denis, we’re making a movie here, Denis.”
But Denis had hurried away in haste and fury. Number Eight saw Denis cut through the crowd, which withdrew respectfully as he appeared, to deliver to the monsignor a large sword with “The Cavaliers of Constantine” engraved on the blade.
In short, a triumph.
Number Eight smoked an indeterminate number of cigarettes while waiting for the crowd to thin out, and then, at a gesture from the Honorable Malgradi, he walked over to the knot of people at the center of the piazza where Tempesta enjoyed pride of place. With him were not only Malgradi, but also Benedetto Umiltà and Denis.
“Your Excellency, let me introduce you to Cesare Adami. The pride of Ostia, if I may say so. Living proof that the sins of the fathers do not and cannot fall upon the sons. A pillar of the community.”
Number Eight smiled. The bishop undressed him with his eyes, then extended his hand with the ring—jeez, what a sparkler!
“So tell me, my son, are you truly a believer, and I mean deep down?”
“Your Excellency, let’s just say that I know exactly how deep and how down priests can be.”
Malgradi rolled his eyes in vexation. But the bishop cut the tension with a burst of frank laughter, in which the Honorable joined after a moment’s hesitation. Denis locked arms with Number Eight and led him away.
“I see that hilarity reigns sovereign here today,” said an icy voice, from behind them.
The bishop and Malgradi turned suddenly serious. Samurai and Max took a step forward.
“Even though I don’t see any reasons for being so cheerful, do I, Your Honor?”
Pericle Malgradi ran a hand over his forehead, suddenly aware of the atrocious heat of that summer morning.
“I’ll take that as a joke.”
“It might be more accurate to call it an observation,” threw in Samurai, lunging for the kill.
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“Really?”
“The regional government has approved the housing plan, now it’s just the municipal government that needs to move forward with the variant on the zoning plan.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. The whole thing is blocked.”
“I don’t understand.”
Samurai swiveled to speak to Monsignor Tempesta, intentionally turning his back on Malgradi: his physical gestures were meant to help make the humiliation more effective.
“You must forgive me and you must forgive us, Your Excellency, but I’m accustomed to keeping faith with my word as given. And I made you some promises.”
The regional zoning plan allowed for the possibility, in the quadrant between EUR and Ostia, of multiplying the existing cubic footage in terms of built or permitted structures to a level at least five times greater than the limits established by the zoning restrictions. There was one condition: That for every 700,000 cubic feet a house of worship is built. That was the benefit for the area beyond the Tiber that they had discussed during their dinner at La Paranza and that had so delighted the fellow diners. They had decided to rebaptize the “housing plan,” calling it instead the “churching plan.” That was the single crucial reason why Monsignor Tempesta and his little boyfriend Benedetto Umiltà were members of the crew. The deal was clear. The churching plan, along with the allied primary urban planning works that accompanied it—roads, lighting, water, natural gas—would open the door for Waterfront and social housing. But in fact, what was crucial was the variant to the city zoning plan that Malgradi had taken for granted, but which now clearly wasn’t quite as obvious a thing as it had seemed.
Tempesta turned conciliatory. And he set out, in a comforting, mellifluous tone, to soften Samurai.
“You see, Dottore, I have appreciated and I continue to admire your pragmatic approach. But if I can say a word on behalf of a more measured attitude, I don’t want to believe that our friend the Honorable has kindled flames of hope in our hearts so powerful that, how shall I put this . . . he remains unaware of the catastrophe that he would face if he were to fail to live up to our expectations. Am I right, Your Honor?”
Pericle Malgradi nodded like a primary school pupil whom the teacher has just given an extra question, a second chance. Tempesta went on.
“Let me add something. I’m so convinced that things will right themselves that just yesterday I had a conversation with my friends at the IOR, and they assured me of the utmost collaboration on the financial aspects of the project.”
Tempesta handed Samurai a business card on which were printed the names and p
hone numbers of the executives with whom he would be talking in the Bastion of Nicholas V, the historic headquarters of the Vatican bank, the IOR. A crucial step. The IOR was needed to disguise and launder the cash that was going to be pumped into the project by Perri, Viglione, the Anacleti clan, and Samurai himself. Once safely in the Vatican, that frightfully huge mass of liquidity which had to be invested—more than five hundred million euros, according to their prudent estimate—would flow back into the transparent circuit of two of the largest credit institutes in the country, to finance Waterfront and social housing, just as spring water feeds a mountain stream.
The monsignor lunged in with a move that no one was expecting.
“Actually, gentlemen, I wonder and I ask you whether our concerns shouldn’t be factors other than the timing of a vote in the city council. I see too much unacceptable violence. And I wonder whether mankind can ever hope to build anything upon the rubble of death. What happiness can we evince in such grim and frightful darkness? I wonder whether it is within your power to disperse such a bewildering fog.”
Samurai felt a stab of pain to his hypothalamus. Taking a scolding from the bishop was too much even for him. Perhaps he should have been tougher on the Anacletis and Number Eight that afternoon.
Max seized the moment and broke in.
“Your Excellency, allow me to put in a word. We haven’t met, but I believe that . . . ”
Tempesta smiled and nodded, as if he already knew all about him. Encouraged, Max went on.
“Well, Your Excellency, I can tell you that the fog will disappear. I can guarantee it personally. People from the street only know the language of the street. And the language of the street, no matter how hard I try, is my language.”
Magnificent. He hadn’t been wrong about that young man, Samurai decided. Tempesta had challenged him, hurling him down from his pedestal to the miseries of the street. And Max, without needing to be asked, had taken on the burden of those miseries. Max’s words had put the bishop back in his place. Or perhaps, he should say, they had put matters back in their place. Everyone involved in this matter, quite simply, would take care of what lay within their purview. Enough said.
Tempesta underscored that message with a hieratical gesture of benediction.
That same evening, Max and Farideh made love for the first time.
He had introduced himself a couple of weeks earlier, walking up to her as she was translating Persian poets, seated at a table at the Caffè Necci, in Pigneto.
He had told her everything that could be revealed about himself. They’d gone out for a while. They’d held hands. There had been a few chaste kisses. He was hooked. Practically overwrought. He desired her. But he also wanted to protect her. Stay with her. And change his life. As if that were still possible.
He suggested they go to the beach at night. She agreed.
He took her to the outskirts of Capocotta. Seated on the raised back seat of his Triumph Street Triple, like the heroine of a Manga cartoon, Farideh wrapped her arms around Max ecstatically. She was convinced that she knew everything about that strange young man who had suddenly become part of her life. After all this time, she was finally happy. Blindly, instinctively happy.
Under a moonless sky and in a windless night, the sea was one vast black patch. Still as petroleum. They sat on a dune, remaining in silence for a while. Until Max finally burst the bubble.
“I was right, wasn’t I? It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
“You’re not tricking me, are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you what you seem to be?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because, after what happened to my father, I’ve lost all trust. All that violence . . . ”
Max felt guilty. He held her close.
“Violence is a part of life, Farideh. A philosopher once said that even philosophy is violence, and suffering. Because it isn’t possible to think decently without causing yourself pain.”
“But you’ll never hurt me, will you?”
Max ran the forefinger of his right hand over her lips. Slowly. He kissed her. And he kept on kissing her until she relaxed in his arms.
And while he was inside her, he heard her repeat one last time the question that had made his brain explode.
“You’ll never hurt me, will you?”
XXIV
Sebastiano Laurenti, the orphaned son of the engineer who had killed himself, started working at Luxury Cars, at kilometer marker 13 on Via Salaria. It was a car dealership owned by Scipione Scacchia, one of the Three Little Pigs. His job consisted of handling the official bookkeeping and accounting, which concerned the purchase and sale of clean vehicles. All the rest—that is, the shylocking, the family’s principal and most profitable business—was handled by Scipione personally. When necessary, Sebastiano was to fill in as a salesman. That happened when they had to handle customers of a certain level, for the most part professionals, soccer players, people in show business. In those situations, Manfredi, the old man’s son, lost the roguish confidence that he loved to show off as if it were a trademark of sorts. Prospective customers were left aghast by Manfredi’s ceremonious unctuousness, as he shrilled out favorable prices in a querulous voice. Many of them dropped the discussion entirely midway through, revolted by a handshake that thought it was hale and hearty but which, in reality, translated into a slimy contact.
“Study, that’s what you ought to do,” old man Scipione admonished his son wisely, “this isn’t your field. Let the young engineer do it, it’s clear he’s got a feel for it.”
Yes, certainly, Sebastiano had a way about him. He spoke the same language as those arrogant assholes, they got along famously, he was able to obtain the most favorable treatment and terms, business was going swimmingly, and so on, and so forth. Still, though, it gnawed at Manfredi. He didn’t want the role of heir apparent, the rich kid who had grown up in the lap of luxury. He had much grander ambitions. One day, that dealership would belong to him, as would everything else. But in the meantime, he didn’t want to sit idle. And so, when Sebastiano was working a client of that sort, Manfredi would stay close, studying his methods, making an effort to imitate his gestures, memorizing phrases and intonations. He felt a little sorry for him, of course—that young man with such great expectations who had once had the world in his hands but now was left with nothing. But that pity wasn’t entirely separate from a certain feral pride: Sebastiano would always be indebted to him, because without Manfredi’s help he would be homeless. Sebastiano had to live up to the gift he had been given.
In any case, yes, Manfredi still had a great deal to learn.
And so, toward the end of the month, he moved into the penthouse on Via Chinotto, technically still the residence of the sole survivor of the Laurenti family but actually already the property of Sor Scipione, and before two weeks were up he wound up in bed with Chicca, the little sweetheart who was sick and tired of being the girlfriend of a loser like Sebastiano. Poor girl: it wasn’t her fault if her boyfriend was now penniless and the trip to Alaska had had to be postponed.
Old man Scipione disapproved.
“You’ve overdone it, Manfre’. And a girl who puts out like that, in such a hurry, is at the very least a slut.”
“It’s not like I have to marry her, is it?”
“Be careful. Women bring trouble and nothing but.”
What Scipione was trying to say was that stirring Sebastiano’s resentment hadn’t been a very smart move. There could be dangerous consequences. The young man might begin to nurture a lurking rancor that could easily explode someday. He might as well just strip him of everything he owned, and do it immediately, without indulging in this farce of a friendship that, deep down, was no good to anyone.
“Trust me on this one, son. That guy hates you!”
“Hey Dad, he’s al
ready gotten over it, believe me.”
“I’m going to get rid of him, Manfre’.”
“That’s out of the question. Sebastiano is a friend of mine.”
“He’s a friend and you screwed his girlfriend. Just think how you’d feel about him: and what would you do in that case, wouldn’t you stab him when you got a chance?”
Scipione, still full of doubts, took Sebastiano out to eat at La Paranza. The young man practically left his food untasted.
“Go on, eat something, you’re skinny as a rail!”
“I’m not much of an eater, Signor Scipione.”
“But you don’t know what you’re missing! Tito Maggio may be a piece of shit, and I can guarantee to you that he is one, but put him in front of the burners and he’s an artist!”
Still, he’d emerged from that dinner feeling reassured. Sebastiano didn’t really give a damn about the fact that his son was sleeping with his former girlfriend. That was an old story, buried now, Sebastiano had explained as he poked at a carrot and the old man gorged on roasted amberjack, we’re still good friends. Understandable. The young man wasn’t a member of the circle, the kind of guy that was capable of stringing you up over a piece of ass. He was born rich, and that’s the way it is among those people: you slept with my girlfriend? Well who gives a damn. We can still be close friends. You can lose your money, but good manners stick to you like the plastic upholstery covers in a brand new SUV. So long as they don’t stick to your ass when you stand up!
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