“On the other hand, I can offer you a job that pays absolutely nothing and that’s extremely risky, Alice.”
“That sounds interesting. What’s it about?”
“Waterfront, social housing. We’re putting it all online. The project, the feasibility study by the architects, everything. We’re going to toss a rock in the pond, like you suggested.”
“I’ll need a few days.”
“Take all the time you want. And . . . welcome to the dirtiest game of all.”
XXXVIII
Sitting in a metallic gray Toyota Avensis, parked on the little piazza in front of the church of St. Mary Queen of Peace, Colonel Malatesta pointed out to Lieutenant Gaudino, who was behind the wheel, that the funeral procession was arriving. He radioed the unit’s plainclothes men, whom he’d arranged along the sides of the piazza and inside the church, and ordered them to snap digital pictures.
Drawn by four bay Haflinger stallions abreast, horses that had been shipped down from the Tyrol, the hearse looked like Cinderella’s carriage. But it was actually the hearse that would be carrying Cesare Adami, AKA Number Eight, on his last journey on this earth. The animals, decked out with with black ostrich-plume browbands, were caparisoned in brass harnesses; there was a chain leading back to the carriage that jangled as it shook and swayed, producing a sound that could be mistaken for the chiming of bells. Set on an immense cushion of red and white roses, the mahogany coffin occupied the entire length of the black-lacquered carriage, and was draped with a large black covering with a white number 8 at the center, the number of the last pool ball to go into the pocket.
Perched on the coachman’s seat, holding the reins, sat a lean gentleman in a threadbare black suit with a top hat on his head. He wore the apathetic expression of an undertaker who normally travels to cemeteries in metallic Mercedes hearses, but who’s been asked to provide a custom service. But no one was about to say no to the Adamis. Uncle Nino had decreed that Cesaretto was going to be escorted out of this world with all the honors due to a capo, which is what he had been, for better or worse. He wanted to make sure that his funeral would never be forgotten in Ostia.
The sunshine made the morning warm. The sea was calm and exuded a brackish odor.
The carriage had started out from Piazza Gasparri. It had turned onto the waterfront promenade and taken almost forty minutes to reach the church of Regina Pacis. Traffic had been halted by the vigorous enforcement of platoons of the municipal police, and the crowd that had gathered as the hearse went by and spontaneously traipsed along behind the coffin. Anxious to attend, but most important, to be noticed attending. There were a great many young toughs: none of the families who lived in the apartment blocks of Ponente would have missed this. The shops had all lowered their security blinds.
Lieutenant Gaudino was captivated.
“I’d only ever seen funerals like this one in Forcella and in the Spanish Quarter. The Camorra set the style. But if I told you that I was surprised, Colonel, I’d be telling a lie. There’s a substantial part of Ostia, nowadays, that has no choice. They’re either here or they’re here. Cesare Adami was a violent thug who never had his uncle’s charisma. Obedience to him was obedience to fear. But still, he was the boss.”
“And now?
“And now the succession will begin. I’d say that Nino Adami’s choice is unlikely to be anyone other than Denis Sale. The godson, and from what little we’re able to pick up here and there, he has a great deal more gray matter than the guy they’re burying today. Apparently he’s even more vicious than the other guy was. He’s already in the church. I saw him go in earlier, with a young girl who was supposed to have been Cesare Adami’s woman. Her name is Morgana. At a glance, I’d say she’s a junkie . . . ”
“We’re going to tap all their phones, Lieutenant. I’ll get you the court orders as soon as possible.”
“If only it would do any good . . . These people are about as talkative as the blackspot seabreams of Castellabbate . . . Hey, look who’s here!”
In the piazza out front of Regina Pacis—a vast empty space now that everyone had packed into the church itself—a van for the transport of correctional police detainees pulled up just a few steps away from the horse-drawn hearse that stood waiting. Meanwhile, the Haflinger horses in harness emptied their bladders onto the asphalt.
The rear doors of the midnight blue Fiat Ducato van with the dark tinted glass windows were flung open to let an old man in a camelhair coat climb out. He was visibly tested by the ordeal.
Antonio Adami. Antonino. Uncle Nino.
He had submitted a request to the magistrate in charge of leaves and provisional liberty and had been approved for a special permit to bid farewell to his only nephew. And for something extra. Though he was keeping that to himself.
As soon as he stepped out of the van, the old man held his wrists out to the two correctional officers who freed him from the shackles and then escorted him, flanking him on either side. He took a few steps toward the carriage. He kneeled and crossed his forehead, then remained with his head bowed for several minutes. Then, rising to his feet with slow and studied theatricality, he gestured to the undertaker perched on the coachman’s seat. And, immediately, four young men dressed in jeans and leather jackets broke away from the colonnade of the church. They hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders, taking great care not to wrinkle the black drapery hanging over it, and then proceeded to carry it down the vast nave of the church of Regina Pacis.
From the choir loft rose the powerful notes of the pipe organ, and in one of the pews closest to the altar, Denis Sale wrapped his arm around Morgana’s shoulders and pressed her close to him. Her eyes were dry, her skin was alabaster white, practically traslucent, and the faint application of eyebrow pencil gave her a glacial stare. The girl leaned over to his ear and carefully enunciated every word, to make sure nothing was lost in the whisper in which she uttered those words.
“That bastard Samurai is going to die.”
Denis nodded and added: “I need to find out if he was alone.”
“Uncle Nino is here,” whispered Morgana.
Free of his escort, old Adami took a seat in the front row, the first pew from the altar. Between Robertino, who was sobbing like a little boy, and Moira, the bartender from Piazza Gasparri, squeezed into a black satin dress and torn between the emotion of her final farewell to Cesaretto and the unexpected sight of the only man she’d ever loved in her twisted, broken life. Uncle Nino leaned over and kissed her hand, brushing the wilted bow that marked her neckline, then proceeded to kiss Robertino on both cheeks, whispering into his ear the real reason he was there.
“We will avenge him.”
At the altar, Don Fernando, the parish priest of Regina Pacis, was displaying courage.
“What does the Book of Sirach tell us? ‘Resentment and anger, these are foul things too, and a sinner is a master at them both. Whoever exacts vengeance will experience the vengeance of the Lord, who keeps strict account of sin. Pardon your neighbor any wrongs done to you, and when you pray, your sins will be forgiven. If one nurses anger against another, can he then demand compassion from the Lord? Showing no pity for someone like oneself, can one then plead for one’s own sins? Mere creature of flesh, yet cherishing resentment!—who will forgive one for sinning?’”
From the back of the church, where he stood leaning against a holy water font, Malatesta listened to the homily, doing his best to guess at familiar faces in the tangle of heads bowed in the congregation. The parish priest’s voice had risen to an imploring pitch. Though he would lay odds that the plea was a pointless one, if he’d been a betting man. Still, it added to the spectacle.
“Remember the last things, and stop hate, corruption and death, and be faithful to the commandments. Remember the commandments, and do not bear your fellow ill-will, remember the covenant of the Most High, and ignore the offence. Let us pray.”
Denis continued turning his head slowly, quickly reckoning up those who were there and those who weren’t. Because that too would be a piece of unappealable evidence in Samurai’s death sentence. Until he felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was Rocco Perri.
The Calabrians were men of few words. Perri had been making money with Number Eight for years with the cocaine and the slot machines. If he was there, what he was about to hear could not and must not be called into doubt.
“I bring you the greetings of Don Ciro. He wasn’t feeling well. It was too cold out to leave the clinic. And there are too many plainclothes cockroaches swarming around here anyway.”
Denis nodded.
Perri leaned in closer and whispered in his ear.
“Listen to me, because I’ve lived to a certain age. The Anacletis had nothing to do with this. Rocco was behind bars. The order didn’t come from him. He was the last one who wanted this. Thanks to Uncle Nino’s generosity, we’d come to an understanding. Everyone was in agreement. Me, Viglione, Uncle Nino, and of course Rocco Anacleti. Even Cesare had seen the wisdom. In exchange for Paja and Fieno, the gypsies were getting a fat wad of cash. Twenty-five percent of a new shipment.”
Denis took a deep breath.
“What about that little asshole Max?”
“He doesn’t have the balls. And why would he want to kill Cesare? Anyway, seeing that Uncle Nino is here, you can just ask him.”
“So Samurai did it on his own?”
Perri said nothing. He gave a light tap of complicit understanding on Denis’s shoulder and then headed up one of the side aisles. The one Malatesta was watching. The two men exchanged a glance. That face was familiar to the colonel. But he couldn’t put a name to it. He followed him from a safe distance, and when he saw him getting into a black BMW waiting for him on the piazza outside, he snapped a few quick pictures with his iPhone.
Don Fernando swung the incense-burning thurible over the coffin, blessing the corpse and the black drape that covered it.
“Oh, Lord, who hast made us participants in the mystery of Christ crucified and reborn for our salvation, let our brother, Cesare, liberated from the chains of death, become one with the community of saints in the eternal Easter. For Christ our lord. Amen.”
The rich sound of the pipe organ filled the church once again. For the first time, Uncle Nino stood up from the pew where he’d been sitting throughout the ceremony. He turned to the two corrections officers who were right behind him and who were urging him to head for the exit and reboard the van that would take him back to the Rome Hotel. He gestured toward Denis and Morgana.
“Could you give me just a minute? I’d like to embrace those two young people. They’re the brother and sister that Cesare never had.”
He took a few steps and clutched Denis and Morgana to his chest.
“Goddamned Samurai!” Denis said softly.
“Shhh, shhh. You’re a intelligent young man, my son. Shhh. Shhh. Not now, not now,” whispered Uncle Nino as if he were comforting a child. Then he uttered the words that Denis had been waiting for all his life. “Now it’s your turn.”
Uncle Nino broke free of Denis and Morgana’s embrace, buttoned up his camelhair overcoat, and returned himself to the custody of his escort with great docility. The organ had fallen silent and the crowd, still thronging the church, waited for the coffin to be carried out. To one side of the altar, Spartaco Liberati emerged. His eyes were puffy and reddened, and in one hand he carried the scarves of the A. S. Roma and the F. S. Barcelona soccer teams, knotted together. He laid the scarves on the coffin and gestured to a sacristan who was standing next to the organ console. The first few notes of “Honor Him” from Gladiator filled the air and the church burst into a loud wave of applause. Liberati went over to Denis and Morgana, his right hand extended.
“I’ve lost a brother. Cesare was a brother to me.”
Denis glared at him with contempt. Who did that piece of shit think he was? Did he think Denis didn’t know he was on Samurai’s payroll? Denis’s hands, resting in his lap, remained where they were. His gaze continued to chill Liberati’s blood, until he had forced him to undergo one last humiliation.
“Hey, Denis. I’ve worked it out with the boys. On Sunday we’re going to unfurl a streamer in the stadium curve. ‘Hail, Cesare,’ is what we’ve written. Great big, like that.”
“Fuck off. Just go fuck yourself.”
Morgana’s voice lashed Liberati like a whip, finally forcing him to seek shelter in the crowd that was now leaving the church. But it surprised Denis, too. Together, in silence, they reached the church courtyard, and there they watched as the coffin was transferred from the horse-drawn carriage to a Mercedes hearse bound for the Verano cemetery, where Cesare would lie next to his father and mother.
From opposite sides of the church, two Olympus digital cameras in the hands of ROS officers clicked furiously. But the funeral-goers didn’t care. They had other things on their minds. Revenge and that bestial sensation of sudden fragility that comes from a brush with mortality were both pushing them toward Death’s house, where they could try and remind themselves they were alive. Flesh and blood.
XXXIX
Behind the wheel of the Porsche Boxster, Sabrina felt like what she’d always dreamed of being: a fine lady. And even Fabio, the leftist Fabio, the complicated Fabio, let’s say it, that royal-pain-in-the-ass Fabio, made no mystery of the fact that he admired the compact lines, the cool bracing lash of the wind that tossed his hair, the frankly impressed gazes he got from everyone as the sportscar went sailing royally past.
Because there’s no two fucking ways about it: everyone likes nice things. Even Communists do. Especially Communists do. Because to hear them talk, it’s all revolution and fight against the machine, but deep down, they only really ever have one thing in mind: sex, oysters, and champagne.
Sabrina and Fabio had become inseparable. Eugenio Brown was never at home, always out and about, attending film festivals and dull business meetings, always in search of an idea that, as he had explained to her, prompting more than one extended yawn, “can bring together culture and show business, entertainment and reflection.”
“In other words, Euge’, you’re looking for something that’ll make you money without getting your conscience dirty.”
Eugenio Brown appreciated her frankness. Sabrina was his window into a world that, before meeting her, he had even recounted in dozens of movies and TV dramas, but without ever really understanding in depth. Deep down, Eugenio hoped that he’d get the right idea, the one he’d been chasing after for too many years now, from that very world of which Sabrina was the unwitting spokesperson.
And the idea—half in jest and half out of boredom—came to her.
In her freshly bestowed gift, the Porsche Boxster, Sabrina had decided to go ransack a few designer shops in the center of Rome. Fabio was the perfect company for that kind of expedition. Like all faggots, he brought to the table considerable expertise in terms of high style as well as a great willingness to listen and discuss. Much better than any straight man or girlfriend. Because men lose interest, and women are annoying.
But that morning Fabio was distracted. He watched as she tried on one outfit after another with a look of boredom, he nodded automatically, and shook his head also as directed, in other words, he clearly couldn’t give less of a damn. And in the intervals, he furiously jotted down notes in an old black notebook. Sabrina purchased a Vuitton bag and a pair of Louboutin shoes (Eugenio adored the red soles of Louboutin shoes), and dragged the screenwriter back to the car. The day’s mood had suddenly turned grim. Sabrina hated being ignored.
“Do you mind if I ask what the hell you’re writing?”
“I thought of a story.”
“Let me hear.”
“Are you really interested?”
“Yes.”
“It starts
with the War in the Balkans . . . ”
“With the what?”
“Jesus, Sabrina, the War in the Balkans. Sarajevo . . . the seige . . . ethnic rape . . . Srebrenica . . . ”
“Okay, okay, I get it, a war between Romanians, Gypsies, and all like that. But then what happens?”
“Then what happens,” Fabio went on, “is that a young Red Cross volunteer is about to be raped by two militiamen, when she is rescued by a handsome Serbian soldier . . . ”
“It doesn’t work.”
“What?”
“The war, the rape, the Red Cross volunteer. What the fuck, Fabio, who on earth is going to go out to the movies to watch such a thing? These days, too . . . People want to laugh, Fabio, trust me!”
“Then you tell me a story, since you know so much about it!”
Sabrina burst out laughing and consoled him with a pat on the cheek.
“Don’t get all worked up. I told you what I thought, didn’t I? These are tough times, people want stories that are . . . ”
“Nice and light?”
“That’s right, nice light stories. Like that one you told me once, about that statue . . . ”
“Pygmalion.”
“There you go, that’s the one. Only maybe set in the present day. I don’t know . . . Hey Fabio, has it ever occured to you that you could tell the story of me and Eugenio?”
“Sincerely, no, it hasn’t,” he replied, cuttingly, “I don’t really think it’s all that interesting, sweetheart.”
“Well, I do. A girl off the streets who’s seen plenty of nasty things in her time meets a producer and falls in love. He takes her in off the streets and they live happily ever after.”
“Already seen it. It’s called Pretty Woman.”
“And that one didn’t make much money?”
Suburra Page 31