Suburra

by Giancarlo De Cataldo

  Temistocle Malgradi was beaming. Behind the shelter of a hibiscus plant, he couldn’t stop thanking Mariano Tempesta and Benedetto Umiltà with a hand on his heart. They looked back at him with all the satisfaction of a buyer gazing at the new SUV ready to drive out of the dealership.

  The damnatio memoriae of that human shipwreck of a brother of his, Pericle, had been their masterpiece. They had basically buried him alive in the monastery of Camaldoli, in expectation of a trial that might be a long time coming. And in the meanwhile, everyone could be allowed to forget. Amen.

  The Candidate tapped gently on the gooseneck microphone. He cleared his throat with a short, studied cough. He breathed in the cool scent of the mentholatum spray he’d just used to clear his stuffy nostrils, which were reacting to the line of coke he’d snorted just half an hour ago. As he was snorting coke on the twenty-eighth floor, he’d contemplated Il Fungo, fourteen floors further down. Poor old Il Fungo. Its days were over. As was only right, when the Present takes the place of a Past long since buried. And when the Future is a new, luminous adventure.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, all my dear friends. First of all, thank you. Thank you! Thank you! I speak to you as a man of science and therefore with words of truth. Above all, as a man who is deeply moved because I have been given the chance to participate in this magnificent adventure, upon which we are setting off today, an adventure that I am honored and proud to call Politics. With a capital P. The same Politics that made my father great and proved my brother’s undoing. You may wonder, just as the people closest to me have wondered in recent days, with what spirit, with what strength, after everything that has happened to Pericle, my family can have decided to return to the public stage. Well, it was exactly what happened that gave us no choice. It was a duty we owed to ourselves, to you, and to the country. There is only one way to make up for wrongdoing: you must expiate it in your service to the community. And politics is service, as I have learned, and as you may too, in the pages that have accompanied me in my solitary reflections over the past few days, pages from Ethics for a New Millennium by Monsignor Mariano Tempesta, the shepherd of souls who is here with us today, and to whom I can claim the distinct honor of enjoying a close friendship. This is the trustworthy raft of faith and hope upon which my brother, so sadly shipwrecked, has finally taken refuge.”

  Malgradi’s culminating blather caught Eugenio Brown in the hint of a yawn. Sitting next to him in the small audience surrounded on all sides by luxuriant greenhouse vegetation, Sabrina, swathed in a breathtaking black tube dress, was fuming.

  “Hey Euge’, leaving aside the fact that with all these vines and dwarf trees I feel like I’m at the zoo, excuse me, the menagerie, I still want to tell you that these Malgradis are a family of fucking whoremongers, no matter what they say.”

  “Please, my love. Please. Language, my love, language . . . ”

  “How could it ever have occurred to you to get us sucked into this herd of dickheads?”

  “My love, you can’t always delegate things in life. We too need to do something for the good of the country.”

  “I get that. But with the Malgradi family, of all people, after everything that’s happened?”

  “You know, just because they’re brothers doesn’t mean they’re the same people. I’ve heard a lot of good things about this Temistocle. A progressive Catholic.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Temistocle finished up in a crescendo that he had tried out over and over again in the past few days, with his latest sweetheart, an attractive dental hygienist, as his audience.

  “The old style of politics has failed us, my dear friends. Its failure, ladies and gentleman, marks the end of the twentieth century. I say it in the most definitive and irreversible terms available. Enough! We cannot continue to look toward the future if our eyes are perpetually turned toward the past. And this is something that I say to our friends on both the right and the left, who have both committed so many errors in these recent troubled years of our life together as a nation. There is a rising tide of indignation, rancor, and antagonism all around us. In part, we are all responsible for it. We cannot allow it to sweep us away. Let us, rather, look toward the coalition of the finest neo-conservative and pro-labor tradition. Enough with the old oppositions. Our path will be neither easy nor short, and that is why we must begin today, because the Future will not wait, because it is eager to become the Present. The Future begins today. It begins right here.”

  There was a wave of applause that brought the house down.

  Brown turned to Sabrina.

  “What did I tell you? This guy is cut from a very different cloth. And anyway. It’s with them that we can start over, after everything that’s happened and that’s happened to you, my love. Do you have any idea of the symbolic power of our presence here? Do you know what it means? That your past is now a closed book. Over. Erased. A New Beginning, my love. Also, I have a surprise for you.”

  Sabrina’s pout dissolved into a smile. She knew the preamble well enough to recognize what was coming. She leaned her ear over to Eugenio’s mouth like a cat.

  “It seems to me that you like this place.”

  “Aside from this jungle, I like it a lot. I saw that they have a movie theater. And a gym. And a swimming pool.”

  Brown smiled.

  “I talked to the builder when we first got here. You see him? That good-looking man in the front row.”

  “Yes, indeed. Not bad at all. And he’s probably dripping money. Well?”

  “I bought you a little something here in the tower. A thousand square feet or so. That way, whenever you’re bored on Piazza Vittorio, you can always use this place as your office and your refuge. I figured that with the movie and the various series, you ought to have a space all your own.”

  Temistocle Malgradi had finished up and now he was greeting folks in an orgy of handshakes and cheek-kissing.

  Sabrina brushed her fingertips over the nape of Brown’s neck. She kissed him sweetly on the forehead.

  “I love you, Euge’. You’re my life.”

  La Paranza Restaurant and Samurai’s Villa.

  Tito Maggio was beaming.

  Out of jail, awaiting trial, with good odds of beating the rap thanks to Max’s confession, reassured by Samurai concerning the age-old matter of his debts to the Three Little Pigs, on the very day he reopened La Paranza—damn him to hell, this fucking Carabiniere, he had really hit him hard—he had seen himself honored by visits from Perri, from Rocco and Silvio Anacleti and, naturally, from Ciro Viglione, guest of honor inasmuch as he was fresh from his acquittal—the triumph of justice, no small deal!

  Moreover, the fact that it was Viglione the party was being thrown for, was in and of itself another piece of good news: while the Anacleti clan and the Calabrians were notoriously stingy, the Camorrista loved an opportunity for lavish display. He unfailingly demanded, as he put it in Neapolitan dialect, “chillu ca costa ’e cchiú”—whatever cost the most. He paid in cash and he left extremely generous tips. For that matter, even if he had wanted to pay with a credit card that would be out of the question for at least another little while, as a result of frozen bank accounts, court orders, and preventive confiscations, and other legal quibbles. An understated little card, left almost carelessly on the white linen tablecloths, informed the diners that “due to temporary difficulties with our lines, it is impossible for us to accept credit or debit cards.” But luckily, at least to judge from that first evening, things were starting to stir again. Yes. The clientele couldn’t care less about Tito Maggio’s legal problems. Was the seafood good? Were the wines up to snuff? Well then, fuck judges and cops, you only live once, right? The only sour note was Samurai’s absence. Tito would have expected to see him enter, tailing after the usual crew, or maybe even a step or two ahead of them. Instead, nothing, not even the shadow of Samurai. An absence that astonished and embittered Cir
o Viglione, too.

  “That fucking asshole Samurai could have gotten up off his ass just this once, no? What do you all think about it?”

  “I did that,” Rocco Perri admitted, “or I guess I should say, I didn’t do it. That is, I didn’t invite him to the party.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s better if we have a talk amongst ourselves first.”

  Ciro Viglione looked at the Calabrian, still unctuous and smiling, and saw that the Anacletis were nodding their heads. The map of the alliances was being redrawn, then. This wasn’t going to be a very good time for Samurai.

  “Do I catch a whiff of ora pro nobis?” the Camorrista inquired, sinking his teeth into a scarlet gamba prawn that had only left the land of the living moments ago.

  “It’s premature,” Perri explained, “but no doubt about it, he’s been kicking up a fuss lately.”

  “And we’ve all lost money on account of it. Every last one of us,” Silvio Anacleti pointed out.

  “And Uncle Nino’s been busting my balls!” Viglione finished up, clearly in tune with the rest of them.

  The other men at the table all nodded in agreement.

  “He wants revenge,” said Perri. “But I told him to keep calm. The time will come. Right now, we need to rebuild our crews, figure out whether there’s any life left in the Great Project, or whether we should just draw an X over it . . . ”

  “Samurai says that it’s only a matter of time,” Silvio Anacleti ventured.

  “And you believe him?” Viglione queried.

  What followed was a profusion of arms thrown wide and deep sighs of indecision. They knew and they didn’t know. They believed and they didn’t believe. And most of all, Ciro Viglione, they were still afraid of him. In other words, the Camorrista decided, Samurai still carries some weight, but he’s like someone out on parole. The next time he fucks up, he’s a dead man. But why waste time? The truth is that Samurai has broken our balls. Why not just get four or five young bravos, send them over to take care of him, and then after explaining the rules of life to them, promote them on the field of battle for their act of bravery, and start over again with them. The way they used to do in Naples, back in the good old days.

  “If it was up to me, you could do it tonight,” Viglione summarized.

  “Let’s wait for the politics to work itself out, Ciro, trust me on this.”

  “I’m sick and fucking tired of politics!”

  “And that’s why politics has changed, right, Ciro? You do remember the old blood oath we swore, don’t you? ‘The big fish became small, and the small fish became sharks . . . ’”

  Ciro reined in the more impetuous spirits. Rocco Perri had fallen back on the ancient Mafia oath of allegiance. It was a way of reinforcing the message and making it clear that the matter had been examined and resolved in all possible venues. Samurai was being given an extension. There was nothing more to be said.

  Snapping his fingers, he summoned the waiter’s attention.

  “Bring another bottle of Krug, boy. This one is warm.”

  Sebastiano, the engineer’s son, and Manfredi, the shylock’s son, showed up on Manfredi’s motor scooter a little past one.

  Manfredi stood watch, as they’d agreed. This was a job for the young man; he had shown some real ability and would soon make a name for himself.

  Sebastiano shot a glance at the restaurant’s plate glass windows. The lights had been turned down, and the waiters were preparing the tables for the next day’s business. Another twenty minutes, half an hour, tops, he said to himself. He exchanged a glance of understanding with Manfredi, and to vent his anxiety he went for a walk through the empty streets of the center of town. Christmas was coming, and the season’s festoons and decorations hit him with the painful intensity of nostalgia for the way things were and would never be again. Just a year ago, he’d been a happy young man. He’d held the world in his hands and he hadn’t even realized it. Now he was just a guy with nothing left to lose. But, at the same time, he was coming to a fork in the road. He was impatient. He went back to La Paranza and stood out front. Manfredi was hiding somewhere nearby. The waiters were going home, straggling out a few at a time. The last one to leave was the chef. Finally, the last light blinked off. The engineer’s son pulled the nylon stocking over his head, gave the barrel of his revolver a spin, gripped the handgun firmly, took a deep breath, and was ready and waiting when Tito Maggio’s corpulent silhouette appeared in the front door.

  “Shut up, don’t move, get back inside,” he ordered the man, aiming the revolver at him.

  “What the fuck—”

  “Get back inside, I said.”

  Tito Maggio obeyed.

  “Shut the door and turn on the lights. On the dimmer. That’s right. Now go to the cash register and get the cash.”

  “I have it right here,” said Tito, pointing to the pouch clipped to his belt.

  “Give it to me.”

  Tito Maggio was hardly a lionhearted soul. He thought to himself, what the hell, let him keep the money, that poor idiot, and he can go fuck himself. But then it occurred to him that, given his situation, there was always the risk that the Three Little Pigs might refuse to believe there had been any robbery at all. They were capable of saying that he’d made up the whole thing just to squirrel away the cash. Rumors might make their way to Samurai. Samurai might believe them. If he lost Samurai’s protection, it would all be over. He’d be done for. And so he screwed up the courage that he lacked.

  “Hold on, listen to me for a minute, kid . . . I don’t know if you’re clear on who I am . . . I’m Tito Maggio. Here in Rome I’m friends with everyone. And most important of all, I’m friends with Samurai . . . you know who Samurai is, don’t you?”

  “Give me that fucking pouch. I’m starting to lose my patience.”

  Who the hell was this asshole? Where had he come from? Did he or didn’t he know that Samurai held Rome in the palm of his hand? That whoever takes him on was just so much dead flesh?

  “Look, let’s just say you made a bad mistake, kid. Now you just turn around and head out of here the same way you came in. Look, if you want I’m happy to spot you a hundred euros, hell, two hundred . . . Let’s just say I invited you to dinner, eh? A nice free meal at La Paranza, oh, that’s not the kind of thing just anyone can afford.”

  By now, Sebastiano was possessed by a unnatural cool. He thought back to the instructions he’d been given by Manfredi, that poor idiot; he thought back to his easy-going and occasionally mocking tone of voice.

  “Tito Maggio has a bad habit. He doesn’t pay his debts. So we’re going to have to teach him a lesson. Nothing serious, we don’t want to put him out of business, heavens no. You go in, you make him hand over the day’s take, then you tell him: look, Tito, you have to pay your debts, that way he’ll understand where this is coming from and that he needs to stop playing the asshole. Then you head on back home and I’ll tell the notary to record the document that, in the meantime, we’ll have drawn up.”

  “And what if he tries something? What should I do, should I shoot him?”

  “Try something? Tito? He’s just going to wet his pants.”

  Well, Tito Maggio was trying something. And that made things simpler.

  Tito Maggio was like Manfredi, like Sor Scipione, like the buzzards that had cleaned the flesh off his bones, like his father’s executioners. Samurai was the only one who was any different. He was cut from another cloth, Samurai was. He had instilled the meaning of revolt in Sebastiano, Samurai had. He had transformed hatred into pure energy. All right. All right.

  Sebastiano fired. Once, twice, three times. Tito Maggio dropped to the floor without a shout, with a stunned expression in his eyes. Wait, did you really just do that, kid? Now, you tell me, what a way to end the . . . ”

  The engineer’s son took the stocking off his
head, reached down and grabbed the pouch. It was fat with cash.

  Alarmed at the sound of gunshots, Manfredi rushed into the restaurant.

  “What the fuck did you do? Have you lost your mind? Give me that fucking pistol, Sebastia’!”

  Sebastiano swung around and aimed the gun at him, amused at Manfredi’s dismay, and then shot him. Twice. Once in the crotch. That’s for Chicca. And once in the head. And that’s for the life you stole from me.

  When the message, sent via Skype, reached Samurai he was naked, on the terrace of his villa, dancing the solitary t’ai chi of the strong, of the indestructible ones.

  “All done, Maestro.”

  Sebastiano was impassive. Samurai nodded.

  “Good work. Now get out of circulation for a while. You know where to go. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

  When Samurai got to La Paranza in his SUV, the place was crawling with cops who refused to let him get any closer. He locked eyes with Marco Malatesta. With a nod, the lieutenant colonel ordered his men to let the bandit enter.

  Inside the restaurant, poor Sor Scipione was caressing his son’s corpse, in a grotesque parody of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Samurai shot him a sorrowful glance of formal acknowledgment. They were “deluded,” those wretches. They wanted to “lay him down.” They’d never understand a thing.

  Then he bent over the fat restaurateur’s corpse and put his hands together in the Hindu greeting.