Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  Riccardo stands there, banging his fist into his hand. ‘Nothing here ever really changes. This is a place of execution. In the third century the Romans brought prominent Christians here to kill them. They chopped off the heads of Gennaro, who became the patron saint of Naples, and Proculus, the patron saint of Pozzuoli. Some say you can see the devils of hell dancing here—now I’m beginning to see them too.’

  ‘That sounds like hocus-pocus. And it was a long time ago.’

  Riccardo turns to her. ‘Yes and no. But there is something I haven’t told you.’ His face is strained and he turns away and looks at his feet.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A year ago it happened again.’ He turns back. ‘Two men were murdered, scientists who stood up to Il Sistema over plans for development here and around Vesuvius. They spoke out and complained to the government, through the newspapers, even on television. Then they disappeared. We found their bodies here.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Beheaded. Modern-day martyrs. Killed and dumped in the boiling pool like dead dogs.’ He crosses himself.

  ‘No!’ Frances feels a chill rush through her. ‘That’s barbaric. I can’t believe anyone could do that.’

  ‘It’s part of the war. You see all the stories on TV about boy soldiers in Africa and the Middle East—well, there are boy soldiers here too, part of Il Sistema. They’re desensitised young guys high on power and money and probably drugs who do what they’re told. Human life means nothing, they kill to order, even their own relatives. Worst of all, they know one day it will be them and they simply don’t care.’

  ‘Did you know the scientists?’

  ‘Not well. I met them a couple of times at the observatory in Stromboli. They came from the north, from Pisa. Both were in their thirties, with young families. They thought they could get away with bucking the Naples way of doing business and they paid for that mistake with their lives. But the government promised the development wouldn’t go ahead and we believed them. And now…’

  They walk slowly past the boiling pool. The water is bubbling and murky and it’s impossible to see the bottom. It flows into another pond of mud boiling like hot fudge, hundreds of little bubbles popping and sinking into the mire.

  ‘So, you and I, and Marcello—if we speak out, if we tell the truth, are we in danger too?’

  Riccardo doesn’t reply. ‘Come on. Let’s leave this place.’ He links his arm in hers and their footsteps crunch on the rough ground, filling the silence between them. Soon they are away from the crater and sheltered by the avenue of trees. He lets go of her arm and at last finds the words. ‘The ancient Greeks believed that only true heroes could cross these lands, the fields of fire. Everyone was terrified by this place. This was hell, the underworld. You’ve heard of Hercules?’

  ‘The strong man?’

  ‘Yes! He was the first to dare to cross here. Hercules, the strong man who fought evil, was the only one who could withstand the flames, the rumbling ground, boiling water and fire. Now thousands of years later, the evil is just as prevalent. It just has a different name. Maybe that’s what we need—some more heroes like Hercules.’

  Frances can still hear the hissing geysers behind them and the smell of sulphur tailing them as if it was the rancorous breath of the underworld, and wants desperately to wash it from every pore in her body.

  ‘Are you a hero?’ She looks directly into his eyes.

  He turns away and sighs. ‘I don’t know. I hope I don’t have to find that out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Corso Vittorio Emanuele is bustling in the late afternoon when Frances rides home. Shutters are thrown open and she glimpses an old woman, face pale and drawn, sitting behind a window. She stares out at the street as if waiting for someone who went out years before and never returned. Propped on the pavements outside the greengrocers, wooden crates full of new-season capsicums glow, an almost fluorescent rainbow of red, orange, yellow, green and purple.

  Frances pulls off the street into the petrol station where her neighbour, Peppe Fogliano, works.

  They’ve spoken only in passing on the stairs when she’s been talking to his wife, Laura, but he greets her like an old friend. ‘Fill her up, Francesca?’

  ‘Yes please, Peppe.’

  She climbs off the bike and stretches her legs while she watches him fill it with fuel, his finely contoured face accentuated by sleek black hair. The blue overalls she’s seen hanging on the line fit his stocky body as if they were tailor-made. It never ceases to amaze her how smart Italians appear in the simplest of work clothes. Peppe replaces the petrol pump and she hands him her credit card. He returns from the tiny cubicle that serves as an office with her receipt, a bucket of water and a thick yellow chamois. ‘I’ll just clean some of that dust off,’ he says kindly, ‘it’s a bit of a mess. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Out to Campi Flegrei and off the road a bit. Thanks.’

  Although she guesses he’s younger than her, he speaks to her like he’s speaking to one of his twin boys. ‘Be careful when you’re riding alone in the country,’ he cautions. ‘Best to go with others.’

  She’s tempted to ask him the dozens of questions that are crowding her mind but something tells her not to. She wonders what he knows about Il Sistema.

  They live just a few streets above the Spanish Quarter, a tangle of dark narrow lanes and crowded tenement buildings notorious for its clan crime. She’s heard whispers about rackets and standover tactics, sometimes wondering about the quiet conversations in corners of shops she frequents. Instinctively, she’s always quickened her step along these streets. Until now it hasn’t really bothered her, but she can’t get images of headless bodies thrown into the boiling pools out of her mind. Where were the heads, for God’s sake? Floating alongside?

  ‘There you go. You can even see in the mirror now.’ Two more motorbikes pull up behind her, then a car, beeping its horn. ‘OK, OK!’ Peppe calls. ‘Madonna, some people are so impatient!’

  ‘Busy time?’

  ‘Yeah. Everyone’s in a hurry to go somewhere.’

  Laura sometimes complains that she hardly sees him. He’s here six and a half days a week till all hours. As if he’s read her mind, he tells her they’re closing earlier. ‘If you see Laura, tell her I’ll be home soon. We’re shutting up shop early.’

  As Frances rides past the last line of shops leading home, she notices the small shrine to the Madonna mounted on the wall of the lane is overflowing with fresh crimson roses, almost hiding the statue of Mary and artificial candles behind.

  Stefano and Lorenzo are playing chase with several other small boys in the courtyard. They flock around her, begging for a ride, but tonight she’s not in the mood to play and tries to shrug it off, feeling sick to her stomach. ‘Ciao, ragazzi! Hello, boys! Out of the way now.’

  They let her pass and continue chasing each other, their voices shrieking with the thrill of the game.

  As soon as Frances climbs the stairs she hears the cello, a lilting sound that seems to be calling to her like a voice. She pauses outside Pasquale’s door where music soars, rich and mellow. She listens for several minutes until it ends. Then she knocks.

  The door opens slightly. The woman’s shoulder-length platinum blonde hair is curled in an almost old-fashioned Hollywood style. Her eyes are startlingly blue, and ringed with black kohl. ‘Si?’ She looks surprised to see a visitor.

  ‘Hi, I’m Frances, I was wondering…’

  ‘Frances, come in, come in. It’s OK, Poppaea, she’s a friend,’ she hears Pasquale call.

  The woman smiles and opens the door wide. The room where Pasquale is sitting with his cello mirrors the shape of her own lounge but furnished in an old Italian style. Half-drawn heavy curtains block most of the light from the balcony. An upright piano is against one wall, beside a glass-doored cabinet packed with books.

  Pasquale leaps up from the old chaise longue and props the cello against it. ‘Welcome.’ He extends hi
s hand. ‘You’ve come at a good time. We’re stopping for coffee. This is my sister, Poppaea.’

  As Poppaea shakes Frances’ hand, a loud clatter sounds from the kitchen. ‘Merda!’

  ‘Hey, Satore, what are you doing? Trying to smash everything?’ Pasquale calls. ‘Bring an extra cup if there’s any left. We have company.’

  A young man with short hair, gelled upright, and a line of silver rings in one ear totters into the room balancing a tray. ‘Sorry, I just lost a plate. It was an old one.’

  Pasquale laughs. ‘Don’t worry. I picked them up at a junk market.’

  He places the tray on a green metallic coffee table that is at odds with the faded elegance of the room. ‘Ciao, I’m Salvatore but you can call me Satore. And you might have guessed this ugly table is another of Pasquale’s finds!’ His voice is deep, like crushed gravel, in contrast to his friend’s soft melodic one, and when he shakes Frances’ hand she feels the calluses that mark his long manicured fingers. ‘You like espresso?’

  She nods and he pours a steaming brew from the coffee maker into four small cups. He piles three spoons of sugar into his own and gestures at the others to help themselves.

  ‘What was that beautiful piece you were playing?’ Frances asks.

  ‘It’s “The Swan” from The Carnival of the Animals by Camille Saint-Saëns. You like it?’

  ‘It’s very moving…and very sad.’

  ‘Pasquale is practising for an important audition,’ Poppaea explains. ‘Satore’s accompanying him on the piano. I’m here for moral support so you can join me here if you like.’ Frances sits beside Poppaea on a green velvet sofa opposite Pasquale.

  Satore drains his coffee and sits at the piano. ‘I prefer the violin but anything for a friend, eh? OK. Let’s go.’ He rubs his hands together, turns and signals Pasquale then starts to play, his fingers moving easily through four bars.

  Pasquale raises his bow and the music flows from him. The long instrument melds with his body, its spike planted in front of him like a tiny third foot. His face almost touches the neck and moves with the music. Frances is captivated by his cloudy green-blue eyes that follow his fingers as he depresses each string. When he closes them, it’s as if a light has been turned off but he keeps the same pace, his fingers moving automatically up and down the strings as he draws the bow backwards and forwards.

  Frances closes her eyes and can picture a swan swimming, the water flowing over its thick white feathers. But the music suggests danger; she imagines the bird is threatened, turning this way and that, trembling and afraid. The swan slows and seems sick, ready to die. She opens her eyes again and glances across to Poppaea. She sits motionless, as if in a trance. Pasquale finishes the last lingering cello notes, lowers the bow and rests his hands on his lap. He almost seems to have stopped breathing. Satore’s shoulders bend over the piano and he plays the final bars.

  No one moves and for a few moments the last notes hover in the room.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ Frances breathes.

  ‘It could be better.’ Pasquale wearily creases his brow. ‘It looks good but this cello is a pretty average instrument—laminated wood, spruce and maple, very possibly artificial.’ He taps the side. ‘It was probably made in China, like nearly everything else seems to be these days. I’m saving to buy the real thing, something older and Italian. I’ve got my eye on one in a music shop near the conservatorium. But I haven’t got quite enough money yet. I just hope it doesn’t sell in the meantime and I can get it in time for the audition next month.’

  ‘What are you auditioning for?’

  ‘A place in the Naples orchestra—it’s my dream to play at the Teatro San Carlo.’

  ‘You’d better get back to busking then,’ Satore interrupts. ‘It’s a big night for the tourists at Santa Lucia. I’ll come tonight if you like.’

  ‘We have to go to the meeting first, remember,’ Pasquale says.

  ‘The meeting?’ Frances asks.

  ‘About the rubbish strike. The students are organizing a big protest rally. We’re sick of the junk piled up all over Naples and Campania.’

  ‘I’ve seen it. Right up to Vesuvius. Diabolical!’

  ‘We’re being drowned in trash. It’s coming in from everywhere in Italy and from other countries. And our own rubbish sits here because there’s no more landfill to put it in. Now there’s a move to build a giant incinerator.’ Pasquale is pacing the room, his usual gentleness swamped by anger. ‘We are already the dumping place for toxic waste. And now they want to poison the very air that we breathe!’

  Satore nods his agreement. ‘That’s right, Frances, we are known as the arse end of Italy. Tuscany is the beautiful heart. All the tourists love Tuscany—so eco, so green! But where do you think all their rubbish goes? Here, all around Naples. We’re drowning in millions of tons of shit. The industry up north pays people in Il Sistema to bury it here and around Caserta, where we all grew up.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  Pasquale grimaced. ‘For as long as I can remember. The waste is mixed up with compost and used as fertilizer so we eat the shit. It’s in cement and we grow up in apartments made from poison, so our homes are full of the shit. And when we shop, the supermarkets are built from it too, there’s no escape.’

  ‘So everyone turns a blind eye?’

  ‘No, not everyone. The people here try but always they hit brick walls. There are government inquiries, which reveal the corruption and a few people end up in jail. A year later, they’re out and the dumping goes on…’ Pasquale starts to cough.

  ‘Calm down,’ Poppaea interrupts. ‘Focus on the music for now. We have another half an hour. Play one of the Bach suites again.’

  She turns to Frances. ‘He has to master all the six Bach cello suites for the audition. They’ll ask him to play two but he won’t know which ones. And there’s no accompaniment, so it’s very tough. “The Swan” is, how do you say, his signature piece. Easier to play technically but it really shows the feeling of the musician.’

  ‘Ah Poppaea, always the mother.’ Pasquale grabs her shoulders and kisses her with a loud smacking noise.

  ‘Someone has to keep you on track.’

  ‘Our mother died young,’ Pasquale explains. ‘So my big sister has always looked after me.’

  A baby’s cry pierces the room and Frances stands. ‘You have some competition from Luciana! I’ve had a long day so I have to go. Thank you for letting me listen to you play.’

  ‘Come back again,’ Pasquale calls after her.

  As Frances climbs the stairs, the cello seems to echo her footsteps. The music is sombre and familiar, a piece she’s heard Pasquale play time and time again.

  ‘Watch out! Excuse me, Frances.’ Peppe rushes past her, breathing heavily.

  ‘Finished already?’

  ‘Yes,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘A good night to be home early and off the streets—there could be some trouble in Naples tonight. I’d stay put if I were you. Good night.’

  She passes him as he disappears into his apartment and she climbs the final flight to hers.

  Frances throws her jacket onto the floor and falls onto her bed too exhausted to undress. Her legs feel like lead weights but she makes herself lift them up one at a time and pulls off her boots. She curls into a ball and tries to block out the thoughts of the murdered scientists.

  Her mind drifts back to White Island as it does so frequently when she feels troubled and she rubs the little scars that mark the top of one foot, a permanent reminder of that hellhole.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Umberto Dragorra releases her. ‘Hungry for love or dinner, Camilla?’

  ‘Both,’ she tells him as she passes her fingers over his crotch and feels him harden. She likes the smell of his expensive aftershave, the feel of his impeccably cut suit, made of the finest wool. And she loves the thrill of her power over one who could snuff her out, but won’t, because she offers everything he needs.

  ‘
Well, I’m starving,’ he laughs at her, pushing her hand away. ‘Love will have to take second place. Let’s eat.’

  He taps the driver’s shoulder. ‘Mario, take us to Santa Lucia.’

  The car edges through the dark narrow streets of the university precinct and slips into a sea of traffic moving at walking pace along Via Cristoforo Colombo.

  Camilla cranes to look beyond Mario’s shaved head, across the wide boulevard to the harbour, where hulking white ships are warming up to sail to Sicily and the Aeolian Islands, their funnels exhaling small smoky clouds into the night.

  ‘Can’t we go any faster than this?!’ Umberto shouts, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

  Mario turns around and shrugs apologetically.

  Camilla soothes him and strokes his hand. She’s been on the receiving end of his temper and is in no mood for an argument. ‘Here, let’s look at the report while we’re driving. There’s plenty of time.’

  He flicks on a small light. Although she smiles at Umberto she doesn’t really like what she sees. He is just shy of sixty and has dyed his thin hair a carroty hue in a vain attempt to recreate the dark ginger-red locks of his youth. His face has been smoothed by a daily visit to the barber who still sharpens razors on a strip of leather. But his cheeks have drooped and his jowls have spread, giving him the look of a puffed toad, one that would spray her in poison if she stood in the way of what he wanted. For all that, he excites her. She likes the sensation of brushing up against someone who could transform her fortunes and finally push her into the big league. How fortuitous he was now the chair of the university. As the government media release described him after he was appointed:

  Umberto Dragorra is one of the city’s most respected and prominent businessmen. It is vital that our university is able to face the challenges of the new millennium and to cultivate graduates to succeed in the new market economy. Signor Dragorra will bring his experience and energy to academia for the great benefit of all.

  Ah, so often it was the ugly ones who became the most powerful, with enough of the Neapolitan furbo, the cunning, to succeed at any cost.