‘I recognized Paolo,’ Pasquale says at last. ‘A farmer who spoke up after his land was poisoned. I met him earlier at the meeting.’
‘And Leonardo,’ Riccardo adds. ‘He’s been agitating against Il Sistema, calling for the government to stop the flow of toxic waste into Campania. Now they’ve both been silenced.’ He rubs at the blood on one of his hands, trying to get rid of a red stain ingrained in a wrinkle on his palm. He looks up and exclaims. ‘That’s my life line. Maybe it means my time will be cut short too!’
‘Shssh! You’re OK. It’s just the shock.’ Frances looks at them both. ‘Did you call the police?’
They both shake their heads. Riccardo speaks slowly, as if explaining something to a child. ‘You may not understand this, Frances, but we both got out of there as quickly as possible.’
‘But didn’t you see who did it?’
‘No,’ Riccardo says. ‘I saw the young thugs but not the killers. The others told me they were two men who stormed in on a motorbike and did their dirty work.’
‘Nor did I,’ Pasquale says. ‘A motorbike flew past me just before the shootings and…’ He hesitates and shakes his head. I did see someone later,’ he says slowly. ‘But not on the bike.’
They look at him closely.
‘A very short man, almost a dwarf. He ran past me after the shootings. He was carrying a gun and running very fast in the opposite direction.’
‘That’s odd,’ Riccardo says, ‘Neither of the killers was a dwarf. People would have noticed.’
‘I’m so exhausted I’m starting to wonder if I dreamt it.’ Pasquale stands and heads for the door. ‘I’m sorry but I have to go home. I’m totally drained.’
Frances locks the door after him then pours another brandy for herself and Riccardo.
He sips it and lies back on the sofa. Soon he is sleeping.
Frances sits opposite, watching him. Is she dreaming it all too; caught up in someone else’s nightmare? Decapitated vulcanologists, people gunned down in cold blood—no exploding volcanoes, however dangerous, had prepared her for the eruptions of southern Italy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The ringing assaults her ears. Her room is black and she accidentally knocks the phone to the floor, missing the call. When she climbs out of bed and flings open the shutters, harsh daylight floods into her room and she’s surprised to see the sun is already high in the sky. She glances at her watch. Eleven o’clock. Oh God, she’s overslept! She finds the phone where it landed, on a pile of dirty clothes under her bed, and flicks it on. Four missed calls, all from Marcello.
She wanders out to the lounge where Ricky is still asleep on the sofa, cocooned in the blanket she found for him the night before. In the bathroom she finds some painkillers and takes out two of the white tablets, then gets a glass of water and nestles next to him. She strokes his forehead until he stirs.
He slowly opens his eyes and groans. ‘Hey, don’t sound so pleased to see me,’ she says in as cheerful a tone as she can manage. ‘Here, take these.’ She helps him sit up. ‘I think you might need them.’
Riccardo swallows the tablets obediently, like a schoolboy home on a sick day. ‘I feel like I’ve died and been to hell and back,’ he mutters. ‘Ouch, my fucking leg!’ he yells as he tries to stand.
‘Hey, take it easy. I’ll help you up. Have a hot shower and see how you feel.’
When Frances hears the running water, she quickly rings Marcello to tell him about Riccardo’s misadventure, but he’s already heard about the shootings.
‘It’s all over the news,’ he says. ‘I met the two men who were murdered at the meeting. I’m glad you were well away from it all. This city is lurching out of control.’
‘I can feel it in the air,’ she says. ‘I can almost taste the violence—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. But I’m trying to stay focused on our task—the bigger picture of protecting millions of people.’ Frances reminds him the three of them were planning to visit the excavations of the Bronze Age settlements that day. ‘Is it too late?’
‘No. I have another couple of hours’ work to do in the lab. Why don’t I pick you up in the city around two?’
‘Perfect. I don’t know if Ricky will be up for it.’
‘Call me later and we can confirm the meeting place,’ he says. ‘By the way, Frances…’ His voice trails away.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve thought a lot about you in the last few days.’ His voice is tender. It triggers a release of the horror and fear she had felt washing through her veins.
‘I’ve thought a lot about you too,’ she tells him.
Frances turns on the television and switches until she finds a news channel. It’s not long before the story about the shooting appears. Shots of carabinieri at the scene, the bodies, covered with sheets, being loaded into ambulances, interviews with witnesses. There are photos of the victims and some file video of the activist, Leonardo, who had previously addressed public rallies against the dumping of toxic waste.
Photos of suspects flash on the screen, one named as Fabio Dragorra. He had come to police attention previously through an investigation of the cartels controlling waste disposal in the metropolis. His father, Umberto Dragorra, is interviewed. He says his son is innocent and was not in Naples the previous night, but in the north on business. Frances does a double take when she hears that among his other roles, Dragorra is chair of the university.
She hears a knock at the door and Pasquale calling to her. She opens the door wide and points to the television screen. Pasquale pales as the reporter recaps details about the murders, wincing when a shot of Paolo’s body is replayed in slow motion.
They both watch a second story about another shooting in the city, shortly after the first. A gang member was shot dead inside a bar. He had been drinking with his sister when a lone gunman burst in and killed him.
‘The police wish to interview a man who was seen near the scene of the crime,’ the reporter says. ‘His name is Basso Mezzanotte, believed to be a member of a rival gang.’ A photo of a man with a tangle of gold hair, a large nose and a red complexion fills the screen.’
‘That’s him! The dwarf!’ Pasquale exclaims. ‘I wasn’t dreaming after all. Basso Mezzanotte—Shorty Midnight.’
Riccardo limps out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, dripping wet. ‘Morning,’ he nods to Pasquale. ‘Have you recovered from our late-night drama?’
‘Better than the other two,’ he says soberly. ‘We just saw the news coverage. Looks like the short man I saw used the opportunity to pay a revenge call on another matter.’
Riccardo shrugs his shoulders. ‘Man, this city is falling apart.’
‘Marcello just said the same thing,’ Frances replies. ‘He rang about our expedition to the Bronze Age sites.’
She rustles in the cupboard for a coffee grinder and the apartment fills with its droning roar and the aroma of freshly crushed beans. She spoons the coffee into the espresso maker and tries to light the gas top. ‘Damn!’ It refuses to spark.
‘Here, let me.’ Pasquale takes the box of matches from her and fiddles with the control until a blue flame burns brightly.
‘I’m not going anywhere today, sorry, I feel like shit,’ Riccardo calls back from his room. ‘I’m going to try to sleep it off.’
‘You do that,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’
Frances removes the whistling machine from the stove and pours two coffees. As she passes a cup to Pasquale she notices his hands are trembling. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re still in shock. Do you want to see a doctor?’
‘N-n-no,’ he stammers, then steadies himself. ‘No. I’ll be all right.’ He sips the coffee loudly and apologizes. ‘I was going to do some serious practice but I don’t feel in the mood. So I’m going to busk some more today. I’ll take the cello instead of the violin so at least my hands can limber up.’
‘How much money do you need for the new cello?’
‘Twenty thousand euro. I’m more than halfway there and I might be able to get a loan. But I’m running out of time. And Saturday’s a big day for tourists, especially around Maschio Angionino.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Down town. It’s also called Castel Nuovo, the new castle, because it was only built seven hundred years ago. Quite new for here!’
‘Why don’t I come with you? I’ve got some time.’
He smiles at her gratefully. ‘I’d like that.’
They jump on a bus, Pasquale struggling to squeeze himself and the unwieldy cello case between a crush of passengers. Wearing a black trilby and his trademark long coat, Pasquale towers above the seated passengers. Frances is holding a small foldaway stool and props herself against the other side of the case to balance them as they bounce down the winding road towards the castle. The day is clear and from the bus, between buildings, she catches glimpses of Vesuvius and patches of the sea shining like chips of blue glass.
‘Nearly there.’ Pasquale pushes the button for the next stop. They press through to the door and emerge into the brightness of the Piazza Municipio. Three tourist buses are parked nearby and groups are meandering to and fro, from the castle to the brotherhood of African bag merchants plying a brisk trade on the pavement, to a mobile gelato van.
‘Room for me somewhere in this mix,’ Pasquale says. He positions himself near a tree where people pause to rest, removes the cello from its case, puts the trilby upside down on the case and drops in some coins.
As soon as he strikes up the first notes of one of his Bach suites, Frances notices heads turning towards him, but no one comes near. He finishes the piece and turns to Frances. ‘Sadly that response is normal,’ he laughs. ‘Now watch this.’
He launches into ‘Santa Lucia’, the deep velvet notes of the cello bestowing a richness and complexity on the song. Instantly, a woman wanders over and drops several coins, their noise muffled by the felt hat. More tourists follow and by the time he has played the song through a few times, the hat is half full. A group of elderly Americans gathers to listen. Pasquale breaks into ‘Funiculi, Funicula’ and again the coins tumble into his hat.
Frances watches their faces, captivated by Pasquale’s performance. She senses the music has lifted his mood too, and the brutality of the night before is forgotten, at least for a moment.
‘Can you play “That’s Amore”?’ a man calls out in a New York Brooklyn accent.
Pasquale grins. ‘I’ll try. But only if you sing!’
‘Hey, go, Rocco!’ his friends cry out.
‘You’re on!’
Pasquale raises his bow and plays the first notes. The man steps forward and starts to sing. He’s bald and seventy-five if he’s a day, but moves like a much younger man. His voice is clear and tuneful and when Frances closes her eyes she can imagine him in a slick cabaret suit rather than the polyester walking pants and checked shirt he’s wearing.
‘Hey, you’re nearly as good as Dean Martin,’ one of his friends jokes.
Encouraged, he sings louder, his hand on his heart and swaying to his own beat. The mood is infectious. The rest of the group is singing. Several start dancing. As Frances claps, another of the men grabs her arm and swings her into a crazy version of a waltz. As the group bursts into applause, Frances scoops up the hat and passes it around.
‘Help him buy a new cello!’ she encourages them.
One by one they drop coins and notes into the hat as Pasquale stands to make a mock bow with the singer. They turn to bow to each other. The singer then fishes his wallet out of his pocket and takes out a one hundred dollar bill. ‘That was the most fun I’ve had since I’ve been here,’ he says handing the note to Pasquale. ‘Beats the hell out of old castles!’
The horn of one of their large tour buses beeps and they trail away.
Pasquale quickly counts the money. ‘You should come more often—only half an hour and there’s one hundred euro and one hundred and fifty dollars.’
‘Keep playing. But your sidekick has to go,’ she says. ‘I’ve been meaning to check out the castle, even if your fan thinks it is boring!’
Pasquale starts to play ‘The Swan’ and the haunting notes accompany her as she strolls across the square towards the looming stone walls. Hard charcoal cobblestones lead her up the path to the entrance guarded by menacing brick towers, stained chocolate by the urban pollution.
She walks across a bridge spanning a wide moat, through a sculptured white marble archway into a vast sloping courtyard open to the sky, overlooked by three storeys.
A couple of guards are playing cards beneath a colonnade and barely register her presence when she passes. An ancient chapel lies ahead which she peruses quickly then climbs as high as she can towards the top of the castle.
The stairs are steep and irregular and pass long galleries full of paintings. A vivid flash of red catches her eye. She pauses when she sees it’s an old image of Vesuvius labelled ‘Eruption 1632’. In the centre of the painting, the mountain spews a fiery mass which shoots into the sky and blows down into Naples. People are fleeing streets piled with the dead, and trying to board boats in the bay. Frances shudders.
She continues climbing. A rush of cold air blasts her as she opens a door leading to the battlements where a young couple kiss passionately against one wall. The long-haired girl and her dark-skinned lover ignore her, locked in their own world. She gazes out across the bay to the twin peaks of Vesuvius, so benign today. She spins around and, as far as her eye can see, the city of Naples spreads in all directions.
The wind is picking up and her leather jacket does nothing to protect her from the cold, although she notices the couple, dressed in skimpy clothes, remain oblivious to the weather.
She runs down the stairs, two steps at a time. At the bottom, a sign outside a large, wood-panelled room says ‘Sala dei baroni’. She pokes her head inside. Rows of burgundy upholstered chairs give the stark chamber the air of an inquisition. She’s looking up at the ribbed vaulted ceiling when a guide walks over.
‘This is where the barons were executed,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘The barons?’
‘Yes.’ He straightens his tie, clearly delighted to have an audience. ‘They were plotting against the King, back in medieval times. King Ferrante. So when he found out, he invited his enemies here for a feast. When they were all eating, he told his soldiers to lock the doors. They were all slaughtered.’
‘That was some last supper!’ Frances says.
‘The price of betrayal and treachery is always high.’ He stares into her eyes, unsettling her.
She starts to leave but he calls her back. ‘You should visit the basement,’ he says, a tad conspiratorially. ‘Lots of skeletons—most people like that.’
Frances is tempted to keep going but knows she will take the bait. Where there are skeletons, there is always a story. She turns back and he sweeps his right hand out like a traffic warden, gesturing to more stairs behind him.
She walks down two flights of sandstone steps which narrow at each level. Electric lights styled as medieval torches mounted on the walls throw barely enough light to show the way. She avoids dark corners and crevices that whisper to her of a bloody past. Below it is empty and claustrophobic. A row of lights reflects on the ground ahead. Sheets of thick glass have replaced the paving stones and when she stands on them she can see deep into the bowels of the fortress. She recoils sharply. Resting on the rock are the glowing bones of a skeleton. Then she sees another and another, sometimes one on its own, then two together. There are no labels and no clues to their identity. She wanders further and jumps when something brushes against her leg. Meow! A marmalade cat lets her know she’s trespassing. She ignores it and passes into another room.
More glass floors reveal the foundations of the castle. She kneels and peers down for a closer view. There are no more skeletons but large rocks and…It can’t be…and yet…Frances rubs the glass to try to focus more closely, lo
oks again and can’t believe what she is seeing. She crawls to the next section of glass and the next. It is. She’s sure it is. Sitting back on her heels she lets out a long, slow whistle then bounds back up the stairs, her heart racing.
The guide is standing outside the barons’ room and looks up when he hears her footsteps. She slows down and collects her thoughts. As casually as she can, she walks over to him. ‘Thank you for telling me about the basement. It’s most interesting.’
‘You’re welcome, the skeletons are always popular.’
She smiles at him. ‘I can see why.’ She pauses. ‘Actually, I’m also very interested in the foundations. I’m an archaeologist and I was wondering if it’s possible to go beneath the glass and touch the stones.’
The guide looks at her closely. He’s shorter than her and his stomach betrays his fondness for large bowls of pasta. ‘No. It’s not allowed.’ He turns to go.
‘But…’ Frances pulls out her university identity card. ‘Look. You can see I’m an academic.’ She puts the card into his hand.
He peers at the photo and back at her.
‘Please. I would be very appreciative. I am writing a paper on the foundations of old buildings of Naples.’
‘But you have to get permission from the superintendent. In writing,’ he adds.
‘I will. But if I could have a quick look now then I can apply formally to make a larger study.’
He looks around him. The two security guards are still playing cards in the distance. There are no other tourists to be seen. ‘OK. Come on then.’
She follows him down the stairs and can’t believe her luck when he leads her to a steel grated door in one corner of the room. He takes out a large set of keys from his pocket and opens it. ‘This takes us there. These are the remains of an old Roman villa built long before the castle, maybe two thousand years ago.’
There are only a dozen steps or so before they are on the basement floor and looking at a maze of masonry. ‘Over there.’ Frances points to a lighted area beneath the glass.
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