Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  Frances pictures the sisters who so painstakingly copied one of the greatest stories handed down from antiquity, possibly in this very room. Could they ever have imagined that centuries later, they would be part of a vital chain of evidence that could save the lives of millions?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Riccardo is staring at a large computer in the laboratory, mesmerized by rows of dancing blue and pink lines snaking across the screen when Frances taps him on the shoulder. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Stromboli,’ he murmers. ‘This is coming in live from one of the seismograph cameras inside the crater. He’s going crazy again.’ He turns to her. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary though. Just like to keep my eye on the old boy. This volcano is like family.’

  ‘Can’t wait to meet him. Any other strange relations I should know about?’

  ‘Lots, but I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.’ He laughs. ‘You’ll have to wait until you come to the island.’ Riccardo stands, serious again, and beckons Frances to follow him to his office. He closes the door behind them and opens the laptop computer on his desk. ‘We must move quickly. I’ve heard a few whispers that there’s a move to scuttle Progetto Vulcano.’

  ‘What?! We’re nowhere near finishing. And we…’

  ‘And we are just getting to the pointy end of the problem.’ Riccardo finishes the sentence for her. ‘That’s exactly why they’ll disband us. They don’t want the truth to come out.’

  Riccardo turns the computer towards her. ‘I’m racing to compile all the facts to date. Marcello has sent me his notes. How about you? We have to get our report out as soon as we can.’

  ‘All here, Ricky.’ Frances removes a memory stick from around her neck and hands it to him.

  ‘Great!’ He slides the stick into the computer and clicks onto her files. ‘Perfect. I’ll merge all of this now into one document.’

  Frances watches Riccardo tapping the keyboard, his face contorted in concentration. She feels a knot in her guts, the sick feeling of being deceived. She had never thought for a moment she would be used as part of a political window dressing exercise and still doesn’t want to believe it. How could people be so twisted that they would put their own greed ahead of the safety of their own community, their own families?

  The printer behind Riccardo comes to life, pouring out page after page. Riccardo scoops them up, making four piles. He puts one in an envelope and hands it to Frances. ‘Sorry to put you on the spot, but would you be the bearer of bad news and give this to Professor Corsi?’

  ‘Has she got a gun? I don’t want her to shoot the messenger.’

  ‘Hate to say this, but she probably has, though it would be a designer model,’ he laughs. ‘But if anyone is safe, you are—you’re not Italian and you have a career outside of her influence. I just think it’s vital this goes out today, before they have a chance to dismiss us all. For the moment, we’re all insiders, part of the team. And if this is out there, at least we have a chance to keep on going.’

  ‘Who are the other copies for?’

  ‘Insurance. I’m going to do a bit of selective leaking to a politician from the national parliament in Rome, who’s not embroiled in local politics, and a journalist who has been trying to expose the development scandals around Vesuvius. I’ll keep the other one up my sleeve.’

  Frances slides the envelope into her backpack. She had barely arrived at the observatory and had planned to spend the day checking readings from the microphones she had placed on the flanks of Vesuvius and on key spots around Campi Flegrei. Riccardo must have read her frustration. ‘Sorry to do this to you.’

  She opens the door to leave, then turns back to him. ‘Don’t be. We’re all on the same side—I’m as passionate about this as you are. I’ll take this to her now.’

  Frances rides back through the dusty streets of Naples’ outskirts towards the old city. Crazy images of messengers on horseback slain for bearing bad news flash through her brain as she rides through a sea of cars and motorbikes. Part of her thinks, ‘What nonsense, this is the twenty-first century.’ Then the television images of the protesters’ corpses lying on the roadside and the floating bodies of the scientists in the hot pools crowd her mind. She can’t dismiss them so easily.

  As she pulls into a labyrinth of lanes near the university, slows then draws up sharply, the whiff of coffee stalls her mission. Parking her bike outside the café, Frances removes her helmet and gratefully shakes her hair free. It feels clammy after the ride and she quickly runs a comb through it.

  ‘Café macchiato,’ she tells the young barista.

  A minute later, he places a small glass of espresso with a dab of milky froth shaped in a heart in front of her. ‘Anything else, signorina?’

  ‘No, grazie.’ She lifts the glass and savours the first foamy sip.

  ‘Rum baba?’ He shows her a plate of perfectly formed mushroom-shaped cakes oozing chocolate custard. ‘Just cooked. Buonissimo!’

  Frances changes her mind. She bites into the sugary dough, tasting the rum and custard together, a helping of sweet courage for the task ahead.

  A few students carrying instrument cases linger at the counter and when she leaves she realizes she is close to the Conservatorium of Music. She rides along Via Maria Constantinopolis, keeping an eye out, and is rewarded when she spots the unmistakable form of Pasquale Mazzone towing his cello in a side street off the boulevard. She turns left and buzzes right up to him.

  He looks downcast.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’ve just been paying an instalment on my cello, but there’s still a long way to go.’

  Frances sees a musical instrument shop behind him. ‘Is it in there?’

  ‘No, it’s in the piazza at the end of the street near the university. Would you like to see it?’

  Although she is anxious to keep going, Frances can see how eager Pasquale is to show her. She follows him to the square and parks her bike. Together they stand in front of a shop window, where rows of string instruments are lined up; violins in the front, violas next, cellos and two double basses at the rear. Each is burnished and buffed, vying for attention.

  ‘Which one is yours?’

  ‘I wish it was mine. That’s the object of my desire, that one there, on the right. It’s a Gagliano. Made here in Naples in the eighteenth century.’

  The cello’s glossy red varnish finish shines through the window.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Frances agrees.

  ‘It’s not the best, not first rank. It wasn’t made by Alessandro Gagliano, the master cello maker—that would cost a fortune. But he had a large family of disciples and it was made by one of them. I love it.’

  ‘Have you played it?’

  ‘Of course—you wouldn’t want to buy a cello without knowing it suits you. That would be like an arranged marriage. Best to try before you buy.’

  They both laugh, and a man inside the shop waves to them.

  ‘That’s the owner, Benedetto. He’s very kind, simpatico. He lets me play it now and again if I annoy him enough. I’ve been dropping in to see it for more than a year now and it’s more than half mine!’

  Frances smiles at him. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before it’s yours.’

  She leaves him gazing in the window and is about to climb on her bike when she hears her name.

  ‘Frances!’

  She looks up to see Professor Corsi leaving a café and walking towards her. Frances feels like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar and instinctively squeezes her backpack, checking for the envelope. It crackles to her touch.

  ‘Professor Corsi. What a coincidence. I was just coming to see you.’

  She appears distracted and not to have heard her. ‘Isn’t that the musician from the Capodimonte dinner?’ Camilla asks, pulling her fur-trimmed jacket closer.

  ‘Yes. Pasquale. He’s in love,’ Frances says as lightly as she can.

  Camilla takes a step back and shakes her head. ‘What do y
ou mean, in love? Who with?’

  ‘Not who—what. He’s ogling a cello. He’s been paying it off by instalments.’

  Camilla looks oddly relieved and starts to walk away.

  ‘Professor Corsi, please wait!’ Frances unzips her bag. ‘This is a progress report from Riccardo and me with input from the archaeologist Marcello Vattani. We believe we have made some significant discoveries that give a much more accurate picture of the volcanic threat.’

  Camilla stares at Frances and silently takes the envelope in her red-gloved hand. ‘I don’t remember asking for another progress report. This is most unexpected, and highly irregular.’

  She turns and strides away, her long high-heeled boots tapping on the cobblestones, her hand clutching the envelope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Camilla bangs the desk hard with her fist. The report is spread in front of her and its message is unmistakable. Millions of lives are at threat unless people can be evacuated quickly from around the volcano. The authorities must expand the Red Zone around Vesuvius, banning all new development; demolish illegal buildings to allow road widening; ban all new development along the coast of Campi Flegrei. Diagrams of pyroclastic flows subsuming large slabs of Naples and surrounding towns paint the grimmest of pictures.

  Camilla picks it up again and winces at the closing comments. The Italian Constitution guarantees that scientific research must be free of constraint and political interference. Academic freedom must be respected and scientists have a right to publish and discuss their findings.

  ‘Interfering bastards!’ she yells.

  ‘Is everything all right, professor?’ Her secretary pokes her head through the door of Camilla’s office. She doesn’t reply and dismisses her with her hand, then checks her watch. One hour before Umberto’s driver is fetching her for lunch. A business lunch, he called it.

  Camilla feels the room closing in. The rich green embossed walls meet the woven golden carpet, threatening to suffocate her. The usually soft glow of the chandelier is suddenly blinding. She puts her hands on her head, closes her eyes and massages her temples.

  ‘Professor.’ The secretary is back.

  ‘What is it, Maria? Can’t I have a moment’s peace?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, it’s the Chancellor, Professor Galbatti. He would like to see you.’

  Camilla stands and walks over to the wooden credenza against one wall of her office. She strokes the carved garland of fruit on the front of the renaissance cabinet—her first possession of any worth. The silky feel of the polished walnut is comforting. Opening one of the drawers she pulls out a photo and her own young face stares back, all smiles—graduation day, when she was still a girl with her life at her feet. She sighs and puts it back. You can handle this. You can handle anything, she tells herself.

  She walks down the corridor towards Alfonso’s office then stops, remembering the explosive report on her desk. She hesitates then keeps walking. No, let that sit there, for now.

  ‘Ah Camilla, come in!’ Alfonso doesn’t get up from his desk but beckons her over. She goes with as much grace as she can muster and as she leans over him to exchange kisses, she notices a pile of contracts on his desk. ‘Sit down, cara,’ he says before she has a chance to read them.

  ‘I have something important to tell you, something I want you to be the first to know.’ She sits opposite, in a lower seat, forcing her to look up to him. His pallor gives him a cadaverous look and she sees a weariness in his eyes she couldn’t have imagined just a year or two ago. She smiles at him but says nothing, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘As you know, I turn seventy next year, so I have decided to retire. I will be announcing it in a week or so.’

  So soon. Camilla feels her heart starting to race. Her goal is suddenly that much closer. ‘You will be greatly missed. You have achieved so much here,’ she hears herself say.

  ‘But will you miss me, that is the question?’

  ‘Of course, Alfonso. But surely we will still see each other?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he nods. ‘But as the French say, Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi! The king is dead, long live the king. And that brings me to my successor.’

  Alfonso stands up and walks around the desk to her. ‘Camilla, I am recommending Professor Luigi Paoli for the job.’

  ‘What! Your nephew?’ Camilla is so stunned that for a moment she loses control of her emotions. ‘But Alfonso, you promised you would support me! Luigi has barely arrived!’

  Alfonso props himself on the edge of his desk and takes one of Camilla’s hands. ‘It’s true that once I did hope you could step into my shoes. But I don’t think it can happen. I don’t think you would get the support of the board. Whereas Luigi, he’s not only a fine academic, he has worked in business as well and these days…’

  Camilla shakes off his hand. ‘You mean he’s a man and he’s a relative and you’re keeping it all in the family,’ she spits.

  ‘Camilla. I’m disappointed. I was really thinking of you in all of this. My position is very stressful and I wouldn’t like to see you having to deal with the burden of it all.’

  Alfonso returns to his seat and shuffles the papers on his desk. ‘Besides, I have already drawn up a contract for Professor Paoli.’ He waves the paper. ‘You already have an important position here at the university and I’m confident you will work well with Luigi.’

  Camilla bites her lip and stares beyond him to the window with a view over the bay. From her seat she can see the tip of Vesuvius on the horizon. She can sense Alfonso’s discomfort but knows he will not change his mind. ‘By the way, how is the volcano project progressing?’ he presses her. ‘When can I expect the final report? I’ve had an enquiry from the minister and the newspapers are always asking. It would be good to see it before we break for Christmas.’

  Camilla’s mind is racing but she steels herself. ‘No. Nothing further yet.’ She stands and walks to the door. ‘I’ll have a word to the team and ask them to hurry things along. I’ll certainly try to get it to you before Christmas.’

  Her face is burning as she returns to her office and slumps into her chair. Treacherous pig! He duped me into bending the rules to get his nephew here and now he drops me. If he thinks he’s going to get away with this, he’s mistaken! She goes to the cabinet and reaches inside for a silver hip flask and a tiny glass. Pouring a shot of cognac, she throws it back. It burns her throat but instantly calms her.

  Her mobile phone rings. Umberto tells her he’s five minutes away and to be waiting at the usual place.

  She puts on her coat then scoops up the report and jams it into her briefcase. Colliding with hundreds of students crowding the corridors between lectures, she pushes through and welcomes the cool wind blowing outside the university. For a moment, she leans against the wall breathing deeply, then turns the corner just in time to see the black shiny car pull over to the kerb.

  Mario jumps out and opens the back door for her. As she slides in, she’s surprised to see Umberto is sitting in the front seat.

  He turns around to her, beaming. ‘Good afternoon, professor. Everything is looking great for our developments. Right on track. I’ve just come from a meeting with the minister and he’s on side. He agrees it’s in Campania’s interest.’

  Camilla smiles at him but says nothing, her briefcase gripped tightly to her side.

  As Mario drives towards the harbour and follows the road to Santa Lucia, Umberto chortles. ‘Just as well really, as I’ve handed out all the contracts to the cement and construction companies.’

  ‘Umberto, changing the Red Zone might not be quite so simple. Some of the scientists…’

  He cuts her off. ‘The scientists are irrelevant try-hards. I don’t care what they say.’

  ‘Well, the final report may not be as favourable as we’d hoped.’

  ‘Hoped? Camilla, I’m relying on you to produce a report that gives the green light.’

  They drive past Santa Lucia, further around the seafront to Chaia,
and stop outside a line of restaurants. A gust of wind almost knocks Camilla over as she leaves the car. Above her, seagulls fly haphazardly as the stiff breeze blows them off course. The masts of dozens of yachts moored in a marina tinkle and the sails of one offshore flap wildly like a cracking whip.

  Umberto takes Camilla’s arm and guides her into one of the restaurants. The waiter seats them immediately, fluttering around with menus and serviettes.

  ‘Just some pasta for me,’ she says quickly. ‘Penne arrabiata.’

  ‘Spaghetti marinara.’ Umberto adds, ‘No wine today, I need a very clear head.’

  Camilla sits back in her chair and gazes out across the bay. The hazy shape of Capri sits on the horizon and thick cloud crowns Mt Vesuvius, like a ghostly party hat. She lights a cigarette and draws in deeply. Then she stubs it out irritably when she spots the waiter pointing to a ‘No smoking’ sign.

  ‘You look worried.’

  It is more of a statement than a question.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m worried for you.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me!’ Umberto scoffs.

  ‘It’s Alfonso. He’s pushing me to release the volcano report. And the latest information is not good. It’s especially bad for you because it would rule out your development completely. I’m trying to calm Alfonso down but he seems very determined.’

  Now she has Umberto’s full attention. He leans towards her and grasps her hand. ‘What is the problem? What?’

  She reaches under the table for her briefcase and pulls out the report. ‘Here. You can read it for yourself.’

  The waiter places the steaming plates of pasta in front of them. Umberto has suddenly lost his appetite and his sense of humour. He pushes his plate aside and reads the report. Camilla relaxes. She tastes the pasta. It’s perfectly cooked and the spicy tomato flavour lingers. She takes a second mouthful and a third. Umberto continues to read, paying close attention to the maps of the proposed Red Zone.