Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘Who is it?’ Peppe asks quietly.

  ‘Frances. I’m sorry. I need your help.’

  The key turns in the lock and as he opens the door, he pulls her inside.

  ‘Peppe, I’ve been attacked! And I think Marcello is kidnapped, or he may be dead.’

  He takes her arm and leads her into the lounge room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Wearing her dressing gown, Laura comes out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Outside, just now, I was grabbed from behind and gagged. Two men threatened me. They’ve got Marcello.’

  ‘Shall we call the police, Peppe?’ Laura asks.

  He shakes his head. Not long ago, such a reaction would have stunned Frances, but by now the Neapolitan way is all too familiar. Peppe is calm. He sits closely next to Frances on the sofa. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They warned me not to poke my nose into things. I guess they mean about the developments we’ve been trying to stop around Vesuvius and Campi Flegrei. Marcello went looking for information today and…’

  Laura passes her a glass of grappa. ‘Here, cara, drink this.’

  The strong liquor still tastes vile but calms her.

  ‘You should stay here,’ Peppe says. ‘Try to sleep. There’s nothing you can do tonight. Let me think about who I can ask for help.’

  Frances sips the grappa and turns to them. ‘There’s something else. Pasquale.’

  ‘I forgot, the concert. How was—’ Laura interrupts but stops when she sees the distress on Frances’ face.

  ‘He was brilliant, but afterwards he collapsed on the stage. He’s in hospital. No one knows what is wrong.’

  Peppe is bringing blankets out to the sofa when Frances stops him. ‘I’ll be fine. I’d rather go home. But maybe you can come upstairs with me to check.’

  Locked securely inside her apartment, Frances struggles to sleep. Morning seems an eternity away. She twists and turns, remembering the first warning, the drawing of a man hanging and imagines the worst.

  She wakes to the sound of a revving engine. The grinding and accelerating rises from the courtyard, scraping on her nerves like chalk on a blackboard. She stays lying in bed, staring at the window. Her phone rings and she snatches it off the bedside table.

  ‘Frances. It’s Poppaea. I’m at the hospital. Can you come?’ Her voice is girlish and frightened.

  ‘Yes. Is Pasquale conscious?’

  ‘No. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness. I still don’t know what’s wrong with him. I’ve been here all night.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  The owner of the car is still revving and a companion’s head is under the bonnet when Frances runs down the stairs. As she climbs onto her motorbike the postman arrives waving a package at her. She takes it and sees her name written in Marcello’s handwriting. She rips it open. Inside there are documents with a note scrawled on the front. ‘Thought it best to post these. Dynamite! See you at the concert tonight. XXX M’

  She flips through the papers. Marcello has highlighted some pages and names. One is a map of a new plan for the Red Zone, one they had never seen. The land near his grandfather’s has been rezoned as safe for development, even though it is closer to the volcano. At the bottom of the page is the date and a signature. Camilla Corsi.

  The next page is a title deed. The new owner of the land is highlighted in pink: Rosanna Dragorra. The land sale went through a week before the rezoning, for one hundred thousand euro. Attached to it is a newspaper clipping: a photo and story in the local paper when the university appointed its new chairman. The caption reads: Umberto Dragorra with his wife, Rosanna, at the swearing in of the new university board. Beneath that is a development consent for the construction of the shopping centre and the school granted to Bon Accordo Constructions, naming its principals as Umberto and Fabio Dragorra. It is signed by Antonio Pane, the government minister spotted with Camilla and Dragorra at the British Ambassador’s dinner, a week after the rezoning. The last page is a bank valuation of the land after the development consent. Two million euro.

  Dynamite, all right! Frances climbs back off her bike and runs up to the Fogliano apartment. She shows the documents to Peppe and Laura.

  Peppe lets out a long, slow whistle. He reads each page carefully, passes them to Laura and reads them again. He looks at Frances, his face serious.

  ‘If anyone stands between Il Sistema and a pile of money, they are courting trouble. This amounts to a lot of money and a helluva lot of trouble.’

  ‘Marcello?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s heard anything.’

  Frances nods slowly, unsure of where else to turn. ‘Poppaea’s asked me to go the hospital. Pasquale isn’t fully conscious yet,’ she says heading for the door. ‘But at least we know he is alive.’

  As Frances is pulling up outside the hospital, her phone rings inside her jacket. She stops her bike and grapples for it but misses the call. She fumbles frantically with the phone. Riccardo’s name appears and she calls his number.

  ‘How was the concert?’ He’s cheerful, optimistic, stuck in yesterday.

  ‘Ricky. Some bad things have happened.’ Trying to say it out loud, Frances chokes on the words. She quickly tells him about Pasquale and Camilla Corsi’s bombshell, then focuses on Marcello, describing his discoveries and his disappearance. ‘I think he’s been kidnapped, like you were. He’s too close to the truth.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’ Even before he’s said the words he starts to retract. ‘No. No point.’ He’s silent for a few seconds. ‘Frances, maybe Camilla’s the answer. She must know something. Pasquale is clearly her weak point, and she knows you’re close to him. You might have to throw yourself on her mercy. But be careful, and don’t go anywhere alone. Stay close to other people.’

  An ambulance siren blares behind her and she pulls her motorbike quickly away. She follows it to the emergency entrance, guessing this is where Pasquale was admitted the previous night. She drives by and parks her bike near the main entrance.

  Her boots squeak on the waxed floors of the hospital’s reception area. An orderly chaos prevails as the sick are sorted and categorized and their families and visitors are tolerated. ‘Mazzone? Are you related?’ the woman at the front desk asks, looking at a computer screen.

  ‘No. But his sister rang me and asked me to come. My name’s Frances Nelson.’

  She picks up a phone. ‘Pasquale Mazzone. No visitors, right?’ She pauses. ‘I see. I see. OK.’ She looks over her glasses to Frances. ‘He’s on the sixth floor, in room 56.’

  Frances shares the elevator with two orderlies and a man on a trolley bed. His skin is taut and as grey as his hair. Blue veins snake through his arms, down through his hands. Frances looks away guiltily, like a voyeur, and concentrates on the lights marking each floor. When the man is wheeled out on the fourth, she catches her reflection in the mirror, grey and drawn with dark circles around her eyes. A small bell pings and she exits on the sixth floor. An antiseptic odour pervades. She’s in no hurry, sensing there will be little good news waiting for her in room 56.

  She finds the room easily, the number at the centre of a white door with a window, which she peeps through. Pasquale is the sole patient. He lies on a raised bed, his head bandaged, a mask over his mouth, tubes attached to both arms. Poppaea sits alongside, head bowed, still in her evening gown. When Frances opens the door she looks up, her hair messy and black eye make-up streaked. ‘Stay there, Poppaea. Stay there.’

  Frances finds a second chair, drags it next to her and gently takes her hand. ‘Is there any news yet?’

  Poppaea shakes her head. ‘Soon. They’ve taken so many tests. The doctor will be here soon.’

  The two women assume a vigil, watching Pasquale and the mesmerizing monitors above him, their red, green and pink lines measuring his vital signs of life.

  ‘Signorina Mazzone?’ The door opens and Frances instantly recog
nizes the woman standing there.

  ‘I’m Doctor Fabbiana Masina, the hospital’s chief oncologist. Can we talk about Pasquale?’ The word oncologist rings like a warning bell. She leans against the rail at the end of the bed, clipboard in hand. Her face is lined and tired, kindly. She speaks quietly, a contrast to her rousing speech at the rally against the dumping of toxic waste. ‘The news is not good, I’m afraid.’ The doctor removes her glasses and lets them dangle around her neck with a stethoscope. She props herself on the end of the bed and touches one of Pasquale’s feet.

  Poppaea squeezes Frances’ hand.

  ‘Leukaemia,’ she says looking up at them. ‘Pasquale is suffering from acute leukaemia.’

  ‘My God!’ Poppaea exclaims. ‘Is he going to die?’

  The doctor pauses. ‘The cancer is treatable. We’re going to do everything possible to help Pasquale beat this.’

  ‘But how did he get it?’ Frances asks.

  ‘The tests have shown high levels of dioxin in his blood. I note that he grew up in Caserta. Unfortunately there is an epidemic of cancer among people from this region. Dumping of toxic waste seems to be a factor. The poisons have got into the water table and the food chain, milk, cheese and so on.’

  ‘Mozzarella!’ Poppaea exclaims. ‘Pasquale always loved it, he ate it by the tonne. Then, six months or so ago, he stopped, he said it gave him stomach ache.’

  ‘His system was probably rejecting it.’

  ‘But I am his sister. We grew up there together, we lived in the same apartment, we ate the same food and drank the same water.’

  ‘I would recommend you also have your blood and bone marrow tested. But cancer is a strange, unpredictable disease. Some people are susceptible and others are not. We still don’t understand the reasons for that; it may even be a genetic factor.’

  Poppaea leans over her brother to kiss him on his cheek. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’

  ‘We will be starting him on chemotherapy as soon as possible. He is suffering acute myeloid leukaemia, and many people are cured of this disease. We can only try.’

  Dr Masina stands and puts her glasses back on. ‘I’m very sorry about Pasquale. Unfortunately we have many similar cases here in the hospital. But he is young and we hope he can fight this.’

  Poppaea sniffs and searches for a tissue. Frances hands her one and she dabs her eyes.

  ‘Nothing will happen for a few hours. Maybe you should go home and rest,’ the doctor says.

  Frances pulls Poppaea to her feet. ‘Come on. I’m calling a taxi for you. I’ll wait here with Pasquale. Come back when you’re rested.’

  As Frances sits alone with Pasquale, an eerie silence descends on the room, and she feels as if she is sitting inside a bubble, protected from the clatter and noise of the hospital. His breathing is light and even the machines seem to be paying a quiet respect. She sits back in her chair, wondering if she will ever hear his cello again and trying to think of a way to find Marcello.

  She slowly drifts into sleep, and an hour or so passes before she is woken by a light tapping on the door. Camilla opens it tentatively. She walks over to the bed, touches Pasquale’s hand and sits quietly next to Frances.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not well.’

  Frances hesitates to tell Camilla the truth. Her face is stripped of make-up except for lipstick and she wears a tailored pair of black pants and a plain white blouse. But she’s in the mood to talk.

  ‘I was sixteen when he was born. He was a big baby, tall like his father,’ she says. ‘I thought I was going to die giving birth to him. I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. I held him in my arms just the once, then he was taken away from me. The nuns strapped my breasts when my milk came in. It was agonising.’

  Her voice is deadpan and Frances senses that this is the first time she has told this story.

  Camilla takes hold of one of Pasquale’s hands. ‘I put this boy out of my mind all these years. I told myself I didn’t care and I didn’t want to know about him. Now, I would gladly die for him. Gladly.’

  A nurse walks into the room and checks the machines around Pasquale. She picks up his medical charts from a side table and studies them. ‘You’ll have to go,’ she says. ‘No more visitors until tonight. We have to start treatment for his leukaemia.’

  Camilla swallows hard. She looks from the nurse to Pasquale and then to Frances, her eyes filled with dread. ‘Leukaemia? He has cancer? But he’s so young!’

  ‘Camilla, let’s have a coffee. I need to talk to you.’

  The hospital café is busy with harrassed-looking staff in an array of medical uniforms, patients in dressing gowns with intravenous drips in their arms, attached to mobile drip stands, and visitors, bleary-eyed and uncomfortable.

  As the two women sip espressos, Frances wonders how deeply Camilla is involved in the corrupt deals and Marcello’s disappearance.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ Camilla says, her voice unusually subdued. ‘But I guess this is not the place.’

  Frances shakes her head and decides to take her chances. ‘I’m sorry about Pasquale, but someone else he cares about is in trouble and you may be able to help.’

  Camilla looks at her curiously and shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘Marcello. Remember Marcello?’

  She nods.

  ‘He’s disappeared, just like Riccardo. You won’t be surprised to know we are still opposed to the new development near Vesuvius. I know you have been involved with the rezoning and…’

  ‘Before you go on, I have no idea where Marcello is and I’ve had nothing to do with him.’

  Frances shifts in her seat. ‘Umberto Dragorra. You know him well, don’t you?’

  Camilla doesn’t react.

  ‘You have to help me! I’m sure Dragorra’s involved with his disappearance!’

  Camilla drains her coffee and puts the cup back firmly on the saucer and looks at her watch. ‘I have to go back to the university. I will make some enquiries for you. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Thank you. You have my phone number. Please call me if there is any news.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Take me to Santa Lucia. The Grand Hotel.’

  Camilla sits back in the leather-lined seat of her chauffeured university car and sighs deeply. Is this what being a mother does to you? Having the baby when she was little more than a child herself did not wrench her like this. She had been so determined not to let the baby get the better of her, she didn’t even give him a name! Pasquale—the name suits him. His adoptive mother chose well; though, poor woman, she never lived to see him grow. But then, she didn’t see him suffer either.

  How ironic! Nearly thirty years on and she finds her mothering genes at last. His beautiful face and his extraordinary music had penetrated the protective armoury she had worn since the day of his birth, as nothing else ever had.

  ‘I’m sorry, chancellor, it’s a slow trip, with all the traffic,’ the chauffeur apologizes.

  ‘It’s not important,’ she replies, for once not in a hurry.

  They pass through Via Toledo, a galaxy of shopping treasures in every window. Meaningless. She can’t even be bothered looking. Finally, she has arrived to where she has always wanted to be, and she can buy anything she wants, yet she feels stripped and naked.

  It was such a long time ago; the village, with everyone caught up in the grape harvest, a balmy night…Lorenzo was much older, in his twenties and back visiting from his job in the city; tall, muscular and with those unforgettable eyes. She had been flattered by his attention over the previous few days. Camilla hadn’t been used to it and was surprised when he stole a kiss behind the huge shed in the vineyard.

  That night he joined her and her friends, who had been picking the grapes. He sat with them in the café and in the piazza. When she said it was time for her to leave, he insisted on driving her home. When he pulled over into a dark picnic area she had started to object, but he was funny and playful and when he s
tarted to kiss her, she had relented.

  He had taken her quickly, so much so that she wasn’t sure what had happened. It hadn’t hurt and it wasn’t until later when she found all the sticky stuff in her panties that she started to worry.

  So naïve! He had left town the next day and she had waited for him to call, fantasizing that he must be in love with her and it was only a matter of time. He never called. It wasn’t until a month later when her period didn’t come that Camilla had become alarmed. The skinny girl tried to ignore her growing belly for another four months, until her mother caught her vomiting one morning and dragged her to the doctor.

  The village had a tried and true way of dealing with such problems. Abortions were out of the question but a closed convent in the city hosted a procession of unfortunate girls like her.

  By and large, the nuns were kind in the four months she was there, as long as she attended mass daily. The girls repaid their board by cleaning, cooking and gardening the large walled garden that was bursting with citrus trees, flowers and vegetables. Camilla had regarded her growing girth with disgust and loathing, and not a day went by without her cursing Lorenzo. He had no way of knowing she was bearing his child but she now understood he wouldn’t have helped if he had.

  The birth had been long and painful. One of the nuns was an experienced midwife but she had called a doctor to help with Camilla’s delivery. They had strapped her legs in stirrups and many hours later, when she thought she could no longer bear any more pain, she was urged to push as hard as she could. Out came her baby, a perfectly healthy boy. His eyes were closed when he was nestled, warm and sticky, on Camilla’s breast. She hadn’t wanted to touch him, but they left him there for half an hour or so and then he was taken away.

  The girls had seen eager couples coming to the convent, chatting to the nuns, and leaving with their little bundles. Camilla heard a rumour that her son had been adopted by a family with a daughter. The mother couldn’t conceive another baby. She never knew the family’s name and she never asked.