by Penny Feeny
As the confetti danced in the wind currents above her head and shoulders, her grip on the passport slackened. It had been tucked under her armpit but now fell on the ground and lay open at Helena’s sly, taunting smile. Liddy nudged it with her foot, about to trample over her friend’s face with the contempt she deserved, but a sudden fierce flurry sent it skating through a gap in the balcony railings. She gazed in horror as the passport swooped, was buoyed for a moment in the air, and then plummeted down the cliff, beyond recapture.
8
They had gone on an excursion to Castello Aragonese earlier in July: two families, two cars, three children shrieking on the back seat. Gabi and Maresa had stepped daintily on to the pavement and surveyed its rocky outcrop, shielding their eyes. They had shuffled their elegantly shod feet.
‘Maybe another time,’ said Maresa.
‘We’ve visited before,’ agreed Gabi. ‘To us it’s nothing new.’ She tweaked the collar of her shirt to protect the back of her neck.
‘You take the children,’ said Maresa to her husband, although they too were looking daunted by the climb. ‘We’ll meet you later.’
‘You’ll love it, Bobo,’ Piero told his son. ‘There’s an entire museum of torture instruments. And the castle was full of prisoners, you know, in the Ottocento, before Garibaldi liberated them.’
At this point, Sara allied herself with her mother. She would prefer to go shopping. ‘Vieni con noi,’ she begged Liddy, her brown curls bouncing, and she, too, joined the women.
After they had crossed the causeway, Piero hoisted Bobo on to his shoulders and tackled the first flight of steps in his soft-soled Gucci loafers. Fabrizio, Helena and Mimmo followed. The rough-hewn staircase was treacherous underfoot. It wove around corners and beneath archways and finally led through a damp and cavernous tunnel to the fortress at the summit. It was a day of intense fragrance and colour – of wild jasmine and honeysuckle, of a cobalt sky and a cerulean sea – but buzzards hovered in the motionless air high above their heads, rodents scurried into shadows. Helena couldn’t share Bobo and Mimmo’s enthusiasm for the macabre. The place made her shiver.
On their way back down, Piero insisted there was a further spectacle they shouldn’t miss. He led the way past dangling creepers into the ruins of the old convent of the Clarisse. They stood in a small, roofless chamber, facing a line of stone seats like choir stalls.
‘Now, ragazzi,’ he said with an eager grin. ‘You must guess for what purpose the nuns came here.’
The site was deserted. It was possible, if you tried hard enough, to imagine the nuns of three centuries ago, the flap of their skirts and the heavy clump of their boots as they traipsed up and down bearing water from the spring. Mimmo inspected the row of cubicles, finely carved and rendered but cubicles nonetheless. The round seats had large holes in their centres, reminiscent of the ruined baths all over Rome – Terme di Caracalla, Terme di Diocleziano – with their detailed mosaics, their elaborate drainage systems and their well-appointed communal latrines.
Piero lifted Bobo on to one of the seats. Mimmo balanced on another.
‘This was their washroom?’ Helena leaned against a column dividing one stall from another. ‘And these were the toilets?’
The two men met each other’s eyes and burst out laughing, slapping their knees with pleasure at their joke.
‘Completely incorrect,’ Piero gloated. ‘This was their cemetery.’ He described how, when a member of the order died, they didn’t bury her. They balanced the corpse on one of the cradles so her flesh would drop through the hole as it disintegrated. The living nuns would kneel and pray for their sisters’ souls in front of the unlovely spectacle of mouldering bones.
The little boys’ eyeballs revolved, their mouths gaped. Gabi would have objected to such gruesome talk.
Helena said, ‘It’s different now, isn’t it? We value our bodies more than our souls. That’s why we pamper them so much.’
Fabrizio had decided this was provocation. As Piero led Bobo and Mimmo down the steps again he pulled her back – to make the point that every inch of her sun-warmed flesh, each tendril of hair and bead of sweat, the tongue he tasted with his own, was greedy for the moment. Entirely temporal.
It had come to haunt her: the notion of the decaying corpses, the penance of the living. In future she’d be more respectful, she wouldn’t be so quick to ridicule. It was yet another resolution to add to the list of changes she would make in her life when she got out of here. If she got out, that was. If.
She was in the interview room again. Dirt outlined the cracks in the tiled floor; paint was flaking from the walls. She thought it might be afternoon; she’d lost track. When she came round after her faint, she’d been offered a slice of pizza. Cold and unappealing, the chewy crust with its smear of tomato purée now lay discarded. It had been brought to her in a wet wrapping of wax paper so she assumed that out in the real world it was raining – washing away any traces of Mimmo’s journey. Any clues.
She’d tried to appeal for help from Fabrizio, but she hadn’t been able to see him alone. He couldn’t possibly think she had anything to do with Mimmo’s abduction. It was far more likely that he was the one with the dodgy contacts: building contractors annoyed they hadn’t got a lucrative deal or an official in the planning department unhappy with the value of his bribe. There could be any number of people with a grudge against a successful architect whisking contracts away from his competitors, any number of henchmen who wanted to curry favour with their bosses. The police were probably in the pay of the criminals anyway. How convenient to have a foreigner to blame.
This scenario of corruption was so vivid in her mind that, when the door opened, she scraped back her chair with a grating squeal and launched into a rant. ‘This is unforgivable! You can’t lock up innocent people just to show that you’re doing something. You have to have grounds for suspicion. Don’t you have any sense of justice in this country? Or do you always fall in with the wishes of the person who pays you the most money?’
‘You feel better now?’ said Enzo.
‘No. Not really.’
‘You lacked nourishment, I believe. You have eaten the pizza?’ With a fastidious pinching of his fingertips he dropped the debris into the metal wastepaper bin.
‘Yes. It was uno schifo. Disgusting.’
‘Elena.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘You are in great trouble.’
‘I know that. People have been telling me nothing else.’
‘Sit down.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t want you to faint again.’
‘Twice in one day would be something, wouldn’t it? Still, I’ve eaten that horrible pizza now so I’ll be all right.’
‘You should show more respect.’
‘Why? Because you wear a uniform and I don’t?’
His cheeks were plump as a baby’s, as Bobo’s. That must be why he’d grown the moustache, though she couldn’t imagine it fooled anybody. His eyes were liquid as a puppy’s. He looked altogether too conciliatory, too amiable a type to have joined the police force. And yet he wore an unpleasant sneer which she hadn’t seen before. ‘Because I have power over you,’ he said. ‘It’s better if you do as I say.’
Mini-Mussolini, thought Helena as she sat down again. She’d been in Italy long enough to have encountered the pace of its bureaucracy. Even if Fabrizio were at the front desk right now with two lawyers and a wad of 20,000 lire notes, the formalities would take hours to complete. Then they’d have to get the release papers stamped and the office that did the stamping would be closed for the rest of the day. And when it reopened it would find it needed a particular shade of ink which was out of stock at the stationer’s. And someone would have to be persuaded with lavish charm, or money, or the promise of a coveted ticket to a football game or a boxing match, that an approximation would do: that crimson, cherry and maroon were all shades of red and a red stamp was all that was needed to free her, so please . . .
�
��We have a problem with your identity,’ Enzo was saying.
‘My what?’
‘You have given us the name of Elena Ashbourne.’
‘Yes.’
‘But we cannot find your papers.’
‘Oh shit!’ She almost laughed with relief. So this was the reason for the delay. She hoped she looked normal and not as if her face were stuck in a phoney rictus. ‘That’s because Liddy took charge of them when we were travelling down here. She’s much more organized than I am. I just never got around to taking them back. She should have my permesso somewhere.’
‘We have asked this,’ said Enzo. ‘It appears she does not.’
‘That’s odd.’ She stared at him. ‘Well, she’ll have my passport anyway.’
‘No.’
‘What d’you mean, no? Of course she does. I’m pretty certain she didn’t get around to giving it back to me.’ She faltered; it was hard to be sure of anything.
‘We have searched your room. There were no identity papers.’
‘So why don’t you search hers? I can’t think why she’s pissing about. She kept both our passports in one of those transparent zipped pocket things. She’s tidy-minded, you see, and –’
‘She is not under suspicion.’
‘What do you mean, under suspicion? Why are you just going for me? Why not both of us?’
‘You know this already,’ said Enzo, while she tried to decipher his expression. Was it hostile, disapproving or merely exasperated? ‘You were seen talking to the man we are associating with this business.’
‘Outside the Vesuvio? But I already told you –’
‘No, there is another occasion.’
She flapped her hand. ‘According to who, your mysterious witness?’
‘Not mysterious, Elena. Your friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘Elen Liddle.’
‘Liddy told you this nonsense?’
‘She has identified the man from photographs we showed her.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! She couldn’t identify a hobgoblin. She can’t wear her contact lenses because of the dust and half the time she won’t wear her glasses. In other words, she’s blind. She’s lying. Hadn’t you thought of that?’ Her mouth was unaccountably dry; her breathing erratic. She’d always thought of Liddy as staunch, happy to follow her lead. Not that she’d ever ordered Liddy around and expected blind obedience (though she had sometimes talked her into doing things against her better judgement). But anyway, if anything went wrong – as it had done now, spectacularly – Helena would always be the one to take the rap; it didn’t bother her, it didn’t detract from her image. By the same token, if necessity demanded, Helena might tell a lie. Liddy would not.
There had only been one exception, a moment of self-sacrifice on Liddy’s part, when they were at school. She could recall the cold touch of the glass as she cupped her hands against the window to spy Liddy alone in the centre of the classroom, bent over her desk, covering sheets of foolscap with her neat but childish handwriting. Helena had already been given the maximum number of detentions that term and another would have led to suspension. In any case, Liddy was the one who’d been caught red-handed. The lookout had spotted their form teacher, Miss Myers – all sailing cardigans and swaying beads – stomping down the corridor. Liddy had seized the eraser and rubbed off most of the scurrilous limerick Helena had composed on the blackboard. Unfortunately, words such as ‘Daphne’ and ‘dildo’ remained. Miss Myers was not known for her sense of humour. She’d assumed Liddy was scrubbing away her own work and for some reason she’d admitted to it.
Enzo shrugged. ‘She gave us her word.’
‘Well, it’s nonsense.’ Helena pondered the possibilities. ‘And she’d make a lousy witness anyway. If there wasn’t an interpreter she probably misunderstood what you were asking. It’s not valid evidence.’
‘There was an interpreter,’ Enzo said. ‘But, in point of fact, we are not using her evidence to detain you. We don’t need it.’
‘You don’t?’ She was puzzled. Did this mean they were finally going to let her go?
She’d had plenty of time to weigh up her options, to consider what might happen over the rest of the summer and she’d realized that once Mimmo was recovered (and she couldn’t contemplate any alternative), the holiday was over. She thought it just possible – years hence – she’d be able to look back at her sojourn on Ischia and think, Yes, that was fun: the swimming, the snorkelling, the dancing, the picnics. But not yet, not for a long while, because this ugly mess would blot out all the good memories.
A knock vibrated at the door. Enzo went to answer it. Helena knotted her hands together and strained to hear the conversation. After a few moments he came back to her and said, ‘There has been a development. I am needed elsewhere.’
‘You mean you’ve found out something? Or you’ve found Mimmo?’
‘I’m sorry, I cannot explain more.’
‘Why not? Why do I have to be kept in the dark?’
He ignored her plea. ‘Later they will come for you.’
‘Who will come for me? My lawyers?’
‘The police escort. They will take you to Naples.’
‘Naples! Whatever for?’ She held herself a little straighter, although a bite festered on her shin that she longed to itch. ‘The Verduccis haven’t got the power to throw me off the island.’
‘It is we who are taking you into custody.’
She didn’t understand. ‘You? Why? So that I can go on “helping you with your enquiries”? Or for my own safety? Don’t tell me there’s a lynch mob out there.’
‘And we will make the formal charges.’
‘What on earth do I have to do to prove I’m not part of some half-baked conspiracy?’
‘We take drug offences very seriously in Italy,’ said Enzo.
‘Drug offences?’ Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We have found a substance in your room. This has been tested and found to be cannabis resin.’
Helena said quickly. ‘It’s not my room. It belongs to the Verduccis. It’s their villa; I’m just passing through, aren’t I?’
‘Do you deny the cannabis is yours?’
Never confess. That was something else she’d been warned. Don’t make life easy for the bureaucrats and with luck they’ll give up on you. ‘Of course I deny it.’
‘Oh Elena . . .’ He sighed and spread his palms in a helpless gesture. ‘Why will you not co-operate with us? Why do you make everything so difficult for yourself?’
She squared her shoulders and glowered at him. For a moment she thought he might try to touch her in some demonstration of sympathy. Instead he said, ‘I hope you do not regret this,’ and left the room.
9
There had been storm casualties all along the windward side of the island: sailing masts snapped, shallow trees uprooted, laundry whipped from the line. On the terrace of Casa Colonnata Rosaria’s broom had not yet cleared the damage; she’d swept away the broken pots and spilled soil but the flags were discoloured with a fine coating of red Saharan dust. Both families were gathered there, discussing tactics. Gabi was wearing several layers of clothing; although the sky was grey she refused to take off her dark glasses. Liddy was trying to occupy the children with colouring books.
No one was certain who heard the car first. Possibly it was Bobo, always alert to engine sounds. Without waiting for Rosaria to announce him, a carabiniere came around the side of the house. He wore a flourishing moustache and a spotless uniform; he was turning his cap between his hands. Liddy immediately thought the worst; couldn’t bear to look in Gabi’s direction. Gabi had half-risen, but halted as if her joints had seized up and she couldn’t move any further. Fabrizio supported her elbow.
The policeman smiled. ‘I have good news,’ he said.
A collective gasp, a sibilant intake of breath.
‘Well?’ demanded Fabrizio.
Ros
aria also appeared from the side colonnade. She was leading her niece, Cristina, by the hand. In turn, Cristina was leading a small boy dressed in an over-large shirt, Mimmo.
‘Santa Madonna!’ Maresa hailed them, crossing herself.
Speechless, Gabi sank back into her chair. Fabrizio stepped forward to claim his son, but Mimmo clung to Cristina.
There followed such outpourings in Italian that Liddy could make little sense of what was being said. Eventually it became clear that the police had nothing to do with the child’s recapture. He had been found in the chestnut woods on Cristina’s family’s land and she had contacted them. Nobody knew how he’d got there or whether the kidnappers had abandoned him because of the weather conditions and the extent of the rescue operation. And he couldn’t tell them.
‘Dimmi, piccolino, come stai?’ said Fabrizio. He stroked his limbs and tried to scoop him up but Mimmo wouldn’t leave Cristina’s side. The girl chewed her lip and shifted her weight from foot to foot. She’d smartened herself for the occasion in a cotton dress sprigged with tiny flowers and her colour was heightened. Liddy noticed the policeman stood close by, as if she and not Mimmo were in need of protection.
‘We should call the doctor,’ said Maresa. ‘He has to be checked over. You don’t know what they’ve been doing to him.’
‘Are you hungry, ciccio?’
No response.
‘Are you hurt? Maybe your feet? Your head?’
Piero went inside to make the phone call. Bobo and Sara didn’t want to be left out of the drama. Bobo balanced on the rim of the terrace wall and pretended to fall off; Sara claimed to find a splinter in her finger. ‘Oh it hurts so much! Please do something. No, no, don’t touch it!’ Liddy was the only person who responded.