‘I curse the people who were there in the crowd, and whom I didn’t know. They came out of malicious curiosity and I hope that one day they will cry for someone they love. I also curse our friends and their honest tears. I spit on any pain that is not mine and trample it underfoot. There is no place in this world at this moment for any but the mother’s tears. The rest are obscene. I curse them all. Because I am in pain. I wish everyone would go away. As far away from me as possible. I wish the priests would stop mouthing gentle platitudes and instead speak the truth and talk about the anger in the hearts of mothers who have lost a child, of the fury in their bellies when they see the blank face that once suckled at their breast. I am bent double on this slab of marble and I am mad with rage. Cursed be this stone that I did not choose and that now covers my child for eternity. I look around and I spit on the ground. I will never come here again. I will not lay any wreaths. I will not water any of the flowers and will never pray. There will not be any contemplation. I will not speak to this stone, with my head lowered and the defeated demeanour of a war widow. I will never come here again because there is nothing here. Pippo is not here. I curse everyone who wept around me, believing that was what had to be done on such an occasion. I know, and I repeat, Pippo is not here.’
V
I Grant You Vengeance
(September 1980)
Matteo’s journeys continued, always from one point in the city to another, late at night when cats were greedily tearing open the waste bags put out behind restaurants by men eager to finish their working day. He worked less and less. How many times had he seen a customer raise their arm at the sight of his taxi and passed by without stopping? He just couldn’t do it. He was too far away, too deep in thought. He drove so that he did not have to think of anything practical. And so the nights followed on one from the other.
But, one evening, Giuliana caught him by the sleeve. Everything had been calm. He had heated up some supper before he left, as usual. She had come in at the moment he was clearing away his plate. She had not said anything. Neither had he. He had risen somewhat wearily; she had gone to fetch the documents for the car and the keys, and as he opened the door, he felt her grasp his arm with astonishing force. She faced him, her countenance transformed. Her lips were trembling as if her mouth was reluctant to say the words burning inside her. He was stupefied. Where had this anger suddenly come from? What had provoked this crisis? She was still not letting go of his arm. He hesitated. He realised he was unsure what force was driving his wife. Was it anger? Or was it distress? Did she want to fight with him, yell at him, hit him or simply hold him back for a few minutes so that she could cry in his arms? He didn’t know.
But, finally, Giuliana did speak, in that voice, broken with grief, and he understood that it was anger that rose to her lips. He also understood that her anger must have accumulated over weeks and that her habitual silence, which he had been too quick to assume was resignation to her fate, had in fact been the long preparation for this moment.
‘What are you doing, Matteo?’ she demanded. And since he did not reply, she repeated aggressively, ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going out,’ he said simply. And he added, in order to demonstrate that this was usual, just what happened on any normal day, ‘It’s time.’
Then her anger burst out and she began to shout, like a fury, ‘To do what, Matteo? To trail from one place to another? To wait for daybreak so that you can come back and hide here? What are you doing, Matteo?’
He stood open-mouthed, amazed that she knew what he did when he went out, that she knew perfectly well what state he wandered about in, although he had never spoken of it. It was as if he found himself naked in front of her. He felt ashamed. He was about to say that he would not talk about it with her, but she did not give him a chance. She began to strike him on the chest. The blows to his torso, accompanied by sounds that were a blend of groans and curses, were not intended to bruise him but rather to shake something free in him, something that remained stubbornly stuck. He let her do it, thinking that it would calm her, but then she said, even more angrily, the words accompanied by tears that shook him more than her clenched fists, which continued to pummel him: ‘Bring me my son, Matteo. Bring him back to me, and if you can’t, at least give me the one who killed him!’
He almost lost his balance. His mind whirled with Giuliana’s words, Pippo’s face, the scene of the shoot-out, his useless wanderings. He could neither speak nor stay a moment longer with Giuliana. He pushed her hands gently away and she let him, with the docility of a child. He opened the front door and, without a word, left the apartment and ran down the stairs.
As he made for his car, he was afraid he would fall over. His legs were trembling. He knew he was pale. There was a buzzing in his ears that grew louder. It was only once he was sitting in his car, and clutching the steering wheel firmly, that he regained his composure. He started the car and began to drive aimlessly. As Naples unfurled before his eyes, he thought about Giuliana: he saw her face contorted with anger, grimacing through her tears. She was beautiful and so much stronger than he was. She was more far-sighted than he was and was able to look their tragedy in the eye. She had just asked him something and she was right to do so. If he brought Giuliana the head of the murderer, it would not bring their son back to them, but perhaps they would be able to start living again. For the first time since Pippo’s death, he felt a warm strength coursing through his veins. Now he was heading for the port and he drove at breakneck speed. He was filled with new ardour. He felt strong, and determined on a course that nothing could deflect him from. He was going to be patient but brutal, clever but brave and he would find his son’s murderer. And then his wife with her beautiful grieving face would be able to smile again.
A few days later, Matteo went into a café on Via Roma and looked round at the customers in there. A man of about forty raised his hand and waved Matteo over. It was the police officer in charge of solving Pippo’s murder. Three days earlier, Matteo had rung the number he had been given by the police at the time of the investigation and a weary-sounding voice had proposed this meeting.
Matteo would never have recognised him. Yet he had met him, had been interviewed by him, but it had been just after Pippo’s murder, when nothing mattered, and no face or word or experience made any impression on him.
The inspector ordered a second cup of coffee. He looked tired and Matteo wondered if that was his normal manner. Or maybe he had been dreading this meeting and was keen to get the painful task of telling a father that no one would ever know who had murdered his son over with as soon as possible.
Matteo asked calmly but forcefully whether the investigation had made any progress. The inspector looked at him for a long time before replying. He was trying to assess from Matteo’s demeanour whether he should employ the usual soothing but misleading platitudes, and tell him, for example, that everything was proceeding normally, that it would take time, of course, but that eventually they would catch the killers, or whether he should speak frankly. He chose the second option, either because he was too tired that day to lie, or because he had seen a determination in Matteo’s eye that encouraged him to be honest.
‘There’s no progress, Signor De Nittis,’ he said. ‘There never is in these cases.’
Matteo said nothing and the inspector knew he had made the right choice, that the man before him was ready to hear what he was going to tell him and that it would actually be a greater comfort to him than all the meaningless phrases he could summon.
‘Tell me everything you know about the case,’ said Matteo. He wanted the inspector to see how firmly he had made up his mind, and how he would not be frightened off by the risks he might face. The police officer gave a little sigh, full of sympathy for this father who sought, in the details of the investigation, some scraps of comfort to relieve the grief that nothing could make better, and willingly complied.
Two factions were engaged in a fierce battle for control of
the city. On one side was the Forcella faction; on the other, the Secondigliano clan. The latter, younger and more violent, wanted to lay their hands on the traditional strongholds of the Camorra. In the weeks preceding Pippo’s death, there had already been numerous crimes and acts of violence. It was most likely, according to the inspector – but this was a personal theory, nothing more – that the man who’d fired the first shot was from Forcella. Because, that same day, men from Forcella had stormed into a bar in Secondigliano and killed two men. So it looked very much as if the Forcella clan was fighting back. In addition, and this was more significant, they had found a body near the port, ten days after the shootout, wounded in the shoulder, his head blown apart by a bullet to the mouth. That man was from the Secondigliano clan. And he was no doubt the man who had been the target of the shooting in Vicolo della Pace. Despite his shoulder injury he had managed to escape into the maze of little streets. However, this was not his home turf and the killers had found him a few hours later and finished him off triumphantly. This was all supposition, of course, and since no witnesses had come forward it was impossible to get any evidence, but it was what the inspector believed had happened.
‘Give me a name,’ said Matteo. He was burning with a new excitement. All through the inspector’s account, his foot had been tapping under the table.
The inspector did not reply. He slowly looked up at Matteo and asked, ‘What is it that you want, Signor De Nittis?’
Matteo hesitated. It was his turn to weigh up what he could say to this man and what it would be wiser to keep quiet about. Would he understand? Matteo thought he would, so he replied, his eyes shining with rage, ‘What I want is to find the man who did this. And to make him pay.’
‘Why?’ asked the inspector, and Matteo understood that he had done the right thing in speaking frankly. The policeman had not been appalled; he had probably been aware of Matteo’s desire for vengeance since the beginning of the meeting, and that had probably made the encounter more bearable. It would have been far worse had Matteo sobbed and groaned and clutched his jacket. At least this way, they were talking man to man. Nevertheless, the inspector went on, not unsympathetically, ‘So that I will be obliged to arrest you, and you will end up in jail, surrounded by the very men who have ruined your life? You’re better than that, Signor De Nittis.’
‘No’, said Matteo urgently. ‘Because my wife asked me to.’
The inspector was silent at that. He had to admit that was not what he had expected. He lowered his eyes, so that Matteo would not see how disturbed he was. Then he rose, smiled slightly and left without saying another word.
‘What’s wrong?’ Matteo had just returned home and found Giuliana standing in the kitchen crying. As he asked the question, he realised how nonsensical it was. He knew exactly what was wrong and why she was crying. A few minutes earlier, she had been calmly preparing the evening meal. She had laid the table. The water for the pasta had begun to simmer. And, suddenly, it was as if she had been struck. And then nothing had existed for her except her grief. That was how it was. Since Pippo’s death, despair stalked them constantly, surprising them at moments they least expected it. He was well aware of the sadness that had overwhelmed his wife.
‘What’s wrong?’ he could not help asking again, to rouse her from her misery. She looked at him and smiled sadly. In that moment, she felt she had found her husband again. The gentle way he had posed the question, the worry in his eyes as he repeated it, were things she had not encountered in him for a long time. They had already become so distant from each other that his kindness in asking and repeating the question – the mixture of worried eagerness and gentle solicitude – overwhelmed her. She smiled through her tears. ‘I can’t go on,’ she said simply.
Matteo sat down and took her hand. He didn’t say anything and she was grateful for that because just then there were no words that could comfort her and it would have been torture had he spoken. His silence was like a balm. Cautiously, she hugged him.
‘I want you to bring him back to me, Matteo,’ she said, her voice sounding strange, thin but at the same time decided. ‘Why aren’t you going to fetch him?’
This time her voice broke into a sob. And still he said nothing, and she was thankful that he did not mock her, did not tell her that it was not possible, but simply held her more tightly in his arms. She had just revealed to her husband what she felt deep inside, the mad longing to go and get her son from where he was, so that she could hold him close and breathe in his smell, just one more time. ‘They’ve killed us, Matteo,’ she added. ‘Death is here. Within us. It contaminates everything. It is so far inside us that it will never come out.’
‘I will get him,’ replied Matteo with a new determination in his voice. The idea of vengeance had returned. He wasn’t sure if that would appease her but he was certain that it would at least bring them closer. That was all they had, an all-consuming hatred. ‘I swear, Giuliana. I will get him,’ and they closed their eyes so that they could focus on the bitter joy they hoped would come.
A little while later, Matteo received a letter. When he discovered it in the letter box, he knew straight away that there was something out of the ordinary about it and, as he climbed the stairs, he carried it with a sort of impatience and apprehension.
He waited until he was sitting at the kitchen table before opening it. Inside the envelope there was nothing but a photo. There was no card or scrap of paper clipped to it, no signature, just an old photo with worn corners, a little torn on one side, an old black and white photo of a man, full length, looking straight at the camera with a cheeky, easy-going smile. The face had been circled in pen, and a name added: ‘Toto Cullaccio’ along with an address: ‘7 Vicolo Giganti’.
Matteo sat there for a long time, holding the photo. He smiled. He no longer wondered who had sent him the picture. It could have been anyone, the policeman he had met, overtaken by sudden remorse, a neighbour, a stranger, anyone. He did not even think of that any more. He looked at the photo and it was obvious that he was looking at his son’s murderer. He did not need the sender to have included a note; he understood. Toto Cullaccio. So that was who had done it. All he had to do now was find him, and slit his stomach open.
When he headed out of the apartment, he left the photo on the kitchen table. He had decided to go out for the day. He wanted Giuliana to find it there, in the silence of the apartment, so that she would have the time and leisure to meditate on her desire for vengeance.
He walked in the direction of the market in Forcella. He had the killer’s name and that made him smile. When he plunged into the crowds in the little streets, he felt Naples shout and sweat around him. In the market, the crowd was already dense and there were numerous stalls set up on the pavement. Neapolitans were selling fish, fruit and vegetables, chinaware and clothes. Further on, Asians were selling toys and shoes – sandals of all types and colours – and still further away, Africans were pushing large tables on wheels covered in swimsuits and T-shirts. Here and there on the ground, unlicensed vendors displayed collections of fake handbags and sunglasses. The poorest vendors, perhaps Pakistani, had laid out posters and pictures of kittens or dolphins, photos of American stars or Italian footballers. You could find everything here. People who lived here came to buy their food or clothes, or to wander about, pay off their debts, or do deals. Matteo walked in amongst the confusion of trestle tables, thinking all the time of that man, who was certainly here somewhere in these streets. Perhaps they had just passed each other. Perhaps they could both hear the same trader shouting how fresh his meat was. Toto Cullaccio. Matteo was drunk on the name. Toto Cullaccio. He could have shouted the name at the top of his voice. Instead he greedily repeated it in his head.
That evening, when he entered the apartment, Giuliana was in the kitchen. He went in to join her. The photo was still there, on view. She had seen it, she had picked it up and studied it with feelings of rage. She had understood that this was the man, then she had put it back on t
he table, waiting for Matteo to return so that they could share the victory.
He was on the point of asking her whether she had looked at the picture, but she spoke first and said in a voice that almost made him jump: ‘I never want to hear that name said in this house.’
She looked deeply into his eyes, standing straight and tall like a soldier facing danger.
‘I’m going this evening,’ he said.
She regarded him intently, as if to verify that he was really saying what she thought he had said. She did not ask him to repeat it. She had read in his eyes the confirmation she sought.
‘When you come home, I will wash his blood from your shirt,’ she replied simply.
He looked at her without saying anything, then he went to the wardrobe and took out the old pistol his uncle had left him, loaded it and put it in his pocket. She watched him calmly, with gratitude. Revenge was, for the moment, the only form their love could take. She thanked him for his courage, for agreeing to be, for a few moments, a killer in the streets, the hand that held a weapon and did not flinch. She thanked him for the murder he was going to commit, because it told her he believed in her, Giuliana, and that he was prepared to share the burden of her anger.
VI
Hell's Gate Page 4