The End.
Nicolas watched the video again, then wrote back to Scignacane:
Maraja
You were right. This is worse than death.
“Those who hurt us once can’t be allowed to hurt us again,” his mother had said. Her wish had been granted. Christian wouldn’t come back to life, they’d never see him again or wrap their arms around him, but at least now he could rest in peace. And now Mena, too, would finally be able to put her heart at rest.
He’d shown her the video and she’d watched in silence. That vendetta without a dead body required a little longer to take in.
“Mammà, he’s become a living ghost. He suffers every blessed day. But enough about him. I have some good news to give you. I didn’t want to tell you right away, because before the third month, it’s bad luck to talk about it, but now we’re almost there, and so…”
Mena understood instantly.
“I’m going to make you a grandmother,” Nicolas concluded proudly.
Mena hugged him tight: “My son, my boy. You’re my one and only, my true love.”
An innocent creature was preparing to enter their lives. And tomorrow, at last, Nicolas was going to see it for the first time. He fell asleep as light and airy as someone who’d completed a grievous task and could now devote himself entirely to the future, but instead his night was troubled by a ghoulish nightmare of which he could remember nothing upon reawakening.
But he didn’t let it ruin his day, anyway. He went downstairs to pick up Letizia, in front of her building, and when he saw her emerge from the front door, it was like witnessing an apparition. She looked like Botticelli’s Spring, exactly as he had seen it at the Uffizi: she walked forth as if riding a wave, and everything in her and around her was blooming and flowering. That’s how Nicolas saw her, eating her up with his eyes, hungrily, and then he walked next to her, letting the world see how pretty she was and how lucky he was. Looking at her, and touching her ever so slightly rounded belly, he felt the fullness of happiness. They were strolling through Forcella hand in hand, invincible, heading for their first meeting with that tiny bean that was the product of the union of the two of them, alone. This was the first sonogram.
Downstairs from the gynecologist’s office, though, Letizia lost her confidence, and her skin blushed pink. “What if there’s something wrong? What if this little baby is missing a piece?” And she started weeping, just like that, out of the blue sky.
Nicolas wasn’t expecting it, it really hadn’t occurred to him that there was even a passing chance that the two of them could produce anything less than a tiny creature of the utmost perfection. “What are you talking about, Leti’, how can you even think such a thing? It’s bad luck to even say it!” And he extended forefinger and pinky finger to ward off the evil eye. “Don’t worry, you’ll see, everything will be fine. This is Maraja’s son.”
“What the fuck does Maraja’s son have to do with anything?” she said, as if she couldn’t stand those words, the arrogant blather of a member of the paranza. Nicolas took her face in his hands.
“Letizia, look at me now: don’t worry, or the creature that’s growing inside you will sense that you have some doubt. There can’t be any doubts. Things are fine.”
Even he didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d found the right words. She pushed the button on the elevator and they rode up, leaving all hesitation behind them.
Nicolas shot a video of the examination on his cell phone, and when the doctor asked him: “Could we possibly avoid that?” he replied to her with: “No, we can’t avoid it. That’s my baby, my baby’s in there.”
The video was a mess: you couldn’t make out a thing, and where the gynecologist was taking measurements and Letizia was melting with enchantment, all he saw were a few indistinct patches. And to think that he’d expected to glimpse the tiny creature’s face. Or at least determine its sex. Not a chance, you couldn’t even tell which way it was facing.
But he could hear the heartbeat. It was pounding loudly, filling the whole office with its rapid beats. How could that tiny creature have such a powerful heart? It really was his child!
But most of all, how could Letizia have that life enclosed inside her? This was the first time that he’d seen live anything similar to the wonderful documentaries he’d watch for hours on end, enchanted, captivated, on YouTube. But it was so immensely more thrilling than any of that. Even if he wasn’t doing a damned thing; even if he wasn’t even slightly at the center of attention in that scene. He couldn’t catch his breath for a few seconds when Letizia, who seemed perfectly at her ease lying there on the doctor’s bed, with the handle of the sonogram traveling over her belly, took his hand and laid it right there, where that second heart of his was beating. She was radiant. Within her, she had the greatest power on earth. A power, he understood, that had nothing at all to do with the fact of whether or not someone was in command. He left his hand resting on her belly for as long as he could.
THE CONFEDERATION
O White and his men were in their clubhouse, absorbed in a game of pool. Outside, one of those typical winter days, enveloped in a cotton ball of cloud cover; inside, nothing but the click of pool balls and the occasional curse.
In the midst of that silence, a gush of water, as if a torrential rain were inundating the gutters on the roof, echoed in his ears like some deceptive enchantment. Through the windows, a white carpet of clouds, but not even a drop of rain.
“What’s going on?”’o White asked, and mingled among the customers of the café who were stepping out into the open to find out for themselves. The splashing of drops had by now dwindled to a rivulet.
Lined up out front of the bar/tobacco shop like a line of schoolchildren, the Piranhas. Maraja, Tucano, Lollipop, Drone, and Biscottino were resheathing their penises after carefully shaking them dry, and only Drago’ was still emitting the last few drops. Briato’ and Pesce Moscio had stayed in the lair, because they didn’t want to talk with the Longhairs after they’d broken their legs just a few months ago, on account of the fuel truck they’d hijacked from Roipnol’s gas station.
On the asphalt, a puddle of urine was spreading, licking at the toes of ’o White’s shoes where he stood in disbelief. He looked around for the men of his paranza and saw them mingling among the few rubberneckers who had had the nerve to stick around, unlike the others, who had taken to their heels at the sight of that declaration of war.
“Let’s go slice these shitheads’ dicks off,” he incited them.
“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing!” he shouted at the Piranhas.
’O Selvaggio, Carlito’s Way, Orso Ted, and two other Longhairs strode forward, shoulder to shoulder, each with a hand behind their back or stuck down their trousers. Only Chicchirichì hung back, because he really hadn’t expected that move from Nicolas.
By now there was no one left in the vicolo; the shutters, which had been left open until a few seconds ago to catch whatever whiff of cool air might stir, were now shut tight. The field of battle belonged entirely to the paranzas.
“I haven’t killed you so far,” said ’o White, speaking to Nicolas. “And you come and piss in front of my house, in front of my clubhouse. But now I’m going to put your blood down on the asphalt. That way your mothers can bring a wreath of flowers for all of you here, on top of the piss you’ve spilled.”’O White gripped his Beretta hard, hoping to conquer the shaking of his hand. “I’ll put a bullet in your mouth!” he shouted. “I’ll shoot you all, every last one of you!” But the arm holding the weapon remained glued to his side, he could feel it weighed down, as if there were a forty-pound dumbbell attached to that hand. The Longhairs had unholstered their guns, but without hearing his go-ahead, they all hesitated.
Nicolas calmly grasped the wrist of the hand with which ’o White was holding his Beretta: “They’ve fucked us again, you know that, don’t you?”
Maraja could feel ’o White’s tendons relaxing. The plural first pe
rson that Nicolas had employed had made matters crystal clear: the Piranhas’ affront fitted into a larger line of reasoning that now even ’o White had understood. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
Maraja opened his hand, the Longhairs put away their weapons, the Piranhas regained control.
They followed ’o White into the game room and then through the galley kitchen behind the counter of the bar, until they reached a metal staircase that in two flights took them up to the roof, a rectangle of tar that the Longhairs used as their conference room. From there, it was like looking down at a forest, and the crowns of the trees were the roofs. Tufa stone and cement, illegal structures, gorgeous ceramic tiles, storerooms and solariums. They seemed to move in the breeze, just like treetops. Naples from the sea, Naples from the land, Naples underground, and then the roofs of Naples, where you’ll find everyone in the city.
Nicolas was forced to raise his voice to make himself heard by ’o White, who had taken up a position with his men just a few yards from the brink.
“Look here,” said Maraja, and he tossed a scrap of crumpled paper, which landed on the ground. ’O Selvaggio lunged to grab it, but Nicolas put his foot on top of it. ’O Selvaggio returned to the ranks. “Do you know what we found in the shoes of that piece of shit ’o Cerino?” Silence. “Do you know what’s written on that piece of paper, ’o White? What’s written is that they’re not going to let us have Forcella. They’re not going to give it to you all, and they’re not going to give it to me. Copacabana is sticking it up our asses again.” He moved his foot and gestured for ’o White to come over; he picked up the note and started reading it aloud.
“‘It’s best for Forcella to be led by a person we can trust. I recommend my wife, Fernanda…’” He scanned the rest of it, reading but silent, then he crumpled up the pizzino and tossed it down into the alley.
“All right, then, Maraja, what does that mean to me? He’s buried behind bars at Poggi Poggi. We’re out here, free as birds.”
Nicolas started clapping.
“Good for you, ’o White. I see that you’ve actually understood the whole thing. Not that I’m surprised, eh! You’re all really good at sucking Micione’s cock. ’O Selvaggio managed to run the piazzas of the Faella family, eh? Micione, Micione’s brother, Micione’s uncle, all of them cousins. You turned Carlito’s Way into Freddy Kruger, Chicchirichì is the chauffeur, and the minute Don Diego says a word to you, you bend right over and…” Nicolas emitted a low whistle and pushed his hand back and forth like a piston.
For the first time, ’o White’s face colored slightly. “What do you know about it? What do you know about us?” Nicolas limited himself to cocking an eyebrow and gesturing for him to look around. Carlito’s Way had raised a hand to his mouth to cover up the jagged stumps of his teeth, and at the opposite corner, Chicchirichì was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his eyes fixed on Nicolas. ’O Selvaggio and Orso Ted wore the expressions of those who don’t really understand but can guess that something brand new is happening.
“This is your paranza, ’o White. We’ve taken everything away from you. We have the drugs. We own the piazzas. You don’t see the money anymore, just a few coins here and there, and you go around carrying a beat-up old Beretta. Do you still know how to shoot it?”
From the alley came the shouts of a mother berating her son, and then a faint young voice swearing: “I won’t let it happen again, Mammà.”
“You’re just like that little boy,” said Nicolas, jutting his chin. “Micione spanks you, and you say you’re sorry.”
’O White said nothing.
“You’ve always shat in your pants,” Nicolas went on, “but you’ve never fired a shot. And do you know why not?” He let the roar of a souped-up scooter disperse into the air. “Because there’s just one thing that you all want, too. Naples. It’s just that we’re working hard to take it, while the old men who issue the orders, those piece-of-shit old men, they stay in their houses, behind their shutters. They want to defend their family, the rules. They’re afraid of dying.”
Drago’ shivered; it wasn’t that he disapproved of Nicolas’s words, taken each for each; more than anything else it was an involuntary reflex, because he came from one of those noble families. The memory of his grandfather, ’o Sovrano, and the thought of his father, ’o Viceré, made him feel he had a stake in that conversation.
’O Selvaggio had come over and was standing beside ’o White now. “Maraja has a point,” he said.
“Let’s fight a single battle,” Nicolas went on, “with a single enemy. Just one.”
“Fuck, who’s Juventus,” Tucano piled on. “Juventus are all those old shitbucket families of Naples. The families of Marano, the families of Secondigliano, the families of San Giovanni a Teduccio. All those people who are thirty, forty, or fifty years old. All those ancient pieces of shit.” Then he spoke to the city’s roofs: “The streets belong to us, guagliu’.”
The Longhairs, who had so far been standing off to one side, on their own, now stepped forward, converging, attracted by the proposal: for some time, they’d been sick and tired of loitering on the edges of the action, and Maraja was offering to bring them in, to join forces against a common shared enemy, the old clans. But ’o White remained silent. He was thinking about after they’d defeated Micione. He was thinking about Nicolas, who would then take the few remaining piazzas that the Longhairs still controlled because, if he wasn’t afraid to present himself in that fashion in their own meeting room, in their clubhouse, then what would stop him, once he’d gotten what he wanted, what would keep him from simply getting rid of them, too?
“With what you’re telling me,” was all he said in reply, “all I need to do is say the word and Micione will come to your house and shoot you and your mother, seeing that he’s already taken care of getting rid of your brother. And in exchange, I could take all your piazzas, easy as pie.”
Nicolas cut his line of argument short. “Don’t let’s waste time on this bullshit, ’o White. You kill me, and he’ll kill you. I’m offering you the oxygen that you and your paranza need.”
Chicchirichì nodded as if it were up to him to accept Maraja’s proposal.
“So, just where did you get this letter?” asked ’o White. It was over. The offer had been accepted. That change of topic was worth more than any simple yes.
Nicolas pulled out a pack of Marlboros to pass around between the two paranzas, as if to seal their confederation, but when it was Chicchirichì’s turn, Nicolas lit his cigarette personally.
“There’s someone in your paranza who’s been smarter than you, and who knew who he should take it to.”
Chicchirichì stood motionless, frozen to the spot, with his cigarette dangling from his lips.
“And now?” asked ’o White.
“And now?” Nicolas replied, taking two long drags.
“And now we need to make it clear to Copacabana that he needs to keep his mouth shut. We’ll send him the message through ’o Cerino, we’ll make him do a round-trip, make the information flow the other way.”
Nicolas extended his fist and ’o White did the same. Fist bump. Knuckles against knuckles.
“Now we’re at peace,” said ’o White.
“Now we’re at peace,” said Nicolas.
“So now you can leave ’a Koala and her baby alone.”
“We’re at peace,” Nicolas reiterated.
“Give the kiss of matrimony,” said Tucano, and they planted kisses on each other’s cheeks.
Now it really was all over, and they were free to break ranks. The members of the paranzas, the Children and the Longhairs, pulled out their smartphones: who could say what had happened in the meantime, in the streets far from that roof? ’O White lit a cigarette and took off at a run, heading straight for the edge of the roof, as if he were about to take off into thin air, but instead he slammed his shoulder into Chicchirichì, who attempted a halfhearted pirouette, but his hands grabbed only empty air, and
now Chicchirichì plummeted down into the vicolo below. A three-second fall, and then a tremendous symphony of alarmed shouts and car horns. Silence on the roof.
’O White took a deep drag. “That traitor killed himself, because he fucked up big.”
Nicolas stuck his head out and pulled it back in immediately. The sprawled body of Chicchirichì lay in disarray, surrounded by the first-chance good Samaritans, but it was clear that there was nothing anyone could do now to help him. The act had been too spectacular, too theatrical, a demonstration of something he hadn’t yet fully grasped. “So what is this supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Because we can’t have any traitors in our ranks. I’ve eliminated my traitor, Maraja. What are you planning to do about the traitor that you’ve got in your paranza?”
PART TWO
THE BOY KINGS OF NAPLES
A child isn’t a child, in Naples. A child isn’t a bambino, a child is a criaturo. “Teng’a creatura,” I have a child, a creature, says a mother, and she butts into line at the bank or leaves her car double-parked in front of the nursery school, shouting those words at the traffic cop on duty. The creature dictates a law all its own, it takes advantage of the rights that belong to it, unquestioned, more than any law passed by the state. Does a window get broken because a back-alley goalie failed to block a kick? Ch’amma a fà, so’ creaturo: what can we do, kids will be kids—that’s the all-encompassing justification of the janitor, the hall monitor, the schoolteacher, the mother of one child who’s just beaten up another.
These creatures are very close to all of creation. They belong to it like the shameless blue sky that hovers over the off-kilter TV antennas on the rooftops, the wind that whistles at the intersections of the alleys and vicoli, the hollowed-out tufa of the car parks and storehouses that, not that many years ago, were actually private homes.
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