‘I’d say that a change of surroundings might be the solution for both of you.’
Pierre gave a resigned nod. That solution had already flashed through his mind, but in the end it seemed to create more problems than it solved. He could ask Ettore to give him a full-time job for just long enough to pay for two people to leave the country under cover. But what would happen then? To what lengths would Montroni go to bring more serious accusations down on his head? What would he live on once he was abroad?
The explosion of the trombones covered Fanti’s words.
‘What did you say, professore?’
‘I said: if it’s of any use to you, my wife’s relations live in England. They’re nice people, they’d be happy to help you out for the first few months.’ He smiled. ‘It might help your accent, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm, I don’t know. ’
‘Think about it. I really mean it. They’re well off, they have a big house, and they’re used to having guests.’
‘Really? Thanks, professore. Really, thanks. I’ll give it some thought.’
Pierre wanted to add something more sensible, but it wasn’t easy. No words could pay for hours and hours of free lessons, litres of tea to clear the mind, kilos of raisin biscuits, piles of books recommended and lent, Stan Kenton and Dizzy Gillespie, the journey of the first pigeon to Yugoslavia, 30,000 lire never paid back, long political discussions, advice given with no pressure, the right phrases to speak to Cary Grant.
And now England. His wife’s relations. Hospitality.
Not the solution to all his problems, but enough to open the door a crack.
Chapter 37
Confidential report for the Italian authorities by Charles Siragusa, District Supervisor, US Bureau of Narcotics, 24.6.54. Addendum
In addition to what has already been quoted in the previous report, I am happy to receive the news of the withdrawal and revocation of Lucania’s Italian passport, No. 3243602, issued in Naples on 10 October 1950.
As we await the sentence of five years’ imprisonment, which strikes me as extremely urgent, I suggest that further limitations be imposed on Lucania’s freedom of movement, forcing him:
— to appear at the police station at regular intervals to confirm his address;
— to return to his apartment by 11 p.m. and not to leave it before 7 a.m.;
— not to visit public places of entertainment for several evenings in a row, so that Lucania cannot choose such places as a logistical base for his trafficking.
I should also point out that Stefano Zollo, who has also been mentioned, was arrested and interrogated by the police authorities on 6 June, in relation to the murder of Umberto Chiofano. Before that date, for several weeks, no trace of him had been found in his usual haunts. It is suspected that he may have been ‘on a mission’ outside the city on behalf of Lucania.
Stefano Zollo remains in the custody of the police authorities. His period of custody has been extended because of the emergence of fresh allegations against him, this time linked to the revelations of Gennaro Abbatemaggio concerning links between Ugo Montagna and the Neapolitan underworld.
Chapter 38
Naples, 26 June
‘Steve, Steve, Steve. Come in, my friend, sit down on the sofa, let’s have a drink. How patient we have to be, Steve! You must forgive me, I hope you will. It’s just because of your friendship for me, your sincere dedication, that a free American citizen can be treated like this on Allied soil by poor, miserable cops who know nothing and talk and go on talking and some politician or other comes and sucks their cock. How have they been treating you, Steve, in this stuffy cesspit, Poggio Reale? Anyone been taking liberties?’
‘Don Luciano, no one’s taken any liberties except to send you greetings and thanks, don’t worry about that, it’s just been a stay at the expense of this shitty Italian state.’
‘The Italian state! Well done, Steve, a great subject. What is the Italian state? Where is it? Ehhh. You’ve said it yourself: the Italian state is shitty. But lots of people don’t know how to answer the question. Look here, come on, Steve, take a look. Look in front of you. Naples, the bay, Vesuvius, the port. You see the port? You know the port very well, don’t you Steve? They’re almost as familiar as the old docks back home by now, aren’t they, Steve?’
‘With all due respect, Don Luciano, compared to the docks of New York, the port of Naples is a bathtub.’
‘Of course it is! Of course, Steve Cement’s bathtub. But let me tell you something. You know who’s in charge of this city? Who’s the boss, the mayor, the sindaco, the Fiorello LaGuardia of Naples? His name is Achille Lauro, the viceroy, and you know what he does? He builds boats, he’s a shipowner, and he owns newspapers, the football team and the votes of the people. But his trade, his fortune, is the sea, ships, ports. And you know where he builds his ships, where he has his boatyards, this king of Naples? In Genoa, in La Spezia. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? It’s like if you were made mayor of New York and went and opened a nightclub with whores in Chicago, don’t you think? But you’d worked all that out already, eh, Steve? The port of Naples is a bathtub, and you know who’s taking a bath? The 6th US Fleet, and us, modestly speaking. We’re a bit cramped, but if you don’t tread on each other’s toes you can get by, wouldn’t you say, Steve? There’s no room for commerce, for passenger ships, for dry docks, for expansion work. The bathtub was useful to us, and it still is. This man Lauro was like that with Mussolini, and then when we showed up, the liberators, he was arrested, just for a few days, to understand the situation, reach an agreement with him and his people, and Don Achille proved to be an intelligent man, a sound skipper. The dockyards and the ships ended up in Genoa, Don Achille keeps the people far away from the communists, and we and the 6th Fleet will give him a bath every day to keep him smelling sweet. So tell me one thing, Steve: can you see the Italian state from here?’
‘I understand, Don Salvatore.’
‘Hey, Steve, two words are too much for you, you understand everything. Steve Cement, a sure thing: strong as an ox and far from stupid, more trustworthy than anyone and silent as the grave. But have you got the balls of an ox as well? Sorry, Steve, I can’t contain myself, but let me finish my speech and pour yourself another drink now that our period of abstinence is over! Maybe the boys in Palermo, the guys down the sulphur mines in Alcamo, maybe they know what the Italian state is? Or all the gentlemen and the poor fools who want to bring Sicily into the federation of the United States. What is the Italian state? Can you eat it? In Milan and Palermo, in Turin and Reggio Calabria they don’t even speak the same language, they don’t even understand each other, haven’t you noticed that? What the Italian state does, says and thinks is decided in Washington DC. And since Washington is full of cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch politicians and judges spouting endless bullshit and acting like the flagbearers of justice, “even fleas are starting to cough now”, as they say in Naples, and they’re trying to break people’s balls. Now they’re claiming we gave drugs to those perverts in Rome for their parties, their orgies, maybe they can’t get it up without a bit of help. Because the politicians and other big shots were there, the kind of people who beat up girls and leave them dead on the beach. They’re saying this guy Montagna came to Naples to get some drugs, from me! It’s all made up, it’s all lies, children’s fairy tales to put in the papers. But you know who’s spinning this bullshit, Steve? An American cocksucker like me and you! That loser creep Charlie Siragusa, who’s trying to get his career back on course by instructing the cops down here. Ever seen the Italian cops, Steve? Fat, lazy, sweaty cowards. Charlie Cocksucker is fighting a losing battle. But even in successful battles soldiers on the winning side sometimes get killed. This guy Siragusa is scum, Steve. Scum. He’s busting our balls, ok, but in the end he’s a has-been. The only people they can get on side are losers, stoolies, but they’ve got to choose them well, not like that old nut Abbatemaggio. Eighty years old and forty of those he’s been a rat. He knows nothing! Don’t you worry, Steve, they’ll come and beg our forgiveness, cap in hand, because they owe us everything, we’re too important, we’re making them modern, ain’t that right, Chip? Have a biscuit, good little doggie. All kinds of decent, wealthy God-fearing people come and will continue to come to my shop asking for washing machines or the latest American TV, eh, Steve? Because they’re all after it now, they all want it, this new miracle of progress. A gadget that’ll allow them to forget their debts, infidelity, their problems and the fact that they don’t matter a damn, do you agree, Steve? But now everyone’s slobbering to have a television set, and the people who can’t afford one are just going to accumulate more debts. They’re so worried about the communists, but let me tell you that communism, Steve, is never going to take in Italy, it ain’t going to happen, not just because we’re here to stop it, but because the Italians are too lazy, they’re too happy having the future sold to them to organise the present, to earn their daily bread and knock up every woman they touch. No, Steve, no communism here. Too much bother.’