An Italian immigrant in the mines of Belgium is married by proxy to a Calabrian girl. He has never seen her. He hasn’t the money to pay for the journey. Who will make their meeting possible? Exactly.
A girl from Florence got a bike as a present from her dad. The same day someone stole it. Now her dad can’t afford another one. Don’t worry, little one: anche oggi è domenica. An identical bicycle is delivered to the girl beneath the smug eye of the television cameras.
Gas had had a clever plan: why don’t you lot write in? We’ve collected all our savings to buy a TV, but a thunderbolt struck the aerial and destroyed it. Now our children are crying because they can’t see your programme. Help us.
Gas had dodged a slap. ‘You write in.’
‘If you make things up they can tell,’ Bortolotti insisted. ‘And then they’ll report you.’
Gas had promised. He had gone to work. He had found someone he could palm off the television to in return for a Phonola. Not as expensive, but still a luxury item.
It was five by the kitchen clock. He would have to get a move on. He slipped his fingers into the side indentations of the great beast and struggled to lift it from the table. His sciatica was acting up.
He headed for the door.
The cat slipped between his legs in pursuit of its ball.
He lost his balance. He fell to the ground. He propped himself up on the elbow that had hit the floor.
He raised his eyes and immediately closed them again. He couldn’t look.
Bloody hell!
The screen was shattered. The fascia on the back had come away. The cat was hunting around inside for its sodding ball.
He kicked it away. He knelt down behind the set to see if the fascia could be put back. A minor problem, given the state of the screen.
For a moment he didn’t understand.
What the hell were those little white bricks inside the television?
A moment later, he half understood.
That was why the bloody thing didn’t work. That was the swindle. They’d taken out the mechanism and filled it up so that no one could tell the difference. Ingenious.
His third thought took him three-quarters of the way to complete comprehension.
Strange little bricks. Couldn’t they have used rocks?
He stretched out a hand. He weighed one of the packages in his hand. Unrolled the cellophane.
White powder.
Well fuck me with a ragman’s trumpet!
He had got there.
He went to run his hands through his hair, but just ended up stroking his bald pate. He had never even seen this stuff. What sort of stuff was it, in fact? Cocaine, heroin, morphine? Who the hell had put it inside the television? The package seemed to glow.
He tried to calm down. Fine, old man, here you are with — how much? Ten kilos? Twenty kilos? Of what? Heroin? Cocaine? It looks as though, potentially, you’re rather a wealthy man.
Potentially: you don’t know anyone who could tell you what it is. No one who could buy it. No one.
He tried to calm down. In the meantime you’re going to have to hide it. Then phone Fattori and tell him you won’t be selling the television. Then find a new screen and put in some real bricks and sell it again. But in the meantime you’re going to have to sell that stuff.
Potentially, you’re very rich.
Chapter 42
Naples, 30 June, 1 p.m., during the partial eclipse of the sun
Three men who were lost in the forest were captured by cannibals. The cannibal king told the prisoners that they could live if they passed a trial. The first step of the trial was to go to the forest and get ten pieces of the same kind of fruit. So all three men went separate ways to gather fruits.
The first one came back and said to the king, ‘I brought ten apples.’ The king then explained the trial to him. ‘You have to shove the fruits up your arse without any expression on your face or you’ll be eaten.’
The first apple went in. but on the second one he winced in pain, so he was killed.
The second one arrived and showed the king ten berries. When the king explained the trial to him he thought to himself that this should be easy. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. and on the ninth berry he burst out laughing and was killed.
The first guy and the second guy met in heaven. The first one asked, ‘Why did you laugh, you almost got away with it?’ The second one replied, ‘I couldn’t help it, I saw the third guy coming with pineapples.’
The boy had told the story on their long journey back from France. He had never stopped talking. Shithead. Nonsense, all of it, that was all he needed. Salvatore.
What was he to do? Shake him off, get rid of him?
No.
Are you getting old, Steve?
The boy knew almost everything. Too much, without a doubt.
He had a knack of getting himself into trouble, but energy, vitality, burst from every inch of his skin.
His instinct told him: the boy isn’t the problem. You’ve got other problems.
‘Because everyone’s after it, everyone wants it, this new miracle of progress, isn’t that right, Steve?’
Shit. Did the old man know everything? Was he delivering those long speeches just to give his fucking mouth some exercise?
Pay attention, Steve. The ball is spinning.
Rien ne va plus.
The number played, always the same one. Fifteen. The kilos stolen from Luciano. The pension. Three of them already at their destination, then another twelve inside the McGuffin. In Bologna. Fuck.
‘Stiiiiiv! You have no idea, you can’t even imagine what Lisetta and I have done. With the help of your car, obviously. Try and guess, Stiv, go on, try. No? Fine, then I’ll tell you: we’ve found it. It’s in Bologna.’
Yes, ok, Bologna. He could be right. But who had it? And after all this time was the powder still inside?
Almost impossible.
The meeting on the other side of the border was imminent. Skullface Toni was itching to collect his last cut. Monsieur Alain had the stinking breath of his Parisian friends on him: pimps, toffs and doped-up musicians.
‘I’ve spoken to Albert Anastasia: you’re going back with them at the end of the year. To New York. The thought that you might not always be with me already fills me with gloom.’
Luciano. The biggest son-of-a-bitch on the planet. Dull-eyed, gazing into the distance. Behind corners, behind walls. At racetracks, in televisions. That was why he was still alive. And still the boss.
What possibilities did he have? Pointless question, now. He’d have to get moving. Rien ne va plus. Try. The life-and-death triple jump of Cement Zollo.
Bologna.
The lorry driver.
Over the border. Alain the fat guy. With or without the powder: different plans, same result.
Paris. Airport.
Where to? Was there some asshole in the universe that Luciano’s dick couldn’t penetrate?
‘While we were shooting the film, Stiv, there were these two guys, they were Italian as well, talking about a rich man from far away, someone like the emperor of China, and he’d bought this huge diamond, a thing this big that cost God knows how many millions. They said it was called Durban. The diamond. And that it came from Cape Town, which is in South Africa. And that in South Africa, in that place, it’s full, can you imagine, Stiv, full of diamonds like that. So much so that I found myself thinking: why don’t we go there, Stiv, why don’t we go and take a look? We could buy the diamonds and then come here and sell them, eh, Stiv? To all those rich guys drowning in money who like that kind of thing. Sure, first we’d have to go and talk to the city boss. Otherwise he’d get pissed off, wouldn’t he, Stiv?’