I’ll never see anyone again.
I’m a man on the run.
But I’ve got the money, and a ship to catch.
I’ll take whatever ship Paolino can find me a place on, then contact my dad and tell him to come as well.
A man on the run.
Pierre stopped to throw up. He swore he would never vomit again as long as he lived.
He couldn’t see a fucking thing. When was the sun going to come out?
Ten-hour train journey.
Genoa.
Paolino asked no questions. He put me up in the house of a friend of his and Ettore’s. Maybe he guessed something was up, maybe he knows.
The radio delivered the first confused news of a bloodbath just across the border.
There’s a ship bound for Mexico, it sails the day after tomorrow.
Money opens all doors, portholes, valves. Money can buy you the nutshell on which to plant a paper sail, a toothpick as a mast, go on, towards the Southern Cross.
Mexico. Veracruz.
On a crumpled scrap of paper I have the address of a comrade who’s in Mexico City. He fought in the Spanish Civil War. Who knows, he might even know someone in the bar.
You see, Angela, you see that I’m managing to leave as well?
You’re going to the cold, I’m going to the heat.
You’re going north, I’m going south.
You’re going across the Channel, I’m going through the Pillars of Hercules.
It’s always been like that, basically. You go one way, I go the other.
Sorry.
I’ve got the money.
A sea and an ocean away, Mexico.
What do I know about Mexico? Nothing.
And furthermore I don’t even know where this money comes from. I don’t know a thing.
But I’m alive.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Nicola, it’s me, Pierre. Listen, I can’t tell you where I am, but —’
‘Are the cops after you?’
‘What?’
‘There’s an article in Il Carlino, Pierre. Front page.’
‘Shit.’
‘Some people have been killed, near the French border. Ten or fifteen dead. One of them was a Bolognese smuggler, Ettore Bergamini, “ex-partisan turned criminal”, it says in the paper. He was expelled from the Party and the Partisans’ Association, years ago. I remember that guy.’
‘Nicola —’
‘They found his truck nearby. There were Mafiosi involved as well. There are photographs. One of them dropped by the bar a few days ago, he asked me for the television.’
‘Nicola, listen —’
‘No, you listen to me, Pierre, do you think I came up with the last drop of rain? Did you think I wasn’t aware of what you were up to? I don’t know what kind of a mess you’ve got yourself mixed up in, and I don’t want to know. But if you’re in the shit it’s your fault and yours alone, and don’t think I’m going to sort things out for you this time.’
‘Nicola, for Christ’s sake let me get a word in! I’m leaving Italy, for ever! It’s all sorted. I can’t stay here, it’s dangerous, I’ve got to go away, I’m leaving tonight.
‘Well done, good timing.’
‘What?’
‘Dad’s just turned up.’
Chapter 52
Genoa, night between 5 and 6 July
When he saw it emerging on to the wharf, he immediately recognised the van of the Bar Aurora. It proceeded slowly; he had given precise directions, but in the labyrinth of the port it wasn’t easy to get your bearings. It was dark; the only light came from the big, tall streetlamps that cast their light on the sheds, goods ready for loading and motionless crains.
Paolino spoke in a low voice. ‘Is that them?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pierre, coming out of the corner and waving towards the van.
The engine was switched off and the passengers got out.
He saw them approaching. The Capponi family, reunited like this. Clandestine, and about to part again. He would never have imagined it.
Two men walking slightly apart, unable to escape the distance that time had imposed, the embarrassment and the difficulty of the situation.
Here we are, thought Pierre, the last survivors of the past halfcentury. The Capponi family. Partisans, revolutionaries, fighters, certainly that, defeated, perhaps disappointed, smugglers definitely, dissidents, stubborn. Vittorio, the hero, Nicola, the hard one, and Robespierre, the dancer. Here we are, perhaps for the last time, to say goodbye and all the other things we have kept inside for all these years. Was he ready? Yes, he had had time to prepare. And there was nothing left to lose now, he had to walk towards his fate with his head held high, whatever it might be. A leap in the dark, that was what you wanted, Pierre, wasn’t it? You wanted something different, you wanted to go away, what you had was not enough.
He hugged his father.
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘How?’
‘On foot. I still know the paths through the Carso. I couldn’t stay hiding out in the mountains, Robespierre. I had to see you again.’
‘Did you go and see Aunt Iolanda?’
‘I gave her a shock: she thought I was a ghost. We talked all night. She gave me a pullover and a scarf for you.’ Vittorio patted the travelling bag slung over his neck.
‘Did you tell her we’re going away?’
Vittorio nodded. ‘She says that you and I are the kind of Capponi who can’t stay in one place, the ones with the itch, the wretches. But she loves you from the depths of her heart.’
Pierre reflected that he would have given an arm and a leg to hug Iolanda and say goodbye to her as he should have done. But time was short. He would write to her, yes, once they had reached their destination.
His eyes met Nicola’s, and he was surprised not to read the usual anger in them. In those dark eyes there was something not unlike resignation.
‘Thanks for coming with dad.’
A mangy dog passed through the beam from a streetlight, a solitary shadow in the deserted wharf. Paolino pointed behind the cases and whistled. ‘It’s time. They’re lowering the gangway. You’ll have to board.’
A little mobile gangway was coming down from the side of the moored ship. There was no time left.
Pierre felt that the tangle of thoughts he had in his head would have to be loosened.
‘Nicola, I’ve got a ton of money. It’s dirty money, but I didn’t kill anyone to get it. I found it in my hand, like that, whether you believe me or not. You can come with us. What are you going to do here?’