All that happens is that Bottone ends up with eighteen cards and has to deal again. La Gaggia shakes his head dolefully, and Walterún tries to apologise.
‘What’s this about Fanfani knowing things, Gaggia?’
A glance across the table, reproof for having woken up too late.
‘Well, it seems that this girl who knows everything, the one they interrogated, told Fanfani a few things back in December, on her parish priest’s advice.’
‘Priests, priests. ’ Stefanelli nods mysteriously, knocking back his chaser as well.
‘Hey, Gaggia,’ Garibaldi says as he throws down a king of cups. ‘I don’t get it, I really don’t. How come this girl Anna Maria went to Fanfani rather than the cops?’
‘How the hell should I know? She probably thought they were important matters, and pretty much everyone was involved, aristocrats, politicians, people at the highest levels. Because forgive me, if you knew things as big as that would you go and tell the cops?’
‘Oh no, certainly not. But I wouldn’t go to Fanfani either. I’d go straight to the editors of L’Unità and put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Well, I don’t know, Fanfani was Interior Minister, they must have thought he was better.’
The bar door opens all of a sudden, and everyone turns round and stops talking. It’s an unusual time for anyone to show up, and Melega and the others are still at work. The bald pate of Adelmo Castelvetri pops into the bar, gleaming like its owner’s leather shoes. His clothes, on the other hand, show signs of wear: jacket frayed at the elbows, colours a bit faded, one button different from the others, but he still manages to look stylish, at least as stylish as Pierre on the evenings when he dazzles everyone at the dancehall. He’s a queer customer: everyone expects him to turn up in the bar at some point during the day, but he’s one of those people who doesn’t have a fixed time, he just shows up all of a sudden, and because of that habit of his many people wonder what exactly it is that he does for a living; he can’t be more than forty, a bit young for a pension. He doesn’t have a private income, Bottone knows his father and says it isn’t possible. But he does have money, he can afford expensive clothes and he’s got a scooter as well. In fact it seems as though money comes and goes from his pockets in waves; he’ll turn up in a new suit, then he’ll wear it every day for a few months, and he’ll tell you it’s more lived-in that way and he likes it better. But no one believes him, and in fact the most mean-minded among us say he’s involved in shady dealings. And no one can agree on what those dealings might be, some people say it’s petrol-smuggling, others that he’s simply a conman. And what about him? He claims to be an agent and a — how does he put it? — business broker, always there to give everyone advice on how best to use their savings, how to exploit them, what to buy and where, the best deals of the moment. And we can’t really say that he cons us that often, although it’s true, his nickname, Gas, comes from that scam he did in gas for lighters, which left lots of us 3,000 lire the poorer. And Garibaldi, who invested more than everyone else, took that very badly and has never let him forget it.
‘So, Gas,’ he begins all of a sudden, ‘weren’t you telling us to stock up on watches, telling us that if you buy them at ten today, in a few years you sell them on for at least fifty?’ The tone is accusatory. All other conversations stop abruptly and everyone listens.
‘Ah, calm down, now,’ he says defensively, his first glass of red wine already poured, ‘that depends on the type of watch, it doesn’t work for all of them, otherwise. you have to be able to tell which is which.’
‘You’re right there, you know, the other day in Vergato someone paid 50,000 lire for a piece of junk worth a thousand at the most. But maybe in a few years he’ll be able to sell it on for 100,000, what d’you think?’
‘Careful, Walterún,’ Bottone intervenes before Castelvetri can reply, ‘you lot should be able to make 121, because we played pretty well on the Big One.’
While Walterún sets down his point cards, and Castelvetri approaches the table to give a more thorough account of his views on watches, the door opens again, and in comes Melega with the latest news.
‘Have you seen Montroni? Is anybody still going to criticise him for working in the Villa Azzurra?’
‘So, what’s he done?’ Bortolotti asks immediately.
‘Haven’t you read L’Unità this morning? Has anybody read it?’
He has everyone’s undivided attention. Melega picks up the newspaper from the bar and flicks through it, licking his fingers. ‘Listen to this: “Dr Odoacre Montroni, vice-secretary of the Bolognese Federation, director of the Villa Azzurra Clinic, has organised a team of young voluntary medics who will join him in launching a programme of free vaccinations in our province. ‘There are many small hamlets and villages,’ explained Montroni, ‘remote from the main towns and most ambulances. In many of them there is a risk of infection,’” etcetera etcetera.’
‘Is there a photograph?’ asks Garibaldi, who has trouble reading without his glasses.
‘Montroni’s a good comrade, of course,’ Capponi observes from behind the bar.
In the billiard room, between the clicks of the balls, you can imagine Stefanelli nodding. ‘Eh, Montroni, Montroni. ’
The copy of L’Unità passes from hand to hand, amidst general chatter. And there is a photograph, Montroni with his little glasses, sitting behind a big desk covered with pieces of paper.
‘Well?’ Melega continues provocatively. ‘Where’s everyone who used to say that a doctor who’s a comrade shouldn’t work for a private hospital? Are you still there? Hey, Walterún, you used to say that a communist doesn’t make money out of people’s health, off you go, what a comrade, Odoacre Montroni!’
Walterún doesn’t reply, he’s not as young as he was, so he doesn’t tear into Melega, because if he was that bit younger he would have to leap up and have his say so as not to lose face. He turns towards Garibaldi and shakes his head. Bottone comforts him in a whisper. ‘We’re old, Walterún, don’t take it to heart. Not long ago if you wanted to be a comrade you had to go to Spain to get rid of the fascists, but now. ’
And you can be sure that if it wasn’t for Melega, who is strutting stiffly around the room, Bottone would be happy to drop his atom bomb.
Chapter 19
Bologna, Cinema Imperiale, 14 February
Less than a quarter of an hour after the start of the film, Pierre started to come out with a long stream of malevolent comments. Angela dug an elbow into his ribs, asking him not to make a spectacle of himself, saying that in there they were hidden from everybody. To tell the truth, there weren’t many people in the cinema who weren’t sniggering or calling out coarse comments in dialect, and throwing around lupin seeds, liquorice and banter, all well chewed.
Angela was embarrassed. Pierre was aware of that, but he could do nothing about it: the film was terrible, boring, stupid and reactionary as well. Two hours down the drain, because Brando had caught the flu at the last moment, which meant that they couldn’t use his flat. They had nowhere else to make love, and Angela had suggested, ‘Why don’t we go to the cinema?’ Fine, just to make her happy and just to be with her, then in the darkness of the Imperiale they could kiss and touch each other, sitting in the back row was enough to avoid indiscreet glances, and they would leave before everyone else.