He stood there with his hand on the receiver, too many thoughts running through his head. MI6, Yugoslavia, his double, the Hitchcock film. The active life wanted him back. Maybe he was really starting to need it. Two months away from home, a rather unique job, then back on to the set. Yes, it could work. Hitch’s favourite actress, absolutely beautiful, a sure thing. The return of Cary Grant and the definitive success of Grace Kelly.
‘Good news?’ asked Betsy, interrupting his reflections.
Cary realised he had been leaning on the telephone all the time.
‘Neither good nor bad. Old Hitch is trying to persuade me: the Côte d’Azur, his new film, Rear Window, which is sure to be a hit, the casino in Monte Carlo, the usual things.’
Well, not usual exactly. Grace Kelly exerted a fascination that was out of the ordinary. Cold and magnetic at the same time. If he had been Clark Gable, in Mogambo, Cary would have had no doubt about whether to choose Grace or Ava Gardner.
Hitchcock had scored an extra point. He knew Cary very well, and he knew Archie, too. He knew how to needle them both.
Chapter 22
Between Naples and Pompeii, 21 February
Zollo had other things to think about, but he couldn’t do it. There was no way you could think when Don Luciano decided to be hospitable, because his words flowed without interruption, one sentence after another, finally enveloping your mind until you found yourself following them whether you felt like it or not. The boss didn’t talk like ordinary mortals: it only looked like talking for talking’s sake; in fact his words were weighted and carefully chosen. Mixed in with all the idle chatter there was a certain amount of wisdom and a good dose of savoir faire. He monopolised the conversation without being rude, and flattered his interlocutor by skilfully forcing him to follow his train of thought.
‘Italy is a country where everything is yet to be done, my friends. Every now and again I feel as though I’m in the wild west. Like a prisoner, yes. Everything is yet to be built, there are great opportunities for anyone with the wit and the balls. As to myself, what do you expect, I’m a poor pensioner now who can’t make it to the evening without an afternoon nap. But for those with fresh blood, there’s enough to keep everybody busy. In Naples the people are hospitable. Now that there are more Americans than Italians. Sailors, officers, doctors, journalists. I feel as if I’m at home! The Italians, pal, may not speak foreign languages, but the Neapolitans do, they speak the lot! You know the history of this city? You don’t? Everyone’s passed through here: the French, the Spanish, the Piedmontese, the Germans and now the Americans. The Neapolitans aren’t used to being on their own. There’s always someone at home, always different people, different languages, new faces. And they have a very curious way of doing things, everything out in the street, everything in public. I lead a reserved life — who do you think is going to come and talk to an old man? — but I see everything from my armchair. I see it out on the terrace and from up there I watch the life of Naples passing below. Better than Cinemascope!’
Lucky Luciano sank into the back seat of the convertible Plymouth and talked, smiling generously at the girl sitting in the front, who couldn’t help turning around, craning her neck, to nod at what the old man was saying.
Young Anastasia looked like a fop sitting on hot coals, only laughing at the jokes or asking the occasional question about Italy. Every now and again Luciano gave him a slight nudge, when the innuendo got a bit near the knuckle. But without overdoing it, barely touching him, as though they had been friends for a long time. He never missed the opportunity to observe on the intimate relationship based on friendship and esteem that bound him to his uncle Anastasia. All very knowing. No overstatement.
‘There are hidden jewels in the city, you know? Churches, squares, palaces. History passed through here, my friends, and if anyone with a will decided to rebuild the whole thing, the tourists would come flocking, just from the States. Here in Italy, they call this place ‘Africa’. But I say they don’t know what they’re missing, because if you take a moment to sit down and wait, you don’t really have to go and discover this city, Naples will come and find you! It’ll come and meet you and claim you as its own.’
Zollo gripped the wheel with both hands and said nothing. Every now and again his eyes fell on the girl’s legs, when a slightly tighter bend ruffled her skirt. Lovely legs, at least. The Anastasias knew how to live. The young nephew was someone to be treated with great consideration. And then here was the idea of the excursion to Pompeii. At least it was a nice day.
But Zollo had never liked the countryside. When you’re born in Brooklyn, and you do your growing up between one sidewalk and the other, you don’t feel at ease among the dunghills. Apart from a few trips to Chicago, he had never left New York until the day when the oldest member of the Anastasia family had decided to ‘give him’ to Luciano, who was setting off for Italy. He had had no complaints, he needed a change of air as it was, especially since that Jewish attorney had got it into his head to have the Hudson River dragged. That fucking rabbi had managed to make one of the dockers sing, and when he had done that, he had hidden him in the devil’s asshole and placed him under strict protection. The wretch had also given his name: ‘Steve Cement has sent a good lot of people down to the bay, half a dozen, maybe more.’ Not that the shlub had been able to do it. Even if they’d locked him up in some kind of armoured fortress, guarded like Fort Knox, no one had stopped him drinking lemonade laced with strychnine. But now the die was cast, the time had come for good old Steve to go into the icebox, at least until the balance of power had been resolved. When you thought about it, his story was not unlike Don Luciano’s. Then he had waited for the call to come from the Anastasias, but it hadn’t come, so now he had stopped hoping it would.
‘So, I’ve got my shop, and I’m fine as I am. But if I was a bit younger, there are plenty of things here that need doing, isn’t that right, Steve? And no shortage of pretty girls to date! Not as lovely as you, miss, but the Neapolitan girls can look after themselves as well. Procaci, isn’t that the word? Pert, sexy. I like it: procaci! I’d forgotten that word in America, and it came right back to me here. It makes you think of prosperity, the generosity of nature. It’s a nice word to say: procaci. It sounds good, it feels good in the mouth, don’t you think? Italian is a language that flows like a river. It’s a language that needs time if you’re going to speak it properly. It’s a language with a history. Like this city. Like the whole country. You can still get by with Italian, but your children may not speak it any more and that’s a shame. Because American is a good language for business, for ordering a beer. And that’s it. But here the words have a special meaning: they fill the mouth. Procaci, you hear that? They’re not just for getting things with, you say the words for the sake of saying them, you say them for the pleasure of speaking.’
Zollo couldn’t make up his mind. He didn’t like Italy. It was a backward, uncivilised place. Beautiful women, sure, but they had no notion of real femininity. They looked like peasants dressed up for a party. Not a patch on the girls in New York. Those were classy women, he remembered very clearly: the nightclubs, the luxury bordellos. In New York they did things with style: fucking, and having people clipped. Not in Naples: shouting, yelling, dramas about nothing. He couldn’t bear it. He felt as if he was the victim of a script in which everyone had a part to play and he didn’t get so much as a line. And yet he was obliged to move about on the gigantic stage set of the city. Every day he felt himself sinking, wrapped up in that slow rhythm that opposed any form of dynamism. Stefano Zollo deserved something better, he was convinced of it. Basically he had always been good in his field. Clean, orderly. He’d never made any mistakes. Not one. Once he’d made a pair of concrete shoes for somebody, and the guy had asked him to take 500 dollars to his girlfriend, because he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. And he had done it. He could have stuck it in his pocket, spent it on a nice present for one of his girls, but he hadn’t, he’d gone to the address and given the woman the money. He’d just said, ‘From Sal. He’s had to go on a long journey in a hurry.’ Nothing but that. Impeccable. And stylish. He’d always insisted on it.