To do what? Me? But I’ve told you, oh, you mean Lisetta. What are you getting at, exactly, Mr Lawyer?
Chapter 25
Bologna, 11 March
What with washing the glasses, fixing the tap and grinding the coffee, Pierre had made himself late.
He rummaged through his pockets to be sure he had the ticket, jumped on his bicycle, and headed off at a lick in the direction of Via Ugo Bassi. He wasn’t the only one in search of a decent seat. At the last Cavicchi fight, there had been such a scrum that the riot squad had even left people with tickets standing outside.
An agitated crowd pushed its way towards the entrance of the old Sala Borsa. Pierre leaned his bicycle against the wall and threw himself into the midst of it, resolved to get in whatever the cost.
Franco Cavicchi, known as Checco, the colossus of Pieve di Cento, was an idol to Pierre. His favourite boxer. Big as a mountain, determined and generous. Every day he rode sixty kilometres on his bike to get to Bologna, to the legendary Sempre Avanti gymnasium on Via Maggia, a club of glorious socialist origins.
Three riot cops were already complaining that the hall was full, and trying to get people to stop pushing.
Pierre stuck his elbows into the ribs in front of him, and with two blows of his hips he managed to get a fair way forwards, amidst general protests.
He was alone. The other musketeers had been put off by the price. Pierre wouldn’t have missed the great Cavicchi for anything in the world. And Ettore, the guy with the truck, would be there, and he’d be able to give him some advice on how to get to Yugoslavia.
Now he’d made it to the door. The cops, six of them now, were pushing on the sides of the crowd in a pincer movement to cut off the people at the back. Just as Pierre was sure he was in, they lined up.
‘That’s enough, you lot can go home, no one else is getting in.’
Shouts and insults from the dozens of people excluded. Pierre recognised the riot cop who had beaten him up on the procession for the victims of Mussomeli. Without thinking twice, he took a few steps backwards, braced himself against the people behind him, and then charged, head down, to break through the blockade. Taken by surprise, they tried to catch him, but it was too late. One of them took a blow from the knee, the other a hand in the face, then Pierre was swallowed up inside, while an almighty row erupted in his wake.
He found a place to sit on the higher benches. The bloke beside him was eating enormous quantities of pumpkin seeds. There was a carpet of shells around his feet. Between one seed and the next, he spoke to him.
‘Have you seen how many people there are? It’s a far cry from the basketball! It’s a good thing they’re getting a move on with the new stadium, but for Cavicchi, not for Virtus.’
‘If it goes on like this,’ added Pierre, ‘they’ll need more than a local stadium. He’ll be European champion in two years.’
The first fighters of the evening entered the ring. Bernardi came from Ferrara. There was, amidst a chorus of whistles from the locals, fallout from the football-based hatred between Bologna and Spal Ferrara. Malavasi, on the other hand, was born within the city walls, but many people remembered him wearing the uniform of the fascist Black Brigade. The insults of the comrades were all directed at him. The referee for the clash was Signor Cinti from Ancona.
Clash? Depends what you mean. After the first two rounds, ‘Pumpkin-seeds’ started to complain to Pierre.
‘Call this boxing? They’re rubbish, them two.’
Pushing, hugging, jerking, no real punches to speak of.
By the time of the fourth, after two cautions for fouls from the referee, the crowd started whistling. They shouted that the Ferrara boxer would have been better off ‘breeding eels’, and someone asked if he could get up into the ring to teach the fascist a lesson. So the match, while it languished in the ring, spread into the ringside seats.
A short, squat bloke, red face like a baboon’s arse, came over to Pierre with a menacing look.
‘And as for you, my handsome lad, you go and tell people in your bar that Malavasi tried to fight and the other guy didn’t.’
‘You call that fighting?’ said someone a few inches away from his nose. ‘Bullets are too good for you fascists.’
The right hook thumped into Pumpkin-seed’s cheek in a flash. He hadn’t been the one talking, that had been someone with huge great shoulders, far too big for that short-arsed wanker of a fascist. Pierre threw himself at the troublemaker, whacking him in the jaw with his elbow. The man fell back with Pierre on top of him, while the fray began all around them.
On the other front, the referee stopped the fight. Renato Torri of Sempre Avanti took the microphone to ask the audience to be calm, threatening to interrupt the evening immediately.
At the thought of losing Cavicchi, Pierre loosened his grip on his adversary, abandoning himself to the arms that were trying to pull him away. He took a hefty kick in the stomach, just as he was moving away. He replied with a spit, aiming at the little guy’s bald head, and then he too was immobilised and carried away, still bellowing.
‘You’re Pierre from the Bar Aurora, aren’t you? Brother of Nicola Capponi?’
The guy who had threatened the fascist was standing behind him. Pierre straightened up and replied, ‘Yes, that’s me. And who are you?’
‘I’m Ettore. I believe you wanted to speak to me.’
Cavicchi’s arrival was greeted with an ovation. Pierre forgot to applaud. ‘Shall we do it now, or wait for them to finish?’
‘Let’s wait,’ said Ettore. ‘We’ll see how Checco gets on, and then go and get a drink.’
The first round ended with the German Wiese on the ropes. Cavicchi was burying him beneath an avalanche of punches, waiting for the right moment to land one of his famous left hooks. Filled with admiration, Pierre watched the fluent and devastating action, trying to plan what he was going to say, his head filled with awe and fisticuffs.
In the interval between the fourth and the fifth rounds, he turned to say something to Ettore, but Ettore had already moved away, and was engaged in intense conversation with two men.
As the bell sounded, he looked towards the ring once more. His excitement was mounting. Not because of the boxing match, which was dominated by Cavicchi, but because of the business with Ettore, and its possible consequences. Would he find a way to get to Yugoslavia? And where would he lay his hands on the money to pay for the journey? Would it be very dangerous? And what about Angela? If he stayed away for a while, would it bring them closer together or persuade her that it was better if they parted? And Nicola? What would he tell him?
Wiese’s trainer didn’t ask himself quite so many questions, and threw in the towel in the sixth round.
Pierre realised he had missed something. He looked around. Ettore was beckoning him over. A gap opened up, and he joined him.
As they walked along the street they exchanged a few words, just to choose where to go.
The restaurant beneath the city towers was rather crowded, late as it was. They found a corner table, tiny and somewhat discreet, sat down and ordered two brandies.
Ettore sat back, lit a cigarette and took two drags on it.
Pierre cleared his throat and decided to get straight to the nub.
‘I need to go to Yugoslavia, and Gas, Castelvetri, says —’
‘Calm down, now,’ Ettore interrupted. ‘I don’t like getting involved in stuff I don’t know about. We always have a chat first, and if you’re ok you’ll win, I’ll be that much happier to help you.’
A few tables away, a girl laughed loudly, above the gabble of voices. The arrival of the waiter helped Pierre out of his embarrassment. He gripped his glass, turned it around in the palm of his hand, sniffed his brandy and took a sip.