‘Hmph, what’s Montesi got to do with it?’ asks Garibaldi, after giving an X to Sanbenedettese — Arstaranto. ‘Why can’t they leave that poor girl alone?’
‘I agree,’ another man chimes in, but he can’t get his words out before La Gaggia silences everyone with an impatient glare, as though we were a pack of ignorant schoolboys.
‘What’s she got to do with it? Are you pulling my leg? It looks as though two of them killed her, with drugs, and one, Montagna, is a little pusher who’s thick as thieves with politicians, and the other, Piccioni, is the son of the Social Democrat minister. And as chance would have it, the police have hushed it up until just now, they’ve tried to make everyone think it was an accident. And now that’s it, final straw, they’ve got to clean up, time for all the politicians’ dirty tricks to come out into the open.’
La Gaggia breaks off with an air of satisfaction, waiting for us to share his enthusiasm. But many of us just scratch our heads, until Walterún says, ‘I don’t get it. It all looks to me like one huge great mess. Who killed that poor girl?’
‘Are you listening to me or not? They did it, Montagna and Piccioni, they gave her some drugs so they could fuck her, and the heads of the Chamber of Deputies tried to hide everything, but they couldn’t, and now all the politicians’ dirty tricks are floating to the surface!’
‘Well it’s about time,’ observes Bottone. ‘And you, Garibaldi, what do you have to say about this Montesi business? Are we going to get them this time?’
Old Garibaldi has already set aside his coupon, and is sitting at the table flicking through the newspaper, as though he didn’t give one fig about the Montesi girl.
‘You lot are kicking up a fuss about four fat rich perverts, while important things are happening in the world. Things that will change history, unlike the Montesi girl.’
‘What’s happened?’ asks Pierre from behind the bar.
‘What’s happened is that Ho Chi Minh has decided to send the French packing once and for all!’
‘Really?’ asks Bottone in disbelief, putting on his glasses to read the microscopic letters of the newspaper. Even the most inveterate pools devotees look up from the table and listen attentively, because on Friday, at this time of day, no one has read the paper yet.
Garibaldi nods seraphically. ‘Yes, sir. The Vietnamese have attacked the general HQ of the French forces.’
Bottone reads out loud: ‘On 10 March Vietnamese troops laid siege to the entrenched camp of Di Ben —’
‘Dien Bien Phu, you ignoramus! It’s where the French army is based,’ Garibaldi corrects him. ‘This time we’re going to send them home with their tails between their legs, General Giap isn’t an idiot, he’s a skilled warrior, a hero of the people.’
Walterún is still trying to read the article over the shoulders of Bottone, who explodes, ‘Those Vietnamese may be small, but they’re pretty wicked, aren’t they? They might look like puny little shrimps, but they won’t let anyone push them around. Good on them!’
The tram driver Lorini intervenes to have his say, as he pays for his coffee. ‘It’s because they’re so small that they can come at you from all directions before you even notice. While the French, big and fat, make easy targets.’
Garibaldi raises his eyes to the sky and shakes his head. ‘The sort of bollocks I have to put up with. What does the size of the Vietnamese have to do with anything?’ Then, as though explaining a history lesson, he says, ‘It’s because the French are all Foreign Legion mercenaries, they’re all people who fight for money. While the Vietnamese are fighting for their country, to free it from colonialism, just as we fought against the Germans. So were we tiny as well?’
Pierre finishes tidying up the cups on the bar. ‘Then let’s drink this coffee to the health of Comrade Ho Chi Minh.’
‘To his health!’ says Bottone, raising his cup.
‘If the communists win there too,’ says Garibaldi after taking a sip, ‘we’ll have taken the whole of Asia. The Soviet Union, China and Indochina.’
We nod emphatically.
‘And what about us?’ asks Walterún.
‘We’ll come after them. One thing at a time, for Christ’s sake!’
Bottone’s abrupt riposte brings the political debate to a close. On Friday, no subject can hold his attention for long, the Americans could drop the bomb and after a few observations we’d be talking football again.
And sure enough, Melega and Stefanelli are already playing billiards, and the crack of the balls drowns out all discussion of the fate of Bologna FC, which, with Atalanta on the team, has to make up for its 3‒1 loss to Palermo. Capponi does the weekly accounts for the owner, Pierre checks the level of liquid in the bottles, and the tarocchi players argue over a trick.
Chapter 27
Bologna, 14 March
‘I can’t leave Odoacre.’
Angela broke the silence that had engulfed them after they had made love. Neither of them had spoken for several moments. They had stayed there, reading each other’s thoughts, with no need to say anything.
Pierre shook his head. He had never asked her to decide, but she knew that the clandestine nature of their relationship was beginning to oppress him. How long had it been? Five or six months. Yes, it was getting oppressive, it wasn’t easy for her, it was madness, but it was also a breath of fresh air, joy and passion. Odoacre hadn’t the faintest idea what passion was. He was kind, attentive and old. It wasn’t just his age, it was his character, he couldn’t have been any different as a young man. Generous, altruistic, serious, always devoting himself to some good cause or other, always sure of what he was supposed to be doing.
‘Angela, I’m in love with you.’ Pierre’s voice was tired.
She didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye.
‘I’m in love with you and I’m fed up with all this.’
‘I know, it’s as though we’re living in hiding.’
‘No, not just because of the two of us. It’s because I can’t see any future for me. Any future for us. Sooner or later we’ll have to stop seeing one another, before we fall too much in love, before we miss each other too much when we’re apart. We’re fighting a losing battle. But I wonder if it’s right.’
Pierre’s eyes stared into the void. He ran a hand through his hair. She lit a cigarette and handed it to him.
‘Life isn’t fair, it isn’t a polka, it’s hard. It’s been hard for me, and if I hadn’t met Odoacre, who knows where I would be today.’
God almighty, how many times had she repeated that same old story? He’d had it up to there with Angela’s resignation, but Pierre had no answers.
He said, ‘Is this really all there is? Is there nothing else? Is this supposed to be enough? Working and waiting for Sunday?’
‘And what do you suggest?’ exploded Angela as though telling off a child. ‘Are we rich? That man Renato Fanti tells you all sorts of fine things, but it’s easy for him, he comes from a good family, he’s travelled, he’s been abroad, he can speak languages. What are we, Pierre?’
‘Dupes, that’s what. Everything’s fine. The rich are fine, the poor are fine, it’s fine to work like mules, it’s fine for the riot cops to crack our heads open when we take to the streets, it’s fine if two young people who love each other can’t tell anyone.’
‘You and I can’t change the world, Pierre. Even if I leave Odoacre and spit on everything that he’s done for me and my brother, what do we do then? We’d have to leave Bologna, everyone would chuck stones at us. And I’d be called a whore for leaving Dr Odoacre for the Filuzzi King. A pauper working as a barman. Where would we go?’