“Listen to Alberto. He will explain everything to you.”
“You will have to go to the south,” began the stranger, “to Catanzaro.”
Antonio was taken aback. He looked at Caesaro.
“You know I will never go there, don’t you?”
“It isn’t negotiable, it’s already decided,” Alberto interrupted him. “You’ll go there and find the man.” He took a photo out of his pocket and put it on the table. We don’t know his address, we only know his name. Caesaro told me that you know the town well.
Antonio glanced at the photo indifferently, but his blood curdled instantly – Francesco Magliano was smiling at him from the photo.
“Who ordered him?” he asked half whispering.
“None of your business,” Alberto answered. “You’ll do what you have to, and you will be paid well.”
“Whose order is it?” Antonio insisted. Alberto looked at Caesaro, then back at Antonio.
“Does it really matter to you?”
“Yes, it does,” answered Antonio.
“It’s my own order, there is nobody else’s interest,” answered Alberto.
Antonio stood up and started to walk in the room. The two men were sitting in the armchairs. At last Antonio stopped, looked at the picture again and addressed the two.
“I’ll make a good job of it. It’ll be done quite differently.”
“What do you mean,” smiled Alberto. “Explain yourself.”
Antonio thought for a moment. Then he took the gun out of his pocket quite unexpectedly, and shot first at Alberto and then at Caesaro. He shot them in the head, and then he sent a couple of bullets to their bodies, as he had been taught once, but in the reverse order.
He observed them for a while. Both were sitting quite stiff in their armchairs. Antonio picked up the photo, put it into his pocket, turned up the color of his coat, then pulled his cap down to his eyes, put his hands into his pockets and went into the street stooping a little. He observed the street, went it down till the corner, and turned round the corner to the dark, narrow street. On the left there was a lit up window of a restaurant with the inscription “Regio die Calambria”. He went up to it, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked inside. The restaurant was almost empty. He went in and took a seat at the bar. He ordered two glasses of grappa, drank the wine and ordered a portion of steak. Then he sat at the corner table and sank deep into his thoughts. The gun felt very cold in his pocket.
He rubbed his hands and ran them over his hair. He was terribly hungry. The waiter brought his order some twenty minutes later. Antonio looked at the roast beef for some time, and felt sick. He felt a sort of disgust and lost his appetite. He rose slowly, went up to the counter, threw the money on it and left. He didn’t know where to go. He was shivering. He felt a boundless freedom.
It was for the first time he had had such a sensation.
October 2, 2005
THOSE WERE BETTER TIMES
The old King was badly wounded,
and Prince David carried him away
from the battle-field almost by force.
Giorga was a tough guy. He was an excellent singer and dancer, and he was next to none in fisticuffs. Once, at a wedding party in a nearby village, he beat black and blue all the village men. Folks had been talking about the fight for quite a good while.
He looked very peaceful and calm at first sight though, smiling and talking modestly. But you could always trace sturdiness in his eyes.
He repaired the old house inherited from his father all on his own, cutting and carving shingles for the new roof with his own hands.
At the age of twenty, he was left quite alone and started to lead a solitary life. It was only his aunt Teo who visited him from time to time and did the washing and the cleaning for the young man.
But otherwise he was quite alone.
He owned a small plot of land which was enough for growing wheat and vine and keeping livestock.
In short, he was an independent man.
Giorga was twenty-two when the Russian-Turkish war broke out, and he was immediately recruited. He had been fighting for a year and a half, and came back home lame.
Though lame he was, Giorga still managed to work hard. Soon he made friends and partners with the local fellows and they moved to South Georgia where they mostly worked as lumberjacks.
Having saved a little money, he moved back. He couldn’t get used to the wet climate of the west where his wound would hurt him badly.
Now it was difficult for Giorga to stay all alone, with nobody around to say a word. He frequented his neighbors for a quiet talk, but it was not a real comfort for him.
He could never stay in one place for long.
* * *
The evening twilight was falling. It was the period of the day when crickets start chirping. Giorga was sitting on the balcony, smoking rough tobacco, spitting time to time and blowing away the ashes.
In short, he was sitting quite idly.
“Giorga!” a voice called him from behind the fence.
“Who’s there?” Giorga replied rising to his feet.
“It’s me, Tezika. Come down. Let me have a word with you,” was the answer.
“Come in, man. There is nobody here to interrupt with your word, you know”, Giorga called back rather reluctantly.
Tezika stepped over the garden fence, walked swiftly across the garden and up to the balcony.
“Listen here, how long are you going to live alone? You will go nuts pretty soon, buddy!”
“Boy! Is it why you came? You are not quite fresh there. Say something new.”
“My brother is having guests from the town. There is a girl among them, a real beauty!”
“So what?”
“So come with me and get acquainted with her. Who knows... Anyway, we could talk together and have a little drink”.
“Okay,” said Giorga and stood up.
* * *
“This is Giorga, and that’s my brother Tezika,” said the host, “Come in guys, and take your seats.
Both young men took their seats timidly, at the end of the table.
“My dear friends, let’s drink to the newcomers!” said a tall young man with a huge moustache. He seemed to be appointed toast-master. “I drink to your health, welfare and happiness, young men! Let our meeting be a lucky chance for us all!”
The rest of the feasters drank to the same.
Time and again Giorga glanced in the direction of the girl.
She proved to be a beauty indeed.
Soon somebody started to play the accordion, then the drums joined in and there started a real fun.
“I propose a toast to the Russian Tsar who put to rout the Turks!” the tall man said.
“Long live the Tsar!” the guests cried out unanimously.
“Were our Georgian Kings worse in any way?” said Giorga quite unexpectedly, as if somewhat offended. “Take the King Erekle, for instance”.
There fell a total silence.
“Cat got your tongues? Or am I wrong?”
The beauty sat smiling.
“Times are not what they were,” a young man in a military uniform answered.
“Hero is a hero. Heroism is the timeless notion!” Giorga raised his voice.
“Those were different times, my dear fellow. A good horse, a sharp sword and that’s all what it was. Now you need some brains too,” the officer insisted.
“Whatever next, your father be blessed! The young officer finds fault with King Erekle’s brains, ha?” Giorga raged again.
“What can a peasant like you know about the warfare? It’s not the same as plowing! You...” the officer wanted to add something, but he couldn’t for Giorga gave him a terrible blow on his jaw and knocked him (still sitting in his chair) down onto the floor.