‘What are all these kids doing in the bar, Salvatore? I come in here after a day’s toil expecting a quiet grappa, and I find myself in a schoolroom, or is it a Cubs’ meeting?’ He grinned, showing yellow teeth. One of his incisors was snapped in half. ‘Get them out of here.’
‘You heard him,’ said Salvatore. ‘Time to go home.’
Obediently they moved away from the table. Pepe made one more play on the poker machine, then casually walked towards the door. Enrico took larger and faster spoonfuls of ice cream.
‘Wait!’
Tommasino lifted a stinking jute bag off the floor and handed it to Pepe. Pepe glanced into the bag, and smiled, then pulled out their six phones and dropped them on the counter.
‘I happened to meet your coach,’ said Tommasino. ‘He said he was sorry he couldn’t make it and asked me to give you these, and I was happy to do a favour. Go on, take them, turn them on. You’ll need to phone your mothers and apologize.’
Salvatore motioned Pepe over to him, and whispered a few words.
The forester looked across at Enrico, who was just now finishing his ice cream. ‘You’re Pietro’s nephew.’
‘I am Tony Megale’s son,’ said Enrico, an unexpected upsurge of pride and defiance in his voice.
‘That goes without saying. I happen to know Pietro, not Tony. How about a beer?’
Enrico looked around for help, but Ruggiero, fed up with it all, cast his eyes down and looked away. He just wanted to go home. He stretched out his hand to pick up his phone, but Pepe snatched it up first.
‘Give me that,’ said Ruggiero, more bored than intimidated by Pepe’s antics.
Pepe tossed it to Salvatore behind the bar. ‘Ask him for it.’
Salvatore stepped back and allowed the phone to hit the floor in front of him. He stood there immobile, his bald head balanced like a skull on the top of his thin body. Pepe whitened and apologized, then came around the bar to retrieve the phone from the floor and put it on the counter beside Enrico’s. Then he and the other three left in silence.
Salvatore fixed Ruggiero with a stare that lasted only a few seconds, then turned his back. Ruggiero left his phone where it was.
A minute later, the silence of the piazza was ripped apart by the noise of souped-up scooters.
‘What about it, Enrico, will you buy me a beer?’ asked the forester, when the noise had died away.
‘I don’t think I have the money,’ said Enrico. ‘I would if I had it. Maybe I could borrow some from Ruggiero?’
‘ Figluolo mio. I am joking. I am the one who buys the beers in here, isn’t that right, Salvatore?’
Salvatore draped a damp bar cloth over his shoulder and said nothing.
‘I don’t want a beer,’ said Enrico, making to stand up then deciding to sit down again.
Ruggiero puffed out his cheeks in exasperation, and went over to sit next to Enrico, who was going to need help.
‘Thanks,’ whispered Enrico.
Ruggiero shrugged. The forester came over and sat down beside them, bringing with him a smell of wood chippings, urine, sweat and tobacco.
‘Then you’re having a grappa.’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Enrico.
‘Maybe if you learned to drink, you wouldn’t eat so much, Enrico. Salvatore, no more of Basile’s ice cream for the boy.’
Salvatore, who was bent down and talking through the serving hatch to someone in the kitchen, presumably Basile, raised a hand either in acknowledgment or to tell Tommasino to be quiet. Either way, the forester lowered his voice and spoke in a furious whisper to Enrico. ‘You don’t refuse a drink from me when I generously offer you one.’
‘Sorry,’ said Enrico.
Tommasino called out, ‘Salvatore, let’s put some water in Enrico’s grappa. Make it half water half spirit, like Enrico himself.’
Salvatore nodded. Out of a satchel, Tommasino produced some dark bread and a shiny yellow cheese studded with hot chili peppers. He started paring his cheese with a wooden-handled curved knife. Salvatore arrived with a bottle of grappa and a jug of water.
Tommasino poured Enrico a glass and sat watching as he drank it, then poured him another, then another, ignoring Enrico’s burbling protests and clicking his knife open and shut.
‘What about you, young Curmaci? Want a drink?’
Ruggiero refused with a barely perceptible lift of the chin and a slow closing of his eyelids. No one should expect him to have to speak to the stinking, unlettered forester. He chose a point behind Tommasino’s head and focused on it, allowing the forester’s murderous gaze to hit the wall behind him. If they were alone, he might have returned the gaze, see what came of it. He felt calm enough.
After half an hour, Salvatore came over and said, ‘Enrico, you can go home now. Pick up your phone on the counter.’
‘What about Ruggiero?’
‘You can tell your aunt he was delayed here.’
Enrico tried to bring his eyes into focus. ‘My aunt will tell his mother. So wouldn’t it make more sense…’ — but he lost track of his line of argument.
‘Tell his mother, too,’ said Salvatore, ‘if you think that will help.’
Enrico reached over and grabbed the bottle and poured himself another grappa. ‘I’m not leaving without Ruggiero!’ He downed the glass in a single gulp and spent the next few minutes coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes.
Another half hour passed and now the bottle on the table was empty and the glass in front of Enrico had tumbled over. Enrico’s face was flushed, his eyes shone bright and his head was lolling from side to side. Cheese rinds lay curled on the table.
‘Salvatore?’ asked Tommasino.
From behind the bar, Salvatore nodded.
He brought over their phones and placed them on the table, giving Ruggiero a wink as he did so. Ruggiero remained impassive, and waited until Salvatore had withdrawn before picking up his phone, and standing up.
Enrico had begun moaning and muttering something incomprehensible.
The forester cackled as if at some private joke, then left the table and went up to the bar counter. ‘Young Megale has drunk too much,’ he said to Salvatore.
‘That’s fine. His good friend Ruggiero is here to look after him. The Curmacis are renowned for their loyalty. The Curmacis and Megales are old friends, working together in faraway hostile lands.’
‘Let’s hope the alliance lasts. It seems to me Enrico is as much a liability as a friend. Here, young Curmaci, what do you want us to do with Enrico?’
‘He’s my responsibility,’ said Ruggiero. I’ll look after him and take him home.’
19
Monday, 31 August
Rome
‘Interesting times, Blume,’ said Massimiliani, ushering him through the visitors’ area without a pass. He lowered his voice as they walked quickly down a corridor towards a tinted window that turned the outside world dark orange.
‘I have a good friend in the German Federal Police. You’ll be meeting him later. This morning, he started talking about Curmaci, and so I pushed him a little and he said he had heard Curmaci was cooperating with the Italian authorities. I said I would have to look Curmaci up, find out who he was, but my BKA friend did not believe me. He seemed quite agitated at the idea that Curmaci might be talking to some Italian magistrate. Isn’t that good? Your lie has gone international over a single weekend.’