‘Someday we must find out if this old Carcano can still be fired,’ he said. ‘I doubt it. You know, no one seems to know if the Carabinieri are named after the carbines they used, or whether the carbines are named after them. You would think such a simple question of history would be easy to resolve. I have always had some respect for the Carabinieri. The police… not so much.’
His father picked up Ruggiero’s throwing knife, frowned at it, then launched it at the cupboard above the sink. With a dull thud, the blade embedded itself in the wood.
‘That cupboard is worth nothing. Layers of woodchip and glue. If I had thrown it into this table, it might have bounced off it, but maybe that’s also because I’ve never used a throwing knife. Have you been practising?’
‘A bit,’ said Ruggiero.
‘I’m not sure that knife is good quality. It doesn’t even seem to have bitten deep into that cheap wood. You can imagine how pleased your mother would be if she thought we were throwing knives in the kitchen.’
Ruggiero retrieved his knife. When he turned round, his father had placed on the table a dagger with a four-sided blade that tapered to a point so thin as to be almost invisible.
‘This is called a quadrello. The metal of the blade remains four-sided all the way to the top. A stiletto has a triangular tip. I would have liked a Norman dagger, but you can only get worthless replicas. Sit down, Ruggiero.’
He reached over to the wooden fruit bowl, tapped a lemon off the top of the pile, and allowed it to roll towards him. Then he sliced the lemon in two with the dagger. ‘Nowhere in the world has lemons that smell like the lemons of Calabria. The rind itself is sweet enough for a dessert.’ He pressed his finger into the grain of the oaken wood, and then lifted it.
Ruggiero saw what seemed like one of his mother’s sewing needles was stuck to his father’s finger. His father rolled the needle between finger and thumb, and pressed it back on to the table, where it became almost invisible.
‘Hard to see against the wood, isn’t it?’ said his father. ‘That’s because it’s gold.’ He picked it up again and quickly pricked his forefinger, index finger and thumb, and squeezed them till pearls of blood bobbed to the surface. ‘A carbine, a golden needle, a dagger, a lemon and a glass of water with poison in it. These are the symbols that were laid out before me upon my induction as a santista for the Honoured Society. It is both wrong and right for me to be telling you this.’
Somewhere in the distance, something made a hollow pop, followed immediately by two more, then a pause. Suddenly there was such a volley of pops and cracks that they became innumerable, and then there was silence, like the end of a fireworks show.
‘Papa?’
His father held up his hand. ‘Wait.’ Three more popping sounds reached them. Then they heard the sound of tyres screeching on hot asphalt.
‘Papa?’ said Ruggiero again.
‘It’s all right, son. We are safe now.’
A car roared by the front of the house. Someone beeped timidly at it as it took the corner and started heading out of town, up the mountain.
His father let out a long breath. ‘When you are sworn in as a santista, only another santista may take your life. If a santista should commit an error, he is expected to punish himself, because no one else may touch him. That is what the glass of poison represents.’ So saying, he picked it up and drank it.
‘No!’ cried Ruggiero, leaping up and running over to him.
His father grabbed him and almost squeezed the life out of him, and laughed. Ruggiero could smell alcohol on his breath.
‘Don’t worry. That was Aquavit I just drank. Maybe you’d like one? But no, your mother would not approve.’
He squeezed some drops of lemon onto the beads of blood and winced a little, then licked his fingers. ‘There are thirty-three santisti. When you receive the title, you leave the Honoured Society. You no longer swear in the name of the angels and saints, but take an oath instead to the secular heroes of the Italian Risorgimento: Giuseppe Mazzini, Giuseppe Garibaldi and Giuseppe La Marmora. These are men of the state, men of law enforcement. Like other santisti, I pledged allegiance to them. By this act, I left the Society, yet continue to work exclusively in its interests and for its benefit. We members of the Santa collaborate with the authorities. We have friends in uniform, lunch with Senators, negotiate with the political parties of the Republic, and have even helped design new laws. Our peers are not men with guns, but bankers, lawyers, developers and investors. All that we do, we do to advance the fortunes of the Society and enrich its members. When a man joins the Santa, he is condemned to a life of loneliness, exile and betrayal. The first thing he must do is undertake to keep his status secret from the group to which he belongs, from his closest companions, from the ’ndrina that brought him up, and even from the boss that commands him. In the case of a conflict of interests, the santista shall always prevail. To do so, he calls on the help of other santisti. Usually, but not always, he will call on the three fellows who were present at his induction. They will act personally or through the agency of sgarristi, camorristi, or even mere contrasti d’onore.
‘Eventually, circumstances will conspire to make the real status of a santista become known even to his former companions. If they are wise and farseeing, and if they are not greedy for power, they may recognize that their brother has become a santista and withdraw their claims. If they are not, they will accuse him of calumny, collaboration, theft and betrayal.
‘A santista can also become a vangelista. This is a great honour, and there are but twenty-five such persons. But the life of the vangelista is even lonelier. A vangelista writes the rules of the Society. He determines the rites, and enforces them, maintaining unity of purpose, discipline and clarity within the Society as it expands. A vangelista should be a man who is steeped in history and tradition, but one who also knows how to maintain those traditions in this violent and rapidly changing world. A vangelista, for instance, might live his whole life in Germany, or Australia, or Canada, making sure the traditions and lines of command are obeyed, preventing infiltration from the authorities while ensuring the Society has representatives within the authorities. It would be hard, say, for anyone to challenge a vangelista on the protocol of revealing some of the secrets of his work to his own son, since the vangelista is endowed with magisterium. Like a Doctor of the Holy Apostolic Church, a vangelista is the ultimate arbiter of moral codes and the scriptures. It would take another vangelista to challenge him.’
‘What’s higher than a vangelista?’
‘A trequartista. So called because he has access to and command over three-quarters of the entire Society. A trequartista must be an old man, as I hope to be some day.’
‘Is Mamma coming home?’
‘Of course! She cannot be touched. Neither can you. But I don’t think you want to have the reputation of one whose valour derives from his untouchability, do you?’
Ruggiero shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Although I have seen proof of your courage on many occasions, none so striking as the other evening when I found you standing guard, with a throwing knife that would barely scratch a cat, you have not had any opportunity for a public display of this strength of character and determination.’
Ruggiero heard the low wail of sirens as Carabinieri cars shot out of the fortified compound in the centre of the town and came racing up the hill towards the place where the popping noises had come.
His father picked up the golden needle and dropped it into a tiny cylinder pouch and tucked it into his pocket. He grasped the antique carbine, and said, ‘I’m going to hang this back on the wall in our bedroom. I suppose you are dying to get out of the house and see what has happened. The men you will see out there thought they were coming for us. If their wounds shock you, consider that that is what they intended for me, your mother, you and the baby. I will almost certainly be gone by the time you get back.’